Solo (Symphony Hall)
Page 27
I resigned in order to spare Maureen from having to fire me. Tessa, on the other hand, did not. Big mistake. Convinced she was in the right, she stood firm until the bitter end when she was dismissed for breaking the university’s privacy policy, endangering the well-being of a student, and willfully disobeying a directive from her superior.
It got ugly. Very, very ugly.
And, while Maureen was far from pleased with my professional behavior, she generously forgave my personal behavior, supporting me in my decision to leave North Carolina to pursue other opportunities. And to put a little distance between myself and the past.
When I was packing everything up, she and Russ came to the house to help me go through the last of Casey’s things that I’d tucked away in the attic. I didn’t keep much. I couldn’t keep much. Just a few small mementos and our engagement picture. I pulled the back off the frame and slipped the tiny black-and-white sonogram photo inside for safekeeping. It seemed only right to have the two together.
I sold the truck and gave my neighbor Joe my snowblower, along with a very fine selection of spirits from my basement bottle collection. The contents of the house were divided up between Barry, a storage locker, and the moving truck. All the books and my favorite pieces of furniture. My kitchen supplies. And, of course the piano. It’s all already waiting for me in my new apartment in New York City.
New city. New apartment. New job. New life.
“Thank you for flying Atlantic Air,” the pretty flight attendant says as I file past her and out onto the Jetway.
JFK is busier than I remember. After the slow, comfortable pace of rural North Carolina, I’m not certain how long it’ll take me to get used to this faster speed of life. It’s loud, and bright, and everywhere around me, people are moving with purpose and determination. In a small way, I envy them—having a tangible place to go and be and do. Even as I pull my rollerbag down the escalator to baggage claim, I have no idea what awaits me outside these walls.
Though, I know exactly what awaits me inside of them.
I don’t see her at first, in the mob of people waiting to greet the newly arrived passengers such as myself. Mothers are crying tears of joy, children are jumping up and down excitedly. Boyfriends and husbands and fiancés are holding bouquets of flowers.
She’s just standing there, in the middle of all of them. Her hair is tied up in a messy bun atop her head, a few stray strands lying across her face. I can already sense how they’ll feel under my fingers when I tuck them behind her ear. She’s smiling sweetly, patiently, contentedly, as our eyes meet on my downward crawl from one floor to the next. They are the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen, with flecks of gold and long, dark lashes.
It feels like an eternity until I’m finally on firm ground again. I walk up to her with more confidence than I’ve ever had in my life and pull her into my arms, inhaling the peach and lavender scent of her hair. Her arms wrap around my waist and her head tips up toward my face.
“Hi,” she says softly.
“Hi.” I smile down at her. “I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you, too. It’s been a long six weeks.”
“Well, I had to get things wrapped up. And no way you could miss the start of the semester.”
Her turn to smile. “I know. I’m just saying that I’m not as comfortable…that I can’t…” She stops, closes her eyes for just a second, and tries one more time. “I don’t want to be alone anymore.”
I put my cheek against hers and press my lips to her ear so that she is the only person in the world who can hear me.
“You will never be alone again, Katherine.”
If you’re lucky, when the clock strikes midnight on the best day of your life, someone is there to warm you. If you’re lucky, it’s something you see coming. Something you can circle on your calendar and look forward to for days and weeks and months. If you’re lucky, people will remind you it’s coming. And, when that lucky day comes, you will wake up just knowing.
I know.
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Acknowledgments
For me, writing began as an emergency stopgap against a bout of depression. What was supposed to be just a few paragraphs meant to ‘get me out of my own head’ turned into a novel. And then another…and another. For me, writing was a surprise in the truest sense—it was something I didn’t even know I wanted until I got it. And now I cannot imagine spending a day without putting words to paper. Solo is very near and dear to me in that it’s my first traditionally published book, but it was definitely not a ‘solo’ endeavor. My greatest thanks to just a few of the people who made this book possible…
Tom—As I write this, you’re sitting next to me, exactly two weeks after the event that nearly took your life and changed mine forever. Thank you for living. Thank you for loving me.
Janet and Kwaku—my parents ‘in absentia.’ I’m so grateful for your constant, unquestioning love and support, as I’m sure my parents would be.
Vanessa—My hero. My cheerleader. My friend. My sister. No, YOU’RE the best!
Karen—For always checking on me. For always worrying about me. For always encouraging me. For always, somehow, making the obstacles seem smaller.
Kelly—you make being your friend so easy, and so fun. Thank you for always finding time to chat, to write and to read.
Mike and Crucita—Who don’t always get it, but are proud of me anyway…and always.
Jennifer Mishler—You’re so much more than my editor. When you called me and said, ‘Hey, let’s do something together!’ I had no idea where we’d end up. Thank you for making me a better writer. Now buckle-up, baby, cause it’s gonna be one wild ride!
Stacey—You never doubted this day would come, and every chance you got, you made sure that I knew it.
Ernie— You keep me sane. You remind me to be happy. You help me to navigate all the detours that life throws into my journey. This wouldn’t have happened without you.
To those who watch over me from beyond this world: Marie, Gregory, Carol, and Mario. Your words are whispers in my ear, your guidance a gentle push in the right direction.
My greatest and most humble gratitude to my Heavenly Father who gives me the inspiration to create, the courage to pursue and the faith to believe.
About the Author
Lauren Rico was going to be principal French horn of the New York Philharmonic. That was her plan, anyway. The New York Philharmonic had no idea of her intentions, and that’s probably a good thing, since she wasn’t an especially good French horn player!
Lauren was, however, an exceptionally good classical music radio host. She has made a career of demystifying classical music for her audiences by taking it off a dusty old pedestal and putting it into a modern context.
Lauren has recently discovered a passion for writing, which she’s managed to combine with her love and knowledge of the classical music world.
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