Strings

by Megan Edwards

  “That’s correct,” I said as he repeated my instructions. “Theodora Conklin. Her mother’s name is Olivia de la Vega.”

  •••

  I’ve just taken a quick shower, and I’ve thrown a few things into a suitcase. I’m about to jump into my car and head for Kennedy Airport. I have never traveled without reservations, never walked up to an airline agent and said, “One ticket to Los Angeles on your next available flight.” I have never boarded a plane without a violin case in my hand.

  Olivia, you didn’t say, “Don’t follow.” You said, “We’ll have to see.”

  Yes, you shall see, my dearest love. I can no longer live my life wondering what might have been.

  One More Chapter

  In Los Angeles, I picked up a rental car, a white Chevrolet. It was smaller than I would have liked, but I didn’t have a reservation, and nothing larger was available. I folded myself in behind the wheel and headed for Malibu. It wasn’t until I was driving north on the Pacific Coast Highway that I realized I hadn’t taken my overcoat off. I should stop, I told myself. I’ll be more comfortable without it. But I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t even stay under the speed limit. I was too close to my destination, and the sun was going down.

  As the ocean turned to gold, I smiled as I remembered how, on a similar evening long ago, Olivia and I had sung all the songs from Camelot. Pelicans skimmed along the breakers, and I could see a few diehard surfers silhouetted against the fiery sky. I couldn’t help myself. I pressed my foot down on the accelerator and drove even faster.

  I slowed as soon as I saw the Malibu sign. There was still enough daylight to see house numbers, and I squinted to read the addresses on the beach side of the highway. Braking near a house with a red tile roof, I swerved across the southbound lanes. A truck honked as I pulled to a stop in a parking space on a bluff overlooking the ocean. I pulled myself out of the car and slammed the door. Wind caught my big coat, billowing it out like a cape. I pulled it around myself and looked down to the strand.

  The sun, huge and orange, had just reached the water. In the raking rays, I saw a woman walking on the beach below me. The wind was blowing her long dark hair. She cast a stick high into the surf. Two large dogs plunged after it into the waves.

  There was no pathway down to the beach, only huge boulders. I was wearing leather-soled loafers, but I scrambled down anyway, trying to land on the ice plant growing between the rocks. I banged both shins on the way down, but at last I jumped down onto the sand.

  Kicking off my shoes, I picked them up and ran stocking-footed up the beach, my coat flapping behind me. As I drew nearer, she turned to watch me. My heart thudded when I saw her face. I stopped.

  “Olivia!” I bellowed, but the wind was stronger than my voice.

  I rushed forward again. Now Olivia seemed to be moving, too.

  “Olivia!” I yelled, still running, and ever so faintly I heard her reply.

  “Teddy!”

  The sun fell below the horizon as I reached her, turning the sky a deep magenta. Olivia fell into my arms, and the wind wrapped my coat around both of us. The two exuberant dogs lashed their sandy wet tails against our legs as we kissed again and again. I kissed her face, her hair. I held her to my heart.

  “Olivia,” I managed to say at last. “Marry me.”

  Olivia turned her face up to mine. She gazed at me solemnly. She touched my cheeks with her fingers. I couldn’t take my eyes off hers as my heart began to pound. What was she thinking? What would she say?

  All at once, her face broke into an impish grin.

  “I’m really glad you’re here, Teddy,” she said. “You and I have a symphony to finish.”

  Playlists of the musical works mentioned in Strings are available online at meganedwards.com/strings

  Acknowledgments

  The people in this story, like the fabulous violin, never existed. I made them up. This would have been impossible were it not for the generous help and sharing of expertise I received from so many people that I cannot list them all here. To all of you, my deepest gratitude.

  Thanks especially to Brian Skarstad, who showed me his studio and gave me the idea of building a story around a missing violin. Thanks to Libby Brennesholtz for making the introduction.

  To Lorenz Gamma, Ming Tsu, and Andrea Bensmiller, my thanks for sharing knowledge of violins, composers, and details about the lives of musicians. To Eric Chiappinelli, Michael H. Dickman, and John Tsitouras, my gratitude for insight and inspiration, and to Jeff Tegge, my appreciation for guidance and support.

  To my editors Maureen Baron and Nancy Zerbey, thanks for meticulous attention to both detail and big picture. To Jennifer Heuer, thanks for making my words look elegant and wrapping them in a beautiful cover.

  Thanks to Grouchy John’s Coffee for inspiring surroundings and deliciously effective caffeinated beverages.

  Lastly, thanks to violinists everywhere. I can’t imagine a drearier world than one without strings.

  About the Author

  Megan Edwards is a writer and editor in Las Vegas, a city she unexpectedly fell in love with when she arrived in 1999 for what she thought would be a short visit. Life’s full of surprises, though, as she had discovered seven years earlier in California, where a wildfire destroyed her home and all her worldly possessions. Seizing the opportunity sudden “stufflessness” provided her, she took a multi-year road trip on the highways and byways of North America with her husband and her dog. A former Latin teacher, Edwards has lived in Costa Rica, Italy, Germany, and Greece. This is her second novel.