Unstrung

by Laura Spinella

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS

  SEVEN YEARS EARLIER

  Olivia

  “So call him,” Sasha says. She sits curled on my apartment sofa, sipping spiked hot chocolate. In the past hour the conversation has segued. We’ve moved from my latest dog-walking gig to her new job with a prestigious law firm, and now onto the reasons why I’m avoiding one Rob Van Doren.

  Rob Van Doren—he even sounds like somebody I’d date.

  “I can’t call him,” I insist.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I ignored his last two calls. How would that look?”

  Her expression goes goofy. “Uh, like maybe you’re interested, as opposed to your usual ‘Thanks for applying, Mr. Van Doren, but my hard-to-hold interest has expired.’” Sasha checks her watch. “Though the timing is about right.”

  “Meaning what?” Taking my hot chocolate with me, I pass by an over-stuffed chair where Dumpling, a King Charles spaniel, is perched. He lifts his head and bares his teeth, growling. “Oh, shut up. I could have left you to do your business all over Mama Lowenstein’s Kenmore Square condo.” I take in my Bay Village apartment view, a Boston winter wonderland.

  “You know exactly what it means.” I turn back to Sasha. On the coffee table is a mixture of vodka and Baileys; she pours another shot into her steaming cup. We’re really not the straight-hot-chocolate types. “Although props to Rob for outlasting prior suitors by two dates.”

  “Three,” I say absently, observing a blanket of fresh snow.

  Sasha mumbles a faint, “I stand corrected . . . Not to mention further impressed,” and crosses to Dumpling. He does not bare his teeth, but rises and turns, knotting himself in a ball to face the wall. “How long is Mrs. Lowenstein away?”

  “Until next Thursday. I figured bringing him . . . Dumpling,” I say, rolling my eyes at a name I have a hard time saying, let alone attributing to the persnickety beast. “It’s better than trudging over to her place, considering the winter we’re having. That only leaves me with the Greens’ cat downstairs, and the boxer in the building next door. It won’t be so bad.” Sasha hums and raises a brow. “Okay, Sash, add that to your complaint about the recently dismissed Rob Van Doren. Is there something you want to say?”

  She frowns. “I know better than to press. If you’re happy walking dogs, scooping litter boxes . . . happy here alone . . . I respect that.”

  I narrow my gaze. “Bullshit.”

  “Okay, maybe it’s more like I’ve exhausted all intelligent avenues on the subject of you and men, especially given the abrupt dismissal of Rob.” She glances toward the music stand and a violin parked in a remote corner of the living room. “Did you play today?” I half nod and shrug. I refuse to admit an interest in music, even to Sasha. “And yesterday?” she presses.

  “Pet sitting doesn’t exactly fill my day.” Sasha stares. “Playing gives me something to do with my hands, okay? I’m used to it.” My voice tenses and she backs down.

  “How’s your father doing?”

  My gaze shifts from the violin and returns to the window view. “It’s inoperable.”

  “Liv, I’ve been here for an hour! Why didn’t you say anything? I’m so sorry.”

  I fold my arms against the cold that penetrates from a wintery window.

  “Because it was one sentence of diagnosis followed by an entire fresh angle of browbeating. Only my father could find the ‘Eureka!’ in dying. While my parents refer to it as a ‘disturbing diagnosis,’ they feel it’s a sign.”

  “A sign of what—other than the obvious?”

  “Something like, ‘It’s fate, Olivia. Can’t you see it?’” I say in a well-worn Asa Klein tone. “My lifelong desire for you to play for the symphony, to be a part of something worthy of our gift . . . It’s now or never.” I stop, staring at Sasha. “Apparently he thinks turning his forever demand into a last wish will sway me.”

  “Sounds more like blackmail by death.”

  “Thanks for saying as much. I’m so fucked up on the subject, I was afraid it was just me.” I stride toward Dumpling and attempt to pet him. He snaps at me. “You nippy little bastard,” I hiss and challenge him by leaning in. “You’re lucky I don’t drop you into a three-foot snowbank.” Instead, I toss a fuzzy throw over his ill-tempered ass and turn back to Sasha. “Anyway . . . you can understand why seeing Rob again just isn’t possible.”

  Despite the grim news and deplorable manners of my canine guest, Sasha laughs. “Actually, Liv, based on what I’ve observed, I would have thought Rob Van Doren is exactly what you need.”

  The table is beautifully set. It’s one of a few positives instilled in me by my mother’s Southern sensibilities: an antique damask linen complements the dishes I bought in Europe last summer. Today, I’ve unpacked the china for the first time. A spray of white winter roses sits center on the table, candles glistening—tiny tempting glimmers of light. Silverware that belonged to my grandparents and never-used crystal glasses make for a glossy magazine-ready spread. I glance at Dumpling. “What do you think? Too much?” He lifts his head and offers a whine of discontent. It’s nothing new; the only time the dog is marginally amenable is when his leash comes out. However, in this instance, I agree. “You’re right. The flowers are overkill.” I transfer the arrangement to a side table, blowing out two other candles and turning on a lamp. It’s a dinner invitation, not a seduction scene.

  I called Rob the other night, not at Sasha’s prodding but despite it. Generally, when given a direction, I will go the opposite way—habit. My call went to voice mail. The truth is I missed Rob’s first call earlier in the week because I was out walking the Gallaghers’ schnauzer. On his second call, an hour later, I got it in my head that perhaps, he too, was feeling the same thing as me—a desire to be in the same room. When I realized I’d memorized his phone number, it spooked me enough to keep me from calling him back.

  We had conquered what should have been an awkward first date. Rob and I met up in the North End for coffee, which turned into dinner, then drinks, finally ending when someone started vacuuming the carpet around us. On subsequent dates, Rob didn’t suggest a Boston sporting event—nothing short of miraculous if you live in this city. Instead, we did things like take in a new Monet exhibit at the Museum of Fine Arts. Although, on our next outing, Rob demonstrated his range—or insisted that I show some—by booking us two blank canvases at Paint Nite, hosted by a trendy Boston bar. I admit; it was something different, as is he.

  Rob doesn’t know a damn thing about music, yet he smoothly navigated his way through conversation after running into Leland Solder. Leland is a charming, dedicated cellist I’ve played with on occasion—an ensemble group hired for various catered events. It’s a counterweight to pet sitting, and facilitates a use of my gift that my parents find equal to playing in a bordello. Leland insisted on buying us a drink. Rob said, “Sounds great,” smiling and hanging in deftly as Leland dominated the conversation with talk of mutual musician acquaintances and ending with, “Liv, when will you ever do the obvious and audition for a symphony chair?”

  When it became apparent that Rob was not going to grab a cab and flee, Leland left. Rob wanted to know for how long he’d had a thing for me. I was surprised. “How did you know . . . ?”

  “I have eyes, Liv. And you seemed to like him enough.” Rob then leaned into the table and said, “So if you don’t mind me asking, is it an in the past thing, or a something I should be aware of thing?”

  “More like never a thing at all—not that he hasn’t tried. I don’t date musicians. They’re temperamental and require copious amounts of attention.”

  “You don’t say,” Rob grinned and downed the last of his drink—some high-end Scotch delivered over a mammoth ice cube. “Too bad old Leland couldn’t figure out the obvious way around that.”

  “How so?”

  “If it was me, I’d just quit playing the fucking cello.”

  And my surprise turned to
flattery.

  That was our last date. Instinct said to cut it off at the pass—nothing good could come of it. Really, I was doing Rob a favor. Yet I have not been able to dismiss Rob’s easy confidence, a presence that feels absent since ignoring his calls. After my unreturned call, I texted him. He didn’t reply to that either, and I figured we were two for two. Then it pissed me off. I wasn’t going to be ignored, or at the very least Rob wasn’t going to get the last word by way of a non-reply. I texted him once more, inviting Rob to dinner at my apartment. He only texted back to ask if he should bring white or red. Then the real problem dawned on me—I’d have to cook.

  “All right,” I say to Dumpling. “Assuming he’s impressed by a stunningly set table, we may be fine.” My gaze moves to the tiny galley kitchen, which is a disturbing contrast to the organized table. I didn’t realize the state of turmoil I’d left it in, abandoning my “make ahead” beef Wellington to take a shower. Under a flour-sprinkled iPad is a recipe with 635 positive reviews and what are promised foolproof directions. I decided pre-make ahead might work even better and turned up the oven before heading to the shower. Sniffing the air, which smells beefy enough, I also suck in a breath of confidence. I can cook a meal if I choose to and have dismissed the fact that I’ve done little in this kitchen other than pour wine. I waver slightly, eyeing a deep drawer that contains thirty-three takeout menus, all with delivery service.

  Flour has also found its way onto the small silver chafing dish I plan on using to serve. I dust it away, catching a glance of my polished reflection. Not too bad . . . I was surprised to learn that Rob is five years younger than me—not that it matters. But I do gaze into my silvery image, wondering if I look more like ten years older. I huff at absurd silliness. I look perfectly fine, though there it is again—something Rob has, by his mere existence, brought to my attention.

  I don’t have another moment to ponder this or add another layer of foundation as the intercom sounds. Rob has never been further than the steps of my apartment building. The urge to invite him up last time was palpable but overruled by the thought of what he might find given a closer look. I take a turn around the small but smartly decorated space and glance in a wall mirror before granting him entrance. As I open the door, it occurs to me that my true concern was never about age or décor.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi.” He flashes a brilliant smile, a trait that has left me curious. Does Rob rely solely on over-the-counter whitening strips, or is the snow-white enamel professionally maintained? Either way, it’s dazzling, causing a fluttery feeling. I stop smiling, aware that the flutter has little to do with his smile. I am nervous, which I hate. I particularly hate being nervous in my own home. “Okay if I come in?” he asks as I linger in the doorway.

  I brush my fingers to my forehead. “Yes . . . of course.” I step back and he moves forward into the living room. “Sorry.” He hands me a bottle of white wine as my pitchy laughter betrays any confidence.

  “You okay, Liv?”

  “Yes. Perfectly fine. Sorry—I don’t throw many dinner parties for two.”

  “Three,” he says, pointing. “I didn’t know you’d have another guest.”

  “Oh, him. I, um . . . One of my clients.” Aside from our brush with Leland, I’ve mentioned my skill set and part-time violin gigs, though Rob also didn’t flinch when I stated pet sitter as my day job. “With the weather, I thought it’d be easier to bring him here. He’s kind of old, grumpy . . . Dumpling, his name is Dumpling, if you can believe that. I mean, what are you supposed to do, call him Dump for short? You might not want to get too close, he’s a bit testy, especially with people he doesn’t . . .”

  But Rob’s already crossed to the chair that Dumpling has claimed. He slowly holds out the back of his hand, which the dog sniffs. My eyes draw wide as the dog proceeds to lick Rob’s hand. I want to ask if he used liver-scented hand soap before arriving, but from the masculine whiff of cologne that just passed by me, I’m fairly clear as to which one of us Rob has dressed for this evening.

  He scratches the dog behind the ear. “Hey, buddy,” he says. “What were you saying about him?”

  “Uh, nothing. I guess it just takes the right person.” He leaves the dog and takes a turn around the apartment. “Nice place, Liv. Have you lived here long?” Rob removes his overcoat and scarf, which I take from him.

  “Almost two years. I kind of bummed around, bounced around before that—parents’ guest house, a couple of different roommates, didn’t really work out.”

  “Not the roommate type?”

  “Not so much.”

  He nods. “Me neither. I bought a co-op near Fenway a couple of years ago—first thing on my to-do list post law school.”

  “Your finance business must be doing well. Though it does seem odd that you put all that work in and you don’t want to be an actual lawyer.”

  He uses the smile. “Didn’t you say something about studying the violin for years? Yet . . . ?” He points to Dumpling.

  “Point taken, counselor. Anyway, I just thought putting your law degree to work in a traditional way would have made your Boston co-op goal easier.”

  “Maybe.” He shoves his hands in his trouser pockets. “But what’s expected has never interested me, and I’ve never cared much for things I didn’t have to work for.”

  “Well,” I say, swallowing. “You may be in the right place.” I head for the bar top that separates the living space from the kitchen. “I’ll open this.”

  “Oh, I thought we could have it with dinner, but that’s fine.” He meets me at the bar and peers into the dim kitchen, which now occurs to me could be captioned: “Post Normandy Invasion.” He clears his throat and recovers. “Sorry, you said to bring white.”

  “I did.”

  “Kind of smells like beef.” We are facing each other, and I think I’m thinking about kissing him. He’s an excellent kisser, and I have wondered, in a three a.m. sort of way, if it’s a skill that extends to more intimate actions. But instead of leaning in, he says, “Burning beef.”

  “What?”

  Just as he points, the smoke alarm blares and all hell breaks loose: Dumpling begins to howl like the Baskervilles are calling, and Mrs. Rosemount, who lives above me, starts banging her cane into the floor—a standard signal that me playing the violin at one o’clock in the morning is pushing it. But it’s invading smoke that takes precedence, and I rush to the stove, hitting buttons. “Shit! I read the directions first!”

  “For what you’re cooking?” Rob asks, appearing beside me.

  “No. For how to work the stove.” We trade a glance that assures him I’m not joking.

  “Uh, pot holders?” He opens the oven door to a thicker rush of smoke. I shake my head no; he reaches past and grabs a flour-covered dish towel. I have no idea where the grease-splattered, charred mess in front of us came from, but this is not the promising meal I put into the oven an hour or so ago. Rob exits the kitchen, leaving me with the pastry-crusted meat, which looks more like it’s been wrapped in the tires of an eighteen-wheeler. A burst of coldness seizes my attention, and I turn to the welcome air of an open window. As quickly as that’s occurred, Rob has climbed onto a dining table chair where he disconnects the battery from the smoke alarm. He hops off and puts back the chair. In the abrupt quiet, he scoops up a whimpering Dumpling like a baby and says, “It’s okay, pup, just a drill.” Cradling the dog, amid my disaster, Rob appears calm and at ease. “Liv . . .” he says in the most serene, gentle voice.

  “What?”

  “Just toss some flour on the grease fire behind you.”

  A half hour later, aside from the slight lingering odor of burnt beef Wellington, things settle down, or feel more like they’ve hit a groove. We closed the window and Rob opened more wine. “Is it okay with you if I make us something?”

  “Sure. If you want.” From there he heads into my kitchen, where he forages for spare edible items. When I offer to assist, Rob holds up a hand.

&
nbsp; “It’s a small kitchen. I’ve got this.”

  “What will I do, besides drink?” Looking at the kitchen mess, I’d say getting drunk in a corner sounds about right.

  Rob points to my violin. “I wouldn’t mind hearing you play.” My gaze holds onto his. “I mean, you’ve mentioned it—I heard old Leland talk. Either you’re that good, or he lays it on pretty thick.” He shrugs. “But only if you want to.”

  Never once, not since my grandfather passed—or after the chain was attached and the grind began—have I wanted to play to please somebody. I can’t even imagine what that would feel like. Rob doesn’t say anything else but retreats to his impromptu meal prep. I sip the wine and eye the Amati. It’s an inanimate object capable of evoking volatile emotion, mostly from me. Perhaps it is the combination of challenge and request, or oddly enough the man it came from. I put down the wine, pick up the violin, and hesitate. Rob cheers a wineglass in my direction, then helps himself to all my kitchen drawers—remarking on what is apparently a disgraceful selection of knives. I begin to play—The Lark Ascending, a piece sometimes defined as pastoral romance. Between Dumpling’s fascination with our visitor, and mine, it seems fitting.

  I watch as Rob continues to go about the business of feeding me. The music isn’t the thing that has my attention; I play this piece from memory, the way most people recite the alphabet. It’s my comfort level, which I fumble with at first, wanting to be annoyed or bored by the request to perform. I am not. Instead, I find myself sinking into an enticing pocket of warmth. I can tell Rob is listening, his dark brows rising as he cracks eggs—hearing measures of music that would cause even a pedestrian ear to take note. That or it’s a musician thing; you just know when someone is moved by music. Normally, I could not care less how my playing moves anyone. Eventually, I glance toward Dumpling. He lowers his head and closes his eyes, seemingly at peace.

  A short time later, Rob and I have finished the bottle of white wine and scrumptious French toast—who would ever think to pair two such contrasting elements and end up with a winning combination. “By the way,” he says, downing a last sip of wine, “the table setting is beautiful.”