Total pages in book: 767
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
A brass lock plate is engraved with the following words: Lady Tennant/40 Grosvenor Square W.
“Oh my God,” I whisper.
“We can get a new case,” he says, sounding gruff and strangely uncertain. “One with your name on it. This is the one it came with.”
“Don’t you dare,” I say, half laughing, half crying.
There are only five hundred Stradivarius violins left in the world. Even so there are too many for me to know the provenance of every single one, but I know this one. Lady Tennant got its name because it was purchased by Sir Charles Tennant as a gift for his wife.
My hands are shaking as I reach for the clasps and open the case. I barely feel worthy to touch this violin—and I can’t even imagine owning it, even though that’s apparently what’s just happened. I grasp the violin gently by its neck, lifting it from the case, and all my tremors evaporate. It’s like the part in Harry Potter where the wand chooses the wizard. In this case it’s the violin choosing me.
I’m tempted to run my fingertips over the strings and the neck, to learn its terrain by touch. But a violin’s imperative is to play, and so I lift the bow and touch it to the strings. The sound soars through the air, the clearest note I’ve ever heard.
An opening scale and it sounds as momentous and poignant as any classical piece. It feels like I’m playing violin for the first time, hearing notes in an entirely new way.
I look back at Liam. He’s always appreciated my playing. I suppose he would have gone mad by now if he didn’t, having my music room connected to his office. Even he looks awed by the sound.
“How did you know?” I murmur, reluctant to set down the violin for even one moment.
“You like it?” His voice is roughened with something, maybe emotion. Are the strings of a Stradivarius so compelling that they’ll move a man of strength and stoicism to this?
“It’s the best thing anyone’s ever done for me. More than I ever imagined.” And then it doesn’t matter how much I long to hold Lady Tennant or play everything I’ve learned with her—I have to set her gently into the case. That’s where my carefulness ends.
I launch myself at Liam, throwing my arms around his neck and squeezing. There’s moisture where my cheek touches his hard jaw, and I know he’ll be embarrassed by my wild show of gratitude. He’s never liked me being overly emotional, so I’ve tried so hard to be like him.
When I pull back, his green eyes shine with what can only be tears. It’s enough to make my breath catch. Maybe he isn’t as stoic as he wants me to think.
Maybe we’re more alike than I ever knew.
In the moments that follow I become aware that I’m clinging to him like I’m drowning and he’s my last chance of survival. Sensation blooms in my chest, my belly, and lower, to where my legs are half wrapped around him. He releases me gently, and I slide down his body to the floor.
“I’m old enough,” I whisper, because it means he doesn’t have to hold himself back from me. He doesn’t have to feel bad about the erection I can feel cradled between our bodies.
He looks more torn than ever, shame hard in his eyes, his mouth a firm line. “The violin, Samantha. It was more than a birthday present. It’s a goodbye.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
In comparison to many other instruments, the piano is relatively new. It was invented in 1698 by Bartolomeo Cristofori in Italy.
SAMANTHA
Bea calls me that afternoon, launching into an a cappella rendition of “Happy Birthday” with her husky, show tunes voice as soon as I say hello.
I grin at her on FaceTime. “You should give up the whole piano thing,” I tell her. “Or at the very least become the next Adele.”
“We’ll call that plan B,” she says, laughing.
“You won’t believe what happened this morning.”
“Ooh, something fun, I hope.”
“I still can’t even believe it, and I was there.” I’ve got Lady Tennant in my lap, stroking the wood. I haven’t been able to let go of it, actually. When I’m not playing it, I’m holding it.
“Now you’re just teasing me. What happened?”
“Liam got me a Strad,” I tell her, unable to hold back the squeal. A professional violinist may go through a few violins in their lifetime, on the quest to find the perfect one. Other times it comes to you early.
“Oh. My. God.”
“The Lady Tennant.” It’s incredible to be able to share this with another musician. She’s not a violinist, but she understands the power of a premier instrument—especially one with history.
“The Lady Tennant?” she says, sounding awed.
“He bought it. Outright. And then gave it to me. Honestly I might throw up.”