Confessions from the Quilting Circle - Maisey Yates Page 0,11
level of rebellion.
Fortunately, her fiddling, as her dad persisted in calling it—for the sole purpose of irritating her—had kept her too busy to get into classic rebellions.
“Good. I am...” She took a breath. She’d been avoiding saying this out loud. Now she wondered if she should. If she was making it a big, superstitious thing when it really didn’t have to be. “There’s a principal spot open. I’ve been first chair now for a couple of years, and... I think this is it. I think this is... I think I’m going to get it.”
She’d said it now. It was there. Out in the universe.
“That’s... That’s great news,” he said. “Why didn’t you tell us earlier?”
“Because I’m nervous about it. I might not get it.” But even as she said that, her stomach twisted, and the echo inside of her was fierce and strong.
That was unacceptable. She had to get it. She had to. There wasn’t another choice. She hadn’t started this journey and kept on it so doggedly to not get this spot. She’d been with the Boston Symphony for over ten years, and she had more than proven her worth.
This was her dream. Her practical dream. To be the lead position in the orchestra.
She knew it wasn’t common for a violinist to ascend to the heights of world fame as a soloist, and sure, she’d held some of that hope in her heart. Everyone had those kinds of dreams. But this was possible. More than possible, it was likely.
It was what she’d been working toward since she’d left Bear Creek.
And the timing for her to get away for a while as the board reviewed everything was actually great.
“You’ll get it,” her dad said. “You know you will.”
Unfailing confidence in her. He’d always had that. Pressure accompanied the warmth in her chest and she found it hard to breathe around it.
“You’ve worked for it,” her mom said.
“You’ve always been special,” Dad said.
Special.
Her mom had always worried her dreams weren’t practical. But her dad had always said that. Special.
But she’d believed it. She’d known it, down in her bones. That she wasn’t meant for this place. That she was bigger than this house, this town.
This had been her obsession, her focus, for nearly thirty years. And anything other than the top was a failure.
And Hannah could not fail.
3
April 12th, 1944
I know you cannot control when you return. And I know you will come back to me. But it will be impossible to hide this secret forever, and I fear what it will mean for us, and for our baby, if the world knows he came into being outside of marriage. Your parents hate me already. What will they do if they find out about this?
Love, Dot
Lark
“Where is Avery?”
“She has school run.” Lark looked around the attic, mentally formulating a plan of attack.
“Isn’t Peyton old enough to drive?” Hannah asked.
“Almost at least. But I think Avery likes doing it.”
Hannah frowned. “I think that’s something I would not enjoy.”
Lark shifted. “No. Probably not.”
She kept her eyes on Hannah as Hannah scanned the room and she could almost see the mental to-do list her much more organized sister was building as she took a quick inventory of everything stacked in front of them. “This is a lot of stuff.”
They’d gotten a massive furniture delivery today, and Lark couldn’t even be annoyed because the rich velvet chaise, the beautiful four poster beds and plush sectional were exactly what Lark would have chosen if she’d been consulted.
It was always weird to her, when the three of them had taste that crossed over.
“I was thinking about it last night,” she said, quickly. “If we start taking things over to The Miner’s House I can sort through it during slow times. I know Gram’s bedroom is still completely filled with her things. I peeked in there last night but I couldn’t quite bear going in.”
Hannah looked down. “Yeah, I...don’t think I’m quite ready for that.” She frowned. “Do you feel guilty? About how little we visited?”
“I always at least came for Christmas and the Fourth.”
“Better than me. I was down to Christmas, and only after the holiday concert series ended in Boston.”
“We both saw her last in the same visit,” Lark said. “Remember, she said your hair was looking too ordinary.”
Hannah grabbed hold of the end of her ruby hair. “Yep. Too dull for Gram.” Sadness lowered her features. “She wanted me to sit and needlepoint with her and I didn’t want to.”