is. Still, she’s overwhelmingly grateful to Dennis, who has taken an interest in the boy and spirited him off on a series of adventures.
The instruments on her list are all currently well-loved and quiet.
All in all, things are going well, but she feels empty and restless; even the satisfaction of completing a new violin is transitory and small. Maybe she’ll take Celestine for a vacation before the last of the summer weather is gone. A ferry to Canada, maybe. Camping on Vancouver Island. Or a road trip.
When the bell over the shop door signals a customer, she looks at the clock. Three minutes to five. She should have locked the shop door early. People who come in just before closing always seem to need an hour of her time.
Celestine, on the other hand, woofs a greeting as he explodes upward from his bed and runs out of the room. Somebody known, then. A regular.
Phee blinks as she emerges from the perfectly lit workroom into the dimmer lights of the storefront.
A tall man stands on the other side of the counter, a familiar cello case beside him.
“I need some repairs,” he says.
Phee’s entire world narrows down to that face, those eyes, the slim-fingered hands resting on her counter. Slowly, as if she’s swimming underwater, she crosses the space between them. She’s so close, she can see those green flecks in his eyes. She could reach out and trace the scar on his cheek, touch his hands.
But there’s more than just a service counter between them. “What seems to be the problem?” she asks.
“Allie says the bridge needs adjusting. I think the cello misses you.” There’s music in his voice, something that was there when she knew him years ago, and then vanished.
“You look good,” Phee says. He’s tanned, his eyes are clear. There’s a new vigor to the lines of his body that speaks of outdoor hikes, a healthy diet, the absence of alcohol. His hands on the counter are steady, and they look so normal they might just break her heart.
“You, too,” he says, always polite. Phee owns a mirror. She knows she looks pale and tired. She fumbles under the counter for a service ticket. Braden bends down to pay attention to Celestine. Her fingers are trembling and it’s hard to write, but she manages it, slides his half across the counter. As if a ticket is needed. As if she doesn’t know both man and cello by heart.
His fingers graze hers as he accepts the small square of cardboard. Both of them freeze, and then he lifts one hand and lays it over hers. Their eyes lock, and she sees something there that draws the words out of her, willy-nilly, as if a spell has been cast and she’s helpless beneath it.
“Something happened to me the day you met the cello,” she says.
“I know.” His fingers tighten around hers.
Phee’s heart flutters, her knees feel weak. She’s lost in his eyes, the sound of his breathing.
“I was only ten,” she says. “I didn’t understand. I still don’t. But I feel . . . part of you. Part of the cello. Complete only when the three of us are together.”
“Is that your grandfather’s work?” he asks.
She shakes her head. “No. I just . . . it’s impossible for a child that age to fall in love. But I did. With her. With you. Every time you brought her into the shop, I felt whole, alive, in a way I can’t explain.”
His free hand lifts, the index finger brushing her lips. “Hush, Phee. Maybe there are things that can’t be explained. Or that don’t need to be. I do have one question I need to ask.”
“Anything,” Phee says.
“Do you just love me for my cello? Take your time. It’s an important question.”
But Phee doesn’t need to think. “Everything you are,” she says. “The man, the musician, the amnesiac, the idiot. With or without the cello.”
“I don’t suppose you’d consider coming out from behind that counter.”
“Why?”
“Some things don’t require a why.”
He keeps pace with her as she moves along the counter, never letting go of her hand. They meet at the far end, and before she has time to draw another breath, she’s in his arms and his lips are on hers. Music swirls around them both, and Phee lets go of all of her control, surrendering herself without further question.
“I have a surprise for you,” Braden says, a very long time later, after they’ve locked the store and climbed the stairs to Phee’s apartment. After they’ve made love once, and then again, and are lying entwined and momentarily sated on her bed.
Their bodies fit together as perfectly as their souls, his arm draped over her shoulder, her leg curled between his thighs, and Phee is reluctant to move, to break this moment, as if maybe the spell will end and she’ll find herself alone again.
“Does it require moving?” she murmurs, tracing the lines of his face over and over with her finger.
He catches her hand in his and kisses each finger separately, slowly, all the while looking into her eyes.
“It does,” he says. “But I think it’s worth it.” He gets up, pulls on his jeans. “I’ll be right back.”
She stays where she is, listening to his feet on the stairs going away from her. He’s left his shirt, she tells herself. And his shoes. He has to come back.
And sure enough, there is the sound of feet again on the stairs, heavier, slower. When he reemerges, he’s carrying the cello case. Phee sits up, her heart in her throat, as he opens the case and lifts out the cello.
“It took time,” he says as he sets the cello on her stand. “A gradual thing. I’d be combing my hair and notice that the comb felt hard and smooth. Or I’d give Allie a hug, touch her hair, and notice it felt like silk.”
Phee covers her mouth with her hands. Tears fill her eyes, stream down her cheeks. She blinks hard and dashes them away, not wanting either man or cello to be blurred for even an instant.
He moves a chair away from her table. Tightens the bow, draws it across the strings.
“I’m not the musician I was; only time will tell if I recover that. But it doesn’t matter. I have this. I have Allie. You gave them both back to me.”
He begins to play a haunting melody, his eyes focused on hers all the while. “Allie’s going to need a new cello—the two of us are close to fighting over this one. I’m afraid I’m as obsessed as I ever was.”
Phee follows the music, hears the beating of his heart in it, the mystery of his soul.
“I can’t imagine any woman being able to cope with that.” His eyes ask the question he leaves unspoken.
Will you—can you—follow me into the music, Phee?
In answer, she crosses the room and lifts her violin from the stand. A moment to tune it, then she tucks it under her chin, lifts the bow, and twines her own music around his, joining him in the place that goes deeper than words.
For half an instant, she catches a glimpse of her grandfather standing in the doorway, translucent as mist. He bows formally.
“Well done,” she hears him say. He blows her a kiss, then melts into the music and is gone.