Page 37 of Waiting for Gilbert

“Wow,” I say in a harmony of wonder and astonishment. “Wow.”

She moves to stand beside me and hums a “what’s all this?” sound as if she’s here on official business. “There appears to have been a struggle.” A pencil materializes in her hand and she taps it against her palm.

We stand in silence until she shoves the pencil into her wild bun and slaps her thighs. “Yep. All in a day’s work.” She pulls out the chair nearest the tray on the table and gestures to the tray of pie. “Hungry?”

Is there a man in his right mind who would say no?

We talk, and I eat as she disassembles her camera equipment. I help her move the table so she can store the tripods and camera bags in the hall closet. Cordelia has me talking about music, my instruments, and song preferences.

She never reminds me to call her CJ and this feels like a gift. I don’t want to admit this, but that relaxed and peaceful feeling I had this morning returns. Interesting.

She moves throughout our long conversation. It doesn’t appear to be anxious movement—she simply doesn’t stop. By the time I’ve finished eating, the table’s been cleared and wiped, leftover food covered, and she’s halfway through hand washing the dishes.

“Can I help with that?” I set my plate on the counter.

“You’re going to play. Is that weird to ask?” She smiles over her shoulder and a plate slips from her grasp, causing soap suds to speckle her face. “I only heard the one song at the party.”

“I love to play.” I dip my hands in her dish water, shoulder brushing hers, then dry them with the apron around her waist that she holds out for me. I brush my forearm down her cheek and catch the bubbles on my sleeve.

“What was that? Don’t tell me I’ve had a streak of chocolate on my face this whole time.”

“That or peanut butter.”

Her eyes grow wide. “What?” In a rush, she scrubs the side of her face with the hem of her apron.

Laughing, I try to pull her hands away from her face. “I’m kidding! It was a bit of soap suds.” Her hands disentangle from mine and then she whacks me on the shoulder.

“I don’t even like peanut butter.” She rubs her shoulder against her cheek. “Quit pestering and play some music, mister.”

She chatters while I set up. I answer more questions than that time I brought the cello to the local second grade school party. But it’s no hardship to speak about something I love as much as my music. My sliced arm is tight beneath the bandage but not painful, and I warm up my fingers with a simple scale. Cordelia stops talking mid-sentence, mouth agape.

Her gaze follows my fingers. “Lands to the living,” she whispers. “That’s incredible. Can you do it faster?”

I oblige, and she grins as if she’s never witnessed anything more impressive in her life. Hanging out with Cordelia might be sinful for my ego. I point the bow at her. “Stop grinning like that. I haven’t done anything cool. It’s a scale. It’s one of the first things a musician learns.” Her awed expression has me laughing to cover my flush at her delight.

“It looks cool.” She reclines against the sink and crosses soapy arms around the middle of her green hoodie. “Do it again.”

“You’re not serious. Five-year-olds can do that.”

“Do it.” She points with her chin and her eyebrows jump. “Again.” No messing around.

I’ve been playing the cello since middle school and leaned into it hardcore through high school. Maybe it started as a nerdy hobby, but when it turned into a job along with construction, I didn’t care if it was odd.

I’m used to strangers being impressed. Although when they hear I also play the piano, guitar, and drums their praise can get annoying. But Cordelia’s excited about a practice scale? I shake my head, a side grin pulling at my cheek. This will be fun. There’s none of the adrenaline like when I’m on stage in front of ticket holders. I don’t want to play Bach or a fancy concerto—and I’ve been playing Christmas music for weeks.

“No.” I smirk at her defiant pout. Before she can interject—and it’s obvious she wants to—I offer a broad smile. “Wait for it.” I’ll do her one better.

The sea shanty “The Wellerman” is one of the show-off pieces John and I perform. It’s better with piano and box drum accompaniment, but the cello carries the meat of the song. I tap my heels in an alternating rhythm.One-two. One-two. One-two. One-two.Whatever she had on the tip of her tongue disappears when I jump into the opening, fingers working the strings by muscle memory.

She cocks her head. “I know this… where do I know this?” Her foot taps as she watches my fingers dance along the strings. She starts to hum with the melody when I reach the chorus. “Dee, daa, de-da-da-da, to bring the sugar and tea and rum. Something, something da, da, da, as we go out to sea.”

My laugh escapes when she butchers the words, and she bites her tongue between her teeth and crinkles her nose. Her face smooths and her pink lips relax into a natural smile. She’s watching my fingers, and I’m glad I have this song settled deep in my memory because my concentration wavers. Her enraptured face pries open a sliver of pride in my work. When I finish an intricate phrase, she releases a breath.

“You’re not even looking!” She steps closer and I stop playing, immediately distracted. And I don’t want to bump her with an elbow. “How do you play it so quickly without even looking?”

“The strings don’t move, Champ.” I tap her on the head with the bow. “After all these years I think I know where they are.”

She purses her lips in a don’t-feed-me-a-line glare. “Do that part again.”

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