Page 180 of Share with Me

He’d worked long and hard to build up his music studio, but to what end? St. Simon’s Island was a small place with very few students. If his music studio had been in Savannah or, better yet, Atlanta or even Boston, he might have more students and more income since they’d pay more in bigger cities. The music studio and his hourly wages at SISO were barely enough to pay off the debts. Grandma said she’d go with him to Atlanta if it meant he could get a better job, but Ivan knew she’d rather stay on the island.

And truth be told, he did too. He never liked big cities.

Then again, the first thing he had to do was get out of debt. He should sell this house. That would be the end of it. It’d been in the McMillan family since 1902. But some old things were never meant to be kept.

But.

Maybe if his wrist healed, he could be a concert violinist now that Grandma Yun was dead. Maybe he could earn enough to save the house. Maybe there was still time to keep the bank at bay if he worked out a payment plan.

Or maybe he needed an accountant like Brinley had said.

Okay. I admit it now. I’m no good with this.

But maybe if he could borrow some money—

No, wait.

Brinley had alluded to him that he shouldn’t borrow anymore money.

Aarrgh. But what does she know about poverty?

Her words from earlier this month came back to him. She’d called him Mozart. Not the prodigy Mozart, but the thirty-something has-been on the throes of death scribbling scraps of music manuscripts to pay for mediocre medicine to keep him alive for another day. Yeah, that one who died anyway and was buried in a pauper’s grave. That musician.

Nope. Not gonna be like that.

I’ll prove you wrong, Brin.

Ivan nearly ran down the stairs to his basement studio. Using his right hand that still worked, he snapped open the lid to his violin from high school. Gingerly, he unwrapped his left wrist splint. He flexed his fingers slowly, then a bit more forcefully. The pain was still there.

Lord, help me.

He adjusted the tuning pegs on the violin with his right hand. Found the bow.

He turned his left wrist upward for his fingers to reach the strings. A bit of pain there, but he could bear it. But before his fingers could reach full supination, a searing pain stung his wrist and shot up his forearm. He yelped and nearly dropped the violin.

He knew then.

It was over.

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