Page 213 of Share with Me

Trust God.

Was he trusting God now?

“Do you want to see the rest of the house?” Meg asked. The many keys jangled in her hands.

“Yes.” This wasn’t Grandma’s house anymore, not the way it had been.

Brinley must have gotten this house it went into foreclosure. Or perhaps she had bought it directly from the bank. He hadn’t known who had bought the house because the bank had taken over at that time and he was out of the equation.

He wondered why Brinley had bought the house.

Was it her memories of spending time here? She liked old things. So maybe she was keeping history alive.

Meg’s phone rang. “Why don’t you look around on your own? I’ll be on the porch.”

“Sounds good.” Ivan wandered to the back of the house. Standing at the doorframe to what used to be Grandma Yun’s room but bigger, he realized it was now a library or another sitting room. Through the tall windows he could see the grove of live oaks behind the house. They seemed closer to him now as if the entire back of the house had been pushed out.

He stood at the window for a moment, remembering his childhood days of playing with wooden swords and towels for capes among the live oaks and running in and out of the fort that would’ve been over there in a small clearing.

Sun rays peeked through overhanging oak branches, making shifting designs on the green grass in that space where he and his siblings had spent many seasons.

Maybe I’ll build a fort again.

For my kids.

Our kids.

Brinley filled his mind and a warmth filled his heart. Full of love and peace and joy. “Lord, why are You so good to me?”

Yet those warning signs still fired off in his mind. He was about to go downstairs to the basement studio when Meg returned to the foyer.

“Ready to sign the rental papers?” She had a silver pen with her.

“Would you give me a minute? I’m going to take a look at the basement.”

“Sure thing. It’s finished.” Meg began texting as Ivan dashed to the door at the top of the stairs.

The empty basement had been repainted. All the walls were cream and the window frames were white. The glass panes looked new and sunshine came in. The old, stained carpet was no more. In its place was stone flooring of some sort, looking nice and clean in the late morning sun.

Ivan could still remember where he had stood when he played most ofPleasant Daysfor Brinley right after she had brazenly fed him with half a cookie. It seemed long ago now, but it had only been last Christmas.

He remembered finishing the composition. It was still in his laptop, untouched these four months. He couldn’t have played it with a broken wrist. In the last four months he hadn’t lifted a violin or a bow to test his wrist again since the day he buried Grandma Yun.

That chapter of his life was over.

Or is it?

He flexed his left hand under the brace. It wasn’t hurting as much as it used to. Vittorio, the therapist, had said before that his wrist needed time to heal. The broken bones had fused and his wrist was somewhat functional now. The tendons no longer twitched, but he still couldn’t turn his wrist with its original range of motions, and still couldn’t play as much music as he’d like.

Forget Paganini and Rimsky-Korsakov and Vivaldi.

I’m done.

Or am I?

After all, Brinley had said she didn’t care if he never played the violin again. Still, there was that promise he’d made her. Well, we’ll cross that bridge if she ever got her 1698 Damaris Brooks Stradivarius violin back. Somehow he doubted that would ever happen.

For now he had a new job at Matt’s thrift shop. He appreciated Matt letting him off work an hour early today so he could come here. But it might be all for naught.

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