Page 74 of Share with Me

Chapter Twenty-Four

The percussionof pattering shoes opened Ivan’s eyes. Coming down the stairs into his basement studio, his domain, his man cave, Brinley stepped onto the worn carpet. She didn’t seem to notice big old ugly stains beneath her dress shoes.

“That was beautiful.” Brinley walked toward him. “What is it?”

“Something I’m composing.”

“For?”

You.“Just a tune.”

He had sneaked out of the after-lunch conversation to get some breathing space. His basement was where he could unwind from a long day, his favorite place to cool off. He had been up since five o’clock studying his Bible to get direction from God for his life. He had written some more of his song for Brinley. He and Grandma Yun had arrived at Seaside Chapel at nine o’clock because he had an early rehearsal with the string ensemble for the offertory. Sunday School and service and then the whole tension of having Brinley in their house for lunch had all worn him out.

He could use a nap. But couldn’t until Brinley and Aunt Ella had left.

“They’re done gabbing up there?” Ivan asked.

“I told Aunt Ella we’re leaving in fifteen minutes. She’s eating her last cookies. Speaking of which, Yun said gingerbread is your favorite.”

Only Grandma’s gingerbread.

“She said she’ll give me the recipe someday.”

“Someday?” Ivan laughed. “Yeah. Wait for it.”

“I wish I could cook. I’m reheating frozen food all week.”

“Oh, you poor thing.” Ivan almost reached for her, but he decided not to because they were alone in the basement and he didn’t want to get into trouble with impropriety. Better let her stand there. “You can always learn, Brin.”

Brinley shrugged. She opened up the paper napkin in her hand to reveal two nesting cookies. “Want some?”

“Can’t. My hands are clean.” Ivan picked up the violin again. “Can’t get grease on this. It’s not mine.”

“Not yours?”

“Nope. This belongs to Conductor Petrocelli. Jean Baptiste Vuillaume made it in 1850.”

“What did you play previously?”

“An assortment of violins.” He didn’t want to say more.

He felt that Brinley didn’t need to know he had to sell his Gagliano to pay off part of the three mortgages on Grandma’s house. The second mortgage was Grandpa Otto’s fault, but the third was his to deal with Grandma’s broken hip and the subsequent hospital bills and physical therapy not covered by his music studio insurance.

If he had the SISO job then, they would’ve been better off. But it was two years too late when SISO finally hired him as one of the first violinists. When the concertmaster left for greater venues, he had to compete for her position. Thank God he got it now and their income situation had improved.

Ivan was relieved when Brinley said nothing. He watched her break off a third of Grandma’s homemade cookie and lift it toward his mouth.

“Open up,” she said.

Are you kidding me?

But he did what she told him to do, and she stuffed the piece of cookie into his mouth. She didn’t touch his lips or chin or cheek at all. Her movement was graceful, like she had done this before. He felt a bit jealous.

Of what? Of whom?

But why would he be jealous? Unwarranted, he chided himself.

Nothing could ever happen between him and her. Different worlds. Different circles. Different beliefs. Grandpa Otto used to stress how important it was for the husband and wife to be on the same spiritual page—

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