Halfway through the second movement, the conductor stopped—as he’d done several times already and as was typical in these rehearsals. “Okay, violas,” he said, “this isn’t working. We need more finesse in your melodic line here. It’s very choppy.”
On the first stand in the viola section, a young woman with auburn hair and wide-set hazel eyes was nodding almost before the conductor got the words out. “You’re absolutely right,” she said, turning around to the violas behind her. “We need to imitate what Mr. McMillian’s doing. Play it in the upper part of the bow.” She demonstrated, the phrase pouring out beautifully, elegantly.
“That’s exactly right,” the conductor said. Ray agreed.
The rehearsal continued, Ray finishing his solo, then they took a break and he met individual orchestra members, all of whom seemed elderly, many of whom wanted to see his violin.
And then he found himself in front of the second-chair viola, the young woman who’d spoken up earlier. Her left arm had a single eighth-note tattoo right above her wrist. She had a seriously athletic body, too. “You destroyed that Tchaikovsky,” she told him. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard it played that fast.”
“You liked that?” He had trouble meeting her eyes. He didn’t know why.
“I certainly did. Nice work.”
“Thanks. I’m Ray.”
“Uh, kind of figured. I’m Nicole. I’m in the—”
“Viola section. Yeah, I noticed you. I mean, I saw you there.” Ray McMillian, suave ladies’ man.
“Well, I noticed you, too. Kinda rare to have a cute violinist around here.”
He had never actually played with someone his own age—someone attractive, of the opposite sex. Someone who was, in many ways, his equal. His mind started spinning, and he was unable to rein it back. Why did she have to live in Erie, Pennsylvania, of all places? What was her name again? Natalie? Natasha? Should he give her his card—was that too pretentious? He suddenly started getting visions of taking her out to dinner, going for long walks on a beach, holding hands. Did Erie have a beach? Wasn’t it near a lake?
“So what do you do around here?” he asked.
She looked him up and down. “Uh—I’m doing it. I play music.”
Mercifully, the conductor, Kevin Fiore, called the orchestra back to continue rehearsal. Ray was done for the night, which fortunately meant he was done making a complete idiot of himself. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Nicole, remember? I told you a couple seconds ago?”
“Right, right. My bad.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow. Get some rest. You look like you could use it.”
Ray went back to the hotel in a daze. The performance would go fine, he thought. That Nicole, though. Damn. Not only was she pretty, but she played well, and she thought he was cute. Ray was beside himself. College had been a single-minded pursuit of music, and although he’d gone out a few times with a few girls, he’d always been more focused on playing than being in a relationship. It didn’t help, either, that all the women at school had been white and that they had somehow seemed off-bounds to him. And after graduation, of course, he’d been swept up in the whirlwind of the Strad. Now he couldn’t get the image of that young woman’s hazel eyes and eighth-note tattoo out of his head.
Later, at the Shea Center for Performing Arts, he warmed up in his dressing room. The yellow walls seemed to shine in approval as the sounds of the Tchaikovsky Concerto bounced off them. He was ready. Tonight’s performance wasn’t for the thousand patrons that came to hear him. It wasn’t just another warm-up for Chicago. It was for Nicole. He shook his head. How could a forty-five-second conversation make him feel this way? When Glinka’s Ruslan and Ludmilla overture began, he headed up to the stage, lurking in the wings for a glimpse of her: a delicate gold chain around an elegant neck, below a dark red French braid.
When he finally came onstage, he did everything he could to avoid looking at Nicole, but she caught his eye anyway, lifted one pencil-thin eyebrow. He nodded imperceptibly, an upward tilt of his chin, and focused on the conductor, the shaking of hands, the brief bow. For a moment he thought of giving her the pink rose （why was he such an idiot? he should have brought two!） but instead scurried offstage, handing the rose to a twelve-year-old girl sitting in the third row.
The night’s Tchaikovsky Concerto bloomed full of energy, and he followed it with the Massenet encore. He was playing so easily, so comfortably, that he dared to let his head turn to the first stand in the viola section. Nicole was smiling as she played and looking at him.