There’s an earnestness in her voice, and I feel lucky she’s trusting me with this information. My parents would have leaped to the conclusion that someone unmarried at Maxine’s age was something to mourn. Sorry is something my parents would have said, and it shouldn’t have been my gut reaction. The first time we met, I thought she was lonely, but I was so, so wrong. If Maxine is happier now, then I’m glad it ended too.
Maxine changes the subject, and I get the sense that this was maybe more personal information than she wanted to divulge. “Let me see if I have some more sheet music for you.” She shuffles a stack of papers on a side table—hand-carved, of course. A brightly colored flyer sails to the floor, and I bend to pick it up.
ONE NIGHT ONLY, it says. ACCLAIMED HARPIST MAXINE OTTO.
“Just a little show I’m doing,” Maxine says, holding out her hand for the flyer. She says this casually, like she’s trying to brush it off, and I can’t quite understand why.
“And I thought you didn’t play anymore.”
“Not very much. I’m not officially retired, but I’m mostly holed up here in the shop. An old friend asked me to be part of this charity concert at the end of the month, and I told her I would. Really, it’s not a big deal.”
“I’ve never been to anything like this. I’d love to go.”
She regards me with an odd expression, white-blond eyebrows knit close together and—I think she might be nervous. “It’s been a while since I played in public. I may not be very good.” At this, a small smile forms in the corner of her mouth, like she knows that’s impossible.
“I’m putting it on my calendar.” It’s only when I pull out my phone that I spy the date on the flyer. A Saturday. It overlaps with the Stern-Rosenfeld wedding, a glam Jewish shindig we’ve been planning for a year and a half.
I’ve never skipped a wedding, but I’ll come up with an excuse. I don’t know when I’ll get another chance to see Maxine perform.
Now that I’m holding my phone, I see the texts from Asher.
Asher: Hey, where are you?
Asher: Why is your phone off?
Asher: Quinn?? Now I’m worried, call me asap.
“Do you mind if I—” I ask, gesturing to my phone, and Maxine waves a hand as I hit my sister’s number.
“Quinn? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I’m fine. What is it?”
There’s a shuffle on the other end, and then, when she speaks again, her voice is a near-whisper. “I’m currently doing a floral consult in Capitol Hill with Genevieve and Preston. Alone.”
Oh. Shit.
“Where are you?”
I glance around the studio. “I’m—at Julia’s. I had my phone off and we lost track of time. I’m so sorry, I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Twenty, max. Capitol Blossom, right?”
“We’ll be done by then.” Her voice is crisp. “Just don’t let this happen again, okay? I looked like a total idiot telling them I was waiting for you when apparently you weren’t planning on showing up.”
We never talk to each other like this—but then again, we haven’t talked to each other very much at all lately, not about anything that isn’t wedding related.
“Okay,” I say quietly, and then we hang up.
“Everything all right?” Maxine chirps.
“Yeah. I… should probably go.” Even if I’m not needed, the guilt is enough to send me home.
“You should take it with you. The harp.” When I just stare at her, she adds, “So you can practice more.”
For a moment I’m overwhelmed with a feeling that soothes the anxiety of the call with Asher. “Because I need the practice, or because you’re doing a nice thing for me? This is worth thousands of dollars. I mean—you know that, obviously.”
“For harp makers, it’s a huge compliment to have a musician they admire play one of their instruments.” And then I get another rare Maxine smile.
Whatever that feeling is—I ride it all the way home, where I hide the harp in my closet and wash the sawdust out of my hair.
Tarek: So that reality show couple is doing their final tasting at Mansour’s this week.
Quinn:
Tarek: Is anyone from B+B planning to be there?
Quinn: Yep, the youngest B. Aka me.
And mainly for the food.
Tarek: I was hoping. That one’s my favorite.
Quinn: What a coincidence, the youngest M is my favorite too.
Mainly because of the food.
Tarek: I was thinking of making some baklava, if that’s something you’d be interested in.
Quinn: I really shouldn’t eat on the job.
Tarek: So that macaron last week?
Quinn: I was tricked!
Tarek: Or that piece of mango?
Quinn: Do not even *think* about mangos in my presence.
Tarek:
I’m so sorry, I had to.
Quinn: Thanks for being there.
At the urgent care, I mean.
I probably never said that, so… thank you.
Tarek: To be fair, you were too busy telling me with your eyes to go fuck myself.
But you’re welcome.
Quinn:
Tarek:
Quinn:
Tarek: So hypothetically, if I had some baklava sitting on the counter at Mansour’s…?
Quinn: Then I’d make sure it was given proper attention.
Tarek: Good.
Quinn: Good.
Tarek: In case I haven’t already made it clear, I’m glad you’re going to be there.
And I really liked… everything that happened on Saturday.
Quinn: Oh, I could tell.
And… I did too.
17
I am leading a double life.
In one life, I am Quinn the obedient daughter. I attend fittings, consults, rehearsal dinners. I smile. I say of course and not a problem and yes.
In the other, I’m Quinn the stealth harpist, who rushes home to shower off the scent of sawdust, who plays the cherrywood harp only when no one is home (after nearly breaking my back hauling it up to the tower), who sneaks out of her house to a harp maker’s studio whenever I can.
It’s
