I call out Devon’s name but he doesn’t answer. In fact, no one does.
Where are all the people who work on the boat?
I follow a wide hallway, peering into more rooms, trying not to look like I’m spying. I really am just trying to find Devon. There’s an office, two other staterooms, and a butler’s pantry.
Man, if someone sees me back here, they’ll think I’m trying to steal stuff.
I am about to turn around and head back downstairs when something catches my eye from a doorway left partially open. I backtrack and head toward the room at the end of the hall. I push open the door and am taken aback.
The room has a ceiling twice as high as the others. It sits at the front of the boat, with floor to ceiling windows, looking over the water. The view alone would make anyone stop and stare.
Except for me.
In front of the windows is the object that caught my attention.
A cello.
Okay, most people wouldn’t stop and stare at a string instrument but they’re not me. The cello is part of the violin family. The range of the instruments are similar but the tone quality and physical size distinguish them from one another. The violin is played under the chin, but the cello is played while seated and placed between the legs. With its lower octave sound, I always thought of it as the violin’s sexy and sensual lover. Don’t judge. It’s just the music geek in me.
The violin was my passion for fifteen years. In grade school we were encouraged to play an instrument. My teacher played the violin for us and I asked to try it. After a few lessons, I was hooked.
While most people think of the violin as being purely classical, I took my love for it one step further, playing jazz, rock, and with the use of an amp, heavy metal rock. I was accepted at a young age to the Pittsburgh Music Academy and my mother drove me two hours, three times a week so I could have the best musical education money can buy. We didn’t have a lot of money, but my parents knew it was my calling. My dream was to create a musical genre for the pop scene that no one had ever heard of. The sound was fresh, fun, and bold.
I was good. I was damn good because I loved it. But one accident, a broken hand and a crushed nerve left me unable to pick up a bow. If I curl my palm to a certain degree, and hold it just a second too long, pain shoots so far up my arm I want to scream.
Turning away from the cello, I walk to a far corner of the room where there is a large grand piano. It’s black, sleek and I know without checking it’s perfectly tuned. No one who owns an instrument as fine as this leaves it untuned. I take a seat and lift the lid to the keys. The ivory feels so smooth under my fingers.
Just being this close to one makes me feel jittery and excited. I’m like a drug addict falling off the wagon—this is my line of cocaine.
My mom has been trying to make me play something, anything. She doesn’t care if it’s the drums, the sax . . . a trombone. She just wants me to play. Said it would be good for me. But I couldn’t.
Now, sitting here, in this foreign room, alone with this beast of dark musical power, I have an intense desire to put my hands down and . . .
Play.
Slowly at first, I let my fingers push down on the keys. I close my eyes and my hands dance. I play a melody that pops in my head. It’s not one I know, it’s one that is just playing. The piano is not my instrument. If I ever played, and it was so very rare, it was like this. Just a little melody from inside my head.
Using both hands, I play a few chords and let them harmonize with one another. The sound is nice and I’m slightly surprised by that. I feel my lips tip up and my head falls to the side as the music takes over me.