The Memory Painter

The lights dimmed, and as the concert began, Bryan grew still. He didn’t reach for her hand in the dark or try to distract her. He was riveted.

The orchestra looked majestic and when Anne Akiko Meyers took the stage everyone burst into applause. The Vieuxtemps gleamed in the light, emanating an energy all its own. Even though it was over three hundred years old, the instrument had remained unblemished by time—it was as perfect as the day Guarneri carved it.

Soaring music filled the hall. Tucked under the chin of a master, the violin shared the stories of every hand who had played her.

Linz felt a quiver run through her body as the sound swept her away, and she forgot that Bryan was even there until just before the intermission. When she looked over at him, she could see a hint of tears in his eyes. And in that moment he stole her heart.

*

After the symphony, they were both quiet as they strolled down Massachusetts Avenue toward the St. Botolph neighborhood. The concert had affected Bryan more than he had expected.

“I can see why you go alone,” he finally said. “Thank you for letting me tag along.” Bryan reached out and took her hand, neither needed to say a word.

They meandered through the historic neighborhood until they reached Back Bay. He escorted her to her door and stood there, reluctant to go.

Something had happened tonight that had changed everything. It was as if Guarneri’s Vieuxtemps had put them in tune with each other.

“Do you want to come in?” she asked.

“Yes. But I won’t.” He took her hand and brought it to his chest. Somehow this was more intimate than a kiss.