silence of the room was broken only by the delicate tinkle as cut crystal shattered.
* * * * *
It was amazing, Cassie thought as she made her way up the steps of the Remlinger Center in an uneven gait, toting her cello. Amazing how wonderful she felt. How free.
She’d finished her concert tour and headed home from Chicago, for the first time in her life not having a litany of responsibilities and commitments waiting for her. She’d spent the long lonely hours in her hotel room—ignoring her silent phone—thinking about her life and what she really wanted from it.
She did not allow herself to consider what other people wanted.
Other people were more than happy to tell you what they wanted. The little voice inside, the one so often silenced, was more difficult to hear. But when she sat still and focused and thought about what made her happy—everything was so clear.
She would still play. Still do concerts and appearances and participate in the symphony. But what she really wanted to do was teach and compose.
She didn’t know why it hadn’t occurred to her before—other than the fact that she hadn’t allowed herself to acknowledge the desire. She’d spent her whole life trying to please her parents, to thank them, to pay them back for giving her a home and a family; she’d never dared take what she wanted.
Oh, there would be guilt—even though Mother and Father had accepted her decision, wrapping her in weepy hugs and saying they understood it was her life, her decision, and they just wanted her to be happy. But this sense of elation, the undeniable feeling she’d finally figured out her purpose, would not dissipate.
Not even when she thought of Dylan.
Who had never called.
She’d come to terms with it. There had been tears. Nearly every night when she was alone in her sterile hotel room with the lights off and no one could see. Even now the sense of loss pinged at her heart.
It had taken discipline to work through her emotions. Discipline to draw in a deep breath whenever she thought of him. Draw in a deep breath and determinedly turn the pain into gratitude. She was lucky she had met him. That one brilliant flash of passion had illuminated the landscape of her existence and shown her the truth of it.
Her life was wonderful. But there was so much more.
What they’d shared had been magnificent. It had given her a taste of what life and love could be like.
But if she was to be her own woman, she needed to be strong enough to stand alone.
And maybe one day she would find someone. Someone who made her feel so alive, so free, so desired again.
She pushed into the playroom of the Remlinger Center and froze, reveling in the sight she beheld. She was early, but the room was packed full of pajama-clad children and hovering parents. They were already there, those bright, shining faces, the ones for whom she loved to play, clumped around circular tables, coloring and chatting and laughing with their friends.
Little Dara saw her and let out a squeal. She trundled over in her bunny slippers and cotton candy pink robe so long it trailed on the floor, dragging her IV stand behind her. “Cassie!” she wheezed. “You’re here!”
“Here I am, darling,” she said, dropping to one knee to wrap the moppet into a hug. She was much tinier than she had been at Cassie’s last visit. Her color more sallow. Thin hair clung to her head in uneven clumps. Cassie held her tight, until Dara pushed away.
“Are you going to play the ‘Bumblebee’ tonight?”
“If you like.”
Dara nodded somberly. “We all took a vote.” She gestured around the room. “Everyone wants the ‘Bumblebee.’”
Maximilian tugged on her sleeve. Cassie turned to him. He put out a lip. “I didn’t want the ‘Bumblebee.’”
“You didn’t? What did you want to hear?” She bit back a smile. Maximilian always asked for the same thing.
“The Swan.”
She put her palm on his bald head, noting his warmth. “Of course. I
* * * * *
It was amazing, Cassie thought as she made her way up the steps of the Remlinger Center in an uneven gait, toting her cello. Amazing how wonderful she felt. How free.
She’d finished her concert tour and headed home from Chicago, for the first time in her life not having a litany of responsibilities and commitments waiting for her. She’d spent the long lonely hours in her hotel room—ignoring her silent phone—thinking about her life and what she really wanted from it.
She did not allow herself to consider what other people wanted.
Other people were more than happy to tell you what they wanted. The little voice inside, the one so often silenced, was more difficult to hear. But when she sat still and focused and thought about what made her happy—everything was so clear.
She would still play. Still do concerts and appearances and participate in the symphony. But what she really wanted to do was teach and compose.
She didn’t know why it hadn’t occurred to her before—other than the fact that she hadn’t allowed herself to acknowledge the desire. She’d spent her whole life trying to please her parents, to thank them, to pay them back for giving her a home and a family; she’d never dared take what she wanted.
Oh, there would be guilt—even though Mother and Father had accepted her decision, wrapping her in weepy hugs and saying they understood it was her life, her decision, and they just wanted her to be happy. But this sense of elation, the undeniable feeling she’d finally figured out her purpose, would not dissipate.
Not even when she thought of Dylan.
Who had never called.
She’d come to terms with it. There had been tears. Nearly every night when she was alone in her sterile hotel room with the lights off and no one could see. Even now the sense of loss pinged at her heart.
It had taken discipline to work through her emotions. Discipline to draw in a deep breath whenever she thought of him. Draw in a deep breath and determinedly turn the pain into gratitude. She was lucky she had met him. That one brilliant flash of passion had illuminated the landscape of her existence and shown her the truth of it.
Her life was wonderful. But there was so much more.
What they’d shared had been magnificent. It had given her a taste of what life and love could be like.
But if she was to be her own woman, she needed to be strong enough to stand alone.
And maybe one day she would find someone. Someone who made her feel so alive, so free, so desired again.
She pushed into the playroom of the Remlinger Center and froze, reveling in the sight she beheld. She was early, but the room was packed full of pajama-clad children and hovering parents. They were already there, those bright, shining faces, the ones for whom she loved to play, clumped around circular tables, coloring and chatting and laughing with their friends.
Little Dara saw her and let out a squeal. She trundled over in her bunny slippers and cotton candy pink robe so long it trailed on the floor, dragging her IV stand behind her. “Cassie!” she wheezed. “You’re here!”
“Here I am, darling,” she said, dropping to one knee to wrap the moppet into a hug. She was much tinier than she had been at Cassie’s last visit. Her color more sallow. Thin hair clung to her head in uneven clumps. Cassie held her tight, until Dara pushed away.
“Are you going to play the ‘Bumblebee’ tonight?”
“If you like.”
Dara nodded somberly. “We all took a vote.” She gestured around the room. “Everyone wants the ‘Bumblebee.’”
Maximilian tugged on her sleeve. Cassie turned to him. He put out a lip. “I didn’t want the ‘Bumblebee.’”
“You didn’t? What did you want to hear?” She bit back a smile. Maximilian always asked for the same thing.
“The Swan.”
She put her palm on his bald head, noting his warmth. “Of course. I
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