Page 33 of The Silent Hour

The woman gave me the kind of scandalized look reserved for people who discussed politics at dinner. I offered her a polite smile, all teeth and no warmth, until they disappeared around the corner.

Then I turned back to Elena. "Like I was saying, fuck them."

"I am prone to agree." She shifted the basket to her other arm. "I have to get back to my parents'. I left the baby with my mom so I could get a breather, and she's been texting every seven minutes like I'm going to go plunge myself into the depths of South Beach or something."

A flicker of real worry slid through me. I wasn't going to be the person who last saw this woman alive and ignored the signs. Another tragedy everyone claimed they'd seen coming after it was too late to do anything about it.

"I don't know how to phrase this nicely..." I lowered my voice until it was barely above a whisper. "Are you having thoughts?"

Her expression changed. She shook her head with such deliberate control that the movement seemed rehearsed.

"No. I got cheated on. It isn't the end of the world. My babies need their mama, and right now, I need mine." Her shoulders lifted in a small, tired shrug that made her collarbones jut beneath her thin blouse. "I'll be staying with her for a while. I can't be at the house anymore."

She hesitated.

"Would you like to exchange numbers? I'd love to actually talk and maybe catch up somewhere other than between the cookies and crackers of aisle eleven."

"Yeah, sure." I pulled out my phone, the case warm from my back pocket, navigated to a new contact, and handed it to her. "You can text or call anytime. I'm a great person to vent to." I smiled, trying to coax one from her. "I also shit-talk for free."

That got another laugh out of her, even if it was thin as tissue paper. "Good to know."

We hugged briefly, the gesture catching me a little off guard. I'd gone to high school with Elena, but we hadn't kept in touch afterward, only occasionally circling the same social spaces. I could tell she needed it, though. There was a fragility to the way she held herself, like she'd spent so long keeping everything together that one more hard touch might crack something.

She stepped back and gave me a soft farewell before heading in the opposite direction. I pushed my squeaky cart forward, trying to refocus on my shopping and smiling absently at the woman offering cheese samples near the bakery.

Elena's words followed me all the way into the parking lot, clinging to me as I loaded grocery bags into the back of the Escalade.

“My babies need their mama, and right now, I need mine.”

If it were me, Mama would be my first call too. She'd help me plan with the cold precision of a general before holding me while I sobbed. But why the hell was I even entertaining the thought? I trusted Ethan completely. These intrusive scenarios were just anxiety wearing a different mask, my mind borrowing another woman's nightmare and trying it on for size.

No, thank you.

I wasn't putting that shit into the universe.

I slid behind the wheel, shut the door, and pointed the SUV toward home while mentally mapping out the rest of my day. I didn't work anymore. Not in the way I once had. These days, I played when invited. When the Miami Symphony needed an extra hand for its spring series. When a charity gala wanted a dramatic solo beneath the lights of some glittering ballroom.

I didn't need the relentless grind anymore. I'd earned my place on prestigious stages, and stepping back had been my choice, not a defeat. I was content with that. My life was full in other ways. Lunches with friends. Charity committees. My garden of tropical flowers that bloomed year-round.

There was always something to do.

Lately, I'd even been considering adopting a dog. A buddy for when the house felt too quiet. Someone to drag to the beach with me on mornings when the sand was still cool and the waves whispered instead of roared.

I reached home, and after unloading the groceries and tucking everything into its proper place, I headed upstairs and slipped down the hall toward my sanctuary. My music-slash-art room. Paint-splattered smocks draped over tufted velvet chairs. Sable brushes stood in mason jars, and my large easel sat between two smaller ones for when the girls felt like joining me.

Afternoon light streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the turquoise ocean beyond shimmering beneath the sun. My dark blue violin, a 1920s German piece with mother-of-pearl inlay, waited on its polished rosewood stand.

I traced a finger along the smooth maple neck, the silver-wound strings cool beneath my touch, before lifting it beneath my chin. The bow, its horsehair freshly rosined, settled naturally into my right hand.

An extension of myself.

One pull across the strings, and the room filled with a sound as haunting as a forgotten lullaby. I started with Einaudi's Experience, the kind of piece that carried you somewhere else. Then I shifted into Meditation from Thaïs, my fingers moving across the fingerboard in practiced vibrato.

I'd performed it dozens of times on stages from Carnegie Hall to La Scala, but here, in the quiet, with only dust motes for an audience, it felt less like a performance and more like prayer. The notes poured out of me. Eventually, they slipped into improvisation until it wasn't anyone else's music anymore.

It was mine.

Raw as an open wound.