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KATRINA DIDN’T REALIZE that even schools as small as Orchard Grove had buzzers to let you into the building and strict sign-in procedures for all the guests. Even though she arrived five minutes after the school day ended, she still had to sign in at the office, then ask for directions twice so her voice could carry over the screams and shouts of all the students running to meet up with their friends or catch their busses home.
The door to the music room was only a few inches open, so she wasn’t sure if she was supposed to knock or just go in. She rapped her knuckles against the wood, but the movement was so timid even she couldn’t hear a sound. She nudged the door open with her foot. “Hello?”
She thought a school the size of Orchard Grove would have a smaller music room. She’d also been expecting a teacher like the older version of Mr. Holland, not a young man about her husband’s age.
“You must be Katerina.” He added the extra syllable to her name like her Russian grandmother had.
She glanced at the floor. “Nice to meet you.”
He was sitting behind a music stand. If this were the string section, he’d be the first violist. “Come in.” He pulled out the seat next to him. “I hear you’re quite the accomplished musician already.”
She managed a slight smile and sat near him. One stand over and she’d be in her old spot from the symphony.
“So you just moved here from LA?”
“Long Beach.” She wished she had her violin to hold against her chest like a shield. That was one reason she hated singing so much. With no instrument to hide behind, you were left absolutely exposed.
Naked.
“And you played in the symphony there, right? Violin?”
She nodded, wondering what it would be like to move to a town where every single resident didn’t know her life history. What was he going to ask next? How old she’d been when she and Greg met? How long they waited from the time she graduated high school until their first date?
Instead, he stretched his arm across the back of the empty chair between them. So comfortable. So relaxed. “I’m a brass man myself. Trombone at first, just because they’re the ones that lead the marching band, but I moved on to French horn once I discovered Tchaikovsky.”
She smiled at him, the first time she didn’t feel nervous enough to vomit since she’d pulled up to the school. “I love French horns.”
“They say the French horn and the violin are the two instruments that come closest to matching the human voice.”
Katrina had heard that same thing before but didn’t want to sound like a know-it-all. “Wow, that’s interesting.”
“So tell me why you’re here. You want to learn how to sing so you can lead music at your church?”
She despised the way her face would flush at the slightest provocation. If she hated singing, she hated talking about herself to a stranger just as much. “Something like that. Mrs. Porter, I mean your aunt ...”
He interrupted with a chuckle. “She can be a little overbearing at times. Is she the one who roped you into this?”
Katrina stared at her lap. There was no reason to deny it. “In a way.”
Another small laugh. “Well, I’m sorry for your sake, but selfishly, I’ve been looking forward to this ever since she called me. I’ve been in Orchard Grove five years now, and I can’t tell you how nice it is to have a real musician to work with for a change.”
Another blush.
“Maybe one afternoon you can bring your violin, and I’ll pull out my French horn, and we’ll have a jam session.”
Katrina tried to think up a quick excuse. She didn’t do improv. Didn’t like jazz. Didn’t even play her violin anymore.
Thankfully, he didn’t ask for a commitment. “So.” He stood up and planted himself behind the piano. “Grab that bottle of water, come over here, and let’s warm up your voice. I’m dying to hear what we have to work with.”