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KATRINA HAD UNDERESTIMATED how cathartic, how freeing it would feel to talk with another musician about her experience last night in the sanctuary. She described it all in detail, leaving out only the part about her husband coming in while she’d been so distracted by her music.
“I wish I could have been a fly on the wall of that church,” Miles mused.
They spent the next half hour discussing other performances in their pasts, sharing more of their musical memories. Finally, Miles sighed and lifted the lid of the piano.
“Well, how about we stop talking about music and actually make some?”
She shouldn’t be afraid. So why did her core shake at the suggestion? She had to overcome her nerves.
He played his opening run. She could do this. She just had to focus. Shutting her eyes, she pictured the way her breath had felt coming out from her diaphragm last night and did her best to recreate that sensation. Once she found her confidence, the notes came out clear and bright. She hated to think of how many years she had wasted this gift, believing her mother’s lie that she was unable to sing. No wonder she’d always kept her voice so breathy and soft. But now that she’d discovered the true power she possessed, she doubted she could mimic her old timid voice if she wanted to.
It was like she was back in fourth grade again, discovering she could make actual music on her violin after years of boring scales and études and incessantly long sessions with different teachers boring into her the importance of proper positioning. But unlike the violin, which had taken her years to appreciate, her voice had progressed in a much shorter time.
Her only regret was that she hadn’t believed in herself enough to discover her talent sooner.
Even her orchestra friends back in Long Beach bought into the lie she’d told them. Kat doesn’t sing. Her voice is too quiet. So strange to think that all it had taken was this one man to unlock the gift she’d been given.
And unlike the violin, which she’d taken for granted for so many years during her childhood, she wasn’t going to squander this treasure she’d discovered. She was going to practice, fine-tune, and grow her talent with the determination she’d thrown into her violin for nearly two decades.
If she’d progressed so far with her voice in just a few weeks, imagine what she’d sound like in a year.
The mere thought made her head as light and airy as a piccolo trill.
After he warmed up her voice, Miles asked, “So what happens now?”
“What do you mean?”
He glanced at his watch. “Well, it’s been an hour. We could call it a day, or we could do something else.”
“Like what?” There was no rush for her to get home. She’d been cleaning all morning, working with the newfound energy she’d gained after last night. Other than one last load she’d have to take out of the dryer, she was caught up with laundry, the carpets were vacuumed, and she even had some chicken breast thawing in the fridge for dinner tonight.
Miles’ eyes were so expressive. She knew what he was going to say even before he spoke. “Would you like to show me the song you sang last night?”
“In here?”
He shrugged. “It’s just the two of us. But I don’t want to pressure you. It’s totally your choice.”
Her face was warm. She rubbed her sweaty palms on her pants, hoping he wouldn’t notice.
“You could start on your violin,” he suggested. “You wouldn’t even have to sing if it feels too uncomfortable. Want to do it like that?”
She nodded and unzipped her violin case, conscious of his eyes on her movements. While she was bent over her instrument, she cleared her throat awkwardly. “Oh, by the way, I was wondering if for the rest of the week we could meet at the church instead of here.” If her musical transformation had been divinely inspired, it would take an even greater miracle to help her to speak from now on without sounding so timid.
She kept her back to him while she tightened her bow.
“Yeah, we could do that. Why? You like the acoustics better?”
It was as good an excuse as any, and better by far than the real reason. “Yeah.”
“Sure.” He stood behind her now, startling her with the closeness of his voice.
She straightened up. “I’ll need a minute to tune.” She glanced at the floor. “I broke a string last night.”
“Take all the time you need.”
“Sorry.” Since it wasn’t even clear to her what she was apologizing for, it must sound even more obscure to him.
“No problem.”
After tuning her instrument, she faced him, her violin hugged against her chest. “So you want to hear the arrangement I made?”
His expression was warm in this otherwise chilly room. “I’d love that.”
Instinctively, she took a step back. How many times had her mother warned her that she’d hit someone with that bow of hers with as much as she swayed while playing?
“You ready?”
He nodded. Trying to share some of the confidence that shined from his expression, she lifted her bow then glanced up once more, waiting for him with the same deference she’d show a conductor.
He gave the signal, and she shut her eyes.
What child is this ...
In a way, he’d been right about the acoustics. It was exactly like playing in a school gym here, which made what should have been rich, soulful tones sound far too airy and bright.
She’d have to try harder. Overcompensate until her music was almost broody. Thankfully, when it came to her violin, Katrina had never been one to shrink back from a challenge.
So bring him incense, gold, and myrrh ...
By the time she got to the second verse, her surroundings had disappeared. She could have been playing on the deck of the capsizing Titanic for all the attention she paid to the outside world. There was nothing except Katrina and her violin and the music they created together.
Nothing at all.
Until a deep, resonant voice began to sing along with her instrument.
This, this is Christ the King.
Miles’ voice danced in and out of her refrain, piercing any protective layers she’d encased around her heart, shooting straight to the core of her soul and the source of her inspiration. She’d never heard a violin and a voice meld together like this, so seamlessly. The bow that she drew across her strings summoned forth the song that he made until it wasn’t even a duet anymore but one single conjoined instrument, her violin and his voice.
And then she felt his hands on hers. He gave her a look, an appeal for permission. Was he asking her to stop playing?
He paused long enough to whisper, “Sing with me,” and now he was the one drawing the music from her throat instead of the other way around.
Breath of heaven ...
Unlike last night in the sanctuary, there was no carpet here to dampen the ringing of her voice. No wooden pews to shape the sound. No pulpit or violin to hide behind. Nothing at all.
But she wasn’t afraid. While Miles took the lead, she slipped into harmony, which came so naturally to her as a second violinist, and together their voices danced so that it felt as if a conductor was keeping them in unison with his invisible baton.
There were no words to describe the harmony their souls made as their voices united. Previously, Katrina had always believed string quartets to be the most intimate of ensembles, but the closeness shared with three other string players was nothing like this. Singing with Miles, no instruments between them, was complete and total vulnerability. No stands to hide behind, no sheet music to tell you where the song was going next. You had to feel your way, visceral and deep, into the soul of your partner, anticipate his movement, sense his needs, rise up to meet each and every one of his expectations.
They were no longer teacher and student but two hungry souls, yearning together for the beauty their voices and their voices alone could create in a dreary and otherwise lonely universe.