* * *
The sound of men’s laughter came from the next room, just as the fifth movement was ending. Bridget opened her eyes, realizing she had no memory of hearing the fourth movement at all and that she’d drooled a bit on her sleeve. She stretched her neck, stood up, and saw her father and Nicholas shaking hands, Nicholas thanking him in a deep voice. Bridget slipped out of the room and hurried down the hall, past the grandfather clock that struck twelve as she went by. Picking up her shoes by the door, she quickly left the house and drove home in her mismatched socks.
* * *
That afternoon she practiced for over an hour, going through the Schubert with a metronome. Seeing Edward always compelled her to work hard, but there was something about the sight of him today (or his feet, anyway, from the back of his wing chair), adjacent to Nicholas, the two of them listening so intently to every note, intention, and manifestation, that motivated her. She wanted to be on top of her game to impress Caroline when they started playing together in the fall.
Once again, they were starting over. It was hard to fold in a new violinist, to work out the group chemistry and make sure that she and Will were allowing a new personality to help shape the group dynamics. This time the experience would likely feel different: Caroline Lee was out of their league and the answer to their prayers; Bridget was grateful to her.
The Forsyth Trio had seen better days. It was getting harder and harder to book concerts, their fees were stagnant, and their manager of twenty years seemed completely uninterested in helping them turn things around. Meanwhile new, younger groups were popping up all the time. These kids might not have the experience, connections, and professionalism of Forsyth, but they knew how to use social media and build a brand. Forsyth didn’t have a SoundCloud account or a YouTube channel or an Instagram page. They had nothing but an old website and their reputation.
Through a friend (and likely with a little help from the cachet of Bridget’s last name), they scored a meeting with Randall Bennett, a manager who handled the careers of the world’s top classical musicians. Randall, a slightly balding, fast-talking, intimidating alpha man, had heard them play at Alice Tully Hall once, and he told Bridget and Will that he thought they were impressive; nevertheless, he turned them down, with a clear and absolute shake of his head. “I’m sorry, guys, but I can’t sign a two-person trio,” he’d said. And, amused by the absurdity, he laughed. Bridget and Will didn’t think it was funny at all. “But I’ll tell you what,” he added. “If you can find a soloist, a Hilary Hahn or an Anne-Sophie Mutter, a Christian Tetzlaff, someone of that caliber, then get back in touch, and we’ll talk.”
A few days later Randall contacted them with a proposition: His client, the exceptionally talented, well-known violinist Caroline Lee (graduate of Curtis, winner of the Martin E. Segal Award, named on several fabulous-people-under-thirty lists), wanted to expand her repertoire with ensemble music. She’d heard Forsyth play in New York a few years before. Would they consider working with her, on a trial basis, of course, for one year?
Bridget and Will discussed the proposal.
“If it doesn’t work out,” Will said, “we’ll have no manager, and we’ll be in worse shape than we’re in now. It’s a huge risk.”
“But if it goes well,” Bridget reminded him, “Randall will represent us.”
They decided to take the risk.
Randall began booking concerts for the fall, starting with the Frick in mid-September. However, he had explained to them, he was not representing them yet, so everything else involved in getting Forsyth back on track was Bridget and Will’s responsibility. He told them to “up their game” in order to deserve Caroline. He recommended a PR firm that would launch a publicity campaign, and a company that would revamp their brand and their whole look as an ensemble.
Will was nervous about the plan, but Bridget was thrilled.
* * *
Bridget put her cello back in its case just as a loud screeching came from the other side of the field, making her wonder who was eating whom in her backyard. Every year, ice storms chewed up the cedar shingles, and the summer heat warped the doors in their frames, making them creak when they opened. The seasons had given her house a lot of its character. She poured herself a glass of rosé and went out to the porch to look at the mountain, the trees, and the outline of Batshit Barn. It was so beautiful, and it made her all the more excited to share it with someone. She couldn’t wait for Sterling to get there and picked up her phone to tell him so.
“Here’s the plan,” she said, as soon as he answered. “We’re going to sleep in as late as we want, work as much as we need to, and have sex anytime we like, day or night. Happy hour begins at seven p.m. sharp.”
“Hold on,” he said.
Bridget heard voices, a woman’s and then a child’s. Something crackly like an intercom.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“The hospital.”
“No way,” said Bridget, “I was at the hospital today, too.” He didn’t say anything. “Are you okay?”
“I had a twinge in my back.”
“A twinge. What’s a twinge?”
There was a rustling and then the woman’s voice again. “Bridget? It’s Mallory.”
“Hi,” she said. “Is Sterling all right?”
“He’s not taking care of himself,” Mallory said. “He sat writing for so long today, he’s pinched a nerve in his lower back.”
“Oh, shit,” said Bridget. “I’ll have to make sure he takes a lot of breaks this summer.”
“You should get him up from the desk every two to three hours,” she said. “And he should do some core-strengthening.”
Was sex core-strengthening? Bridget had the good taste not to ask. “There couldn’t be a better place to take walks.”
“I was thinking,” said Mallory, “since he’ll be there for so many weeks, why don’t you guys go on a health kick together? You should do the Whole30.”
A bullfrog croaked in the pond, and Bridget took a sip of her wine.
“I’m sending you a book about it,” said Mallory. “Sterling’s blood pressure’s high, and the doctor thinks a high-fiber, low-carb diet would be good for him. I’d rather you follow Juliette Stark’s program, but I think it’s too rigid for Sterling. Have you heard about Juliette’s book? Gwyneth Paltrow swears by her.”
Bridget put her glass of wine down, feeling defensive. “I eat fairly well here.” She didn’t mention the scolding she’d gotten about her own blood pressure that very morning.
“You guys should cut carbs and all processed foods.”
“Who needs fun, right?” Bridget joked.
“No one over fifty,” said Mallory sternly.
Bitch. “Lucky you then.”
“No dairy, no sugar. And no alcohol.”
Bridget saw her wine-and-cheese hour under assault. “Did Sterling agree to this?”
“Hang on,” she said.
There was more rustling, and Sterling got on the phone. “Hi, hon. Not to worry, I’m taking ibuprofen and feeling better already.”