world around him as his coffee? Would he have opened the door and knocked me to the ground? What if I hadn’t tried to break my fall? Would I have hurt my hand so bad?
“I don’t know what I’d do if I couldn’t play the cello anymore,” Connor said, breaking through Jamie’s thoughts.
There it was. The barely veiled invitation to spill his guts and say how angry he was or how he was falling apart. If anyone else hinted he was concerned he’d do something stupid like jump off the Brooklyn Bridge, he might throw his phone off said bridge.
His left hand cramped and he switched his phone to his right, staring at the offending appendage as if it should look different. How many people would be thrilled to have the mobility he possessed, and yet for him, it wasn’t enough. “It’s taking some adjusting to, but I’m managing.”
“Maybe you should get away. Take some time to clear your head.”
Or at least get away before the well-intentioned people in his life drove him insane. He considered visiting his parents in Philadelphia, but tossed the idea aside. While he loved them, they were planners. They analyzed a situation, determined the risks and probability of success for each option and then acted. That’s what they’d want to do with this situation—provide him with a feasibility study. He couldn’t take the in-person seminar right now. The phone version had been bad enough.
A picture of his grandfather’s small ranch in the Rocky Mountains flashed in Jamie’s mind. A simple two-story house straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting with a big old-fashioned porch with rocking chairs perfect for thinking. Going to Colorado was what he needed. There he could clear his head and sort things out.
Mick would understand what he was going through because he’d experienced the same uncertainty when he’d returned from Vietnam after shrapnel from a land mine had torn up his right leg, arm and hand, ending his own musical career. While he’d understand, Mick wouldn’t pry. Nor would anyone else in Estes Park, because very few of the town’s eight thousand residents knew more about him than that he was Mick’s grandson.
Except Emma, but then, last he’d heard she was living in Nashville.
“Jamie, you still there?” Connor asked. “I wish there was something I could do.”
Out of patience now that he had a plan, Jamie thanked his friend for checking about the teaching possibilities, ended the conversation and called Mick. When the old man answered, Jamie said, “Mind if I come for a visit?”
“The door’s always open to you.”
“Great. I’ll be on a plane tomorrow.”
“You know I’m not one to ask a lot of nosy questions, and tell me if I’m outta line doing it now. It won’t hurt my feelings none, but I hear something in your voice so I gotta ask. Is something wrong?”
Unlike when others asked, Mick’s question didn’t irritate Jamie. “When you got hurt and couldn’t perform, did everyone keep asking what you were going to do with your life?”
“Your hand didn’t heal right,” Mick said in a matter-of-fact voice.
“The doctor says everything looks fine, but when I play my hand doesn’t work like it used to. My fingers get knotted up. The dexterity and flexibility just isn’t there.” Jamie explained how music he’d once played without conscious effort now proved difficult. To the untrained ear he might not sound too bad, but unless things changed, he wouldn’t be returning to the Philharmonic anytime soon. “The doctor says there’s a chance my hand will get better. He says strengthening may be all it needs.”
Keep telling yourself that so you can hang on to the hope that your career isn’t over.
“Nothing will do that better than good old-fashioned hard work around the ranch and the restaurant, and I’ve got plenty to do at both places. In fact, I could use a bartender.”
“Making mixed drinks is an art form nowadays. That’s out of my league.”
Mick laughed. “Maybe in New York City, but most folks that come into my place aren’t big on fancy mixed drinks. They order a beer on tap or in a bottle. Other than that it’s pouring whiskey or making margaritas for the ladies. I can show you how to do that.”
“I think I can handle that.”
“Good. I’ll see you tomorrow. Let me know when your flight gets in. I’ll pick you up at the airport.”
Jamie thought about telling Mick he’d rent a car, but right now he’d rather avoid the expense. He had some money in savings, but only enough to last a couple of months. Considering his uncertain future, best to be frugal.
“For what it’s worth, I know what you’re going through, and I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy,” Mick said. “It really knocked my feet out from under me for a while.”
That’s right where Jamie was. Flat on his back trying to figure out what to do once he found the energy to stand again.
“People didn’t realize playing and singing were a part of me,” Mick continued. “When I lost that, it was like a part of me died, and I had to grieve. Until I did, I couldn’t move on. Most people didn’t get that. They wanted to help, but their concern most times made it worse.”
“Concern I can take. It’s the pity that’s pissing me off.”
“Don’t let this get you down, son. I know it seems bad now, but an unexpected blessing can find its way into situations like this.”
Jamie shook his head. If there was something good in the midst of this mess, fate was doing a damned good job hiding the fact.
* * *
EMMA DONOVAN STARED at Molly, the fiddle player in her band, Maroon Peak Pass, standing in the doorway of her office at the Estes Park animal shelter.
There’s a woman with bad news to deliver.
“I can’t do this anymore, Em.”
Emma tried not to cringe. This couldn’t be happening again. Every time she thought her musical career would take off and she’d land a record deal, something happened to snatch defeat out of the jaws of victory.
“I’m in the middle of preparing for a volunteer orientation today. Can we do this later, Molly?”
As in possibly never, since I don’t think I’m going to like what you have to say. I definitely don’t have the energy to deal with it today.
“This can’t wait,” Molly said. The look in her gaze only confirmed Emma’s suspicions of impending doom.
As she tried to quell the unease churning in her stomach, Emma motioned for Molly to have a seat in the wooden chair on the opposite side of her less-than-impressive desk. Ah, the joys of working for a nonprofit agency. Rickety, cheap furniture.
“It’s Dave, isn’t it?” Emma said. Since Molly’s marriage six months ago, she’d changed, showing up late for rehearsals and wanting to leave early. When she was there, she was distracted and unprepared. “He’s pressuring you to leave the band, isn’t he?”
She knew what that was like. Emma,
