The Gift, page 16
As I open my trunk and remove my cherished cello and tote bag, I see a text come through from Christian on my watch.
Christian: I believe in you.
My mind travels back in time to ten years ago. I first auditioned for the LA Philharmonic when we began dating, and he said these exact words, though in person. They have the same heart-melting effect in this decade.
Toni: Thanks, babe. I’m heading in, so I’ll call you after I’m done.
How am I staying so calm? Maybe it’s all that wind advice from David. This audition is a bonus, not a barrier. And auditioning practically every year has given me a chance to know what to expect by this point. That’s a huge bonus.
In the last few days, I have had fun practicing…a welcome return of an old friend. Maybe I wouldn’t have started down this wine path if I still enjoyed each time I play cello. But I’m glad I’m on this path too. I guess sometimes when you make your art into your livelihood, the risk of contaminating the enjoyment happens, but sometimes it may also lead to something needed in your life. Maybe that’s my winery.
By the time I enter the building and stop philosophizing life, a blast of cold air conditioning hits me in the face. Blinking to wet my eyes again, I see the sign pointing to the direction of the auditions. I take a loud, deep breath, smooth my probably bumpy curls in my bun, and walk toward the check-in point.
Once settled in my warmup room, I make my markings on the excerpts of music LA Phil provided me to use in the audition, just as in the past. I bet I’ve been in front of this exact wooden stand once or twice in my life. Somehow, the thought is comedic instead of defeating.
Alright, practice time. Seconds later, music escapes from my instrument, polished and effortless in a way I’ve never felt before this moment. I lose myself in the short segments I’ve memorized, moving my body back and forth to each unique orchestral piece of genius, until the proctor enters the room again.
“It’s time.” The delicate-framed man smiles and waits by the door as I gather my items.
I’m in the zone as we approach the stage on the burgundy carpet, known to eliminate any clues for gender-driven shoes to the committee sitting behind the giant screen. I appreciate the extra effort Philharmonics make to avoid discrimination, which is why I’m not speaking, a no-no except to the proctor if needed. And right now, all that’s needed is to keep moving.
I take the lone seat on center stage and place my music on the new stand in front of me, probably yet another I’ve met in my life. The thick silence typically provokes uneasiness, but I steadily go about my business and wait for the signal to begin the first excerpt. The stage is strangely comforting today.
Flying through all eleven excerpts from my music, I’m jolted by being stopped on the twelfth, only for awakening another level of awareness. With the committee behind the screen on the same stage and nobody else around for me to see, I was able to get into flow state, another welcomed old friend. Good to see ya again.
Word from the proctor is that I don’t need to play more, which could be good, bad, or who knows what? All I’m certain of is that I’m comfy on the soft blue leather couch in my new room of waiting. Each time another person enters after their audition, I nod and continue to remain quiet. During times in the past, I chatted with others then felt awkward when one of us either got eliminated or made it to the next level, so I’m going with silence today.
When the proctor thanks everyone for coming and calls on a handful of us to stay, my heart leaps at my name. It’s not the first time I received enough votes to play in the semi-finals, but it’s a compliment every time. I sit up in my seat and wait for my next turn.
After another hour, I find myself with two other cellists in the final round of the day, the first of three days of auditions. Yes, you read that right. The finals. I’ve never made it this far. How the heck did I make it this time? I may have mastered excerpts before, but today I mastered my mindset with the right recipe of nerves and confidence, I guess.
But as soon as my name comes out of the proctor’s mouth again, the new mindset goes downhill, and my midlife crisis questioning rises. Could I really get this offer? Is this actually happening?
“No,” I mouth under my breath. It can’t be that after all these years I’d get an offer right at the time I decide to make a career change. Alright then, that’s out. So…why am I still here then?
This time, when I sit before the committee behind the screen, my hands shake while clutching my bow. Of course my shoulder feels a tinge of pain at this perfect moment as well. Old visions of performing on this and many other stages with my future colleagues in the orchestra flood my head. The crowd claps, gives a standing ovation at the end of the performance, and my section mates and I are best friends. Who wouldn’t want to live in that work world?
But then, images of the freedom of working outside on the land, leading me in its own symphony, replace the lifelong existence I thought would be mine. Whatever is in the cards for me could be decided right now. In this muted moment, where all that’s in my actual vision is my music, the proctor’s signal to start, and—oh God, that was the signal.
Deep breath.
Sweat builds on my forehead as I progress through the excerpts this time, though the temperature remains frigid. After three pieces, the proctor stops me from playing.
“Can you repeat the last few bars, please?” he asks.
I nod and proceed.
He stops me again several bars later. “That’s all for now.”
Having no idea if the abrupt end mid-excerpt means the committee liked it or not, I nod once more, gather my music, and walk off stage via the faux red carpet while gripping my cello tighter than ever. I sit stiffly in the same position on the couch as minutes ago, making eye contact with the two others who finished before me. We exchange looks of uncertainty—raised eyebrows and tight lips. All of us cellists, together and waiting, breathing so loud and forcefully that the roof may blow.
After seeming like years of my life faded away, the proctor returns.
“We thank you for coming today,” he says with a pause. “At this time, we’re inviting Ms. Agosti back for a second final audition next week. Everyone else, please make your way outside the building. We hope to see you in the future.”
My breathing halts.
Time freezes.
I squint in reflex.
My fellow cellists have left, and it’s only the proctor and me. I’m curling my toes in my black flats, knees glued together. He’s flat-faced and tapping his pen on a clipboard—the clipboard he just read my name from, which had to be a mistake.
“Excuse me?”
“It’s true. You’re moving to the next level. Most people react this way, so don’t worry,” he assures.
I open my mouth to respond, but words evade me.
“We have a few more days of auditions this week, so we’ll contact you about the next round after those conclude.”
He rattles off my phone number, and I’m alert enough to confirm it’s correct.
The haze of being as close as ever to my old dream remains, a puzzling reality as I leave the building and place my cello back in the trunk of my car. Plopping into my driver’s seat, I look at my watch, remembering I told Christian I’d call him afterward, but I need a minute to process this milestone…and its implications.
Chapter Thirty
Getting close to Temecula Valley with Christian in my passenger seat, I’m a ball of knots that Nala would spend hours rolling around with and biting. Just like her endless efforts to get to the center of a toy filled with catnip, my core won’t be revealed—at least not today. This area will be new to both of us on this sunny, seventy-five-degree, California day.
“I gotta say, Tone Tone…”—Christian looks away from me, through his side window—“I knew this place was far, but this is really far.”
What a great start. “It’s not so bad.” I grip the steering wheel tighter.
Christian lays his hand on my lap and fiddles with the frayed strips of my cut-off jean shorts. “Tad and I plan to meet this week anyway. It was the first opening he had since we had to reschedule when I was sick.”
I barely process the second statement because I’m stuck on the word anyway. So, even though he came with me today, his mind is still closed to this option. But instead of starting the day with an argument, I swallow any disappointment and simply respond, “Oh, that’s good.”
“He’s a busy man. Business must be booming.”
“Uh-huh.”
Christian takes back his hand. “So, how’s your practicing going? I still can’t believe you made it this far this time. Not that you aren’t outstanding. You are. You know what I mean.”
His fumbling makes me wonder if he’s picking up on my lack of enthusiasm about Tad. Did those allergies knock some sense into him to pay attention to me?
“It’s going well.” I open my mouth to continue, but he cuts me off.
“I had no doubt. Too bad I haven’t been around much to hear you play, since I have a pile of work to catch up on from being out sick.”
“I don’t need an audience at home, so don’t worry.” I giggle to expel some of those knots inside of me.
“Well, as I told you already, I’m proud of you.”
Who is this fully supportive man, and what have you done with my husband? I look around for aliens. That must be it—not the allergies, aliens. We are in the desert…
“Thanks, babe. I guess I’m not taking it as seriously as I would’ve in the past because I don’t want to get my hopes up.” And I have no idea what to do if I get a spot. “That’s what’s worked so far.”
“Maybe this vineyard idea is helping lead you back to the career you always wanted, the one that’s right for you.”
My fists tighten again. “We’ll see. I obviously feel a little torn now. I mean, look at what we’re doing today. What you’re doing next week with Tad.” As soon as I point out what should be obvious, I see wine country on the horizon. The rows of bright-green vineyards upon vineyards expose themselves in uniform allure over the brown soil, cradled by the comfort of the multi-colored mountains at their back, against the cloudless blue sky. Prosperous grapes beam in harvest season under the glistening sun, some shaded as needed by their leafy neighbors. I should stop the car, run over, and kiss them.
“We aren’t sure about anything right now. Numbers will have to be crunched, and we need to cross all our T’s and dot all our I’s before making any moves. You can’t just make things easy and do what you always have.”
There’s my husband—forget the aliens. This constant reminder that somehow his say is the final word and I’m foolish for dreaming is getting old—quick.
He continues, “And if you get into the philharmonic, how could you even think about any other choice but saying yes? You’d just be stupid.”
Keep it together, Toni, at least today. Nobody wants to be hours away from home in a fight. Talk about a long ride back. Plus, I need him to see the area like I do—full of promise.
“Pull in there.” Christian points to Little Street Wines.
Crap. I was planning on visiting wineries I didn’t visit with David. I’m the one driving, so I don’t have to take us there anyway. Anyway.
“Why don’t we go to that one?” I motion toward the other side of the road, where David and I didn’t get to last time. We said we’d work our way up one side then down the other another day. Not all of them can be visited in a day—I’d be in the hospital from alcohol poisoning. But today can be the day the other side of the road gets a visit.
“I’d like to go there, though. It looks nice. Come on, turn.”
I’ll follow his wishes and lose this battle—but I have to win the war. And he put on his cute voice, cuing an automatic soft spot, so I turn into Little Street Wines and say, “Alright.” Yet, I hope Gio is off today.
Parking in the same spot as David did a few weeks ago, I have a sense of déjà vu. That would make sense if it felt related to my last stopover, but there’s another layer of depth I can’t put my finger on. Hmm, just nerves, I guess. Stress can do a number on someone.
Christian holds open the front door for me, and as soon as I enter the winery’s tasting room, the clean oak smell hits my nostrils in charming harmony once again. The vision of the shimmering bottles on barrels that may have made that wine inside them and the bright wall of merchandise makes my heart pound in vast contrast to moments ago. But then I see Gio, and the symphony halts.
He looks directly at us and smiles.
I glance down, turn around, and give it one last shot. Whispering in this echo-prone room, I beg, “Christian, there isn’t much happening here. Let’s go to another winery, okay?”
“No, this is great.” He walks past me. “We’re staying.”
I slowly turn back around and see him at the counter already. Maybe Gio won’t remember me. He meets gobs of people. Yeah, this is all worry for nothing. It’s fine. Everything will be A-OK.
Gio moves toward Christian after talking with other tasters. “Welcome, you two.” He focuses on me as if placing my face.
“Hello, sir. What’s good here?” Christian brings the menu closer to him from the other side of the counter.
“Hi,” I mutter and force a smile as I approach the bullseye.
“Everything,” Gio responds with a laugh. “You can’t go wrong no matter what you choose. We’re known for our reds, though.”
I hold my head down and pretend to study the menu.
“Don’t I know you?” Gio asks.
Remember the happy heartbeat? Now it’s running at a million miles an hour and is ready to escape my body, just as I wish I could from this room.
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe.” I grin and look up from my bowed head.
“Yes, you came in a little while ago, didn’t you? I never forget a face.” Gio places his elbows on the counter and leans toward me. “You and your friend came in.”
The jig is up.
“Oh, yes, that’s right.” I palm my forehead and laugh, then slowly turn to Christian.
“I knew it! Welcome back. Remember, I’m Gio? Good to see ya again.”
“Yes, and I’m Toni.”
“I’m confused,” Christian adds.
How can I still hide the truth? Damn it, Gio. Don’t you ever take the day off?
“I, uh, didn’t want to upset you, babe, but David and I visited last month. I wanted to check it out before dragging you here. I know how you value your downtime.” My voice is light and breezy. No big deal, Christian. Just David—the newly single man you have no issues with—and I visited an area you had no concern with for being far from home to start a business you’re fully encouraging. No biggie.
“I’ll leave you two alone a few minutes.” Gio dips into the back room.
“You came here with David?” His voice echoes throughout the tasting room.
Let me reiterate. “I didn’t want to bother you when I didn’t know what the area was like here to begin with, so I was saving you time.” Kinda, not really. Ugh.
“Toni,” his voice grows louder, and I notice the couple behind him at the counter, staring. “I can’t believe you.” He stomps to the door and leaves.
My eyes meet those of the couple, alternating between them, and I sigh. How embarrassing. There’s no need to make a scene, even though I know I hurt him and never want to do that. Toni, you’ve really messed up this time.
Gio enters the tasting room once again. “I’m sorry if I caused any problems. That’s the last thing I ever want to do.”
“It’s not your fault. I should’ve been honest, but it’s complicated. Hopefully we’ll be back. Thanks, though.” I make my way to leave as well.
“See you, Toni. Try to have a good day.”
I turn around and half-heartedly smile.
When I leave the winery, Christian is at the car, leaning against the passenger side.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” His angry tone has faded a notch, and his tilted head and tight, pouting mouth tell a new story.
I’ve really hurt him. What a horrible person, a horrible wife. But I seriously just wanted to see if it was even worth the fight for this place. And fortunately, or unfortunately, it is.
“I told you why already, babe.” The words trickle out of my mouth.
“But you could have told me you were coming, even if you didn’t think I’d want to come. And with David of all people.” He throws his hands in the air like forfeiting a game I didn’t know we were in. “I don’t want you being friends with him anymore! I told you that.”
“Oh, stop it with this David business.” I cross my arms as I stand squarely in front of him. Restricting who I choose as friends is over the line, and despite any pain I caused him with viewing Temecula Valley, that demand will never be acceptable.
“I will not stop it. He doesn’t have the virtuous intentions you think he does.”
My mind flashes to those awkward times I’ve picked up on recently. But that’s just David being David. I only noted them because of Christian’s ridiculous notion. “He’s not the problem.”
“Oh, and I am?”
“I didn’t say that! Why are you always putting words in my mouth?” I grunt and continue, “Did you ever think I didn’t want to tell you because I knew you would react this way? You only agreed to come here because it was our anniversary. I know you don’t want to give it a chance.”
“I came because if I don’t get involved, you’ll lose all we’ve worked for. You can’t be trusted to manage money.”
“Because I buy a smoothie here and there?! Wow, you have a lot of faith in your wife, who has never shown difficulties managing money.”
