Happy Any Day Now by Toby Devens Page A

Roland Park, one of Baltimore’s most beautiful neighborhoods. At the front steps, a gardener was fussing with some early tulips and hyacinths, perennials that would bloom next year when Richard was gone. Inside, the atmosphere was timeless as my colleague’s personal clock tick-tocked down his remaining days. Sarah, having overtaken the housekeeper on the way to the door, briefed us on the ground rules. Briskly, like the attorney she was. Richard had just awakened from a snooze, she told us, so he was in good spirits. Beyond a polite “How are you doing?” she asked us not to talk about his illness. Orchestra gossip, on the other hand, was good medicine. When Geoff asked her, waving my sheet music, whether Richard’s consulting on the cello concerto would pass muster, her dark eyes lit up. “He’d love that, Geoff. Just the thing to engage him. But no more than a half hour with him, please. He tires easily.”
    We stayed for more than two hours. The patient wouldn’t let us go. Twice, Sarah tried to intervene. “Be gone, woman,” Richard shooed her. “Would you deny a dying man his pleasure? This is the first real fun I’ve had since the grandkids were here on Saturday. Judith, try this chocolate-covered marzipan.”
    The spacious bedroom overlooked a back garden and an open window captured the scent of lilacs and the fluty trill of a Baltimore oriole late on an April afternoon. In the corner, Richard’s priceless cello stood idle but watchful. The instrument, built by the Venetian luthier Matteo Goffriller in 1729, had been Richard’s guardian and his companion for decades. Now it presided over his death watch.
    With my music in hand, he pointed a skeletal finger at the instrument. “Damn thing needs more exercise. Play that second movement for me.”
    The Goffriller was slightly larger than my own cello, but slender with a rich, full sound that flooded the room. I’d played it a few times before and was familiar with the adjusted touch it required.
    Richard’s critique zeroed in on the fine points. “A little too much fire there. Hold something in reserve.” And, “Ah, yes. Much better, darling.”
    “There, you’ve nailed it,” he said when I’d finished. “I’m proud of you, my dear. Look at that face. Always so hard on yourself. You’re much better than you think. There’s no doubt in my mind that you’re ready for first chair.” He stared at the ceiling for a long minute, plucking at the quilt pizzicato as if he were working something through. Geoff and I exchanged glances. With a groan, Richard shifted so he was talking directly to me. “The hell with it. I hate secrets anyway and this one you should be a party to, Judith. This one should light a fire under you.”
    In the ten seconds of silence that followed, a dark-feathered bird landed on the windowsill with a loud caw. From where I sat, with an old maple tree casting deep shadows, I couldn’t tell whether it was a crow (bad omen in Korean folklore) or a magpie (lucky).
    “Well, that fellow seems to agree. You—” He raised an eyebrow to Geoff. “You’re only included in this cabal because I know Judith would tell you anyway. It’s all very hush-hush. In fact, I think the reason Angela let
me
in on it is because she wanted to give me something extra to live for, to fight for. You need to keep this to yourselves—is that understood?”
    Geoff and I nodded in unison.
    He smiled impishly. “It looks like the orchestra is heading for North Korea next spring.”
    “What?” That was my voice with only enough strength to manufacture a whisper.
    “The idea of a cultural exchange was initiated by the State Department. Something about stalled nuclear talks, but relations between the two countries are especially shitty these days. This cultural outreach is supposed to thaw the situation as much as it’s thawable. Negotiations are under way and Angela is hopeful.” He took a sip of his bedside water through the straw. “It’s not a