Page 37 of Resisting the Fall

Ben held up another ball. “G-46.”

“Hey, look at that. I have G-46.” I placed another green dot on my card, eager for a distraction. It wasn’t the first time the Ednas had mentioned my drying-well status, and I had no desire to linger on the subject. I was only thirty. People had kids well into their forties these days. And it wasn’t like being a professional violinist was excessively conducive to family life. Most of my performances were at night, and every weekend was typically packed. Until recently, that is. Thankfully, I had a few things booked for November, but unless a friend or the theater called me to be a sub, my October was entirely empty. No one hired a musician a few days before an event that had been in the works for months, possibly longer.

Edna B marked her board with the most recent number. “So how long will you be staying in Autumn Ridge?”

“With how things are currently going, there’s a good chance I’ll be here through the end of October.”

Ben’s gaze met mine. Exactly like I’d suspected, he was keeping tabs on our conversation almost as well as the Ednas were keeping tabs on our bingo boards. And I didn’t think he’d liked what he’d heard. Not that I’d actually meant it. He just needed to think I did.

“I assume you’ll stay with your mom?” Edna G asked, leaving the unasked part dangling in the air—I’d stay with my mom because staying with Ben was completely out of the question.

I stilled.

Or was it?

My mind caught hold of the idea, allowing it to take shape. It was crazy, but I was desperate. Sure, there was a slight risk, but if I kept my objective in mind—to drive Ben crazy enough that he’d request to change our divorce case to New York—my taking over his space could vastly speed up the process. I doubted he’d make it through the weekend with my constant bombardment.

“With Carson and Penny at my mom’s”—I spoke loud enough that Ben wouldn’t miss a word—“Ben offered to let me stay at his place. We are technically still married, after all, so he said it was the least he could do. Especially since I was the one who left New York to be here.”

Ben’s jaw slackened, and he lowered the bingo ball he held to his side. He would appear less shocked had I pulled a twenty-four-inch trout from my pocket and slapped him across the face with it.

“Is that so?” Edna B asked. The Ednas both set their rumor-hungry eyes on him to verify the delicious information I’d just handed them.

He could potentially deny the claim, but I knew he wouldn’t. Ben was a gentleman through and through, and he’d be darned if that stalwart reputation of his was tarnished.

The muscles in Ben’s jaws clenched. “Like Maven said, it’s the least I could do.”

The Ednas clasped their hands in front of their chests, sharing a gleeful look at Ben’s reluctant acknowledgment.

Maybe I hadn’t lost my touch after all.

“See you tomorrow,” Carson called out his car window as I tossed my football gear into the back of the truck.

I lifted my hand. “Night.”

A group of us had stayed after practice to run the new plays before the big game Friday. My whole body ached, but if we made it to State, it would all be worth it. Though, at this moment, all I wanted was to get home and sleep for the next… forever. Right after I showered and ate my weight in food.

With the thought of the dinner that awaited me, I started my truck and quickly adjusted my rearview mirror. A movement in the reflection caught my eye, and I whipped my head around to look out the back window. Sure enough, Maven’s petite frame was slipping through the back entrance to the auditorium.

“What are you up to?” I muttered to myself. My stomach rumbled, as if to remind me of my priorities, but curiosity was a hard thing to override. Especially when it came to Maven and her antics.

When I neared the back door to the auditorium, it was regrettably closed. I let out an aggravated breath but took hold of the handle on the off chance the door wasn’t locked. It didn’t turn, but when I released it, the door moved ever so slightly. I grabbed the handle again, but instead of turning it, I pulled. The door opened. I glanced at the ground to find a small rock settled against the inner frame of the door, and I couldn’t stop my smile.

I slid inside, then carefully closed the door until it came to rest on the rock. At impact, the rock rolled, and the door shut. I winced, waiting to see if Maven had heard the loud click before opening it again and wedging the rock back into the frame.

The door led to the backstage area. I’d only ever been back here once—when I helped carry props inside for one of the school plays—but the thick black curtains didn’t block all the light coming from the stage, and an occasional sound of Maven moving around guided me.

I glanced around a massive curtain to find Maven standing center stage, her violin positioned beneath her chin and her bow lifted. A soft vibration stilled me. Maven moved her bow along the strings, her body swaying as she played. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t look away.

I’d never liked classical music, but standing here, listening to Maven play, I was confident it was because I’d never given it a chance.

It was mesmerizing.

And beautiful.

And there was something about it that made me feel different than I’d ever felt.

Or was it Maven that made me feel that way?