Crescendo by Jeffe Kennedy Page B

the stones reset because the ring, as a gift, legally belonged to her, Christine gave it to Angie.
    It was nothing more than a set of rocks now.
    â€œIt’s good to see you out and about again.” Hally made cooing noises over the freshly arrived deep-fried avocado. “You look good.”
    â€œDo I?”
    Her voice sounded young and kind of piteous, the question squeezing around the lump in her throat. Hally squeezed her hand and poured more sangria from the pitcher. “Yes. You’re doing great. You know it.”
    Christine wasn’t sure about that. The last week—busy as it had been, dealing with the season ramping up, despite serious holes in their staff roster and freaked-out talent, working with her father to uncover the various shortcuts in accounting that had accumulated over many years, and giving testimony to Sanchez and the Feds, all while she was still recovering—had been eerily quiet. The only music came from human throats. No roses appeared in unlikely spots. Things stayed put.
    So many life forces that had infused the opera house had vanished, leaving it emptier.
    The Master, too, was gone.
    She’d looked for him, tried to find his passageways and various places, but they had vanished as if they never were. As if all of them had been part of his dream and, without him, had all wafted away like so much smoke and shadow. She almost thought none of it had been real.
    Except that her broken heart stood evidence that it had been.
    â€œRemember how you said that everybody lives on a spectrum of crazy—that some are more than others?”
    Hally nodded in reply, her hazel eyes full of sympathy.
    â€œI think I found my spot on the crazy scale. But now it’s too late.”
    â€œI know you’re still grieving,” Hally said, choosing her words carefully. “But you did the right thing, letting him go. Spirits like him aren’t meant to be trapped. He’s gone to a better place. He’s gone to where he should be and you’re still here, where you should be.
    â€œI don’t want to be.”
    â€œYou don’t mean that.”
    â€œI thought you said he’s in a better place,” Christine accused, though she knew it wasn’t fair.
    â€œBetter for him.” Hally said it slowly, with great patience. “You belong here.”
    â€œI know.” She took a deep breath. “I know, but it hurts.”
    â€œHave more sangria.”
    Christine laughed through her tears. “I think people would frown on you suggesting I use alcohol to salve my emotional wounds.”
    â€œHey—I’m a bartender and you’re finally off the pain meds. Comes with the territory. And I’m suggesting it more for the tattoo. Belly work can be ouchie.”
    â€œIs that a technical term?”
    â€œActually, yes. Cheers.”
    Â 
    Hally stayed with her all afternoon while the tattoo artist did his work. Sometimes holding her hand, sometimes snarking at her when she whined. The artist had suggested she do it in stages, but she wanted it all done at once.
    Working with silvery grays and deep blacks, he spun the myriad scars across her abdomen into a spiral. Through the lines, a bear strode, one paw lifted, a skeleton of white rising from his body.
    Though her father had offered to pay for it, she used the money she’d earned working at the opera. It seemed fitting.
    Besides, it hadn’t been her father’s fault. She needed to accept responsibility for who she’d been then, as well as who she was now—and who she’d become.
    Alone.
    She hadn’t wanted to say it to Hally, because her friend would be hurt by it. But she felt unutterably lonely, as if a piece of herself had been cleaved away. Worse, it had been a part she’d never known was there before. And now it was gone.
    Without the shadows, the sunshine felt glaring and empty.
    â€œI have a present for you.” Hally broke into her thoughts.