Free Her Name Is Rose by Christine Breen Page A

“Maybe … we should just buy a really good used violin?” Her thoughts might have well been audible: waning moons, blue eyes, blond hair in a ponytail, and he makes violins?
    â€œUp to you.” The violin maker turned back to his worktable. The tune had finished on the player. “It makes a difference, of course, if the wood was grown in sunshine or in shadow.”
    *   *   *
    Two months later the violin with a bright, rich sound was hand delivered by Conor on a radiant early March morning when Rose was studying. She wasn’t expecting him. He hadn’t let the Bowens know he was finished.
    â€œI read about you in The Banner County News. Congratulations,” he’d said when she’d opened the glass door and he breezed in. “Not many Irish get accepted at the RAM, I mean. That’s really cool. RAM. Good for you.” He was wearing the same yellow wooly cap with the ear flaps.
    â€œI guess.” Rose didn’t know what to say because his arrival as well as his enthusiasm had caught her unawares. “I have to pass my Leaving Cert, though.” She motioned to the French grammar book and practice tests open on the table.
    â€œSure, of course. But no bother. It’s a couple months away, right?” He opened the violin case as if presenting an offering. “Will you play it, ma chérie ?”
    She shot him a look. Funny guy. “I don’t know…” She didn’t pick it up, and after a bit he put the open case down on the table beside her books.
    He gazed at her one long moment, gauging the possibilities, working out the chances, and when at last it looked like he’d made up his mind, he blurted, “You’re really beautiful.”
    Rose glanced away and fingered the open face of the violin, tracing the inside of the f holes ending in a swirl. Then she looked to him and said, “No, I’m not,” and turned away.
    Iris and Luke weren’t home, they’d told Rose they had business in Limerick that afternoon. Rose didn’t know if she wanted Conor Flynn to stay around. He was intense, or something. She wasn’t sure what was happening. Her face reddened. He kept looking at her but she’d decided not to play for him. She walked toward the door.
    â€œSo, maybe you’d let me know how my violin stands up to the rigors of that academy, once you get there, I mean. Tell them there’s an Irish fiddler by the name of Flynn you can recommend. That is, if you like the sound.” He laughed at himself but continued speaking and followed Rose to the door and stood close beside her. “You’ll be my first true professional customer. I slipped a few of my cards in with a gift for you—some rosin. It’s a secret recipe a guy in Belgium makes.” From him came the scent of the sea and wood dust. He said he hoped maybe she’d invite him around during the summer just so he might hear how the violin sounded, in case it needed any tweaking, but he’d been playing it for a month and was happy.
    â€œAll right, so, I’m off. Taking Gerty to Doughmore Beach.”
    Rose cast her eyes downward.
    â€œGerty’s my van,” he said quickly.
    â€œOh.” She smiled and laughed. “I thought you had—”
    â€œA dog in the van? No, the cats wouldn’t like that.” He paused. “I’m a surfer.” He put his hands in his pockets and waited in case Rose had changed her mind and wanted him to stay, but she only looked away out the window down across the garden.
    They’d exchanged numbers and he’d wished her luck on her exams and in doing so placed his hand gently on her back. He moved closer so that his body was against hers. It was just a moment. And as quick as the flick of a downward bow he bent and kissed her.
    â€œFor good luck!” he said. Then he was out the door, through the gap in the hedge in her mother’s garden.
    Rose