“Wo wei ni xie de,” he said, as he raised the violin to his left shoulder, tucking it under his chin. He had told her many violinists used a shoulder rest, but he did not: there was a slight mark on the side of his throat, like a permanent bruise, where the violin rested. “You — made something for me?” Tessa asked.“I wrote something for you,” he corrected, with a smile, and began to play.”

“I want you to play for me,” he told her as he passed the violin back.Her elegant fingers gripped the neck of her Stradivarius as she gently pulled it up and rested it on her left shoulder. She turned her chin, so it sat perfectly in the chin rest at the base of the lower bout.“What would you like me to play?” she asked, closing her eyes.“Something you want me to hear.”

“He lifted the violin to his shoulder then, and raised the bow. And he played.”

“He looked like a man who'd invite you to rest your head on his shoulder while he made everything bad go away.”

“He touched her as he usually touched his beloved violin, with a soft and urgent grace that left her breathless.”

“Allie put her chin on his shoulder to look into the carton. He had great shoulders and Chinese food. At the moment, he was the perfect man.”