“Maybe you didn’t move just for her, but you’re here, and you’re trying to help her, and she ought to be taking advantage. Instead she’s completely ignoring you. That’s not just young; it’s rude.” Lilly had cemented her right to be defensive for my sake back in elementary school when she’d punched Drew Hamilton in the nose for calling me a crazy Mormon; she’d never failed to be my advocate. But we could talk about Ava all night, and it wouldn’t change Ava’s practiced indifference.
My mother insisted it wasn’t personal; it was just her age, her teenage hormones, the stress of high school, blah, blah, blah. But it felt personal. Before leaving Ohio, I’d asked one of my former professors at the Cleveland Institute of Music to review a video of Ava. I’d raved about her skill—total truth-telling there; she really was talented—and promised he wouldn’t be disappointed if he gave her a shot. He’d agreed—“Only because I have such respect for you, Emma.”—and I didn’t want to disappoint him.
So much for that. He’d expected the video weeks ago, and Ava couldn’t be bothered.
I reached for my laptop and opened it. “Want to talk about something more fun?”
“Doesn’t look like you’re giving me much of a choice.” Lilly scooted closer, looking over my shoulder as I started a video.
“So I learned at church today that this guy might be moving in next door.” I tilted the screen so she had a better view. “You remember Elliott Hart? The pianist who won Talent Hunt back when we were in high school?”
She scrunched her eyebrows. “Um, yes? I think?” She pointed at the screen. “Is that him?”
I nodded. “He’s pretty big still. Lots of fans on YouTube, and he’s sold something like a billion albums.”
“A billion, huh? That many?”
“Shut up. I don’t know exactly how many. But a lot.” Out of all of Elliott’s various videos I’d watched that afternoon, I’d chosen to show Lilly the one that had quickly become my favorite. Watching him play reminded me of when I played. You could tell he felt his music the same way I felt mine.
“Did he film this video here?” Lilly asked. “Those look like our mountains.”
I nodded. “Yeah. The comments say it was filmed on the reservation in Cherokee. Apparently he went all out to make sure everything was authentic and approved by the tribe.”
“That’s decent of him.” Lilly leaned in and looked closer. “I do remember him. He’s cute. And those eyes are amazing. He’s maybe a little too pretty for me though.”
“Why? Because he doesn’t have a beard? Just because you like men to look like lumberjacks doesn’t mean the rest of us have to.”
“Haha. So is this all in the name of neighbor research, or are you really into this guy now? His stuff doesn’t sound like the grandma music you usually listen to.”
Grandma music? I chose to ignore her insult mostly because she wasn’t completely off base. I had always been pretty old school when it came to my musical tastes. It wasn’t that I didn’t like contemporary music. I did. But when it came to the classics, I was a purist, and Elliott clearly wasn’t. Sure, he played bits and pieces of classical stuff but never without mashing it all up with some boy band’s newest top-forty hit. People loved it; and even I couldn’t deny that what he did, he did extremely well. But why ruin the brilliance of Vivaldi by throwing in eighteen measures of Bruno Mars? It wasn’t even that I didn’t like Bruno. I just didn’t want him messing with Vivaldi.
“I like his original stuff,” I conceded. “Like this one. When he’s just playing his own music straight up, it’s pretty impressive. And it’s not that the mash-ups are bad; it’s just . . . I don’t know. People train really hard to be worthy of the classics, to be good enough to play them precisely as they deserve to be played. Covering songs people already like, then calling them classical because you throw in four measures of Beethoven, feels like a gimmick.”
“Show me one of his mash-ups.”
I clicked over and changed the video to some conglomeration of Mozart and a pop song I didn’t know. “So this is Mozart right here,” I pointed out as we listened to the piece. “But here, it morphs into . . . I don’t know what.”
“Seriously? You don’t know that song? It’s “Dance with Me.” It’s huge right now.”
A few measures more and I recognized the melody. “Oh. I guess I do recognize it. But why do that, you know? I just wanna listen to Mozart.”
“Yeah, but not everybody wants to listen to Mozart. Maybe it’s not hard-core classical, but I’d say getting young people to listen to anything without words is an accomplishment—gimmick or not.” Lilly reached over my arm and clicked on Elliott’s profile picture, this one a little more rugged. “Okay, I see the appeal in this one. He’s definitely nice to look at.”
I looked at the picture and tried to imagine what it would be like to see Elliott Hart in person. He had a serious face with a strong jaw, dark hair, and deep-set blue eyes. In most of his online photos, he wasn’t smiling. But there was one on a red carpet somewhere that was a little more candid, like someone had caught him in the middle of a great joke. That was the one that made me nauseated, nerves jumping around my stomach like I was a bounce house at a kid party.
“Yo, Emma? You okay?” Lilly waved her hand in front of my face. “You look like you’re about to puke.”
I shook my head. “I feel like I’m about to puke. I was just thinking about what I’m going to say. I’m supposed to go see him as soon as he moves in . . . to welcome him into the ward.”
A flash of understanding flitted across Lilly’s face, but she shook it off. “Welcome seems pretty straightforward.”
“Maybe for you. But you know how terrible I am at this.”
She did know—probably better than anybody. After all, she’d been there beside me when I’d thrown up before every high school debate tournament, unable to handle my nerves any other way. She’d seen me flounder and flush and stumble through awkward sentences whenever I’d been put on the spot. Unless I was holding my violin, which somehow kept all the synapses in my brain firing just as they should, I was wholly unreliable as a communicator.
Lilly rolled her eyes. “Don’t psych yourself out. You’ll be fine. Besides, it’s probably not even him.”
“So what if it isn’t? It only has to be someone who’s mildly attractive for me to act like an idiot.” I blew out a frustrated breath. My responsibility to welcome the new guy suddenly felt a little like a death march. Or at least a really bad stomach virus. “Why did I agree to do this?”
“Because you’re single and human and he’s a guy. This is not rocket science.”
“Actually, I think I’m fine being single.”
“Because then you don’t have to talk to people? Whatever. You’ll be amazing no matter who it is. Have you looked to see if you can find any other Mormon Elliott Harts?”
I grumbled at her casual dismissal of my very serious concerns and pulled up one of the minimized tabs on my laptop. “I found three on Facebook that list BYU as their school, but two look already married and old. The other lives in Denmark, so I’m thinking that probably isn’t him.”
“And your Mormon dating sites?”
“Nothing.”
Lilly grinned. “It’s gotta be him, Em.”
“Or maybe it’s just someone who knows better than to catalog his life on public social media platforms. Why would the Elliott Hart be renting a tiny duplex in West Asheville?”
“You’re renting a tiny duplex in West Asheville.”
“Whatever. It’s not the same thing.”
“Maybe not exactly, but don’t pretend like you weren’t the darling of the classical music scene. You were everyone’s favorite soloist—at the pinnacle of your career. And yet, here you are.”
I tried not to wince at her use of the past tense. She wasn’t trying to be critical, just stating a fact, but it burned anyway. “The difference is that the general public actually knows who Elliott is. No one cares about classical
musicians except other classical musicians. Plus, this guy has made serious money. I’m sure he could afford to live somewhere nicer.”
“Lots of people could afford to live somewhere else, but they choose West Asheville because it’s hip and fun. Or maybe he’s just looking to hide out and keep a low profile. If that’s the case, where better to do it than Maple Crescent?”
I didn’t want to tell Lilly her suggestion actually made some sort of sense. Mostly because I didn’t want to admit how much I really, really wanted the Elliott Hart moving in next door to be the Elliott Hart who was finishing the final chords of his Native American–themed original composition on my laptop screen, with just over a million views and 47,000 thumbs up.
“I guess we’ll find out this week.” I closed my laptop and sank back onto the couch.
Headlights flashed through the front window, and we both turned. Lilly walked over to peek through the blinds, then turned to me, wide-eyed. “Or maybe we’ll find out right now.”
I scrambled onto my feet and stood beside her, looking through the small gap in the blinds she held open with her fingers. A dark sedan had parked in front of the house. “You’re crazy. It’s just some random car.”
“Look. Someone’s getting out.”
The two halves of our house shared a front door and an entryway before the apartments split off in separate directions, ours to the right and the other to the left, so we were in the perfect spot to spy.
Still, it was dark, so the man was several paces up the sidewalk, keys jingling in his hand, before we were able to see his face in the yellow glow of our porch light. It was his hands that made my heart stop—the graceful arch of his fingers as he fiddled with the key and fitted it into the old lock of our front door. He had the hands of a pianist.
I had known it was a possibility, but seeing Elliott Hart, a guy I’d watched on YouTube, a guy with artfully disheveled hair and killer blue eyes, two feet from my apartment made my blood pound and my mouth go dry. All I could manage to say was, “Oh my word. It’s really him.”
Lilly stood up and moved from the window. “Let’s go meet him.”
She was fast, but I was faster. I slid myself between her and the door, blocking her way. “No! We can’t go out there right now. It’s ten thirty.”
“But he’s out there right now, and he’s our neighbor.” She glanced back through the curtain. “You think he’s staying here tonight? He doesn’t have any luggage.”
“Maybe he left it in the car.” Elliott was inside now, but since he’d gone in empty-handed, we waited and watched, anticipating his reappearance out front. “He’s probably just checking stuff out.”
“Come on. I’m going over to say hello, and you’re coming with me.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Emma, you’re a grown-up now. You can’t hide just because you had a few bad experiences as a teenager. If it were just some random guy and not Elliott Hart, you’d totally go out there.”
“But it is Elliott Hart, and I’m still freaking out a little.”
She shot me a look that told me just how ridiculous she thought I was. She was right, but I’d expected a few days to compose myself and prepare for the moment we’d meet. To jump right in at ten thirty on a Sunday night, wearing yoga pants and my tenth-grade Summer Strings T-shirt, with no makeup on and my hair in a messy topknot wasn’t exactly the scenario I’d had in mind.
“Chicken,” Lilly muttered as she snuck out the door. I watched through the window, hiding behind the curtain as she walked down the sidewalk and met Elliott, who must have reemerged during our debate, just as he hauled a suitcase and sleeping bag out of the back of his car. They shook hands, and he smiled, not quite the nerves-in-the-bounce-house smile from the photo, but one broad enough to make my fingers curl into tense, trembling fists. They talked for a few more minutes, then Lilly gestured back to the house. Elliott shook his head, but Lilly motioned again, nodding her head with emphatic certainty. He hesitated a moment more, then glanced at his watch and finally nodded. Something in the tilt of her head, the way she cocked it toward the right side of the house—our side of the house—gave it away. She was bringing Elliott inside.
I made it around the couch, across the living room, and into my bedroom just in time. I sank to the floor, leaning against the back of my door as I listened to Lilly and Elliott continue their conversation. The light in my room was off, and I left it that way, hoping Lilly would get the hint.
“Sorry you missed my roommate. She’s already gone to bed.”
Bless you, Lilly, I thought to myself. I’d make her brownies for not blowing my cover.
“That’s okay. It’s pretty late.” His voice sounded deeper in person. I’d seen online interviews enough to recognize his speaking voice, but hearing it nice and resonant and echoing around my tiny apartment sent shivers up my spine. Oh, this wasn’t good. I was not hiding in my room in the dark swooning over the sound of a man’s voice—a man I wasn’t even brave enough to face.
Or maybe I was. I lowered my head onto my knees and took a deep breath. I was no better than a star-struck fangirl. I had resolved to go out and say hello, introduce myself, and be nice to the guy when Lilly’s voice piped up right outside my door.
“This is the bathroom. There are extra towels under the sink, and here’s a blanket. I’ll grab you a pillow from the closet.” Her voice grew farther away as she moved down the hall. Towels, blankets, pillows—it sounded like Elliott was going to stay in my house. In my house!
“I really appreciate this. I would have been fine sleeping on the floor for one night, but I admit, your couch does look more comfortable.”
“It’s not a problem,” Lilly said. “Do you have movers helping you unload tomorrow?”
“Yeah. They’re supposed to be here with the truck by nine.”
As I listened to their conversation, I had to wonder if Elliott knew Lilly was aware of who he was. I was fairly certain Lilly wouldn’t have invited a total stranger into our house to sleep on our couch and use our bathroom if she hadn’t already known he was a member of my church with a squeaky-clean reputation.
I wondered if Elliott was so much of a celebrity that he simply assumed wherever he went people knew who he was. Had he been shocked when Lilly had invited him to stay, or was he used to people going out of their way just for him? I hoped he wasn’t used to it—it might be harder to like him in person if he expected that kind of treatment. Granted, he’d been planning to sleep on the floor in an empty apartment with nothing but a sleeping bag and one piece of luggage. That hardly seemed like entitled behavior.
Regardless of what he did or didn’t expect, from my position on the floor, the impromptu sleepover seemed pretty brave on both their parts. And there I was hiding like a total coward. I could hear Lilly’s voice in my head. You sound like your mother, Em. Just live a little.
“Well, I’ll be around tomorrow afternoon after I get off work,” Lilly said. “And my roommate should be home then too. I can even get my boyfriend, Trav, to come over. If you need us, just say the word.”
“Yeah, that would be great,” Elliott said. “Thanks again. It was great to meet you.”
I stayed there, sitting on my floor, for several minutes longer. If movers were coming at nine, he would probably be up around . . . what, seven? Eight? With my luck, he was a naturally early riser, awake at five thirty to read his scriptures, do yoga, drink a green smoothie, and see me exiting the bathroom in a towel.
I wasn’t completely opposed to running into Elliott but kinda wanted to be at my best when I did. And, you know, also be wearing clothes.
Knowing Elliott was less than fourteen steps away from my bedroom door didn’t make it easy to get any sleep. I tossed and turned all night, jumping awake at every little sound. When my alarm finally went off at six thirty, I bolted out of bed so fast I banged my knee against my nightstand and knocked a nearly full glass of water onto my pillow, where it rolled, then crashed onto the hardwood floor. I st
ood breathless and still, listening to see if the ruckus had woken anyone else up, but the rest of the house remained silent.
It stayed that way too.
Even after I’d showered and dressed and blown my hair dry. Even after I banged around the kitchen making breakfast, then made a big production of retrieving my violin out of the living room. The guy didn’t even stir.
I was disappointed. I’d worn my best jean/boot combination and curled my hair, thinking surely he’d wake up before I was gone. But no such luck. When I finally left just before eight, I passed right by the couch to get to the front door. All I saw was the back of his head, his dark hair tousled a little more than usual, and his arm flung up over the side of the couch. I probably stared a little too long at the curve of his shoulder, his bicep visible below the sleeve of his T-shirt.
Totally lame, I know, but even that made my heart pound.
Chapter 3
I tripped out of my car, wrenching my foot one way and my favorite boot heel the other. Leaning against my door to survey the damage, my stomach sank. Broken. Which felt appropriate considering how my day had gone. Fate had been against me since I’d climbed out of bed, my broken boot just one in a string of unfortunate moments.
I’d hoped to make it home in time to meet Elliott and offer help with his move, but my afternoon lessons had run long, which had made me late to my chamber rehearsal. With the music I knew we had to practice—an original composition sent over by the sister of the bride at next weekend’s wedding—there was no way I was getting out of there at a reasonable hour. I jerked off my boots and shoved my feet into a pair of old running shoes I found in the trunk of my Jetta. They were Lilly’s, I guessed—a size too big and smelling faintly of beer—but they weren’t broken, which made them a decidedly better option. I slammed the trunk closed with a mournful glance at my boots and headed into the church, where my quartet was waiting for me.
Love at First Note Page 2