Love at First Note

by Jenny Proctor

  “Do you come from a big family?” I asked.

  He nodded. “I’m the youngest of five.”

  “So that means lots of nieces and nephews.”

  I saw it coming, the lift starting around his eyes, but it still took all my willpower not to fall out of my chair when he smiled. The man was so good-looking it literally made my breath catch. As in, I had to remind myself to start breathing again.

  “There’s sixteen of them. I guess the oldest is, let’s see . . . almost fourteen? I can hardly remember a time before I was Uncle Elliott. What about you?”

  “Just one sister, Ava. She’s sixteen.” I reached down and pulled one of the Sunbeams off the floor and set her back on her seat. “You have to keep your bum in your chair, Chloe, and here, let’s put your shoes back on. Can you leave them on for me?”

  “I wanna take dem off,” she grumbled.

  “I know, sweetie, but if you take yours off, then everyone will want to take their shoes off, and then we’ll have twenty-two shoes all over the room, and yours might get lost.”

  “Also the room might get really stinky,” Elliott said. “I hear Jasper over there has really smelly feet.”

  “I do not,” Jasper said with a giggle.

  I was completely charmed by Uncle Elliott’s interactions with the kids. It was also eye-opening to see him out of the context of his stardom. In my mind, and in our few brief encounters up to that point, he’d always been the critically acclaimed Elliott Hart, famous and he knew it, which was pretty dang intimidating. But in the Sunbeam classroom, he was just a guy—a really hot guy—hanging out with some preschoolers, talking about how God wants us to be nice to animals.

  It could have been a perfect beginning to our second-chance friendship.

  Then one of the little miscreants puked on Elliott’s shoes.

  Elliott had every reason to lose his cool, what with vomit dripping into his socks, but he didn’t. He was still standing in the middle of the vomit puddle when he crouched down and looked Jasper right in the eye. Jasper had tears streaming down his cheeks, his face a sickly green. “Hey, you okay?” Elliott asked.

  Jasper shook his head. “I want my mommy.”

  “Let’s go find her, okay?” He picked Jasper up—Jasper, who had vomit on his shirt—and held him against his chest. Elliott looked down at his shoes, then looked to me for help. “I’m not sure I thought this through.”

  “Here, I guess . . . Can you step out of your shoes?”

  He slid them off one at a time, stepping wide to avoid getting any messier than he already was.

  “There’s a little on your pants, but it doesn’t look like it’ll drip.”

  “This might be the most disgusting conversation I’ve ever had,” he said.

  I couldn’t help but laugh. I was amazed that he was being such a good sport.

  “So I’m going to go clean him up a little bit. Do you want to find his mom?”

  I looked at the ten other kids cowering in the corner behind me, their hands pressed over their noses.

  “Jasper is really stinky,” Chloe said.

  “No, you stay here,” Elliott said. “I’ll walk past the Primary room and let them know what happened.” Jasper had laid his head on Elliott’s shoulder, and Elliott rubbed his back. “Just sit tight,” he told me. “I’ll get you some help.” He stepped into the hallway in his socks and glanced one more time into the classroom before giving me a sympathetic grin. “Don’t breathe too deep.”

  Says the guy who’s covered in kid vomit. I mean, it wasn’t even his kid and he was still patient and gentle and helpful.

  I wasn’t the only one charmed by his gallantry. Later, as he walked to the parking lot, suit pants rolled up, socks and shoes in hand, the Primary president leaned over to where I still stood in the hallway and said, “Emma, if you don’t marry that man, I’m gonna.”

  “You’re already married,” I replied. “Nice guy? Doctor? Father of your three children?”

  “Oh. Right. Well, I guess that means you should. Really, really, Emma. You really should.”

  I wasn’t ready to propose, but I did follow Elliott out to his car. “Elliott,” I called.

  He dropped his shoes into the backseat and turned to wait for me.

  “I just wanted to say I’m sorry about your shoes. And your pants.” I looked at his shirt. “And your shirt. Can I get them cleaned for you?”

  “Don’t worry about it. The suit was probably due to be cleaned anyway.” He loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt.

  It made me blush, which was totally stupid. “I, um . . .” I swallowed. “Thanks again for helping. I think the kids really liked you.”

  “It was no problem. I was happy to do it.” He reached for the door handle of his car, then paused, turning to face me one more time. “I really did enjoy your playing today. I know I already told you that, but I appreciate how connected you were to the music.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “I guess I didn’t realize how much I missed that connection.”

  I was speechless. His compliment-turned-confessional was not what I’d expected to hear. It was a pretty personal revelation to make, and it surprised me. He was a professional performer. To think he felt like something was missing from his music? I never would have guessed. “Thank you,” I finally stammered. “That means a lot.”

  He turned and leaned against the side of his car, which was encouraging because it seemed like he wasn’t anxious to leave my company but worrisome because he also looked a little sad. I took a few steps closer and leaned against the car too, not too close but close enough to let him know I was listening if he had something else he wanted to say.

  He remained silent, his eyes locked on the pavement beneath his feet. I thought of my first week at the Cleveland Institute of Music when my hopes and dreams had been huge and my ego sized to match. I’d been completely overwhelmed by all the talent that filled the school. I’d never had to work very hard to be the best in my high school and youth symphonies, but in Cleveland . . . I’d been playing in a different league. At the end of my first week of symphony rehearsals, my conductor, who would later turn out to be one of my biggest advocates, had taken my bow out of my hand and, with great flourish, said, “No more! You’re playing like a robot. Like all we need to hear from you is the notes. Where is your heart, Emma? Where is your music?”

  So I guess I understood just how possible it was to play, to even play with technical perfection, but to still be missing the most vital part of any performance: the heart. My career wasn’t even a shadow of the success Elliott had found, but those early weeks in college, I’d been so caught up in the business of being a professional musician the magic of playing was lost. It wasn’t hard to imagine a brutal career in show business sucking the life right out of a performer.

  “I’ve felt it before too—that disconnect from my music,” I said. “When I’m working too hard and focusing too much, that’s when it happens for me. And sometimes when I’m scared of what I have ahead of me and I’m not sure I can do what’s expected.”

  Elliott shifted, and I saw his jaw clench.

  “It’s safer to be disconnected, you know?” I continued. “Because when I’m all in, it almost feels like I’m playing naked. Like the music is me—all of me—and I’m just throwing it out there for everyone to see. It feels risky because what are people going to make of it? What are they going to make of me when I’ve just emptied my entire soul into each note?”

  “That’s what makes you so good.” He spoke without looking up. “That you’re willing to be that transparent.”

  “Thank you.” It was more than a little unnerving to be having such an intensely personal conversation with someone I’d only just begun to know. But, then, we weren’t really speaking as Emma and Elliott. It felt more like we were speaking musician to musician, the commonality of our experiences pulling us closer than our regular acquaintance allowed.

  “I used to feel that way,” Elli
ott said. “Every performance, every composition was my whole soul.”

  “But you don’t feel that way now?”

  He was quiet a moment longer before he pushed himself off the car. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean for this to turn into . . .” He shook his head and opened the driver’s side door of his sedan.

  “No, it’s okay. I think I get it.”

  “Yeah.” His eyes held mine for a beat longer than necessary. “I think you probably do.”

  He was halfway into his car, but I wasn’t ready for him to leave yet. This was the best conversation I’d had in years. “You play a mean Gershwin.”

  He grinned. “He’s one of my favorites.”

  “I should have known when you quoted him the other night.”

  “Was that symphony music you were playing? Before I crashed your practice? It was Mozart, right?”

  I wanted to ask him how he knew I was in the symphony, if he’d Googled me after our music battle as quickly as I’d Googled him. Instead, I nodded. “Yeah. For next week’s concert. It was also Mozart that finally stumped you.”

  “Whaaat? You stumped me with Mozart? I would have sworn there isn’t a note of Mozart I don’t recognize.”

  “It was one of his violin concertos.”

  “Well, that’s totally fair since he wrote, what, forty? Fifty of them?”

  I smiled. “I was getting desperate. You know your classics.”

  “I like cheeseburgers,” he said with a sheepish grin. “But I can grill a pretty decent steak if I want to.”

  Ha. To say the least. The man was a $200 filet at a five-star restaurant. Decent was a massive understatement.

  It was no small thing to realize Elliott cared about my opinion enough to show me he could play the kind of music I valued. He was trying to impress me, for whatever that was worth.

  In my not fan-girly, totally reasonable and leveled-headed opinion, that was a pretty big deal.

  Chapter 11

  Mom looked up and smiled as I entered the kitchen. “You look like you’re in a good mood,” she said. “What’s up?”

  Of course I was in a good mood. Elliott had proven over the past couple of days he was way more than an arrogant, pretty face. From his apology to helping in Sunbeams and then our conversation after church, I had more than enough to be smiling about. I didn’t, however, feel like it was quite enough to initiate a Mom confessional. At least, not yet.

  “Nothing much,” I told her. “It’s just a nice day. Where’s Dad?”

  “He’s in the living room. Can you help me get this cake out of the oven?”

  I nudged Mom out of the way and lifted Dad’s birthday cake onto the stovetop. “Go sit. I can finish this.”

  She nodded and patted my hand. “Maybe just for a bit.”

  I turned off the oven and finished making the frosting Mom had started, the ingredients gathered on the counter, then wiped down the counter and swept the floor. When I finally joined everybody in the living room, I noticed Mom’s wheelchair sitting next to the couch. I rolled it out of the way so I could sit next to her. I hadn’t seen it out in weeks. “Mom, are you using your chair again?”

  She lifted her shoulder in a halfhearted shrug. “Just a little. Something’s off with my meds, I think. The pain has been flaring up in the afternoons.”

  “Since when? Since Friday? Why haven’t you told me? I was here all morning, and you didn’t say anything.”

  She leaned back into the sofa and closed her eyes. “That’s because it happens in the afternoons. I’m fine when you’re here.”

  “But if I’d known, I could have been doing things to make your afternoons easier.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Making dinner. Making sure you’re comfortable.”

  “Emma. Relax. I see the doctor on Tuesday morning. We’ll figure it out.”

  “Good. What time on Tuesday?”

  She gave me a dismissive wave. “It’s too early for you to bother coming. I’m fine in the mornings. I can handle getting to this one on my own.”

  She wasn’t fine. I could tell just by looking at her she wasn’t fine.

  I looked up at Dad. “Back me up here. Tell her she has to let me take her on Tuesday.”

  She opened her eyes and shot me a look. “Now you’re not playing fair.”

  “I’ll make you a deal. You let me come with you, and I’ll let you buy me lunch after.”

  “How is that a deal?” Dad asked. “She gets to buy you lunch?”

  “No, no, it is a deal,” Mom said. “She never lets me buy her anything, even food. Something about the violation of her adulthood and independence.”

  That definitely had something to do with it, but also, I could buy Mom lunch for the rest of forever and it wouldn’t come close to what my parents had spent on my education. I had to draw the line somewhere.

  “Be here by nine,” Mom said, turning back to me. “Lunch will be on me, but that means I get to pick the place.”

  I nodded. “Okay.”

  “So what are you going to do about Grayson’s wedding?”

  I repositioned the pillow behind me. “I told him I’d be there, so I’ll go. His wife will just have to get over it if I show up by myself.”

  “I ran into Grayson’s aunt at the grocery store the other day,” Mom said.

  “Which one? Aunt Pam?”

  “Yeah. She asked about you.”

  “Huh. That was nice of her, I guess.”

  Mom shrugged. “She told me a little about the fiancée’s family. She called them Southern gentry, whatever that means. Something about old family money and country clubs and Sunday bridge parties. They live over in Biltmore Forest, which I guess says enough right there.”

  “Says enough about what? That sounds like a really judgy thing to say.”

  “I’m not trying to sound judgmental, but I think they’re probably the kind of people who care a great deal about appearances. I’m sure they want everything at this wedding to be proper.”

  “Which is why you really think I should find a date?”

  “Not necessarily. Your happiness is always my biggest priority. But if it’ll keep the peace at the wedding, surely there’s no harm in taking someone along.”

  “Fine. I’ll borrow Lilly’s boyfriend.”

  “What about Michael Jefferson? He just got home from Peru. He’s a nice-looking boy.”

  “Mom. He’s, what, twelve?”

  She tried not to laugh. “He may look twelve, but he’s completely legal. He’s a returned missionary. Doesn’t that count for something?”

  “Maybe if we wanted him to stand in as Ava’s prom date, but I’m twenty-five years old. I’m not asking out someone who was still a seventh grader when I graduated from high school.”

  “What about Elliott Hart? Have you found out if he’s single?”

  “He’s single, but I don’t know him well enough for something like this. He can’t just come to the wedding as my date. He has to come and pretend to be my boyfriend.”

  “Or you could just tell Grayson the truth.”

  “Yeah. That’s not happening.”

  Mom shrugged. “You still have six weeks. Maybe you’ll know him well enough by the time the wedding rolls around.”

  “Maybe.”

  “If not, you can always run an ad in the paper like that movie—The Wedding Date.” She was trying hard to keep a straight face, but she couldn’t manage long. She started to laugh, her arms wrapped around her sides like she was trying to hold it in.

  I huffed. “I’m glad my life is so entertaining. Between you and Lilly, I’ve been laughed at this week way more than I deserve.”

  She reached across the couch and brushed the hair out of my face, tucking it behind my ear. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out. You know I have faith in you.”

  “Thanks. But honestly it’s not a big deal. I’ll go. Maybe I’ll have a date; maybe I won’t. But I’m not going to lose sleep over it.”


  “That sounds more like my girl,” Dad said as he passed behind the couch and left the room. I’d almost forgotten he’d been listening to our conversation.

  “Why don’t you come with me, Dad?” I called after him. “Want to be my date?”

  He poked his head back in the room. “I have a feeling you’ll find someone else,” he said. “And, obviously, I can’t pretend to be your boyfriend. But if it means not going alone, I’d be honored to be your back-up.”

  I looked back at Mom. “See? Problem solved.”

  * * *

  An hour later, I unlocked my front door to hear Elliott’s music filling the entryway. I leaned against the wall and listened, my eyes closed as the melody seeped through his apartment door. It was something I’d heard before—one of his original compositions from his first album, or maybe his second. It sounded like a sunrise, like that moment of stillness when the world is not quite awake but almost. It sounded like hope. How that man ever thought he was disconnected from his music was beyond me.

  I’d hardly realized the music had stopped when Elliott’s door flew open, startling me so badly I dropped my keys on the floor, where they landed with a noisy clatter.

  “Oh, hey.” He paused. “Are you okay?”

  I smiled and wiped the tears off my cheeks, then reached down for my keys. “I’m fine. I was just . . . listening.”

  “Ohhh, sorry. I can go play something happier if you want me to.”

  “No, it wasn’t sad. It was beautiful.” I sniffed one last time. “This is just what music does to me.”

  “Must get annoying considering your line of work.”

  “Ha, yeah. That’s the truth.”

  “That one always makes my mom cry too. It’s her favorite.”

  I smiled. “I’ll consider myself in good company, then.”

  “Are you just getting home?” Elliott asked.

  “Yeah. I spent the afternoon at my parents’ house. Are you heading out?” It was a dumb question. He didn’t look like he was heading out. He wasn’t even wearing shoes.