Wait just a freaking minute. That woman couldn't be her. There was no way. If that woman was her, that meant time travel was possible and that at some point, she'd go back in time and she and Maestro would fall in love, and that meant...
Annasophia's temples throbbed. She rubbed them gently with her fingertips. Okay. She would print out the picture and keep studying it after she emailed Matt about his dad. Surely, she was only seeing what she wanted to see. Wanted to see? Well, in a weird way, it made sense. She'd never thought of Maestro in that way, but ever since she'd been six years old, he'd been her teacher, mentor, and anchor. Her soulmate, really. Just in a different way from a lover.
She looked at the picture again.
Well, maybe not.
Pancreatic cancer. Stage four. Metastatic.
Maybe she didn't have to lose Maestro after all. If that woman was her, though, then how the hell had she figured out how to travel back through time?
###
Annasophia heard Matt's knock at exactly eight o'clock the next morning. Right on time. At least she'd managed to get a couple hours sleep. She let him in. His face looked as though he'd been punched in the gut, and she put a hand over her mouth to hold in her sobs.
“Oh, Matt, I'm so sorry,” she said.
He stood awkwardly, his big hands dangling at his sides. In his build, he resembled his dad, and there was something about his face, too, which carried ghosts of Maestro. No, she thought. Don't think about ghosts. Funny, she and Matt had never been attracted to each other sexually – it would have been natural for her to fall in love with the son of her mentor, but it had never happened, on either side. She and Matt had always liked each other, though, and as he had started doing sound for Annasophia, they had become good friends.
“Well, I'm not surprised,” he said. “Not deep down. I've known something wasn't right with Dad. But he told me he was seeing a doctor, and for me not to worry about it.”
She nodded. “Pretty much what he told me.”
Matt was a good friend and the best sound man she could ask for, but he always kept himself at an emotional distance. Annasophia didn't take it personally. It was just how Matt operated. He didn't have many close friends and preferred to keep to himself. And he was the only man remotely near her age who hadn't come on to her. That, in itself, was kind of weird. He knew about her post-show trysts, but he'd never tried to get in on any of that, and as far as she knew, he'd never said a word to his dad. And for that, she was grateful. Goodness knew, he was the very essence of laid-back. At thirty-six, the only thing he'd ever cared about doing was working sound for different local bands, and when Annasophia had got going with her shows ten years ago, Matt had become her right hand man. Sometimes she asked him why he never moved away, to try his talents in a bigger pond and work with bigger fish. He would never answer and would always ask her the same thing. Touché. It wasn't as if she didn't want that, though. Unlike Matt, she was ambitious. She wanted to wind up in New York or California someday, working with a big studio and touring all over the world.
Ambition, though, would have to wait a little while. Maestro needed her. So did Matt.
Maestro had told Annasophia last night that he wanted to talk to her and Matt as soon as possible this morning. She couldn't guess what he wanted to talk to them about. Part of her wanted to confide in Matt about how confused and lost she was feeling, but he would probably only offer monosyllabic responses. He didn't much like to talk. It was okay. They didn't need to talk. They'd be there for each other, and most importantly, they'd be there for Maestro.
Annasophia tried not to think about the picture she'd printed out, the one which had been attached to the email from the person supposedly lost in time, but she had tucked it in her purse. She wanted to discuss the picture with Maestro, but she didn't want to do it while Matt was around. He was so incredibly down to earth. He would probably think she was crazy or that she had faked the picture using a graphics editing program. That was something she'd considered, too. People could do all kinds of crazy things on graphics programs. It was certainly the most logical explanation, but that didn't convince her gut, which told her that in this case the most logical explanation wasn't necessarily the right explanation. Yeah, somebody could find a picture of Maestro back from his heyday as a concert pianist in some old magazine. Somebody could splice it together with a picture of her. Somebody could even change her clothing for the picture, if they were good enough at digital editing.
But that glow of love on her face. Annasophia had never seen it, had never felt it, but she knew with everything in her that's exactly how she would look if she were apeshit in love with a man. How could a graphics whiz, no matter how gifted, have faked something like that?
“Annasophia?” Matt said. “Are you ready to go?”
Her thoughts had carried her away, off to where – when? – she'd stood cuddled up against a much younger Maestro's broad chest. His face – young and healthy and shining with love – rode front and center in her mind like the brilliant full moon on a clear night. A beacon. In what way, she couldn't possibly know, but she'd do everything she could to find out. If what the picture spoke of were true – that somehow, she'd traveled back in time – then Maestro had to know about it. Even given everything she'd known about him since the age of six, she might only be at the beginning, even if he was, right now, dying.
A heartening thought, that.
Resolutely, she lifted her chin. “Yes, Matt. I'm ready.”
* * * ~~~ * * *
Chapter Two
Annasophia and Matt arrived promptly for morning visitation at the Intensive Care Unit, though they had to see Maestro one at a time. That was excellent; she would have a chance to show Maestro the picture. Matt went in first to visit his dad, and when he came back, his eyes were filled with tears. She patted his shoulder, and he opened his mouth as though to speak. Instead, he turned abruptly and went to the men's room.
What had he been about to say? Fear wrapped long, icy fingers around Annasophia's heart.
She walked into Maestro's room, expecting to see him ashen and immobile, but to her surprise, he was awake. Though he still looked desperately ill, he did look a little better than he had last night, though that was likely due to the dialysis flushing the toxins from his body. What a relief to see him lying down, though the head of his bed was elevated. Annasophia glanced at the numerous bags of IV solutions suspended beside his bed. One of those medicines must be for pain. Tears welled in her eyes and she put her hand over his. Why hadn't he told her about this? She could at least have been there for him. She wanted to cry at the thought of Maestro dealing with this for a month, all alone.
His gaze lit up, and he gave her a little smile. “Hi, Anna.”
She took his hand. “Hi, Maestro.” Her voice broke a little, but she held his gaze. She would stay strong for him, no matter what. He had been her anchor for so many years – an anchor in joy, a refuge in hope – and now, it was her turn to be his anchor. No, she wouldn't give up hope. As long as he was alive, she had reason to hope.
A drop of water landed on the back of her hand, and she started. One of her tears. With her other hand, she wiped her eyes.
“They're going to move me out of here,” Maestro said.
She blinked in surprise, and hope flared like a supernova in her chest. Perhaps he wasn't too far gone for them to start chemotherapy or radiation treatments to give him a fighting chance. “Oh, wow, I'm so glad to hear...” She trailed off, remembering Matt's face as he'd left his dad's room. The flare of hope fizzled like a dying match flame.
Maestro had been watching her, and he slowly turned his hand over to grasp hers. “It's not good news, dear. This morning, the doctor told me it's...” He paused. “Complete liver failure. He said I could have another dialysis treatment, but because my liver is no longer working, it would only postpone the inevitable. And it's too late for any other kinds of treatments.”
Annasophia gripped the sides of Maestr
o's bed. “You mean there's not a thing in the world anybody can do?”
Shaking his head, he put his other hand over hers.
“How long do you have?”
“Maybe a few days.”
And probably not even that, she thought. He was shutting down. She saw it in his eyes, where their light was slowly fading, and she felt it in the texture of his skin. Even his skin felt tired and worn out by illness, not quite like skin anymore. She had cried nearly all last night, so she'd thought she was out of tears and sobs; yet she had to breathe deeply to keep from breaking down. No, she wouldn't break down. She'd be his anchor through this. She and Matt would both be his anchors. Their strength would be their gift of love to him. But oh, a life without Maestro – she couldn't even imagine it. For twenty years, he'd been the deepest part of her inspiration. For twenty years, he'd been her best friend. For twenty years, they had shared a bond of an affection that truly went beyond family or friendship.
Sure, she had known this day would come at some point, but why did it have to be now?
No. She'd think about Maestro, not herself. That was how she'd get through this. Be there for him, as long as he was here to be here for. She had the rest of her life to worry about herself.
The picture from the mysterious email flashed into her mind. Young, ruggedly handsome Maestro in tie and tails, after a concert performance, with a woman who looked exactly like her in his arms. A woman glowing with love. But it couldn't be true. Time travel wasn't possible. Wouldn't she be a fool, though, not to show the picture to Maestro? If there was a chance, no matter how small, to be with Maestro again, even if it were a completely different way from how she'd always known him... maybe especially if it were a completely different dynamic. She'd never been in love, at least not in the regular sense, but Maestro had been her soulmate ever since she could remember.
With shaking hands, she put her purse on the tray near Maestro's bed. She pulled out the picture, seized by the crazy thought that somehow it might have changed, that when she looked at it, she'd see Maestro with a completely different woman in his arms. Somebody blonde, perhaps. Taller, curvier. Annasophia could almost see the woman's face in her mind, almost as if she had seen her before. Temporary insanity, because of her grief? But no. When she unfolded the picture, there she was, Annasophia or a woman who looked just like her, cuddled in the circle of Maestro's arms. Maestro, at the height of his fame and power as an artist.
Oh, that look on her face! Love radiating brighter than the flashbulb on the long-ago camera, back when cameras used flashes and film. Love radiating from Maestro's hale and handsome face, too. She couldn't help herself. She smiled and felt another tear rolling down her cheek. Another chance to be together. A chance for a different kind of relationship. The prospect should feel strange, but it didn't.
Instead, it made her tingle all over.
“What's that?” Maestro asked.
Surely she was imagining things, but she thought his voice had been tinged by fear.
“Promise me you won't think I'm crazy.” She was smiling, but when she met Maestro's gaze, she saw the same fear in his eyes that she'd heard in his voice. Her smile withered and dropped off. Maybe she shouldn't show him the picture. But that was crazy. Maestro was dying. It might be now or never.
“I could never think you were crazy, dear,” he said gently.
Well, he was probably wrong about that. If he knew the kinds of things she'd gotten up to with her groupies.
She wouldn't think about that in front of Maestro. Her face flamed, and she looked away. How unconscionable to be thinking about sex in the presence of death.
For hours last night, she had tried to imagine how Maestro would react when she handed him the picture. Would he see the resemblance between her and the woman he'd held in his arms so long ago? Would he explain who the woman was? And – hope poked a tiny bud through the cold earth of her fear – if the woman was, indeed, Annasophia, might Maestro explain just how the heck she had gotten back there in time, before she had even been born?
Maestro had an IV in each arm, and multiple tubes snaked back to the bags that contained the IV medicines he was receiving. She wouldn't make him move. She would just show him the picture. First, she retrieved his glasses from her purse, where she had placed them last night, and put them on his face so he could see better. Leaning gently over, she positioned the picture about a foot in front of his nose, then she took a peek at the picture again, just to make sure she was still seeing what she thought she saw.
“Where did you get this?” Uh oh. Maestro's German accent sounded heavier. When she looked at him, she saw he'd gone pale. She swallowed past the knot that formed in her throat. She truly hadn't meant to upset him, but if the implications of this picture were in any way true, she had to know.
“Somebody emailed it to me,” she said.
“Who?”
“I have no idea. It was...” Operating on so little sleep, Annasophia had to strain her mind to recall the odd email address, but when she closed her eyes, it flashed into her mind. “Someone calling themselves Lost in Time.”
“Lost in time,” Maestro echoed, his German accent still heavy and gruff.
She had thought he would examine the picture at length, but instead, he folded it up and handed it back to her. “Somebody's playing tricks.”
“But there's no way anybody could duplicate me with such accuracy.”
“Dearest Anna, you've got lots of pictures out there.” Maestro's thorny accent was smoothing itself out. “And you've told me about the things people can do with pictures these days, using computers. That is the most sensible explanation.”
He didn't say it was the right explanation, Annasophia thought. And Maestro never lied. He might not want to admit what was going on, but he would never tell a bald faced lie. Somebody was playing games all right, but she'd lay a firm bet that he wasn't Lost in Time but lying here in this hospital bed right in front of her, and furthermore, she would bet that game-playing was the last thing he truly wanted to do.
“Okay, look at my face.” She showed the picture to Maestro again. Maybe she was saying too much, but she wanted to convince him. Or if he was already convinced – or knew something she didn't – and wasn't admitting it, then she wanted him to admit it. Damn it, they had so little time! “I look like a... well, I've never looked like that before in my life,” she said. “That expression. I'm glowing. I...” Shit. She was making an idiot of herself.
Looking at Maestro, she saw a blush poking through his pallor. Perhaps she wasn't an idiot, after all. When he spoke, though, his voice was level, and he nudged the piece of paper back toward her. “You glow when you perform. Every time.”
Well. She hadn't thought about that, but she supposed he was right. The picture had to be a hoax. Somebody was having her on. Her and Maestro. Ridiculous, the pranks people could get up to in the digital age.
She had wanted so much to believe she could somehow get more time with Maestro. But she wouldn't get anything out of a silly prank. She folded up the picture and tucked it into her jeans pocket. Then she leaned over and kissed Maestro's forehead. “Matt and I will be with you once you are moved into your new room.” She shuddered at the word new. In all likelihood, it would be the last room in which he'd be conscious. Or alive. “Night and day.”
“There's no need for that. You need to take care of yourselves. You both have many, many years to live.”
She placed her hand over his again and spoke with enough bravado, she hoped, to cover up her agony at the thought of what was to come. “You might as well face it, Maestro. You're stuck with us.”
He nodded, and a nurse came into his room. “I'm sorry, Miss Flynn, but visiting is over for now.”
In her mind's eye, Annasophia saw the picture. She saw herself, cuddled close against Maestro, in the prime of his talent, his health, his life. What might they have shared together – could still share together – if that woman was her? Oh, how she wished it could be r
eal! Could it be?
You glow when you play and sing, Maestro had said. Not exactly like that, though, she thought. Yes, music made her glow. But that expression on her face: down to her bones, she knew that look could only come from a woman in love. So the picture couldn't possibly be a prank, regardless of whether or not a hoax were the most logical explanation. What reason would Maestro have to lie to her, though? He was scrupulously honest, and if the incredible were the truth, then surely he remembered it.
Annasophia sighed, then kissed Maestro's forehead. “I'll be back.”
If only back could mean back in time.
###
That evening, Annasophia and Matt sat in chairs positioned on either side of Maestro's bed. There was no way of knowing whether Maestro would pass away tonight, but neither Annasophia nor Matt wanted him to be alone when it happened. One of them would be with him around the clock. They would stay with him together as much as they could, and as necessary, one would remain while the other went to get a bit of rest.
Maestro had been moved to the regular hospital room a couple of hours after Annasophia and Matt's first visit to the ICU. The nursing staff gave him regular pain medication, and he was on oxygen to help him feel more comfortable. Some of his friends and colleagues had come by, but not nearly as many as Annasophia had called on the phone. When she'd given them the news, they had conveyed their sympathies and regrets, but many weren't able to muster up the gumption to come to a dying man's bedside. That made Annasophia sad, but staring death in the face was tremendously difficult for many people. She wasn't sure she'd have the gumption to face it, either, up close and personal like this, if the dying person weren't Maestro. To him, she would give all the comfort she could muster and then some. It was no less than he would do for her.
As time had gone by, Maestro had become less and less lucid. The doctor told Annasophia and Matt that it was part of the process. Sometimes, Maestro would doze for fifteen minutes at a time, then he would wake up and talk. Sometimes he made sense; other times, he didn't.
Maestro Page 2