She wondered how much sleep she'd get tonight.
Maestro gently touched her shoulder, and she jumped.
“Would you like to come back to my hotel's lounge for a nightcap?”
A nightcap. Who talked like that anymore? Reality check. Anymore was no longer 2010. And Maestro had always had an endearingly old-fashioned way of speaking, ever since she'd gotten to know him as a child. She used to think he sounded just like an old college professor, which, of course, he had been. A dear, old college professor.
This gorgeous, ruggedly handsome man who sat next to her right now, though, wasn't an old college professor.
She nodded, unable to speak, and she felt her eyes grow wet with tears. Yes, she'd love a nightcap, even though she didn't drink, even though she should probably take herself out of the way, since Elena would soon be returning to the same hotel. Maestro, though, hadn't shown any interest in his ex-wife, and Annasophia had to admit: she wanted to stay with him as long as she could and put off the inevitable anguish of saying goodbye.
###
Maestro's “hotel” turned out to be The Manhattan Club, only a stone's throw away from Carnegie Hall. Annasophia was becoming slightly more accustomed to New York City's imposing and energetic feel, but at the entrance to the Manhattan Club, she paused again, blinking, unable to really believe this was happening to her. Was she really here, holding the rock-solid arm of Maestro, not her Maestro, her older teacher and mentor, but a man in his prime of power and talent?
Perhaps in reality, she wasn't here at all. Perhaps, instead, she was dozing in the recliner beside the dying Maestro's hospital bed and had never left the hospital to go play piano at her apartment at all. She hugged herself, unable to stop shivering.
“Are you cold, Miss Anna?” Maestro asked.
Miss Anna. Spoken in his deep voice, the burr of his German accent tickling her ear, his twist on her name delighted her. The elder Maestro had called her, simply, Anna, or sometimes dear Anna. When she was very small, he'd sometimes called her Mäuschen, an endearment adults used for children. It meant “little mouse.”
Before she could reply, Maestro took off his fancy black suit coat and draped it around her. It smelled oh-so-lightly of cologne, and better than that, a spicy, primal masculine smell. She pulled it closer around her and breathed deeply. Smiling up at him, she said, “Thank you,” surprising herself when, again, she had to blink back tears.
He gazed down at her. “Are you all right?”
She opened her mouth but nothing came out.
Shaking his head, he said, almost more to himself than to her, “There's something about you that catches something deep inside me and pulls, and I just don't know what to make of it.”
Her heart seemed to jump up in her throat. She hoped she wasn't making him uncomfortable with what must seem to him to be her extreme strangeness. “I apologize, Mr. ... I mean, Wilhelm...” Damn it, what was wrong with her? “I didn't mean to pounce on you the way I did.” She hadn't meant to do that. All she'd had in mind was being with him during a time in which he had many more years to live, not mere hours or, at most, a day.
That wasn't exactly the kind of thing you said to an incredibly handsome, virile man to whom you were attracted like a hummingbird to nectar. She had promised herself to tell him the truth when the time came. How would she find the heart, though, to tell him everything? Not just that she had come from what was, to him, the future, but that in that future, he was very nearly a dead man?
Everyone knew they would die someday. But was Maestro ready to know where, when, and how?
Maybe she should leave that part out.
“Don't worry, Miss Anna,” Maestro said. “You didn't pounce. But I can't figure you out, or why I feel like I ought to know you. And I'm worried about you. I don't understand why, but maybe...” He paused as though he wanted to say much more, but added only, “Maybe we can talk about it.”
“Yes,” she said. For sure. She didn't like hiding the truth from him, no matter how fantastical it would strike him. He had shown great forbearance and patience with her while she was growing up; she expected he would show her the same now, when they were both adults.
“I'll take care of you,” he said again and put an arm around her shoulder. He was so much taller that she could just about tuck herself into the crook of his arm. When he'd grown older, he'd lost some of his height, but now, he had to be about six feet, two inches tall. By comparison, Annasophia was a shrimp at five feet, two inches. She allowed herself to rub her cheek against his starched, linen shirt, then she smiled up at him, though she was sure her tears still glistened in her eyes. Maybe he wouldn't be able to see.
But he saw. She could tell by how the hard lines of his face softened.
Yes, he would take care of her. He always had.
She wanted to take care of Maestro, too, and be by elder Maestro's side when he passed away. The question was, though, how long could she stay here? It stood to reason, at least to her reason, that she should be able to stay here with him for the rest of his life, and be by his side when he died. By remaining with Maestro in his timeline, she had to be creating something like another reality, in which they had been not teacher and student, but... what? Close friends? Perhaps even lovers? Maybe even – she gulped at the thought – husband and wife?
Don't think about that.
Husband and wife. The words slammed her heart like a thunderbolt. Even though Maestro and Elena were divorced in 1973, the following year, 1974, was the year of Matt's birth. What had happened to bring Maestro and Elena back together, Annasophia had never really understood, but clearly, for a time, the two of them had gotten back together, and for Matt to exist, they would have to reconcile very soon.
If Annasophia stayed here – at the hotel, in Maestro's time – and kept him from reconciling with Elena, then Matt would never be born.
She shuddered. She loved Maestro. She wanted to stay here with him and maybe get lucky enough to have a life with him. But she couldn't do that to Matt. He was her friend, her loyal friend, and as much as she wanted to stay and fix things so she and Maestro could have a lifetime together, she couldn't deny Matt his own lifetime. She couldn't do it to Maestro, either. Knowing how much he loved his son, how could she deny him that? There could be other children, sure, but having known Matt for many years and the loving relationship he and Maestro shared, she couldn't let it pass away into nothingness so that none of it would ever be.
Which meant she could enjoy time with Maestro, but at some point soon, this dream would have to end. She would have to say goodbye to Maestro not only in this time, but also when she returned to her own time as well.
Two quick goodbyes. Her heart ached at the thought.
How, exactly, would she return to her time? She would have to figure it out soon; Matt's life depended on it. He'd been born in 1974, early in the year. February, she thought. It had been late May in her time, and the time of year felt similar here, in 1973.
Which meant that very soon, for whatever reason, Maestro and Elena would reconcile. Annasophia recalled Elena, meeting with Maestro backstage after his concert at Carnegie Hall just a few hours ago. She had said she would meet up with him here at the hotel, which might mean that she, like Maestro, was staying here. How lovely Elena had been, and how obvious had been her interest in Maestro, even if he hadn't seemed interested from his end. Surely, without Annasophia in the picture, Maestro would fall in love with Elena again. Annasophia wondered if his disinterest in Elena had been because of her. Good grief. Had she already screwed things up for poor Matt?
Everything in her screamed there was no way Maestro and Elena would reconcile as long as she, Annasophia, was in the way. She might look like a little wood elf next to the majesty of Elena; nonetheless, Maestro was already attracted to her. Possibly, he was even falling in love with her. He certainly acted like a man falling in love. Already, she saw in his eyes a depth of feeling and tenderness which she had never seen before in any ma
n. Not in her experiences with previous relationships, and certainly not in her experiences with her groupies.
Could she allow Maestro to fall in love with her? Shouldn't she pull away and run, as far and as fast as she could, to avoid hurting him worse in the long run?
Her tears flowed, and she began to sob. Once he enfolded her in his arms, though, she had nowhere to go. There was, God help her, nowhere she wanted to go. She pressed her face more snugly into his chest, and he held her close and let her cry.
Then, God help her again, he cupped her chin in his big hand and gently nudged her face up. There, in front of the Manhattan Club with its concierges and cabs arriving and departing, he brushed his lips across hers. She parted her lips, wanting more, needing more, but he drew away and searched her gaze with his.
“Come on inside. We have a lot to talk about.”
More than he could ever know, Annasophia thought.
###
One night. That was all. It would be okay. One night, and she'd figure out how to get back to her time. But even that tiny brush of his lips on hers had sizzled. Call her selfish, but she longed to find out what it felt like to really make love. Not simply to let oneself get carried away by the throes of physical desire, but what it felt like to use one's body as a means of expressing love. Not even in her longer-term relationships – short-term as they had actually proven – had she ever made love. It had only been more lust. And yeah, lust had been great. At least she'd thought it had been great. As things were turning out, though, she was starting to suspect that perhaps lust compared with lovemaking was rather like three-chord pop music compared with Rachmaninoff's compositions.
There was no fooling herself. She'd fallen crazy in love with this Maestro, this Maestro whom she could hardly imagine, years later, switching on the metronome for herself as a nine-year-old girl and patiently reminding her to keep a steady tempo on the two-part Bach Inventions.
They could spend a little time together. Surely, there was no harm in just a little while longer. Then she could figure out how to get back home. Perhaps she had to find a piano and play. That was what had brought her here. It stood to reason it was how she could get back.
They entered the Manhattan Club, and as they passed through the posh, wood-paneled lobby with its hardwood floors and cushy-looking furniture, she gasped when she saw a baby grand piano, toward the direction of what appeared to be a bar.
That was how she would try to get back.
Not now, though. Not quite yet.
Maestro must have followed the direction of her gaze. “They have a very nice piano here. I amused myself for some time last night, playing for the guests here. I think I might have amused them, too.” He grinned at her. “I don't just play classical, you know.”
No, she didn't know. She'd never had any idea that Maestro had ever played anything but classical. She was dumbstruck. “What did you play?”
His grin grew wider. “Well, I'd had a few too many Long Island Iced Teas. I played some Jerry Lee Lewis.”
At the mischievous look on his face, she burst out laughing. Maestro drinking Long Island Iced Teas. She'd never known him as anything but a teetotaler. And Maestro playing Jerry Lee Lewis! She could hardly wrap her mind around such a thing. It was something she'd have to see and keep close with her: a memory of young Maestro to bring with her when she went back to be with elder Maestro, a glimpse of a Maestro she would never have known had she not come back here.
“I'm afraid you'll have to repeat that performance for me,” she said softly.
He touched her lips with her big finger. “I'm not sure you would enjoy seeing me embarrass myself.” The words he spoke were something like what the elder Maestro might have said, but this younger Maestro said them softly and seductively, with a glint in his eye that told her that he would be willing to set the piano on fire for her if it weren't illegal.
“Later,” she whispered. “I want...” Her breath felt too thick for her lungs and words too big for her throat.
His eyes seemed to darken a shade or two. “Yes. Talk,” he said. The touch of his hand on her shoulder as he guided her toward the elevator promised more than just talk.
As they rode the elevator, he studied her. “You seem to be a great lover of music. Do you play?”
She nodded emphatically. “I sure do. And I had the very best of teachers–” Shut up, Annasophia, she told herself.
His eyes widened. “Who might that have been?”
Shit. She looked up at him, wanting to smack herself. Damn it, she couldn't lie. Since she'd planned to tell him the truth once they got up to his suite, there was no excuse to start things out with a lie here in this elevator. “You.”
“Me, what?” he asked, obviously confused.
“You were my teacher.”
He looked at her, a half-smile on his face. “Now, I know you're teasing me.”
She shook her head. “You were my teacher. I've never had any teacher but you.”
His smile remained, but his eyes narrowed in curiosity. “You mean, you learned to play by listening to my records?”
“No. You taught me to play. Well, you taught me to read music. I could play by ear from the time I was three, but you...” She took a deep breath. Here it comes. “Remember what you said about feeling like you ought to know me? Well, you do. Or did. No, will. Anyway, you became my music teacher when I was six years old. I'm twenty-six now.”
He let out a long breath. Something in his eyes flickered. It looked like... Surprise? Not quite. It looked more like frustration. Could he be wondering, as he'd done after first encountering her backstage at Isaac Stern Auditorium, if she was a loopy hippie chick on drugs?
If that was what he thought, then there was nothing she could do about it. They continued to ride up in the elevator toward his suite. At least she would have a chance to say her piece.
Then play her piece. Well, not hers. Rachmaninoff's. After they talked, it would likely be time for her to say goodbye in this time, so she could then say goodbye back in her time. Her eyes watered, and she brushed at her tears with the back of her hand.
The elevator door opened on the tenth floor. Maestro gestured for her to get out first, then he followed and put his arm around her as they walked down the hall. Such a gentleman. He might think she was a nut job, but at least he wasn't repelled by her. Hopefully, he wouldn't call the guys with the butterfly nets.
###
In Maestro's classy, cream-colored suite, Annasophia perched gingerly on the edge of a well-stuffed, tan couch. End tables with lamps sat on either side of the couch, and an ornate oak coffee table was positioned in front. She would love to lean back into the softness of the couch, but anxiety twisted her guts. What could she say that wouldn't worsen Maestro's suspicions that she was out of her mind?
Listening to him move around in the bedroom, she jiggled her right leg up and down, up and down. From a radio that sat on the nearest end table, she heard the 4th Movement, “Thunderstorm,” of Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony. How appropriate, since she felt a storm would soon break in her mind and heart. No matter what she told him, though, she knew he would be kind. She'd always been able to count on her Maestro for kindness, and she already felt the same sense of warmth and safety with this younger Maestro.
Damn it, though, she didn't want him feeling sorry for her and thinking of her as a nut case. His opinion of her mattered, more than she could possibly express. Even more, perhaps, than it had when she had been his student. Though Maestro was immensely creative and talented, he had a strongly rational bent to his world outlook and personality. He mustn't think of her as a flake.
He came out of the bedroom, wearing a casual cotton shirt and slacks. If possible, he looked even more handsome than he'd looked in tie and tails. In changing clothes, he'd mussed his hair a bit. It had a bit of natural curl, and Annasophia longed to muss it more with her hand. Dressed in his formal clothes, he had looked like a star. A luminary. Somehow untouchable, even though she h
ad touched him just a bit. Now, he looked like somebody she could snuggle with. Cuddle up to. When he sat next to her on the loveseat, an image flashed into her mind of her scooting closer, then settling herself on his lap and leaning against his broad chest.
The symphony playing on the radio had segued into the 5th Movement, “After the Storm.”
Not quite yet, Annasophia thought.
As though he could read her thoughts, he smiled warmly at her. “That's a beautiful piece, isn't it?”
She nodded.
“When I'm not playing music, I like to listen to albums or to the radio. That's a wonderful local station, and it's pretty much all music. Hardly any commercials.” He paused. “Do you want something to drink? I have scotch, brandy–”
“Nothing like that, please.” When he looked taken aback, she regretted her haste in answering. “I mean, I don't drink alcohol. It's... well, it's a family thing. It's better if I stay away from the stuff.”
He frowned. “Alcoholic parent?”
She nodded. “My mother.” Mom had driven Dad away with her drinking, and Annasophia hadn't seen him since she'd been four years old. She had pictures of him and knew that, to a degree, she took after him physically, but she had a hard time pulling up his face in her mind without seeing her own face instead. Growing up with Mom had been no picnic. Mom had kept on drinking, and if it hadn't been for Maestro, Annasophia figured that by now, she herself might have wound up spiraling around in the bottom of a bottle, as well. Instead, Maestro had given her music.
And hope.
“It's all right,” he said. “Water, then? Cola?”
“Maybe later.” Annasophia wanted to get this talk over with. She shifted on the loveseat so she could look directly into his eyes, and at the warmth in them, she felt her heart flutter. And she thought she'd at least felt chemistry with those other guys, if not love. She'd been wrong. Nothing she had ever experienced could have prepared her for feelings like these. She felt shivery all over, yet these shivers, far from making her feel cold, warmed and titillated her. And the more prolonged their glances were, the more intense her shivers became until she had to jump off the couch and move around lest she shiver herself out of her skin.
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