Her mind spun with the intricacy of it all, but she kept playing and singing. “I feel you near; I feel you here.” Yes, she had always felt him. He'd been with her practically all her life, but she had always felt him as greater than his physical presence, though she had never been able to figure out why. Now, she spied more and more of a deeper, transcendent truth: somehow, in some way, she had always known this man.
When she finished “Ancient One,” Maestro had tears in his eyes, just as he had as an older man in her time line. “Did you write that song?”
She nodded. “I wrote it for you...” Wait, that didn't sound right. “I will write it for you in 2006.”
He smiled, though tears still glimmered in his eyes. “It's amazing, Miss Anna. Have you written many songs?”
She smiled. “I should say so. That's what I do. I'm a singer-songwriter, and I perform on weekends and many weeknights, as well. I don't have a recording contract. Let's just say things change a whole lot from the seventies to my time. But I do put together CDs and MP3s of my songs and sell them online.”
He shook his head. “I'm sorry, but you have lost me.”
Of course. In 1973, CDs and MP3s didn't exist. And online would have no meaning for Maestro at all. “Technology,” she said. “In my time, we have a worldwide computer network called the Internet. People can communicate instantaneously with each other no matter where they're located, and they have access to all kinds of information, like news or weather and all kinds of facts and opinions or, really, anything a person might want. Artists of all kinds can use it to share and distribute their music, books, or whatever else they love to do, in digital form. I pretty much grew up with the Internet, since it really started taking off then I was ten years old.”
Maestro put his hand on top of hers, and she thought he looked sad. “What do I think about this... Internet in your time?” he asked.
“Oh, you like it fine, at least as far as what I do with it. You don't do much with it yourself. But you're a wonderfully supportive friend. Both you and...” Shit. She'd almost said Matt.
His face became a question mark, but she couldn't tell him about Matt. To Maestro, Matt would be an abstraction, along with any other theoretical children he might or might not have. To Annasophia, though, Matt wasn't an abstraction, and she had to make sure that remained the case. Forestall his questions, she told herself. Quick. Play something else.
She began “Teacher,” another Maestro-inspired song. Unlike “Ancient One,” which sounded rather winsome in its minor key, “Teacher” was a full-fledged celebration of the joy that Maestro had brought to her life. “Teacher, my teacher, humble thou art,” she sang. “Thy art be humble, when spun from the heart.” As she played, she felt him lightly put his arm around her shoulders, allowing her movement while letting her know he was there. His touch electrified her skin, and she closed her eyes for a moment, marveling at the miracle of getting to know Maestro as a young man, aching at the thought that despite the fact that they were falling in love, she would have to leave soon, and she hoped she would know when the time was right for her exit.
When she finished “Teacher,” Maestro brushed his lips against her cheek. “Beautiful,” he said. “Exquisite.”
“I wrote that one for you, too,” she whispered. With everything in her, she ached to kiss him back, and not just on the cheek, either. On his lips. She pictured them kissing deeply, then riding the elevator up to his suite, where they would–
No. She glanced at her watch. Two o'clock in the morning was still early in the city that never slept. Elena might still show up. They had to stay put, here in the lobby. She didn't want to play any more of her songs, though. And she just couldn't kiss him back.
Annasophia got up from the bench. “Okay, Maestro. Wow me with your Jerry Lee Lewis impression.”
Still sitting on the bench, he glanced up at her, surprised, then he chuckled. “Well, if you insist. Just remember, the last time I did this, I was under the influence.” He cast a glance at the bartender, a middle-aged man who grinned at him and flashed a thumbs-up.
Oh, crap. She hadn't thought about the Long Island Iced Teas. Yes, it had been funny when he had told her about it, but being around people who were drinking made Annasophia acutely uncomfortable. Mom still drank, for the most part. She had brief periods of sobriety, lasting at most four or five months before she'd go back to the bottle again. Annasophia never knew which Mom she'd encounter when she went to visit, but that dynamic was no different from what she'd grown up with. Softly, she sighed. She didn't want to tell Maestro what to do, but damn it, she didn't want him to drink. If she smelled alcohol, she thought she might get sick.
As though he'd read her mind, Maestro said, “No Long Island Iced Teas this time, Miss Anna.”
She couldn't help wonder if their current experience could have played a role in Maestro's decision to become a teetotaler. Throughout the twenty years she'd known him in her timeline, he'd never drunk so much as a beer. She'd thought it was just him, and found him a refreshing antidote to her mother's addiction problems. Perhaps, though – just perhaps – Maestro had decided to swear off any kind of drinking before coming into her life. Could she have impacted him that much?
A world-renowned concert pianist, settling in East Tennessee to teach at a state university. Yes, she supposed she had.
And a world-renowned concert pianist, playing juke joint honky tonk. She couldn't wait to hear it. “Lay it on me, Maestro.”
The bartender was watching, a big grin on his face. Obviously, Maestro had put on quite a show last night. Maestro pushed the bench away and started “Great Balls of Fire,” and to Annasophia's surprise, he started it just like Jerry Lee Lewis would: the introductory chords with the singing.
She'd had no idea Maestro could sing. He had a gift for imitation, too. If she closed her eyes, she would think Jerry Lee, not Maestro, was standing at the piano. Well, Jerry Lee faking a German accent, of course. That made Maestro's performance even funnier somehow. She didn't want to close her eyes. Maestro was adorable. He sang well, and he would wear the title “Killer” of the piano just as well as Jerry Lee, with his fierce chops and wild glissandos. She walked over to watch him from the side. As he played, he moved his hips in a powerfully suggestive way – oh, yeah! – and she wished that she, not the piano, were in front of him. As he sang, “Kiss me baby,” he shot her a smoldering look. Her heart skipped a beat. Dimly, she became aware she was grinning like a fool. Playing and singing, Maestro firmly held her gaze with the power of his own, and she couldn't have broken it even if she had wanted to.
The bartender heartily clapped, and Maestro segued with hardly a break into “Whole Lot of Shaking Going On.” Annasophia began to sing along with him, and she moved closer to accompany him on the lower register of the piano. She swung her hips in synchronicity with his and pictured this kind of synchronicity happening in a much more private place than this.
At the end of the song, Annasophia said, “I had no idea you could sing.”
“Well, I don't sing very much. Mostly in the shower.” As Maestro said the word shower, he gave her another long, burning look. Sweat was beaded on his brow, and Annasophia longed to kiss it off. “Want to hear one more?” he asked.
Oh yeah, he was worked up. If not for her worries about Matt, she'd be happy to work Maestro up a lot more. At the thought, she let out a long breath, but she smiled and nodded, happy, also, to listen to him play all night, whether covers of Jerry Lee Lewis or pieces by Rachmaninoff, Beethoven, Bach, or Mozart. Or his own music. Had he ever composed his own?
Before she could ask, Maestro started playing another Jerry Lee tune, “Wild One.” He played the piano intro and began to sing, but a woman's voice rang out, smooth, cultured, and insistent. “I'm sorry I'm late... oh, Will. Why must you make a spectacle of yourself in public?”
Snooty thing, Annasophia thought. What did she mean, spectacle? Jerry Lee rocked, and Maestro's covers of Jerry Lee's songs rocked, too. Ou
t of the corner of her eye, Annasophia got an impression of frothy blond hair and sapphire-colored silk, and she picked up a whiff of jasmine. She glanced over. Elena strode toward them, stopped beside the piano, and fixed Maestro with a half-lidded, studied look. Maestro gradually stopped playing, drew himself up to his full height, and glanced over his shoulder at Annasophia. She avoided his gaze. Time to make my exit.
She wouldn't run off, though, before she'd told him goodbye. And thank you.
“So you're staying here, too?” he asked Elena.
“Of course I am. I thought we could spend some time together tomorrow before your next concert.” She peered at him. “Where is it you're going?”
“D.C.,” he said, folding his arms across his chest. “Kennedy Center.”
“Oh, that sounds like such an amazing place,” Elena said. She glanced at Annasophia. “I've never been there, you know.”
Maestro muttered something under his breath that Annasophia couldn't make out. She couldn't see his face, but he didn't seem thrilled to see Elena. With a sigh, he moved away from the piano and put the bench back where it belonged. Looking pointedly at his watch, he said, “It's getting really late. Close to two-thirty. I was just finishing up here, and–”
“Perhaps I should introduce myself,” Elena said as she skirted Maestro and approached Annasophia. “I'm Elena Dahl.”
Annasophia nodded but didn't reply. She figured Elena's dramatic pause meant that she wanted the import of her last name to sink in. Well, the way Annasophia figured it, the import given to that last name wasn't just what Elena made of it, but also what Maestro made of it. In 1973, they'd been divorced for, what, two years now?
Matt is born in late February 1974, she reminded herself. Elena's last name had plenty of import. If not now, then soon, Maestro's odd attitude notwithstanding. Who knew how men thought? Perhaps, down deep, he was still in love with Elena, but she'd done something that had really hurt him, and he was having trouble forgiving her or getting past it.
For Matt's sake, Annasophia would give them a little help.
“You're Wilhelm's ex-wife,” she told Elena. “Yes, I know. And I can clearly see that the two of you are still friends.”
A slow smile spread across Elena's face like melting butter, and she nodded. “Are you a friend of his?”
“We just met tonight,” Annasophia said. “I'm new to the city, and he was very kind. He showed me around, and I asked him to share his Jerry Lee Lewis impression with me. We've had fun. But now, it's time for me to go.”
Maestro turned, a look of alarm on his face. “But where... I thought you didn't...” He stopped, clearly not wanting to put her on the spot or embarrass her in front of Elena. He knew she had nowhere else to go but to return to her timeline, but she didn't dare go back right now, even if Elena weren't standing here, watching. She hadn't yet given Maestro the information he'd need to find her in the future. If, indeed, by this point he would be inclined to want to do that. She should have stayed in the present, by the aging Maestro's side, to tell him goodbye and thank you. He'd given her enough there, goodness knew – his friendship and mentorship. Why had she come here?
Well, it was simple. She hadn't wanted to let go of him.
She could give him the information he needed in a quick goodbye. Away from Elena. She didn't want Elena hearing. It wasn't any of her business, and besides, Elena would have plenty of time with Maestro once Annasophia returned to 2010.
Annasophia made a promise to herself. After she, in good faith, shared with Maestro the information he would need to find her in the future, she would play the piano to go back to her time, then stay in whatever timeline she found herself, as long as she'd assured Matt's existence. She simply could not come back here, to 1973, and further interfere with the course of Maestro and Elena's reconciliation. She had done enough damage already.
Something in her face seemed to ratchet up Maestro's anxiety, and he moved toward her and put a hand on her arm. “Please You don't need to go.”
“Believe me. I do. But...” She looked pointedly at Elena, who was looking down her long nose at Annasophia and frowning. “I would like to say goodbye to, um, Wilhelm. Privately.”
Elena shrugged and moved toward the bar. She took a seat and angled herself so that while, technically, she faced the bar, she could still watch Annasophia and Maestro out of the corner of her eye.
Annasophia sighed, then bit her lower lip. It would have to be good enough.
Maestro took her hands. Oh, how she wanted to kiss him. Just looking up at him, meeting his tender gaze, made her want to melt. Once she started kissing him, though, she'd never want to stop. That simply wouldn't do. If Matt weren't in the picture – well, that would be a different story, but he was in the picture; well, he was supposed to be in the picture, and Annasophia must keep him there.
“Goodbye,” she whispered. “Um, if you want to, well, find me in the future...”
“Yes,” he said urgently. “Tell me. Please. I want to see you again, even if I have to wait decades.” He gripped her hands. “If I can't be what I want to be to you now, I have to accept that, Miss Anna. But regardless, I want to be your teacher. I want to help you have the life you deserve. Music. And – I hope – love.”
He said that last word almost as though it were a question. It was a question she couldn't answer. Not because she wasn't sure, though. It was because she knew he was the only man she'd ever be in love with, and when she went back to her time, it would be career, career, career for her. But it was okay. Maestro had primed her well to be a musician, and after he died, she might just move to New York City, just to feel closer to the experiences she'd had here.
She would ask Matt if he wanted to go with her. Not that she wanted to become romantically involved with Matt. Feelings like that didn't exist between them on either side, and she sure couldn't imagine them cropping up out of the blue. He had never shown much interest in dating anybody, now that she thought about it. He was a dear friend, though, and the best sound man she knew. The two of them would make great roommates.
There were, of course, her groupies, whether in East Tennessee, or wherever she might play. Nothing could compare to the kind of melting love she felt for Maestro or even to the kisses they had shared, but the fact remained: sex was oh-so-nice. She didn't want to become a nun when she returned to her time.
Sad, though – now, she felt nauseated at the thought of getting it on with groupies. She blushed at what Maestro would think of her shenanigans. For the rest of her life, she would think of him every time she had sex with anyone else. It stank that she still wouldn't have experienced Sex Under the Influence of Love. Now, she never would. The only way she could experience sex with love would be to do it with Maestro, an experience which would soon lie far enough out of her reach as to be like flying to Mars.
A tear trickled down her cheek.
Maestro gently wiped it away. “Tell me.”
Tell him what? Oh, yes. “East Tennessee,” she said. “I live in a town called Johnson City, in upper East Tennessee. The university where you teach – where I go to study with you, starting from when I'm a little girl – is Southern Mountain State University.” Was that everything he needed to know? Oh, how she wished she could wring information out of her mind, as though it were a damp wash cloth. Surely, though, that was enough for him to work with. He would find her. She saw the answer in his eyes.
Astonishing how love and connection could work. He had only known her for a few hours, but she had known him for two decades, and somehow, he'd tapped into that.
At least in this timeline, he had much to look forward to where she was concerned, a relationship with her in the future, even if it wouldn't be the kind of relationship they both yearned for right now. She, on the other hand, had nothing to look forward to with regard to him but his death.
Another tear rolled down her cheek. “Okay,” she said. “You and Elena go on together, and I'll do my disappearing act once you two are out of
the–”
“Me and Elena?” Maestro frowned, and he looked as though she'd suggested he go upstairs to his suite with the bartender or some random stranger on the still-busy street outside. “Elena and I aren't staying here together. Do you think I've been playing games with you? Elena and I are divorced, Schätzchen.” He looked closer at her. “Is that what this sudden disappearance wish is all about? You think I'm interested in Elena?”
“No,” she said, firm in her resolve to tell him the truth, as far as she could. “But she's plainly interested in you, and since you two were married before, I feel like I ought to get out of the way and give you two a chance to make things right again. You know, my parents divorced, and I feel strongly about couples being able to either stay together and make things work, or maybe to get back together and rekindle...” She stopped. She was babbling. Yes, she felt that way, but things weren't so black and white. Her father had been an asshole to leave her and Mom when she had been so young and never get in touch again, but she also knew he had been made miserable by Mom's drinking and volatility. There were always two sides to any story.
“Miss Anna, Miss Anna.” Maestro ran his big hands up her arms to tenderly grip her shoulders and draw her just a bit closer. “I don't like divorce any better than you do, but sometimes, people get married to the wrong people for the wrong reasons. That's what Elena and I did.”
“She clearly feels differently,” Annasophia pointed out, and barely restrained herself from saying, Soon, you'll feel differently, too, because at some point, soon, you and Elena are going to conceive a son together. In Annasophia's time, their reconciliation had already happened. Matt was the living proof. Or he would be. How could she reconcile that certainty with the doubt – not just doubt, but out-and-out hurt – she saw on Maestro's face?
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