Maestro

by Thomma Lyn Grindstaff

  “I can't help that,” he said. “But I think I understand. You're looking at Elena and me through the lens of your past, aren't you, dear one? Maybe you think you have to do whatever you can to help couples get back together, to try to make your childhood feel better to you in your mind?”

  Not quite, she thought. He was damned insightful, but he hadn't quite hit the correct nail. Her childhood hadn't made her a romantic about marriage. It had actually done the opposite. She couldn't imagine ever marrying, and that was probably at the root of why she attracted losers for boyfriends and had a bit of a sex addiction. Sex without love, sex without commitment, sex for the sheer physical pleasure of it. Like music, sex had made her feel alive.

  Until now.

  She would never again feel as alive as she did now, with Maestro. Friendship, mentorship, yes, all those things still factored into their relationship. Now, though, this incredible physical attraction and deep affinity which could only be called love encompassed – yet transcended – all the rest.

  Oh, how she wanted to stay here!

  But she couldn't.

  “Please, Maestro. Go upstairs. It's more important than you know. We have to say goodbye, here and now.”

  “It's something to do with what you can't tell me about the future, isn't it?” he asked.

  “Yes, it is. I have to get back. And I think it's right this time. That is, you know how to find me now.”

  “Why should that matter, Schätzchen, about finding each other in the future? We have each other right now. We can change the future, don't you see, with what we're feeling now. My future isn't set, and yours doesn't have to be, either. Can't the future be fluid and not set? Can't we make a future together?”

  He opened his mouth as though to say something else, but he seemed to have run out of words. Instead of talking, he pulled her close and kissed her, gently at first, then more deeply. She sagged in his arms, all her resistance gone. Right here in the lobby, too, in front of the few people who were still here, and Elena.

  Matt's future mother is watching. That brought Annasophia's resistance back.

  “Maestro,” she murmured against his lips. “Darling.” Oops, she shouldn't have said that. Darling? What had she been smoking? She'd never called anyone that – or even imagined such a thing – in her life. She gently disengaged herself from his arms and stepped back. “It has to be goodbye. I can't tell you the reason, but it's absolutely critical, at least from my point of view, and I know that if I were to talk to your older self about it, you'd agree...” She stopped herself. Had she said too much? And would his older self truly agree?

  She thought so. Maestro loved Matt. For this Maestro, though, Matt was one of many possibilities, one of many children he could have in an unwritten future. If Annasophia were a little bit more selfish, she could take that view. She could stay here and build a new future her and Maestro in which they would live out their lives together. There would be no Matt – Elena was required for that – but there could be other children, if she and Maestro wanted them.

  She couldn't do that to Matt. He was her friend.

  “Please,” she said. “I need you to go to your suite. Live your life. Forget about me, at least for the next couple of decades.”

  He shook his head. “There's nothing I can do to change your mind?”

  “Nothing.” Annasophia glanced over at Elena, who was staring at them. Maestro didn't seem to notice her at all. At least they were far enough away to where Elena probably couldn't hear what they were saying. “And I want you to take Elena somewhere. Away from here. I don't want her to see me disappear. For one thing, it would freak her out and she'd ask you too many questions, and that's something that... well, it wouldn't be good, okay? Just trust me on this. Please.”

  “But there's nowhere I want to take Elena,” Maestro said, frustration evident in his voice. “I don't even want to spend time with her. I'm annoyed just by her staying here in the same hotel as me. But...” He sighed. “I'll tell you this, because maybe it'll have a bearing on your decision to leave, since clearly you know something about the future that I don't. Elena wants us to get back together. She likes being a concert pianist's wife. She likes the lifestyle. Doesn't matter that she couldn't care less about music. She grew up poor, and I think she's afraid of being poor again, though I wouldn't let that happen to her. I pay her a great deal of alimony. And she uses that money to travel, to follow me around when I'm on tour. She's done it practically since we divorced. She was okay with the divorce when it happened, but once it was done, I guess she got bored and missed the attention she got from being my wife, especially when I'm on tour.”

  Yuck, Annasophia thought. Did she really want Maestro to get back together with someone who didn't love him, but only what his career could give her? Of course not. He would be miserable with her, and that was another thing: despite getting back together to have Matt, they were fated to divorce again, and Maestro would never remarry. That was damn sad. How could she consign Maestro to a life without true love? But seeing Matt's face in her mind, she ratcheted up her determination. At least Maestro would have a son who loved him, and that was no small thing.

  “I know it's hard for you to understand, but you just confirmed that what I'm about to do is necessary.”

  He cupped her face with his big hands, and if his gaze were any more tender, she'd fall to the floor in a puddle. “Well then, I'll just hope that you change your mind. You did before, you know.” Before she could ask him what he meant by that, he gently brushed her lips against hers, then turned abruptly and left the lobby alone and headed for the hotel exit. Damn, Annasophia thought. He hadn't taken Elena with him. She needn't have worried, though. As soon as Elena saw Maestro leave, she got up and went after him. Now, Annasophia was alone, except for the bartender, who was polishing the bar, and a couple of people still sprawled in lobby chairs. She didn't care what they saw. She wouldn't be coming back this time. Surely, what she had told Maestro would be enough to ensure the future she knew.

  Maestro would still be dying when she got there.

  Wiping away a tear, Annasophia went to the piano and sat down on the bench. Here we go again. She glanced around, just to make sure that neither Maestro nor Elena were anywhere in sight. They had both gone. To where, she couldn't guess. Maestro had gone out the front door of the hotel, so they could have gone anywhere. At least she wouldn't have to think about them in Maestro's suite, engaged in the act that would – eventually – culminate in Matt's conception. Anyone could see that Maestro had a ways to go in his feelings before anything like that could happen.

  But happen it would, and soon, though Annasophia was darned if she could wrap her mind around Maestro going back to a relationship he knew would make him miserable.

  Get going, she thought. She had to do what needed to be done before she could come up with reasons to change her mind. Closing her eyes, she began playing, by ear, the first movement of Rachmaninoff's Concerto No. 2. As she played, she imbued the concerto with her grief at losing Maestro in her timeline and her sadness about having to leave the young Maestro with whom she had fallen in love. Sometimes, no matter how desperately people might want to be together, they just couldn't, and she had to accept that. Besides, hadn't she and Maestro already shared two decades of friendship, a relationship which had been nothing less than life-changing, as it turned out, for both of them? She felt the touch of the keys change beneath her fingers, and this time, she found herself back in her apartment, in her timeline.

  This time, she'd done things right. She hoped. And she had to hurry. She had to get to the hospital and stay by Maestro's side as he passed away, and she had to let someone else who was also with him know she hadn't disappeared off the face of the earth...

  Someone else with him. Who?

  A name flickered on the distant edge of her awareness.

  Matt.

  Who the hell was Matt?

  Something wasn't right. She'd screwed things up again, though this
time, maybe not quite so badly. Annasophia glanced around her apartment. It looked okay. Felt okay. She was a performing singer-songwriter, and she had recently played at the Down Beat, and then she had gone to Maestro's and found out about his cancer. After she had taken him to the hospital, she had gotten an email with a picture attached...

  Hadn't she?

  No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't conjure up the picture in her mind. Who had been in the picture? Something down deep inside her told her the picture was important; it was the whole reason she'd just been with Maestro as a younger man, so where was it? It should be in her pocket, along with her wallet and keys. She dug in all her jeans pockets, though, and couldn't come up with anything other than her wallet, her keys, loose change, and lint.

  She would go to the hospital. But first, she would call. She needed to know something, even if she wasn't sure what it was she needed to know. It had something to do with the name Matt. She picked up the phone and dialed the number for Maestro's room, thinking, yes, he would answer. Not Maestro, but... Matt. There was that name again, but when she focused on Matt, it had no meaning for her. Everything inside her said, though, that it should. It must. If it didn't, then she had screwed up again and she would have to go back.

  Nobody picked up the phone in Maestro's room, and her call was routed to the nurses' station. “Watauga Valley Hospital, how may I direct your call?” a hurried-sounding female voice said.

  “I'd like to speak to...” Who did she want to talk to? Maestro probably wasn't able to talk right now. She had thought someone else would be in the room with him, but whatever would give her that idea? “I was trying to reach Wilhelm Dahl's room.”

  “I'm sorry.” The woman's voice sounded gentler now. “He's unable to speak, and there's nobody with him. He has no family, just good friends who have been by, and–”

  Something flashed in Annasophia's mind like a lightning bolt. No family? Of course Maestro had family. He had...

  Mike. Mark, maybe?

  Annasophia had no idea what had just happened, but she knew she had to go back to Maestro's time. She couldn't imagine what on earth had made her think she could do something like that, travel back to the past – the picture? What picture? – but she'd better get her ass back there before she forgot about going back altogether, and then things would be really messed up for... for... whoever it was she kept thinking about, whose name she had already forgotten. She would go to the hospital to be by Maestro's side as soon as she fixed up whatever it was she had to fix, because if she didn't get back soon, she'd forget about having to fix anything at all. Even as she tried to focus on the specifics of her situation, they faded. Soon, she'd lose every bit of it. Every bit of what?

  Get playing.

  She sat down on her piano bench, closed her eyes, and started playing the Third Movement of Rachmaninoff's Concerto No. 2. That much she remembered. For whatever reason, she had to play this piece. She might just be crazy from stress. As she kept playing, she heard, as though from far away, the word door. Who knew why she'd think about a door right now, but the piece flooded her with its beauty, and as she lost herself in the music, she felt, again, the keys change under her fingers. Before she could open her eyes again, she was pulled against somebody who was sitting next to her on the bench.

  The young Maestro.

  He was holding her on his lap, close to his chest. One of his hands was twined in her hair, and his other arm was wrapped around her as though he never wanted to let her go. The scent of jasmine surrounded them. For whatever reason, Annasophia had come back. Her timeline had still not been right. And it hit her: maybe to fix the future, in whatever way it needed fixing, she had to stay here. That was an obligation she would be only too glad to fulfill.

  A gasp cut through Annasophia's haze of desire and delight, then a female voice, sounding both frightened and angry. “What in the name of God just happened?”

  Elena. Annasophia must have just reappeared, from seemingly nowhere, right under her elegant nose.

  Oh, shit. That's why she had smelled jasmine.

  Now Annasophia remembered who Matt – the name that had tickled her brain in the somehow-wrong future timeline – was.

  Maestro shifted Annasophia on his lap and looked up at Elena. “I told you not to follow me.”

  “How could I not follow? You were acting crazy. As if the most important thing in the world to you was getting back to this piano. Now I guess I know why. Her.” Elena jabbed a beautifully manicured fingernail in Annasophia's direction. “Who is she? Some kind of ghost or spirit? What the hell just happened?”

  “It doesn't have anything to do with you,” Maestro said. “It's none of your concern. And Annasophia isn't a ghost or a spirit. She's as real as you or me, and she and I–”

  “What could she possibly mean to you?” Elena interrupted. “You just met her tonight. She's nothing more than some little hanger-on. What is she, a hippie from a commune somewhere? She's way beneath you, Will. Can't you see that?”

  At Elena's words, Annasophia's stomach twisted. The woman was right. She wasn't anywhere close to Maestro's level, in any shape, form, or fashion, personally, professionally, or artistically. That hadn't mattered when Maestro had been her mentor and teacher. It mattered now, since romance had come into the picture. Elena, though, wasn't exactly on Maestro's level, either. She looked the part of Famous Concert Pianist's Wife, but otherwise, from what she understood, she and Maestro shared little common ground. Except – in the near future – Matt.

  Annasophia's unease grew until it felt like rats squirming around in her belly, using her stomach as their nest. She extricated herself from Maestro's arms, scooted off his lap, and positioned herself far enough from him on the piano bench to where their legs weren't touching.

  “I couldn't possibly explain,” Maestro said. “And at any rate, I don't owe you explanations. You shouldn't be following me around on tour, Elena. You're wasting your time. Things are over between us, and they're going to stay over. I don't mean to sound cruel, but you have to accept reality.”

  Not necessarily, Annasophia thought, seeing Matt's face in her mind.

  Elena narrowed her eyes at Maestro. “There's something going on here, something extremely strange, and even though it frightens me, everything about this tells me that, yes, it does concern me. Deeply. Why else would she–” – Elena pointed at Annasophia again – “keep looking at me in that odd, almost guilty way?”

  Had she been looking at Elena like that? Annasophia hadn't meant to, but yes, she supposed she had. She averted her eyes, stared at the keys on the piano, but then realized, Wait a minute, I probably look even more guilty. Why she felt guilty, she didn't know. She'd tried twice to return to her own time, leaving Maestro to Elena so that Matt could be born, and neither effort had worked.

  “Consider yourself warned,” Elena said to Maestro. “I'm going to do everything I can to find out what this is all about. Even if it means I have to follow you all over the world.”

  “Scheiss,” Maestro snarled under his breath, but before he could say anything else, Elena turned and stormed off in the direction of the suites.

  Annasophia had no doubt that Elena would follow Maestro to the moon if she thought that, by doing so, she could discover their secret. Again, she wished she hadn't come, despite the loveliness of getting to know Maestro like this. She could be mucking things up beyond all recognition, as far as a future timeline that could include Matt. No wonder she hadn't been able to remember Matt in the timeline to which she had just gone back. For some reason, he had never been born in that future, either, though everything else had been the way she remembered it.

  No, not everything.

  The picture, like Matt, hadn't existed in that timeline. The picture of her and Maestro, which had sent her on the time-traveling jaunts in the first place. Just as with her memories of Matt, her memories of that picture had quickly faded once she'd arrived in that timeline. Did the picture exist now? It had to; she
recalled it clearly now. Everything about it. Still, she had to make sure. Maestro mustn't see it, though. If the picture still existed, it must still be in her pocket, where she'd put it before all this began. Stealthily, as Maestro's gaze was still turned in the direction Elena had headed, Annasophia tucked one finger into her right, front jeans pocket and felt the piece of paper, folded up, on which she'd printed the picture.

  Yes. All was well.

  Almost.

  She still hadn't solved the problem of how to make sure Matt would exist. Perhaps the key to the mystery lay with the picture. Whoever had scanned the picture and emailed it to her had written, “This picture was taken in 1973.” Who had taken it in this timeline, and who had sent it to her in her own timeline? She suspected she'd have to wait until the picture had been taken before she attempted, yet again, to return to her own timeline and give Elena a chance with Maestro. She had no choice but to let go of her expectations and to stop trying to force events. And she mustn't second guess herself. At this point, all she could do was wait. She'd allow things to unfold as they would, which certainly meant allowing the picture to be taken here so that it could inspire her, in 2010, to travel back.

  Waiting might mean that things would fall into place just as they should in order to ensure the timeline Annasophia knew would generate itself. It had to have happened that way, or else she would never have known Maestro.

  Waiting also meant Maestro would take her, not Elena, to his suite tonight. If she wanted to go. She did want to go, and this time she'd stay.

  At least for a while.

  * * * ~~~ * * *