Maestro

by Thomma Lyn Grindstaff

  But you do, Annasophia thought at him, sadness swelling in her chest. You do give it up. Not completely, but you give up your career as a concert pianist. Why? Did he ultimately give it up for Elena, when they reconciled in the timeline with which she was familiar?

  No. That didn't have to happen. It could be prevented.

  “You don't understand,” Elena said, putting her hand on his arm. “I can look back and see how childish I was. I'd never ask you to give it up. It's what makes you the man you are.”

  Maestro peered at her. “But it's the image you seem to love, not the man. Not me. And Elena, you're forgetting something very important.”

  She stared at him.

  “I'm not in love with you.” He didn't wait for the look on her face; he turned to Annasophia. But Annasophia saw Elena's expression. It had gone, in a flash, from besotted to angry. Not just garden-variety mad, either. Furious. Elena's quest to get Maestro back must have a lot more to do with Elena's ego than about any genuine feelings she might have for Maestro.

  Annasophia took a huge breath. How unpleasant, standing here, listening to Maestro rehash the past with his ex-wife. All this time, while listening, she'd had to restrain a near-irresistible impulse to mutter, Yuck.

  As Maestro hugged Annasophia tighter to his side, Elena sniffed. “So you're in love with your little groupie, huh? I wonder how long that'll last.”

  “I'll thank you to stop calling her a groupie,” Maestro pointed out. “She's a highly accomplished musician in her own right.”

  If Elena's eyes got any wider, they'd pop out of their sockets. “Her? You mean she's a concert pianist?”

  “She could be if she wanted to be,” he replied. “But she writes songs and performs them. Kind of like...” He thought for a moment. “Joni Mitchell.”

  Annasophia smiled. What a nice comparison!

  “I see,” Elena said with a sneer. “She's kind of a folk artist. Belongs in a commune or something. My initial impression was right. She's nothing more than a hippie chick, and she has no place with the likes of you.”

  “You and I have so little common ground that when we were married, we could hardly get through a day without a major battle,” Maestro said. “I won't go back to that. Not for anything. Even if Annasophia weren't here, I'd rather be single the rest of my life than live in a constant battlefield. You're going to have to accept things the way they are and create a life of your own. You can do it, Elena. You're beautiful and talented. Music might not be your path, but there are plenty of other things you can do.”

  Annasophia's stomach knotted. She understood why Maestro was talking to Elena like this, but she couldn't help the jealousy that roiled inside on hearing him call Elena beautiful and talented. Get a grip, she told herself. He's just trying to help her out, talk sense into her, so that ultimately she will leave us alone.

  Elena smiled and sidled even closer to him. Annasophia's nostrils filled with the pungent scent of jasmine. “How about if you help me figure things out? I could really use a friend. Over the years we've known each other...” She looked pointedly at Annasophia– “...the many, many years we've known each other, I've come to rely on your advice.”

  Maestro sighed and stepped back. “Elena, you haven't listened to me about anything since we were twelve years old, and it's just the same now. You haven't heard a word I've said to you. Your life and where it goes is something you need to figure out on your own. We're divorced.”

  “That doesn't mean we can't be friends. We were friends when we were children.”

  “We can be polite to each other, sure. But you aren't acting like much of a friend now. And besides, friends have things in common that they share, that they like to talk about together. You and I never had that, not even when we were kids. Yeah, each of us thought the other was cute. That's not enough for an adult relationship.”

  Annasophia shifted her weight from one leg to the other. She wished Elena would go the hell away. She was getting sick of listening to her and Maestro talk about all the many years they had known each other. And she cringed at his continual references to Elena's good looks. Sure, Maestro didn't love the woman. That was clear enough. But did they really need to stand there and talk about their whole freaking history?

  Maestro rubbed the small of Annasophia's back. “Let's go, Schätzchen.”

  Elena scowled deeply. Clearly, she knew the meaning of the endearment. Annasophia couldn't help but wonder: had Maestro once called Elena Schätzchen?

  She pushed down the jealousy. What if he had? It didn't matter now. She'd have to be blind in more ways than one not to be able to see that Maestro had absolutely no interest whatsoever in Elena, so logically, Annasophia had no reason to be jealous. No sane reason, that was.

  If only Elena weren't so damned gorgeous.

  Pretty is as pretty does, she reminded herself and squeezed Maestro's waist. “Yes,” she said, smiling up at him. “Let's go.” She had no idea where they were going, but she figured they would either get a bite to eat somewhere or go to wherever Maestro was staying in DC. She hoped like hell Elena didn't have a room at the same hotel. Talk about tiresome.

  Maestro and Annasophia walked past Elena, and to Annasophia's relief, a cab was headed their way. Maestro hailed it, and when it stopped, they bustled in. She glanced back. Elena was still standing at the Kennedy Center exit, staring a hole through Annasophia. At least this time, Elena hadn't tried the humming again.

  What on earth would she and Maestro do if Elena kept following them with her damn humming? Elena knew the secret to sending Annasophia back to her time. Yeah, they had been able to make a quick escape this time. But Annasophia had a feeling that the challenges were only beginning.

  ###

  Maestro took Annasophia to Lincoln Guest Suites, where he was staying in DC. As had been the case in New York, he had sumptuous, stylishly decorated accommodations. Annasophia looked around, her eyes wide. No wonder Elena was hung up on the concert pianist lifestyle. When Elena and Maestro had been married, she would have been living this lifestyle, week after week, many months out of the year. Sad how she couldn't care less about music.

  Annasophia snorted at the thought, then rapidly composed her features when Maestro looked over at her.

  “Is something wrong, Miss Anna?”

  She didn't want to talk about Elena. Instead, she said, “What would you like to do for dinner? Maybe we should order room service, since I still don't have a dress...”

  Maestro smiled. “But you do have a dress.”

  “I do?” Annasophia grabbed his hand and squeezed.

  He must have bought her a dress at the shop after Elena had sent her back to her time. Would it be the black dress? Annasophia's stomach knotted at the thought. She no longer had any urge to fulfill the future the way she remembered it, except, of course, for Matt's existence. And that was already taken care of: he would be born in February 1974, right on schedule. The rest of it – his somehow being raised by Elena and him developing a terrible inferiority complex as a result – was exactly what she didn't want. The dress symbolized her desire to break from the timeline she knew and create a new one. She hoped Maestro had ditched the black dress and picked out a different one.

  No such luck. He led her to the bedroom, and hanging on a peg on the wall was the black dress. She gazed at it and sighed.

  He looked at her. “What's the matter, dearest?”

  Dearest. The word caressed her, and she pressed close to his side. “Nothing. It's just...” Oh, she didn't know what to say. She loved the dress. It was perfect. But if they were creating a new timeline together, a timeline in which they could be together for decades as spouses and one in which Matt wouldn't have to suffer a “mother” who resented him, why couldn't the dress change, too?

  It had been the black dress – and none other – that had started these jaunts in the first place. The picture had let her know this was possible. Not only that it was possible, but that it had happened. Did that mean that t
he timeline she knew was fated to unfold exactly as she knew it, as well? She thought back to the 2010 timeline as she'd just seen it. Matt hadn't been around. But she had been pregnant there. And sweetly sore from lovemaking. That made sense, and it boded well for change.

  “What?” Maestro pressed.

  “Well, it's the picture. You know, the piece of paper.”

  “The one with the handwriting that upset you so much?”

  “It didn't upset me,” she said, wondering, as ever, who the heck had written those words, scanned the picture, then emailed it to her. Oh, my God. The paper. Panic spiraled up. “Where is the paper? Do you have it?”

  “Yes, Schätzchen. I brought it with me from New York. I don't know why, except that it seemed so important to you.”

  “It is important,” Annasophia said. “It's very important. Can I see it?”

  Maestro opened a dresser drawer, took it out, and handed it to her. It looked exactly the same. Just the handwriting, with no picture. Well, what had she expected? The photo hadn't been taken yet.

  She glanced up to find Maestro studying her. Concern warmed his dark eyes. “You still aren't thinking about going back there, are you?”

  “No.” The word exploded out of her. “No way. I want to do everything I can to keep from–”

  In the distance, someone hummed the start of the third movement of Rachmaninoff's Concerto No. 2. It had to be Elena, standing outside the main door of the suite. Annasophia opened her mouth to warn Maestro, but he was already off and running. He dashed into the living room, flipped on the radio, and turned the volume up as loud as it would go. It was playing “Nights in White Satin” by the Moody Blues. Annasophia heard Elena, outside the door, trying to match volume with the radio, but she was too far away, and the radio was too loud. All Annasophia could hear was dissonance. Elena didn't have the greatest singing voice, anyway, and the racket in here made her notes flat – that was, the few notes that Annasophia could hear. Drowned out by the Moody Blues, Elena's warbling sounded nothing like Concerto No. 2.

  We've foiled her again, Annasophia thought. Thank goodness.

  With Elena lying in wait, how the hell could they go anywhere to eat dinner? She could keep them prisoners in here. They wouldn't even get to turn off the damn radio.

  Well, Elena had to sleep sometime. Maybe she'd even have to eat.

  Or pee.

  “Do you have any food in this room?” Annasophia hollered, so that Maestro could hear her over the racket in the living room.

  “No. We'll have to go out.” He set his face in determined lines.

  “Okay. I'll get dressed.” She and Maestro would do whatever it took – within reason – to keep Elena from humming the concerto, and in the meantime, Annasophia resolved that tonight, she would not look like a hippie chick next to Elena. She had worried about the future timeline to the point that her temples throbbed, and now there was Elena to worry about, too. For now, she'd let go of all the damn worry and just enjoy being the woman Maestro loved. In the months to come, as her belly grew bigger, she wouldn't be able to wear this dress.

  She put on the black dress. Its fabric felt so silky and luxurious that she twirled around the room in pleasure. Her smile felt like it covered her whole face. Maestro leaned against the bedroom doorway with his arms folded across his broad chest, watching her. Love danced in his eyes.

  “You look ravishing, Miss Anna,” he said. “Good enough to eat.”

  “Sounds like you're talking about food,” she mused playfully.

  He nudged her over to the bed, pressed her down against it, and kissed her mouth deeply. “Don't tempt me,” he said huskily, near her ear.

  She kissed him back hotly and wriggled up against him. As quickly as she had put on the dress, Maestro took it off. Dinner could wait. Far sweeter delights were in the offering right here.

  ###

  When Annasophia and Maestro left the hotel suite, the hall was empty. Elena had either given up, or she was lying in wait somewhere else. Maybe they could get out of the hotel and to a restaurant, bypassing her entirely. Annasophia hated feeling like this, though, having to sneak and hide. Utterly ridiculous. Maestro's tour wouldn't be over for another month. Somehow, they had to get through these challenges until they could settle in at his home base in New York. Once there, they could keep Elena at bay much more easily.

  Maybe Maestro should get a new home base. In East Tennessee.

  At the thought, she felt a bit dizzy. That was exactly what he had done in her timeline: not only had he chosen his home base in East Tennessee to be close to her, Annasophia, but he'd also quit his concert career. She couldn't wrap her mind around why he would have done the latter, unless he had thought the best way to be a constant in her life was to be a professor and not a touring performer.

  Had he loved her that much?

  She glanced at him as they rode in the elevator. He returned her gaze with an expression radiant with love and tenderness.

  Yes. He loved her that much. How had she gotten so lucky?

  They reached the hotel lobby, and there Elena stood, close to the piano. No blue dress this time. Elena wore a bright red dress, making her look more like Marilyn Monroe than like Lana Turner. Next to Elena's dress, Annasophia figured her dress must make her look as if she were in mourning. How did Elena always manage to upstage her?

  Maestro gave her a reassuring squeeze around her waist.

  She looked up at him. “Does Elena know how to play the piano?”

  He shook his head.

  “Not even a note?”

  “No,” he said. “She's never played a musical instrument.”

  Elena's singing voice wasn't very good, either. She managed to carry a tune, more or less, but she was a bit flat. Not so flat, though, that Annasophia couldn't recognize the concerto when she hummed it. “Well, she's right over there, and she can follow us wherever we go. What are we going to do?”

  “Ignore her. In fact, I say we have dinner here at the hotel restaurant. The food is excellent, and there's no point in trying to run away from her. She'll just follow. It's best to deal with her here and now.”

  Good idea in theory, but what about in practice? They didn't have a roll of duct tape to tape her mouth shut. Maestro and Annasophia turned away from the piano and from Elena and headed for the restaurant. Though the smells were enticing, Annasophia had lost her appetite.

  She glanced over her shoulder. Sure enough, Elena was following them.

  “Wilhelm Dahl,” a man's voice said as she and Maestro entered the restaurant. A stocky man stood up from one of the tables and came toward them, smiling and holding a camera. Annasophia's breath caught. The picture. It would be taken tonight.

  “Yes?” Maestro said.

  “I was at your performance earlier, and you were absolutely amazing. I'm from the newspaper here, and I'm writing a review of your performance. I'd like to take a photo of you to go with the review, if it's okay.” The man looked at Annasophia, curiosity evident in his gaze.

  “That would be fine,” Maestro said. “And I'd like to introduce you to Annasophia Flynn. She's...” He paused, looking down at her. He ran his fingers slowly through her hair, and she could tell there was something he desperately wanted to say, but for some reason, he was hesitating. Annasophia supposed it was hard for him to know what to say. They'd only known one another for a few days in this time, yes, but already, she was the mother of his child, and she'd bet both of her legs that he would soon ask her to marry him. Perhaps it was time the press knew that Maestro had a new love interest.

  “We're in love,” she told the journalist.

  The man smiled. “Yeah, I could tell.”

  “And...” Annasophia couldn't help herself. “I'm going to be the mother of his child.”

  Maestro stared down at her, his expression a mix of surprise and tenderness. “Miss Anna, do you really think...” Then he must have decided what was done was done. Leave it alone. He lightly coughed into his hand, and sh
e giggled.

  The journalist's face broke out in a huge smile. “Well, should I take a picture of the two of you together, then?”

  “That would be perfect,” Maestro said. “What do you think, Schätzchen?”

  “Perfect,” Annasophia agreed. How had she smiled in the picture? Good grief, no more second-guessing. She snuggled up against Maestro's side, and she felt his arm hug her close. He bent his head toward hers, and she pressed her head against his chest. Her face warmed with her smile. Yes. This. Her heart – her loving heart – would glow through her expression, showing her, many years from now, that this was possible, that love was possible, that joy was possible.

  In the timeline she and Maestro would create, she would be in her sixties in the year 2010, and they would be getting closer and closer to their fortieth wedding anniversary.

  At the thought, her smile grew wider, and the journalist snapped the picture. The flash made Annasophia close her eyes oh-so-briefly, but she felt sure she'd kept her eyes open for the picture. Of course she had. Her eyes had been open in the picture she'd been sent in 2010. But would it be the same picture, if she was creating a new future for her and Maestro? Her head spun with so many questions, so many thoughts. And oh, how she wanted to dash back to Maestro's suite to see if the picture had appeared on the piece of paper.

  She nuzzled Maestro's chest, and she felt his fingers in her hair again. The camera flash went off a couple more times, then the journalist frowned. “Excuse me, Miss,” he said, looking at someone standing to the rear of Annasophia and Maestro. “I'm taking pictures here.”

  “I apologize,” Elena said pleasantly. “I'm Elena Dahl, Wilhelm's former wife. I just wanted to say hello to him and his new girlfriend and to tell them congratulations. I heard the news.”