“Oh, I indulged, all right. And I now have aches in muscles where I didn’t know I had muscles before.”
“Then that settles it,” Barb said decisively. “Besides, it’s decaf, and it’s special stuff my sister brought in from The California Coffee House.”
“Mmm.” Melody grinned. “You talked me into it.”
As Barb ambled back to the coffeemaker, Melody slipped out of her coat and watched the remaining traces of white on it melt to water. They’d had an all-time snowfall for Thanksgiving night, eight inches of fluffy, easy-to-shovel stuff she’d dealt with before Friday lunch. But then overnight from Sunday into Monday, another storm had moved over Chicago and methodically obliterated all traces of her careful work. And this batch was different, a heavy, wet difference she felt from head to foot.
Running her fingers through her hair, Melody made a face. Despite being tucked into her black beret, her hair hadn’t escaped being snowed on. Where once she’d had gentle waves brushed in with care, now the ends hung limp. She twirled one strand around a finger, wrapped it in a coil, then let go. It fell dead straight again.
“Here we go.” Barb emerged carrying two mugs and handed one to Melody. “Take a hit off this. Eighteen dollars a pound, it’s got to be good.”
“Eighteen dollars! What do they do, roll each bean in gold dust?”
“Nope. Just special cinnamon. Comes from Tahiti, I think. Aren’t the Spice Islands in there somewhere?”
“Music’s my major, Barb, not geography.” Melody sipped delicately, then set the mug down. “And not hair, either. Not today. I feel like a half-drowned Irish setter.”
Barb settled behind her desk. “At least it’s only halfway.”
“What, I should be grateful for small favors?”
“No, you should be grateful my sister is generous enough to give away gourmet coffee.” Barb winked. “Stop fretting, kiddo, you look gorgeous. A little damp on the ends, but he won’t care.”
“He? He who?”
“James, of course.” The secretary lowered her voice. “He’s here early, and with company, no less. I walked past the studio and heard them talking.”
Melody took another hit off her mug. “Them?”
“Just two people.” Barb waggled her eyebrows mischievously. “Don’t worry, the other one was male, too.”
Melody scowled. “I wasn’t aware I was worried.”
“Maybe not, but I no sooner said two words about a tête-à-tête in James’s office, and you went pale.”
Had she? Melody didn’t doubt it, but Barb couldn’t have dreamed all the reasons why. Outwardly, she only shrugged. “It’s the light, Barbara. You know I hate fluorescents.”
“If you say so.” Barb pulled open her left-hand file cabinet and took out three folders of various thicknesses, then turned and set them on her desk. “I’m letting you know the scoop. That’s what friends in high places are for.”
“And for spying, on occasion,” Melody said dryly. “So did you happen to catch this other man’s name? Or haven’t you wheedled an introduction yet?”
“I thought I’d leave that to you.” Barb opened a file and switched on her computer. “That way, maybe we can double date.”
Melody had never heard anything so preposterous. Nor anything that made her lose her grip — literally — so fast. She hardly felt the mug tip until a splash of hot coffee hit her knee and Barb sprang up from her chair.
“Holy cow!” Quickly, she shoved paper towels across the desk to Melody. “What happened? You okay?”
“S-Sure. Sorry I made a mess.” Face hot with embarrassment, Melody sopped up the spill. “Especially with imported cinnamon from Tahiti. Or Dubuque. Or wherever it’s from.” She handed Barb the wet paper towel ball. “On second thought, it’s all your fault. Talking crazy like that would give anybody a start.”
“What did I say that was crazy?” Barb tossed the trash away, then chuckled. “Oh, I get it. That bit about double dating, right? Well, what’s so crazy about that? You and James are obviously dating now, and not a moment too soon for the both of you, if you ask me—”
Melody shot her a black look that cut her off mid-sentence.
“Uh-oh.” Barb bit her lip. “You mean Thanksgiving wasn’t the start of something big?”
Closing her eyes for a moment, Melody wondered how Barb would react if she’d told her how big Thanksgiving had been. But no. She didn’t want to try to explain James’s reasons for giving her the marvelous piece now resting safely in her book bag. She didn’t understand those reasons, for one thing.
“We had a good time,” she said blandly, crossing her fingers mentally at the half-truth. “But the whole thing was Hattie’s idea, remember. Have the out-of-town teacher in for Thanksgiving. I told you that.”
“Well, you didn’t exactly kick up a fuss, either,” Barb teased.
“I’m not in much of a position to kick up one,” Melody countered. “But all we did was have dinner, Barb. Honestly. Dinner and Scrabble, and Hattie chaperoning the whole time. So get those silly ideas out of your head, because that was the first and last time anything like this is going to happen.”
“You sure about that?”
Melody blinked. “Yes. Why?”
“It was a thought.” Barb’s voice was nearly a whisper. “You wouldn’t mind if it happened again, though…would you?”
Melody suppressed a cringe. She couldn’t afford to think the way Barb was leading her, the way Hattie was already thinking. She’d had a brief lapse of allowing those kinds of thoughts Thursday night, under the spell of a full tummy and a holiday fire. But over the weekend, she’d come back to her senses. She and James were from two different spheres. The closest they could be would be colleagues, maybe friends.
But Barb wasn’t asking what made sense. Barb was asking what she would like. And that was too dangerous a question to spend much time on.
“I can’t get into a discussion about this now,” she said abruptly, and rose from her chair. “I really do have to run.”
“No, Mel. Don’t.”
In the midst of folding her coat, Melody stopped. She rarely heard that tone of voice out of Barb — halfway between mother hen and drill sergeant — but when she did, it always got her attention.
“Don’t what?” she asked.
“Don’t…run. Don’t run away from talking about this. It’s nothing to be scared of.”
“Who’s scared?” Melody bent and picked up her beret. “And who’s running away? You’ve got work to do. And, not to make a bad pun, I’m a little snowed under myself.”
Barb groaned.
“So let’s leave that subject alone for now, shall we?” Melody finished.
“We don’t have to have a long discussion about it.” Barb sighed. “I need to say one thing. And please…don’t take this wrong?”
“Depends on what it is.”
“I think you know what’s coming already.” Barb drew a deep breath. “Things are happening between you and James. There’s chemistry there. The whole music school can see it. You’re like peas in a pod, and that’s something worth pursuing, if you want to pursue it. I think you do want to, pretty badly. Don’t be scared to try.”
Melody sighed. “I’m pursuing something pretty important already right now. A performing career. Remember that? I don’t have time for anything else.”
“Well, maybe you should think about making time,” Barb coaxed with a half-smile. “Lots of people do it, you know.”
“Lots of people don’t have to be married to their keyboards.” Melody turned toward the door. “I’ve told Hattie. Looks like I’ll have to tell the music school, too.”
But what will I tell them? she finished silently. As if from a distance she heard Barb say, “I’ll talk to you later,” but she didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Too many feelings swirled around barely beneath the surface, any one of which would have choked off any attempt she made at small talk. This couldn’t be dealt with in casual chatter over coffe
e. Melody knew how she wanted to deal with it — and had she been a swearing woman, the air would have turned blue around her right then.
Just when I thought I had it all together. Thanks heaps, Barb.
Melody muttered once more under her breath. In “off-kilter” land wasn’t where she needed to be this morning, either. Not when she had the most important, and most difficult, decision of her life to act on: the decision to give James back his concerto.
In all good conscience, she didn’t know how she could keep it. She’d wanted to make it easier on herself, to avoid playing the new piece at all so she wouldn’t develop any attachment to it, but Hattie would have none of that. Instead, she stayed up past both their bedtimes, listening raptly as Melody read through the solo parts.
Melody shivered now, feeling a cold deeper than the snow-laden wind. That had been a mistake, a big one. She’d lost more than sleep playing that music; she’d lost her heart to it as well. She’d held out hope that the rest of it wouldn’t be as good as the Adagio, but James had done himself proud. He hadn’t let her down, not for one note, from beginning to end. It was all as good as that short section she’d played through; she loved it, pure and simple.
But it was his. The premiere rights were his. Why he’d consider giving them away was a mystery. Temporary insanity? An overgenerous impulse on his part, wanting to atone for the master class gaffe? Who knew why he’d give up the chance to play something so wonderful? Whatever his motives, it was a mistake to let this situation continue one more day. She couldn’t steal his thunder like that. He deserved to play this premiere; anyone else could only be second-best.
Now, all she needed was the strength to go through with surrendering this treasure back to his hands. That would be hard enough, but it got harder when she reached the end of the corridor, grasped the studio doorknob, and tried to turn it — then wanted to kick something in frustration. James had locked the door.
Muttering to herself, Melody dug in her purse for the key. The music building had a perfectly good faculty lounge where James could have entertained his guest. No comparison to the cramped file room in the back of his office, especially when the room’s other occupant was scrabbling around for her key, in an already foul mood —
“Mel?” came a familiar voice, and Melody nearly jumped. She’d just put her key in the lock when the door was swung open, revealing two men who looked as startled as she was.
“Don’t tell me…” James frowned. “It’s not that time already?”
“No, no.” She shook her head. “I’m early.”
He chuckled. “Oh, okay, then. So was I. Scandalously, as a matter of fact. Extenuating circumstances.” James gestured toward his companion. “Melody Rowland, this is Alan Jerome, mad scientist and my best friend. In town only barely, between snowstorms, and for a limited engagement. Which explains our being here at the crack of dawn.”
The shorter man put out his hand, and Melody shook it. Unlike James’s long fingers, this hand was square and broad. For that matter, the man’s whole appearance was a study in contrast with James. Solid, where James was lanky; balding, where James’s hair was thick; glasses James didn’t need. An earth-toned sport coat and tie against James’s jeans and wine-colored sweater. But Melody sensed instantly what Hattie would have called him: “quality folks.” Salt of the earth. The kind that could blend in the background when needed, but was also ever-so-valuable when the chips were down.
“Charmed,” she heard him say, a bit absently.
“Likewise,” she replied, then arched a brow at James. “So, did you give Alan a guided tour yet?”
“Nope. Was going to do that now.”
With a quick nod, he led Alan on their way and left Melody alone. She had a moment’s discomfort at the notion that she’d forced her teacher from his own studio, but that thought was almost instantly surpassed by a tempting aroma wafting from the back room.
“Oh, no, he didn’t,” she murmured. “Not more coffee, and smelling like Barb’s…”
To her mingled relief and chagrin, the coffeepot was empty. Just as well. Decaf or not, her nerves were still doing a pretty dance this morning. She wouldn’t make more, either. She didn’t need that edge any sharper.
She didn’t mean to linger in the file room. With James and his guest out of the way, the evitable had been put off a little, but it was still coming, and she needed to marshal her forces. She’d gather her wits and her courage the way she always did — at the keyboard. She was about to do that, eager to lose herself at the Bösendörfer, when “Phil” caught her eye again.
“Well, Phil, I must say you’re looking spiffy today.” Gingerly, she stroked one shiny leaf. Amazing, the profusion of greenery today where there had been only three scraggly vines mere weeks before. “Our boss definitely has a green thumb, that’s for sure.”
She stopped then, words suddenly jumbling in her head. She’d seen something out of the corner of her eye, something that wouldn’t be ignored.
One glimpse was all she had, without malicious intent. But it was enough to see paperwork, a few sheets atop the file cabinet. And it was enough, despite her turning quickly away, to take in headings, details. To read the bold lettering Massachusetts General Hospital. To see the name James Michael Goodwin in the space labeled Patient…and the signature of a Dr. Alan Jerome.
The “mad scientist” friend of her teacher wasn’t just a scientist. He was James’s personal physician.
She wasn’t sure how long she stood there, in a wrestling match with her conscience over invading James’s privacy even this much. But it was too late to go back and pretend now.
Alan Jerome was James’s doctor.
She forced her gaze away from the forms, but it wasn’t easy, and it didn’t happen before she took in odd, cryptic entries in the blanks. Neural conductivity. Steroidal injections. Postsurgical care. Instructions written in a section labeled Comments.
A disease and its prescription.
Small wonder James had those moments of looking haunted, that shadow that seemed to follow him around. Something was wrong with her teacher, wrong enough that he’d been to a hospital and been given treatment. Okay, so his doctor was also a buddy; James had moved in the top social echelon in Boston, and he’d have known physicians by the dozens. But for what disease? She’d read at least one bio that mentioned his having an asthmatic childhood, but doctors didn’t talk in the terms she saw on these forms about asthma.
Bottom line, she realized suddenly, this is none of my business. No doubt James had a folder where he kept personal records, and her job was to put these papers in that private place. Quickly, willing herself not to read any more medical details, she pulled open the top file drawer, peered inside — and never heard the sound of footsteps returning to the outer studio area until far too late.
“Melody?” The question was deadly quiet. “What are you doing?”
She nearly jumped out of her skin, first from surprise and then from a knee-jerk sensation of guilt. The last time she’d heard that tone of voice from a man, Dad was chewing her out for wearing eye makeup at age twelve.
“Filing these for you.” She held up the paperwork. “I was looking for your personal folders—”
“They’re not here.” He strode into the room. “So you won’t find them, unless you’re also planning to rifle through my apartment.”
At first, she thought he was teasing. She expected to see a wry smile, a spark of laughter barely contained in his eyes. Instead, when she looked at his face, she saw raw fury.
“James,” she whispered, “what’s the matter?”
“Oh, nothing.” He was inches from her now, so close she could practically see anger sparking off him. “I expect my graduate assistant to have free rein over the filing system. Even the drawer clearly marked Private.”
With one verifying glance, Melody felt her heart bottom out, hit the soles of her feet, and boomerang up to lodge in her throat. She’d never seen the label until this moment. It
was hand-drawn, obviously by James himself, in square, bold printing on a white card secured with wide transparent tape. She’d been so caught up in her own ruminations she’d forgotten to look before she leapt.
“Oh, James. I am truly sorry.” She yanked her hand from the file drawer and closed it. “I didn’t notice you’d marked it that way. That’s my fault. You have every reason to be angry.”
“Good, because I am.” With quick, jerky motions he unfolded his arms, shot one hand out, and pushed in a button latch on the file cabinet’s upper corner. “Was leaving this unlocked too much temptation? Is that it?”
Melody’s jaw clenched so hard she thought her teeth would crack.
“I truly am sorry,” she repeated. “I didn’t mean to pry. Not in any way. But please remember, nothing in the Professor’s file room was ever off-limits to me before.”
“The Professor’s room?”
She felt her stomach knot. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, James! It was a slip of the tongue!”
“Was it only that?” James turned briefly away, then leaned on the connecting door between the two rooms. “I wonder.”
Even though the file cabinet separated them, he was still too close. So close she could count the stitches on his sweater as they rose and fell over his chest in a choppy, shallow pattern, and Melody found her own breathing quickening in synch with it.
“Melody,” he said quietly, “invasion of privacy is a serious infraction, even in academia. I have every right to bring this up for disciplinary action.”
Her mouth went dry. “You do have that right. But you wouldn’t, would you? Not on a first offense?”
His eyes were smoldering now, a deep blue fire that singed her nerves.
“Maybe I would if I had any sense,” he ground out. “The way it is now, you’re not the only one struggling with…temptation.”
Somehow, without her feeling it, he had taken both her hands in his. Now his thumbs traced tiny, fluid circles over her skin, a motion seductive and scary at once. He wasn’t talking about files anymore, and they both knew it, even if she couldn’t think straight. But she didn’t have to think to read the message in those eyes, to see longing far more dangerous than anger.
From the Ashes Page 7