“No, Mel. Don’t bother.” James clasped her fingers tight, so much so she almost cringed. Egads, the man had her in a death grip. “I wasn’t aware this was part of my job, gentlemen. Not that I know, I won’t shirk it.” She saw one corner of his mouth tug upward, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Lead me to the instrument, and let’s have at ‘er.”
Eric and Clyde let out a single whoop of triumph, then gave each other high-fives, setting off the rest of the lounge in merriment. But Melody heard it all as if from a distance. Something was wrong. She could see it in the expression on James’s face, in the way he walked. As if he were heading to a gallows instead of a piano.
Whoa, girl. Easy. Shaking her head, she followed the fringe of the group clustering around the old upright. Finals must have freaked her out big-time to have had her thinking such morbid thoughts — when, really, this was cause for celebration. In the six weeks since her teacher had arrived on campus, Melody had never had James play in her presence. And, their outrageous teasing be hanged, the whole music lounge seemed to sense they were in for a treat.
“Well, James, I see they got you.” Dean Thomas called over the heads of the group, raising his cup in a mock toast. “Nice work, guys. I’ll remember it when I’m grading those comp finals.”
Another whoop went up from the theory majors, another round of high-fives. James gave only a slight cool smile.
“And I’ll remember you, too, Don,” he called back.
A collective gasp went up from the group, then more laughter, but this time the noise was short-lived. People were clearly eager to hear James, Melody thought, warming with pride. Even in their party-hardy mood, they’d all know genius in their midst.
“Now, so I get this right,” James addressed his kidnappers with gentle irony, “do you guys use a carol book here, or is it strictly ad-lib?”
“Oh, no, Mr. Goodwin. No improvising allowed.” Clyde reached up to the top of the piano and produced a well-worn book with a faded picture of Victorian-era singers on its cover. “Nope, just like juries, you play what’s written. Every note.”
More rowdy laughter met that remark, but this time James didn’t smile back. Watching him, Melody felt another jolt of concern. Lines of fatigue on his face had deepened almost while she watched. “Hey, guys, cut him some slack,” she chided. “Bad enough, you hog-tied him into this—”
“No, Melody, it’s fine.” His voice, low and quiet as it was, cut through the wave of glee around them like a hot knife through whipped cream. Then, for the first time since he’d been pressed into service, he met her gaze head-on, and Melody felt faint. She hadn’t imagined bleak, silent anguish in those eyes. She hadn’t fabricated the desolation there. She was simply the only one who saw it.
“I appreciate what you’re trying to do,” he finished. “But it’s time…I stood alone.”
She wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but he didn’t elaborate, only turned his attention to the carol book, opened it up and indicated the assembled group should follow him.
I heard the bells on Christmas Day… He couldn’t know that this was one of her favorites, but he swept away her protective urges on one wave of sound. Only half the people sang — only that many could lean over James’s shoulder and read the lyrics — but she didn’t blame the others for not making the effort. If she closed her eyes, she could swear the humble lounge was Boston’s Symphony Hall revisited. Too bad she hadn’t known then what she knew now, or she’d have made the trip to see his debut.
Then she heard it. One finger, slipping from a key. A brief misstep, no doubt due to the difference in touch between his keyboard and this one. He made an adjustment and concluded the verse, then turned the page. Moving into Adeste Fideles, he modulated upward one key…
Another finger slipped. A pair, this time. A misplayed chord. The theory majors teased him about professors who didn’t practice enough, and James countered, but she heard an edge to his comeback. Slowly, his jaw was clenching, barely enough for anyone to notice. But Melody saw it, saw his shoulders sink, and felt the stirrings of a terrible, intuitive dread.
For a moment she didn’t understand what she was watching unfold. She saw James’s eyes closing, his mouth becoming a thin line. She felt rather than heard an intake of breath next to her, then stared down at the keyboard, and suddenly knew why fewer and fewer voices sang around her, why a choked silence had begun to fall.
For no one could have missed what was happening to the piano prof’s hands. How his fingers arched at unnatural angles to the keyboard, how his wrists pivoted in overcompensation for thumbs that lacked independent response. How his hands struggled, how they hurt to watch.
He began Silent Night, but the thirds sounded out of sync, one note of the chord sharply more defined than the other, yet he continued, a fierce determination to the set of his playing now. But when he hit the second phrase and missed an octave in the left hand, it undid him at last. Abruptly, those twisted hands fell to a dissonance on the keys, then ceased altogether.
No one moved. No one made a sound at first. The lounge was stone-silent, at a loss to deal with what they had witnessed. Melody got a glimpse here and there of kids turning quickly away, then saw Dean Thomas ambling over, his face creased in a frown, and went weak in the knees. James was bowed low now, his face almost touching the keys, in a clear struggle for composure. Her eyes blurred for his pain, burned with knowing nothing she said or did could redeem him from the edge he walked now. When at last he raised his face and gave his audience a faint, self-mocking smile, she died a little deep inside.
“If you’ll excuse me…” His voice was hoarse. “I have to go.”
And he did. Without a look back at her or anyone else, he sprang from the bench and loped out of the room. And Melody knew, with a sinking heart, that the party was over.
CHAPTER TEN
She wanted to run after him more than anything; she held back only because she had no clue what she’d say to him. She wasn’t about to allow wagging tongues to exacerbate an already bad situation, which they would if she hightailed it out of the lounge on James’s heels. Besides, two guilt-ridden theory majors stared at her now, expecting answers she couldn’t give, as it was. So she stayed put, braced for the questions Eric was about to ask.
“Mel, you’ve gotta level with me.” He gulped. “Did you know about this ahead of time? Is that why you tried to get him out of playing?”
“No.” Her throat ached when she answered. “On my honor, Eric, I had no idea. I’m as dumbfounded as you are.”
“Not even the dean knew?” Clyde groaned.
Melody felt a chill looking at Dean Thomas. His face was tight, and she sensed he felt deeply for James’s humiliation.
“Melody,” he said quietly, “would you tell James I want to see him in my office. Immediately.”
With that, he turned and left the room. Eric and Clyde wasted no time disappearing, either, and before long Melody found herself alone in the festive lounge, with its goodie table ransacked and its piano silent. Tenderly, she ran her fingers over the keys, almost able to feel residual warmth from James’s touch. Fingers once so talented, and now…
She felt ill at the tone of the dean’s voice, at the expression on his face. No one, not even Heinrich von Steuben’s grandson, could sweet-talk the dean fast enough to gloss over a debacle like stumbling through the notes in a basic four-part harmony book. Disaster, worse than the one they’d all seen, lay in wait around the corner.
She was about to lose her teacher. The certainty was quiet, swift, sure…devastating. How could she stop that from happening? Injured hands or not, he was the only teacher she could imagine coaching her through his own work.
Unless she was about to lose that, too.
She left the lounge and headed for the studio, only to stop moments later when she heard the click of the lock and the creak of the hinge from the hall door as it closed. Melody held her breath, hoping James would sense her presence. But he was already ou
t the door, and he didn’t look her way as he zipped the sleek leather jacket, then double-checked the lock on the door behind him. She opened her mouth to call to him, but for a few frantic seconds nothing came out. He was almost at the rear door before her voice came back.
“James!”
She wondered if he could hear the anguish she felt in that one word. She hoped not. She hoped all he perceived was a “frog” in her throat. She hoped he’d assume she was dry from the overheated hallways or was catching a touch of the germs making their way through the music school.
But once he turned around, Melody was heartily sorry she’d said a word. Forcing herself to close the distance between them, she felt the dull ache in her chest sharpen with each step. Looking at him day in and day out, how had she never noticed those hollow black circles beneath his eyes? How had she missed his pale color, a telltale sign of too much time spent working too hard? How had she failed to see the tiny crease between his brows, the slight bend of those shoulders, as if he carried burdens he could never set down?
Simple, she thought, on a surge of empathy. He’d hidden those signs of strain beneath sheer focused energy. No one had seen James Michael Goodwin battle-weary and defeated before. Not even his graduate assistant.
“Yes?” His voice was unsteady. “What is it?”
“The dean asked me to tell you something.” She wouldn’t cry in front of him — she’d made up her mind — but she couldn’t stop the nervous clasp of her hands, so much like his mannerism it spooked her to realize it. “He wants to see you in his office, right away.”
She’d never heard James swear, but the words he came out with as a substitute now made her ears burn.
“J-James, I’m sorry,” she tried to soothe him. “I truly am sorry.”
“Save your apologies, Mel. I know you’re only carrying out orders.” He brought one hand up and rubbed his eyes. Melody pretended not to notice they were reddened at the edges.
“I’m not sorry about bringing a message from the dean,” she persisted. “I’m sorry about what happened in the lounge.”
He hardly moved, just closed his eyes for one long moment. But that glimpse into his agony cut her to the bone.
“It’s carpal tunnel,” she said softly. “Isn’t it?”
He didn’t look at her. To a stranger, he might not have seemed to answer at all. But Melody saw the almost imperceptible shrug, the faint twist at the corners of his mouth. “It’s a long story, and much more than that, but you’re close enough.” He sighed. “How did you know?”
“We had a presentation on it. They made all the piano majors go. I didn’t think much of it at the time, because before I went to that I didn’t know a carpal tunnel from the Grand Canyon.”
Wry amusement tightened his mouth. “Cute.”
“Actually, no. Now I know better.” She drew a step closer. “But then, I also have to admit I didn’t pay much attention. I thought it was psychosomatic. All in your head. An excuse not to get up and try harder.”
James again looked like he wanted to swear, but only lowered his head. “So tell me, Mel. If you weren’t paying attention then, how’d you spot it so easily now?”
“One thing, I did remember.” She swallowed. “They showed us a video with hands…in various stages of the disease. Watching your hands on the keyboard, I…remembered. The end part, James. The…advanced case.”
“The one where you’re too far gone for help,” he finished. Another blade of pain ran through her. “Well, then, my secret’s finally out. Now you know the real reason I wouldn’t play for your aunt, and why I haven’t played for you.” He flashed a brittle smile. “Take a message back to Don for me, would you, Mel? Tell him you couldn’t catch me in time. Tell him I’m already gone—”
“You want me to lie?” she cut in. “James, I can’t do that.”
“It’s not a lie. I am already gone, all but the shouting.” His eyes raked over her, narrow blue slits that cut the air like knives. “I’m also not in any shape to discuss my future right now, what there is left of it. Do you disagree?”
Honesty compelled her to shake her head.
“Then that’s that. It’s plain I’m not what the school would want of a piano teacher. I never was, even if Grandpa thought otherwise. I’d do anything not to have to let him down after all…that’s happened. But obviously, that can’t be helped now.”
Melody heard his voice falter and had to swallow against a lump in her throat. She couldn’t help noticing as he ran his left hand over his face, the hand was curled upon itself and trembling.
“Anyway,” he went on, “I don’t know how long I’ll be here in January, if at all. Probably no longer than it takes to clear out the studio and hire a substitute. But all I know is right now, I don’t want to spend another minute here.”
One corner of his mouth pulled upward, a macabre imitation of that trademark crooked half-smile. Haggard lines of pain, deeper by far than laughter could cover, sabotaged the attempt.
“I understand,” she said quietly. “But I still think you ought to at least stop and tell Dean Thomas what you told me. He stood there and watched you. How much worse can it get?”
He turned away from her, one muscle twitching in his cheek. “Trust me, Mel, it can get worse. A lot worse.”
His voice broke completely then, but that wasn’t what triggered an attack of the weepies that Melody had to fight to suppress. What choked her up was the subtle, habitual, unconscious clench of his hands. Closing, then opening, folding in on themselves over and over, as if the joints could not find a position without pain. She’d seen his hands move like that countless times. Was he never comfortable? Did it never leave him? Or had it begun to fade, to lull him into believing he could take the challenge of a few cocky theory majors?
“Tell me about that,” she whispered.
He looked askance at her. “About what?”
“About…” She hesitated. “About how it’s been worse for you. That’s something you shouldn’t have to carry alone, James. I have a feeling you could use someone on your side. I’m a good listener. Let me help—”
“No.”
Cut off so bluntly, she drew a sharp breath of surprise.
“Look, Mel,” he relented. “I’m sorry if that comes off as rude. I sure don’t intend to be mean to you. You’re right. You are probably one of the few allies I might have left on this campus.” A smile shot across his face, quick, self-deprecating. “But I meant what I said before. I’m dog-tired, and I’m not up to some solemn meeting with my boss. Nor am I prepared to bare my soul, not even to you. I just want to go home.”
His refusal smarted. “And I just want to help,” she repeated. Then, tentatively, she reached a hand toward his. “Besides, you did say there was something else you needed to speak with me about. Let’s go to the studio where it’s private, and—”
“Forget that, Mel. It’s not important now.” The chill in his eyes made her shiver. “I’m not going back to the studio. I’m leaving. I suggest you do the same.”
Melody grit her teeth in frustration. Pain, she could deal with. She understood it. But this wall of isolation wasn’t called for. Weren’t they beyond that by now?
They were. And that meant she couldn’t let him off the hook that easily.
“So that’s all there is to it?” she needled him. “You drop a bombshell on all of us and then leave? No explanations, no effort to meet anyone halfway? James, you can’t solve this by hiding from it!”
He’d half turned to go, but he stopped dead at her words, and she wasn’t surprised when he turned on her, clutching her shoulders in a viselike grip.
“How dare you say that to me!” His face was white with strain. “What do you know about this, to sit in judgment—?”
“I’m not judging you,” she returned. “I don’t know exactly what you’re going through. But this isn’t about only your pain anymore, James. It’s hurting other people, too.”
“Don’t you think I know
that?” He squeezed harder on her shoulders, a convulsive tightening she knew he couldn’t control. “I’d give anything not to have to hurt you in this, don’t you see that?”
Then abruptly his voice cracked, and with it went the fire in his eyes and the pain in his grip. His whole body seemed to sag as he let her go.
“Mel, I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m acting like a cad, and with you, of all people…”
On a groan, he pulled her against him once more, but this time there was no anger in the embrace, only an intensity that robbed her of breath. Then there were words, jumbled together, almost incoherent, yet she understood every syllable he spoke. She heard his loneliness, his need, because her own soul spoke the same language. Part of her wanted to weep, but a greater part wanted to hold him. To cradle him like a child…yet love him as a woman loves a man.
As if sucker-punched, Melody went weak all over at the impact of a truth she finally had to admit. She’d gone way over the brink, forgotten all that careful professional distance they needed to keep between them. Forgotten her prudence, her sense of propriety, her own principles — and lost her heart. Somewhere in there, she’d managed to fall completely, helplessly in love with James Michael Goodwin. It was too late to pretend, dissemble, or protect herself.
She knew it as James dropped tiny kisses on her hair, as seemingly despite himself, he whispered endearments no man had ever spoken to her before. She had come years with this man in the space of weeks, and she wanted more. She craved it, coveted it with a basic womanly instinct now being given its rein. Cautious yet eager, she kneaded her hands over his tight shoulders and felt as much as heard the muffled sigh of release from him as knots loosened. As one, they moved together, he bending down, she raising her face to his, and their lips brushed.
To him, it was no more than a peck, she was sure of it. But to Melody, it was an awakening — to hunger, and to courage. Courage to twine her fingers through his hair and pull his head closer to hers, to deepen the kiss, and feel his passion answering her own.
From the Ashes Page 10