“He had to be caught off guard by her showing up,” Emma said. “I’m just saying, if ever a guy deserves a little grace it’s when he’s confronted by his old girlfriend, in front of his new girlfriend.”
“I’m not his girlfriend. I’m his friend. He made that really clear.”
“Oh shut up. What would you have had him say? Declare his affection right there in front of her?” I stopped pacing and thought about Emma’s question. “I mean, what if he’d said you were his girlfriend?” she continued. “Wouldn’t that have freaked you out just as much?”
I unzipped my boots and dropped them onto the floor then sank onto the couch. “That’s just it. It wouldn’t have freaked me out. Because I really like this guy.”
“Then Lilly, you talk to him. You can’t let this guy get away.”
A knock sounded on my door. I moved to the window and peeked through the blinds. Trav’s jeep was parked just outside. My pulse started pounding.
“Yo. Lilly? You there?”
“I gotta go,” I whispered. “Trav’s here.”
I swung open the door. Trav stood there, looking all sheepish, deep furrows across his brow. “I’m an idiot,” he said, not even waiting for a hello. “Can I come in?”
I stood to the side while he walked past, then shut the door behind him. He stopped in front of the couch, but didn’t sit down. “I should have handled things differently today.”
I folded my arms across my chest. “Yeah?”
He took a step forward, but hesitated, like he didn’t really know what to do with himself. “I should have . . . but Darcy, she . . . I was just . . . surprised. But there’s nothing going on between us. There hasn’t been. For months.”
His discomposure was kind of adorable, but I wasn’t quite ready to give in. “If you could do it again what would you say?”
His eyebrows went up, the corner of his mouth lifting into a half smile. “I’d say . . . you’re ten times the woman Darcy could even dream of being.” His cell phone chimed and he winced. “I should . . . sorry. I probably need to look at that.”
Seriously? Right now? In the middle of his apology? I didn’t say anything, just watched as he reached for his phone.
“It’s just, I know it’s Avery. She has her own notification noise thingy so I’ll always know if she needs me and . . .” his words drifted off as he scanned the message.
My frustration waned as I saw the concern on his face. I mean, the timing was maybe crappy, but he gave his sister her own notification sound. That was a good big brother. “Is she okay?” I finally asked.
“Um . . . I don’t think she is.” He handed me the phone. What do you think?”
AVERY:TravispleasecomeholdthisdemonoffspringsoIcanshowerandbreatheandforallthatisgoodandholypleasebringmeacheeseburger!
Another text popped up while I was holding his phone.
AVERY: I don’t really think the baby is demon offspring.
I smiled. At least this one had punctuation.
Another message.
AVERY: But I do want a shower.
AVERY: And a cheeseburger.
AVERY: Can you come?
“What do you think?” Travis asked.
“I think we need to take your sister a cheeseburger.” I handed him the phone, showing him the new messages. “And fast.”
He grinned. “We?”
I shrugged. “Come on. I’m kinda in the mood for a burger too.”
Things were quiet on our way to the burger place, the words he hadn’t quite said still hanging between us. Finally, the words just exploded from him, all awkward and clumsy.
“It’s more than ten times.” He gripped the steering wheel tight enough that I could see the tendons popping out on the backs of his hands. “I said you’re ten times the woman Darcy will ever be, but it’s more than that. More like twenty. Or a hundred, even.” He took one hand off the wheel and ran it across his beard. “I know it hasn’t been that long, but I think I’d really like it if you stick around.”
There wasn’t anything particularly graceful or eloquent about his words. Stick around? That’s the best he could do? His goofiness had its own brand of charm, but still. He had to give me more than stick around.
I reached for his hand, running my finger across the soft fabric of his flannel shirt cuff, visible below the sleeve of his coat. “Tell me why I should stick around.”
He worried his brow, deep creases stretching across his forehead, like I’d asked him a really tough question, but I held on. He pulled into the parking lot of the burger place and shifted into park, keeping his eyes forward. I could tell, he was trying hard not to look at me. When he finally did, there was a sincerity there I didn’t expect. “Lilly, I know I haven’t known you that long, but I’m already in love with you a little. Losing you would . . . I mean, it would really suck.”
Um, yeah. He was definitely worth sticking around for.
I leaned over and kissed him, sliding one hand inside his coat so it rested on his flannel-clad chest, and wrapping the other around his neck. I broke the kiss, then kissed along his jawline until my lips were close to his ear. “I think, after a line like that, I get to call you my boyfriend.”
He smiled. “I really think I’m okay with that.”
Epilogue
Trav
The couch slipped under my hands while Emma and Lilly cheered from inside the small apartment. Curse the narrow doorways in old Asheville houses.
“You can do it!” Lilly yelled again. “We made treats!”
I was happy for her that Emma was actually moving in. Not so happy that Emma’s couch weighed more than my jeep.
Buster moaned from the opposite end of the couch. “I have no idea why I let you talk me in to this.”
“Because Lilly brings you dessert as often as she brings it to me?” Sweat poured off my brow, but I wasn’t ready to give in. Not yet.
“Right here?” Emma pointed.
Lilly tapped her chin. “Or over there…”
Buster groaned again, but I laughed. That was my girl.
“Right here is just perfect.” The couch dropped two feet inside the door, and I immediately sat, letting my head rest on the back. “Yep. Perfect.”
Lilly kicked my leg. “Oh, come on. We just have to slide it over now.”
“And maybe slide it again.” Emma smiled widely. “And thank you!”
“I’ve decided I work for kisses.” I reached out, grabbed Lilly, and pulled her onto my lap.
She pushed against me, but only for a moment. And then her familiar body rested against mine as her arms wrapped around my neck.
“Okay then!” Emma laughed as she dragged Buster toward the tiny kitchen. “We’re going to get the brownies.”
“Be there in a minute!” Lilly called. “Or five!”
“You know what next Tuesday is?” I asked.
Lilly’s brow wrinkled. “You think I’d forget your nephew’s first birthday?”
“Ha! You just did forget. His birthday is on Monday.”
She pushed off my chest. “That’s not fair!”
I pulled her back against me and grinned. “That makes Tuesday the anniversary of when I first asked you out.”
She harrumphed. “You only remember that because baby Trav’s birthday is the day before and Avery would kill you if you forgot that date.”
I shrugged. “Maybe. But that doesn’t make me any less happy I asked.”
“And I said yes.” Her lips found mine, as her fingers curled into my hair. “I’m really, really glad I did.”
That makes two of us.
Chapter 1 of Emma’s story,
from the new novel, Love at First Note
Chapter 1
Moving back to North Carolina? Social suicide.
No. Not social suicide. More like dating suicide.
See, there were a few things that disqualified me from the general dog-walking, beard-growing, craft-beer-drinking collection of men West Asheville had to offer: I w
as allergic to dogs, I didn’t really like beards, and then the whole religion thing. Mormon girls and Southern boys didn’t always mix.
I’d only been in town two months when Lilly, my roommate and childhood best friend, and her boyfriend, Travis, made it their New Year’s resolution to try every single native beer brewed in Asheville before Christmas. That might not have been very hard had they started in January, but with only four months left in the year? Asheville hadn’t been named Best Craft Beer City three years in a row for nothing. The city grew microbreweries like Kansas grew corn.
It was a fine goal for Lil and Trav—something they enjoyed that they could do together. But had my boyfriend wanted to spend every date night touring breweries—
Oh wait. I didn’t have a boyfriend.
I tried not to dwell on my looming spinsterhood. I liked Asheville, even if the young single adults group didn’t reach double digits. Growing up in a neighboring town, I’d always been a sucker for the city’s urban-y, eclectic charm. And it was the perfect place to set up my new violin studio. So it lacked available Mormon bachelors. At least the symphony was great, and I was closer to my family than I’d been in years—compensatory blessings, maybe?
When Lilly asked if I wanted to go in on renting the right side of a little house on Maple Crescent, it felt like a no-brainer. The house was perfect—tall ceilings, original hardwood floors, and bricks from 1924 in the kitchen wall. How do you say no to bricks from 1924? So I didn’t. I made West Asheville home. Even with my aversion to dogs, beards, and beer.
I was finally starting to feel settled when, on a late September Sunday just after sacrament meeting, Bishop Bradford called me into his office. “Emma, can I speak to you for a moment?” I glanced at my watch. If my Primary class was left alone too long, I had no doubt they’d stage a revolution. Whatever the bishop had to say, he’d better say it quick.
It occurred to me that maybe he wanted to see me so he could rescind my calling as the Sunbeam teacher. It wasn’t that I didn’t like three-year-olds, but I was clearly not cut out to teach them. The week before, I’d spent nearly half an hour scrubbing chocolate off the sleeve of my favorite Barbara Bui linen jacket—a New York City splurge I’d never regretted until hanging out with Mistress Chocolate Face and her grimy entourage. We hadn’t even eaten chocolate in class—it was like the sticky just oozed from their pores. I was not one to quit on the job, but I also wouldn’t have minded a change.
Bishop Bradford sat behind his desk and smiled. “Rose and I enjoyed your performance last night. It was a wonderful concert.”
I sat a little taller in my seat. “Thank you. I didn’t know you were there.”
“A coworker gave us tickets. We’d never been before, but we enjoyed it. Rose wants to go back.”
“I hope you do. We’ve got a great season this year.”
“So what does it mean, exactly, when it lists you as concertmaster in the program? Is that because you played the solo?”
I snuck a glance at my watch again, imagining the Primary president pacing the hall outside my classroom. “Um, no, it’s not . . . I mean, you do generally play the solos as concertmaster, if there happen to be any, but it’s more than that too. I lead the violin section and determine bowing gestures so we all move together as we play; I tune the orchestra before every performance, and if we have to audition new musicians, I help—” His eyebrows drew together, stopping me midexplanation. “Did I lose you?”
He nodded. “Somewhere around bowing gestures. Rose just told me it meant you were the best one. That sounds about right.”
A blush crept up my cheeks. There wasn’t really a graceful way to say it. Yes! Yes, I am the best! Thanks for noticing.
Bishop Bradford’s voice softened. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you, Emma. We were just proud to see you up there. Was this your first concert in the hot seat?”
I shook my head. “I played for a year as concertmaster in Cleveland before I moved home.” I tried not to think about my principal seat in the Cleveland Orchestra—a seat I’d been the youngest musician to occupy in more than forty years—or my former associates, many of them friends I’d known all the way through college. The only time I regretted my decision to move was when I spent too much time dwelling on the life I’d walked away from.
“Well, we sure did enjoy your performance last night.”
“Thank you,” I said again. Maybe this was all our little meeting was about: Congratulations on your lovely concert. Also, you’re going to teach Sunbeams for the rest of eternity.
Bishop Bradford smiled and leaned back in his chair. “So, I’ve got a favor to ask, if you’re willing—something I think will be of particular interest to you.”
Particular interest to me? Carry on, Bishop. You have my attention.
“I got an e-mail last night from a new ward member, someone moving to Asheville from out West. He’s set to arrive next week, and I thought you might be able to reach out and help him feel welcome.”
“Oh. Okay. Um, why me?”
“He’s young—in his twenties—so I thought it would be nice for another young person to welcome him. What’s more, he’s moving onto Maple Crescent.” He squinted at his phone. “Three Forty- Seven Maple Crescent. That’s your street, isn’t it?”
My brain felt too full of details as I struggled to process. He . . . young person . . . Maple Crescent. In other words, a young, potentially hot Mormon guy was moving into my neighborhood. I suddenly felt a little warm.
I lifted my long hair off my neck and slipped it into a ponytail. I’d worked all morning to tame my semi-wavy frizz into soft, smooth curls, and the ponytail was bound to ruin it, but it wasn’t like the Sunbeams were going to care. Though my first week on the job a little girl did ask why I didn’t make my hair blonde like her mommy instead of an “ugly, boring mud color.” Whatever. I wasn’t insecure enough to take fashion insults from a three-year-old seriously. Plus, I’d tried highlights once. They’d looked horrible under the stage lights—a little too much like my neighbor’s calico cat. I was happier sticking with my natural dark brown.
Another piece of the bishop’s details clicked into place in my brain. “Wait, did you say three forty-seven? I live at three forty-seven.”
“That’s what it says. I guess he could be mistaken.”
I shook my head. “No, there are two apartments in the house, and my neighbors moved out last week. I guess it makes sense, but wow. What are the odds?”
He smiled. “I guess saying hello will be easier than I thought.”
I never would have listed matchmaking as one of my bishop’s responsibilities, but I could tell from the gleam in his eye he’d asked me to welcome the new guy for a reason. I wasn’t surprised, really. I already felt like the ward project. Cousins, nephews, grandsons, grand-nephews, old mission companions—nearly everyone in the ward knew someone who was absolutely perfect for me. They all meant well—of course they all meant well. But all that had actually come to fruition were a few e-mails from a guy who had asked if I’d be willing to move to Tuscaloosa (Tusca-where?) and a blind date with Sister Parker’s grandson that had ended in Urgent Care after the guy had tripped on the curb and face-planted on the sidewalk. I probably should have been more sympathetic, but his nose bled all over my favorite shoes—Ralph Lauren linen and cork wedges, no less. There was no saving them, and the loss totally wasn’t worth it. I mean, the guy had made an actual snoring noise when I’d told him I liked classical music. As in, his head had lolled to the side, his eyes had closed, and he had snored.
With the ward’s matchmaking efforts going so well, it was hard to feel optimistic. But a glimmer of hope still sparked in my chest. I had never been an excitable, giddy girl. I was always the calm one, the one who read, the one who texted without ever using exclamation points. But a guy was moving to the barren wasteland of young single adults. And he was going to be my neighbor. No well-intentioned ward members necessary.
I wasn’t the greatest at meeting n
ew people. My nerves were ridiculous, and I was a master at getting tongue-tied. But this was too good an opportunity to pass up.
I smiled at the bishop. “I’d be happy to reach out. He’ll be here next week? Do you know when exactly?”
He looked back at his phone and shook his head. “He wasn’t specific. I can forward his e-mail address to you if you’d like to ask him yourself, or I guess you can just keep an eye out your window. I’m sure you’ll notice the moving truck.”
I nodded. “Okay. And his name? With a little social media recon, I might be able to find the guy and know what to expect.”
“Elliott. Elliott Hart.”
Elliott Hart?
“Wait a minute. Elliott Hart? As in the Elliott Hart?” I definitely didn’t expect that.
The bishop gave me a funny look. “I didn’t know there was a the Elliott Hart.”
“He’s a pianist. Have you ever seen the show Talent Hunt?”
He shook his head no.
“It’s this television talent search thing. Elliott Hart won the entire competition a few years ago. He’s pretty big.”
“Famous? Really?”
“I mean, not like bring-bodyguards-with-you-to-church famous, but they did send him somewhere totally remote on his mission so he wouldn’t be recognized. He does these crazy videos—pianos in weird places—and his YouTube following is huge. But that doesn’t make any sense. Why would Elliott Hart be moving to Asheville? Maybe it’s someone different.”
“I guess we’ll find out when he arrives. But wouldn’t that be nice? A musician—you would already have something in common.”
I still wasn’t going to get my hopes up. It was more likely we were dealing with a computer programmer from northern Idaho. A spelunker from central Wyoming. Or maybe a shoe salesman from Tuscaloosa. Elliott, the famous musician? What were the chances?
“I see what you’re thinking, Emma,” the bishop said. “I promise I’m not going to scheme and plan you into this young man’s life, but I do think you should keep an open mind. If God is trying to open a door, it’d be a shame to kick it closed before you even know what’s behind it.”
A Little in Love With You: A Love at First Note Novella Page 6