Maestro (27 page)

“Matt, your father was a remarkable man.”

He nodded. Then he looked at her. Not just looked at her; he seemed to look into her. Then, he asked haltingly, “Do you know who I am?”

Oh, my
. Could he possibly know the truth? Had Maestro told him? Her breath caught, and she returned his deep gaze. His eyes, so much like hers. Why hadn't she noticed that before? It had never occurred to her to notice such a thing. His eyes, his mouth, and even some of his expressions were so much like hers, though his build and coloring were all Maestro. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

“I'm lost in time,” he said, in nearly a whisper.

Lost in time
. For a moment, the words made no sense. Weren't they all lost in time, she most of all? Then, she remembered. Lost in time. The email address from which she'd received the scanned picture of herself and Maestro.

She leaned forward. “You sent me that picture?”

He nodded. “I've always known that Elena wasn't my mom. I overheard some stuff when I was little, when they fought. And after she and Dad divorced, he admitted it to me. But when I asked him who my mom was, he would never tell me. But then, I found this picture of him with a young, brunette woman. It was cut out from a magazine. He had kept it with him for years, I guess, and I only found it when I was thirteen. I guess I was snooping through his stuff, trying to find clues about, oh, I don't know. Anything. He just never talked much about his past. I knew he'd been a big time concert pianist, but there we were, living here in East Tennessee, and he always seemed more comfortable not talking about anything to do with those earlier years.”

She had seldom heard Matt speak so many words at one time. “And...?”

“I showed him the picture. I asked him if the woman in the picture was my mother. At first, he wouldn't tell me anything, but I picked up on how much I looked like the woman in the picture, and he finally admitted that yes, the woman was my mother. But he still wouldn't tell me anything about you.”

“Go on,” she pressed.

“I remember when he took you on as a student. You were the only student he took on, other than his university students. I remember thinking how crazy it was that he wanted to teach a little kid. Him, who had been such a big deal as a performer, and who had a lot of respect as a professor. But when I met you, I realized how talented you were. He talked all the time about you being a prodigy. As you grew older, I couldn't help but notice how much you looked like...” He broke off and looked at his shoes.

“Yeah,” she said. “That must have been weird, to say the least.”

He let out a long breath. “Once you had grown up, I knew for sure who you were. But that only opened up more questions. Big questions. See, I assumed the woman in the picture was someone he had a fling with or something. Watching you grow up, I realized it had been much more. But I never confronted Dad with what I'd figured out about you. I always had a feeling it would have made him uncomfortable. And what stumped me the most was just how it had happened in the first place. Time travel was the only possible answer, but I couldn't figure out how you'd done it. You certainly seemed like you were in the dark about it, too. So I realized that you hadn't gone yet – that for you, traveling back in time was a future event.” He shook his head. “Just talking about it blows my mind.”

It blew Annasophia's mind, too.

“Anyway, I kept the magazine picture,” Matt said. “I really didn't know what to do with it. When Dad got sick, I realized that however you had gone back in time, you needed to get moving because he would soon die. I actually knew about Dad being sick before you told me about it. He hadn't told me in so many words, but I knew. I had a gut feeling that something was terribly wrong. So I emailed you a scanned copy of the picture.”

She nodded. “I showed the picture to your dad the day after he was admitted to the hospital. At first, he didn't want to talk about it, but then... well, he showed me the way to get back to him. He did it while he was semi-conscious. I still don't know if he knew what he was doing or not. But I did get back there.”

Matt smiled a little. “Well, you must have. I'm here, aren't I?”

Man, this was awkward. Here she was, a twenty-six year old singer-songwriter, talking with her thirty-seven year old sound man, one of her best friends, whom she had discovered was also her son. It was too damn weird, and the whole thing made her sad. Biologically, Matt was her son, but he couldn't be her son in any other way that could mean anything emotionally to either of their hearts. It was just another tragedy, piled on top of all the other tragedies that had already happened.

They could maintain their friendship and their working relationship. They would always be aware of the other dynamic, though, the overarching dynamic, with which they would always feel uncomfortable and ill-at-ease. Annasophia had thought about becoming a mother someday, but she certainly wouldn't have thought it would be anything like this – motherhood without feeling like a mother. She could never feel like a mother to a man who was eleven years her senior, a man with whom she had been buddies and co-workers for many years.

No longer to be Maestro's wife or Matt's mother. Elena had taken them from her. To make things worse, Elena had then thrown both Maestro and Matt away.

Oh, how Annasophia wished she could figure out how to change the timeline for the better! She didn't think of the future as something set in stone. She saw it as endless possibility. The future was what came as the result of what she did now. But how to create a new future? She had seen so many possibilities, all of them far worse than this one. After Elena had sent her back in such a terrible way, Annasophia had lost hope. But what could she have, if not hope? Without hope, she would die. Maybe not physically, but emotionally. Perhaps if she had a little faith in herself – if she believed in the power of the love Maestro and she shared, if she truly believed in what was possible for them and for Matt – then perhaps she could create something wonderful for all of them.

It was about possibilities. By giving up, by letting Elena have her way, she would shut herself off to possibilities.

She couldn't believe that Maestro would never play Rachmaninoff's Concerto No. 2 again after Elena had sent her back. Even if he thought she was dead.

Annasophia stared at Matt. “I have an idea.”

He glanced at her. Sadness hung over him like a dark cloud. He probably wouldn't go home and play music. He'd probably crawl into bed. Poor Matt. As good a sound man as he was, he had been dogged all his life by depression. No wonder, growing up with Elena's toxic resentment and his confusion about who the heck he really was and where he had come from.

“I want to try to go back to your dad in 1974.”

His eyes widened in alarm. “What?”

“It might work. I don't know why it wouldn't.” Annasophia racked her brain. If she played the concerto again, she should wind up with Maestro at whatever point he'd be playing it in his timeline, whether on tour or at home.

She had to let him know she wasn't dead. And she had to be there for him and Matt, even if Elena sent her back a hundred times. A thousand times. This time, Annasophia wouldn't give up. She would never, ever give up. She couldn't just stay here in this timeline, with Matt so downtrodden and miserable, with so many possibilities unexplored.

“But it almost killed you.”

“Don't worry. I'll have that covered. Or the best I can manage.” She would do her best to guard against Elena, and after the difficult experience she'd had of pregnancy and the horrendous birth, she wasn't planning on getting pregnant again anytime soon. “And I'll do my best to stay there.”

“So.” He looked down at his shoes. “Now I lose not just a good friend, but...”

She waited.

He cleared his throat, then said, softly, “My real mom.”

“If what I'm planning works, then you won't know any differently. You won't even miss me. Perhaps you'll have me in your life, in a much deeper way than we can enjoy now.”

“I'll miss our friendship.”

“Bet you won't.”

“I will.”

“You won't.”

He sighed. “Go do whatever you have to do. I won't argue.”

She looked at him, not unsympathetic. Poor Matt, only thirty-seven and already so worn out by life that he might as well be eighty-seven. Well, she would do her best to fix that. To fix everything. She only hoped she'd be able to stay where she belonged.

Regardless, she wouldn't give up.

Annasophia stood up, then bent and kissed Matt on the cheek. “It'll be okay.”

He didn't answer; he only kept looking at his feet.

She hated to leave him like this, but as filled with confidence as she was, there was no stopping her. She had a concerto to play, then a place – no, a time – to go.

* * * ~~~ * * *

Chapter Six

Annasophia sat on the piano bench on her apartment and touched her fingers to the keys. Who knew if this would work. Maestro being dead in this timeline might affect the conduit to the past in ways she couldn't imagine. Still, she had to try. She hadn't bothered talking to Matt about what to do with her apartment. If things worked out the way she hoped, there shouldn't even be an apartment here that belonged to an Annasophia Flynn. If things worked out the way she hoped, there should be another Annasophia Flynn in 2010, one who wasn't twenty-six years old but sixty-three.

Please
.

She closed her eyes and began playing Rachmaninoff's Concerto No. 2. She played the opening chords so softly that she seemed to hear them as if they were coming from somewhere else. But it was too soon for that yet. The feel of the keys under her fingertips remained the same. She kept on playing –
please, oh, please
– and she gradually increased her volume, imagining a full orchestra playing with her. Playing with her, and playing with Maestro.

Or perhaps Maestro was alone, playing. He'd still, no doubt, be hearing an accompanying orchestra in his mind.

Oh, this beautiful piece, their conduit – their blessing and their curse. She kept playing, keeping her eyes closed, and still, the feeling of the keys under her fingertips remained the same.
Keep going
, she told herself. She thought about how much she loved Maestro, in the context of whatever relationship they shared. Whether teacher, mentor, friend, or lover, she adored him. Their love for one another, combined with their mutual love of artistry, of music, had created a potent mix and powerful force. With the love they shared, anything was possible.

The feel of the keys slowly changed under her fingertips. It now felt like she was playing Maestro's baby grand piano, the one he kept in his home at Larchmont. She had come home. Smiling, she continued to play. Any minute, she would see Maestro. Or feel him. Somebody was sitting next to her on the bench. She felt strong, sturdy legs against hers, then she heard a sharp intake of breath. She opened her eyes and beheld Maestro's astonished face before a baby began to shriek.

Pounding footsteps, coming closer. Instinctively, Annasophia ducked, and Maestro stood and pushed his way between her and whoever was coming for her. Something glinted, high in the air. A knife.
Oh, my God
. And it was coming down, intended for Annasophia, except it got Maestro. He had managed to duck, too, but not far enough, and the knife buried itself to the hilt in his shoulder.

“Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!” Elena's face was so twisted by fury that Annasophia hardly recognized her. Maestro sat down hard on the piano bench, bleeding from his shoulder. Annasophia wanted to examine the wound, wanted to get on the phone and call an ambulance, but she couldn't do a thing because Elena's hands were reaching for her throat, and there was nowhere to go but to scrabble under the piano, trying to get away. Elena wasn't fooling around anymore. She wanted Annasophia dead.

“I'm sick of you coming back!” she screamed at Annasophia. “Sick of it! Can't you ever die?”

Maestro stood up. His shoulder was still bleeding, and the knife still stuck out of it, presenting quite a gruesome sight, but he didn't seem badly hurt. Elena must have missed a major artery. Tears welled in Annasophia's eyes. He had risked his life to protect her.

“You told me she was dead,” Maestro said.

“I thought she was,” Elena yelled. “Any fool would have thought...”

“I didn't think you told me everything about the night Matt was born.” Maestro's face grew hard with anger. Annasophia had seldom seen Maestro look that way, but clearly, he meant business. He took Elena by the shoulder and drew her away from Annasophia. “You will get out of this house this very minute, or I'll throw you out.”

She lunged toward Annasophia again, but this time, Maestro had her well in hand. Elena was a good-sized woman, tall and strong-boned, but Maestro was bigger, and despite his injury, he was stronger. Pulling her along with him, he went to the telephone on the end table beside the loveseat. She fought but couldn't free herself. When she reached for the knife, though, Maestro had to drop the phone to keep her from doing further damage to his wound.

He used his advantage in weight and height to wrestle Elena down to the floor and pin her there, face down, on her stomach. “Anna, call the police.” He gave her the number.

She didn't have to be told twice. As poor little Matt wailed from his room, she picked up the telephone receiver.
Don't worry, little fellow
, she thought.
Soon, you'll have your real mother. And this crazy woman will be gone from your life forever
.

Elena fought with all her might to get free of Maestro, but there was no hope. The harder she struggled, the more firmly he pinned her to the ground. All at once, though, she stopped.
Uh oh
. That didn't bode well. Perhaps she was trying to get Maestro to relax his guard. Surely she didn't think he was that dumb.