Maestro (7 page)

“Come on inside. We have a lot to talk about.”

More than he could ever know
, Annasophia thought.

###

One night. That was all. It would be okay. One night, and she'd figure out how to get back to her time. But even that tiny brush of his lips on hers had sizzled. Call her selfish, but she longed to find out what it felt like to really make love. Not simply to let oneself get carried away by the throes of physical desire, but what it felt like to use one's body as a means of expressing love. Not even in her longer-term relationships – short-term as they had actually proven – had she ever made love. It had only been more lust. And yeah, lust had been great. At least she'd thought it had been great. As things were turning out, though, she was starting to suspect that perhaps lust compared with lovemaking was rather like three-chord pop music compared with Rachmaninoff's compositions.

There was no fooling herself. She'd fallen crazy in love with this Maestro, this Maestro whom she could hardly imagine, years later, switching on the metronome for herself as a nine-year-old girl and patiently reminding her to keep a steady tempo on the two-part Bach Inventions.

They could spend a little time together. Surely, there was no harm in just a little while longer. Then she could figure out how to get back home. Perhaps she had to find a piano and play. That was what had brought her here. It stood to reason it was how she could get back.

They entered the Manhattan Club, and as they passed through the posh, wood-paneled lobby with its hardwood floors and cushy-looking furniture, she gasped when she saw a baby grand piano, toward the direction of what appeared to be a bar.

That was how she would try to get back.

Not now, though. Not quite yet
.

Maestro must have followed the direction of her gaze. “They have a very nice piano here. I amused myself for some time last night, playing for the guests here. I think I might have amused them, too.” He grinned at her. “I don't just play classical, you know.”

No, she didn't know. She'd never had any idea that Maestro had ever played anything but classical. She was dumbstruck. “What did you play?”

His grin grew wider. “Well, I'd had a few too many Long Island Iced Teas. I played some Jerry Lee Lewis.”

At the mischievous look on his face, she burst out laughing. Maestro drinking Long Island Iced Teas. She'd never known him as anything but a teetotaler. And Maestro playing Jerry Lee Lewis! She could hardly wrap her mind around such a thing. It was something she'd have to see and keep close with her: a memory of young Maestro to bring with her when she went back to be with elder Maestro, a glimpse of a Maestro she would never have known had she not come back here.

“I'm afraid you'll have to repeat that performance for me,” she said softly.

He touched her lips with her big finger. “I'm not sure you would enjoy seeing me embarrass myself.” The words he spoke were something like what the elder Maestro might have said, but this younger Maestro said them softly and seductively, with a glint in his eye that told her that he would be willing to set the piano on fire for her if it weren't illegal.

“Later,” she whispered. “I want...” Her breath felt too thick for her lungs and words too big for her throat.

His eyes seemed to darken a shade or two. “Yes. Talk,” he said. The touch of his hand on her shoulder as he guided her toward the elevator promised more than just talk.

As they rode the elevator, he studied her. “You seem to be a great lover of music. Do you play?”

She nodded emphatically. “I sure do. And I had the very best of teachers–”
Shut up, Annasophia
, she told herself.

His eyes widened. “Who might that have been?”

Shit
. She looked up at him, wanting to smack herself. Damn it, she couldn't lie. Since she'd planned to tell him the truth once they got up to his suite, there was no excuse to start things out with a lie here in this elevator. “You.”

“Me, what?” he asked, obviously confused.

“You were my teacher.”

He looked at her, a half-smile on his face. “Now, I know you're teasing me.”

She shook her head. “You were my teacher. I've never had any teacher but you.”

His smile remained, but his eyes narrowed in curiosity. “You mean, you learned to play by listening to my records?”

“No. You taught me to play. Well, you taught me to read music. I could play by ear from the time I was three, but you...” She took a deep breath.
Here it comes
. “Remember what you said about feeling like you ought to know me? Well, you do. Or did. No, will. Anyway, you became my music teacher when I was six years old. I'm twenty-six now.”

He let out a long breath. Something in his eyes flickered. It looked like... Surprise? Not quite. It looked more like frustration. Could he be wondering, as he'd done after first encountering her backstage at Isaac Stern Auditorium, if she was a loopy hippie chick on drugs?

If that was what he thought, then there was nothing she could do about it. They continued to ride up in the elevator toward his suite. At least she would have a chance to say her piece.

Then play her piece. Well, not hers. Rachmaninoff's. After they talked, it would likely be time for her to say goodbye in this time, so she could then say goodbye back in her time. Her eyes watered, and she brushed at her tears with the back of her hand.

The elevator door opened on the tenth floor. Maestro gestured for her to get out first, then he followed and put his arm around her as they walked down the hall. Such a gentleman. He might think she was a nut job, but at least he wasn't repelled by her. Hopefully, he wouldn't call the guys with the butterfly nets.

###

In Maestro's classy, cream-colored suite, Annasophia perched gingerly on the edge of a well-stuffed, tan couch. End tables with lamps sat on either side of the couch, and an ornate oak coffee table was positioned in front. She would love to lean back into the softness of the couch, but anxiety twisted her guts. What could she say that wouldn't worsen Maestro's suspicions that she was out of her mind?

Listening to him move around in the bedroom, she jiggled her right leg up and down, up and down. From a radio that sat on the nearest end table, she heard the 4
th
Movement, “Thunderstorm,” of Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony. How appropriate, since she felt a storm would soon break in her mind and heart. No matter what she told him, though, she knew he would be kind. She'd always been able to count on her Maestro for kindness, and she already felt the same sense of warmth and safety with this younger Maestro.

Damn it, though, she didn't want him feeling sorry for her and thinking of her as a nut case. His opinion of her mattered, more than she could possibly express. Even more, perhaps, than it had when she had been his student. Though Maestro was immensely creative and talented, he had a strongly rational bent to his world outlook and personality. He mustn't think of her as a flake.

He came out of the bedroom, wearing a casual cotton shirt and slacks. If possible, he looked even more handsome than he'd looked in tie and tails. In changing clothes, he'd mussed his hair a bit. It had a bit of natural curl, and Annasophia longed to muss it more with her hand. Dressed in his formal clothes, he had looked like a star. A luminary. Somehow untouchable, even though she had touched him just a bit. Now, he looked like somebody she could snuggle with. Cuddle up to. When he sat next to her on the loveseat, an image flashed into her mind of her scooting closer, then settling herself on his lap and leaning against his broad chest.

The symphony playing on the radio had segued into the 5
th
Movement, “After the Storm.”

Not quite yet
, Annasophia thought.

As though he could read her thoughts, he smiled warmly at her. “That's a beautiful piece, isn't it?”

She nodded.

“When I'm not playing music, I like to listen to albums or to the radio. That's a wonderful local station, and it's pretty much all music. Hardly any commercials.” He paused. “Do you want something to drink? I have scotch, brandy–”

“Nothing like that, please.” When he looked taken aback, she regretted her haste in answering. “I mean, I don't drink alcohol. It's... well, it's a family thing. It's better if I stay away from the stuff.”

He frowned. “Alcoholic parent?”

She nodded. “My mother.” Mom had driven Dad away with her drinking, and Annasophia hadn't seen him since she'd been four years old. She had pictures of him and knew that, to a degree, she took after him physically, but she had a hard time pulling up his face in her mind without seeing her own face instead. Growing up with Mom had been no picnic. Mom had kept on drinking, and if it hadn't been for Maestro, Annasophia figured that by now, she herself might have wound up spiraling around in the bottom of a bottle, as well. Instead, Maestro had given her music.

And hope.

“It's all right,” he said. “Water, then? Cola?”

“Maybe later.” Annasophia wanted to get this talk over with. She shifted on the loveseat so she could look directly into his eyes, and at the warmth in them, she felt her heart flutter. And she thought she'd at least felt chemistry with those other guys, if not love. She'd been wrong. Nothing she had ever experienced could have prepared her for feelings like these. She felt shivery all over, yet these shivers, far from making her feel cold, warmed and titillated her. And the more prolonged their glances were, the more intense her shivers became until she had to jump off the couch and move around lest she shiver herself out of her skin.

She glanced back at Maestro. He was watching her anxiously. “So, Miss Anna. I was your teacher. I'd like to know about that.”

Looking closely into his eyes, she saw humor and more warmth – oh, infinite warmth! – and she would bet her right leg he wasn't mocking her or making fun of her. He truly wanted to understand why she felt as she felt, though she would also bet her left leg he wouldn't believe a word she said.

This was going to be tough. She had promised nothing less than total honesty.

“You were the most wonderful teacher I could ever have had,” she said. “You were my music teacher, yes, but in a way, you were also my life teacher. You taught me what it meant to aspire to better things in life. My parents weren't good role models, but you were.”

He furrowed his brow. “Teaching, you say. If I ever taught – which I'm far from ready to do since I love performing so much – I've always thought I'd teach at a university or school here, in New York City. Maybe the Juilliard School, or the Manhattan School of Music. But you don't talk at all like you're from here. You talk like you're from somewhere in the South. Okay, where do you claim I taught you?”

She didn't bat an eye. “Tennessee.”

His eyes grew wide, then he chuckled a bit. “Tennessee? Please don't misunderstand, Miss Anna. I don't hold any bad feelings about Tennessee or its colleges or universities. But honestly, it seems very unlikely, almost as unlikely as the time travel part of it.”

“Well, don't you think there's something about me that's a little bit... odd? My clothes, for instance? The way I talk? I mean, other than my accent?”

“There's definitely something unusual about you, but I wouldn't call it
odd
. I'd call it
enchanting
.”

“But different?”

He leaned back in the loveseat and stretched his long legs in front of him. “Well, I've never known anyone remotely like you.”

“Well, there's a reason for that. Other than what you might think would be the normal reason, I mean. I'm...”
Out with it
, she thought. “Okay, let's start with this. I didn't get backstage because I had a pass. And I didn't break in or sneak in...” The loveseat squeaked as Maestro got up, but she couldn't stop herself from talking. “Well, not in the way you'd think of sneaking in. In fact, I didn't mean to
sneak
at all. I found myself back there with no idea of where I was. And I–”

Maestro stood in front of her and brushed his hand across her lips. “You're talking too much,
Schätzchen
. You're nervous. Please don't be. I won't bite you.”

In her heart of hearts, she rather wished he would. Well, nibble on her a bit. That could come later, though. Her lips tingled where he'd touched them, but she couldn't keep herself from stepping away. His close proximity made her stomach flip-flop and she had to focus on what she was saying. And besides, what had he just called her? “Shots... what?”

He chuckled, his eyes filled with mischief, but the warmth had become all-out heat. “It's German. It means Little Treasure. Like your
Maestro
, it just slipped out.”

Little Treasure
. Annasophia flushed all over, and if he could see her without her clothing – oh, my! – she would resemble a humanoid beet. What was he up to? Clearly, he was attracted to her, in a much deeper way than anyone else had been attracted to her. She'd never seen that warmth and tenderness in any other man's eyes. He was teasing her, though. Playing games. Her Maestro – that was, her elder teacher, mentor – had never played games with her.

But that Maestro had been fifty years old when she was born.

“I'm nervous because I'm worried you'll think I'm a nut.”

He grinned. “I already think you're a nut. But in a good way.”

Damn
. She didn't want him to think she was a nut in
any
way. Enough dithering. Time for the truth, and he could make his own assessment. “Wilhelm – er, Maestro...” She still felt funny calling him that to his face, even though he remained
Maestro
in her mind, no matter what his age. “I traveled to your time from what would be thirty-seven years in your future. In other words, I'm from the year 2010.”