Pain thudded in her left temple. Regardless of all speculation, she would do her utmost to stay in this timeline, for the sake of both Maestro and Matt, though how she would manage, for the rest of her life, to avoid Rachmaninoff's Concerto No. 2 – and Elena and her humming – she had no idea.
“Well, I'm grateful more than I can say that you're back,
Schätzchen.
Even though I'm sick as an old man, it sure doesn't sound like I suffer from a loss of memory.” He smiled down at her, and she gave him a weak smile back. What a relief. Perhaps he wouldn't ask any more questions.
They reached the exit, and Maestro opened the door for Annasophia.
“So what's wrong with me in your timeline–” he broke off abruptly. Elena was waiting for them. Oh, the cognitive dissonance – Annasophia didn't know whether to be relived that Maestro couldn't ask his question or disgusted at the prospect of another encounter with Elena. The security men had escorted her just outside Kennedy Center, and she must have been standing here, waiting. Annasophia sighed. She might have figured Elena wouldn't give up so easily.
“So,” she said. “I see your little groupie is back.”
Maestro stopped walking, and Annasophia stood next to him. “Stay out our business,” he told Elena. “I mean it. We're divorced, and there's no reason for you to be interfering in my life.”
“That's what you think,” she said. “Actually, I have every reason. She doesn't belong here, in this time. You know that. You can't keep kidding yourself. You and I do belong here, and we belong here together. You know how much I've always loved you. And I miss you.”
“How could you miss me when you follow me everywhere I go?” Maestro muttered, then shook his head. “Elena, you need to let go of me, of our relationship. How can you have forgotten how unhappy you were, married to me? You complained all the time about me playing piano too much, about me not spending enough time with you, about how we don't have anything in common, about how I love music more than you. I wasn't a good husband to you. Not because I didn't want to be – I tried my best – but because I can't be the kind of husband you need. I don't know what's caused your change of heart, but I don't think–”
“Don't you see?” Elena stepped closer to Maestro. To Annasophia's acute discomfort, Elena looked even more beautiful than ever. She wore another blue dress, which accented her striking eyes, and the low-cut dress showcased her full breasts and accented every curve on her body. Lana Turner would look homely by comparison. And if Lana Turner would look homely beside Elena, Annasophia shuddered to think what
she
looked like. A waif. A stick insect. A flying gnat that was always getting in everybody's way.
I'm pregnant
, she reminded herself.
Matt is mine, not Elena's. Maestro and I are going to have a child together
.
Elena might be one of the prettiest women I've ever seen, but it's me who Maestro loves.
Elena didn't want Maestro back for the right reasons. She didn't miss their relationship. She missed the prestige of being married to a famous concert pianist. Maestro deserved better; that was part of what she, Annasophia, was here to ensure.
Hold your ground
. She tucked a stray lock of black hair behind her ear and stood up a little straighter.
“...you're exactly what I need,” Elena was saying to Maestro. “I didn't know how much I truly needed you until after we divorced. I mean, we grew up together. I always took you for granted. And after our divorce, I realized just how badly I was about taking you for granted. I like the life we shared together, Will, and I miss it.”
“You miss the life, maybe,” Maestro said. “At least the public parts of it, like this. But I very much doubt you miss me. I still remember how angry you'd get whenever I wanted to spend time practicing the piano. And I remember how angry you'd get when I got good press in the newspapers. Everything to do with my music made you furious. You don't want to go back to all that fighting, do you? Battling over everything I do that you don't like? You and I just aren't compatible. Sure, you like the public life of being married to me, but you don't like what makes it possible: my music. You can't have it both ways. And I can't give up my music. Not for you, and not for anyone. I never will.”
But you do
, Annasophia thought at him, sadness swelling in her chest.
You do give it up. Not completely, but you give up your career as a concert pianist
. Why? Did he ultimately give it up for Elena, when they reconciled in the timeline with which she was familiar?
No. That didn't have to happen. It could be prevented.
“You don't understand,” Elena said, putting her hand on his arm. “I can look back and see how childish I was. I'd never ask you to give it up. It's what makes you the man you are.”
Maestro peered at her. “But it's the image you seem to love, not the man. Not me. And Elena, you're forgetting something very important.”
She stared at him.
“I'm not in love with you.” He didn't wait for the look on her face; he turned to Annasophia. But Annasophia saw Elena's expression. It had gone, in a flash, from besotted to angry. Not just garden-variety mad, either. Furious. Elena's quest to get Maestro back must have a lot more to do with Elena's ego than about any genuine feelings she might have for Maestro.
Annasophia took a huge breath. How unpleasant, standing here, listening to Maestro rehash the past with his ex-wife. All this time, while listening, she'd had to restrain a near-irresistible impulse to mutter,
Yuck
.
As Maestro hugged Annasophia tighter to his side, Elena sniffed. “So you're in love with your little groupie, huh? I wonder how long that'll last.”
“I'll thank you to stop calling her a groupie,” Maestro pointed out. “She's a highly accomplished musician in her own right.”
If Elena's eyes got any wider, they'd pop out of their sockets. “Her? You mean she's a concert pianist?”
“She could be if she wanted to be,” he replied. “But she writes songs and performs them. Kind of like...” He thought for a moment. “Joni Mitchell.”
Annasophia smiled. What a nice comparison!
“I see,” Elena said with a sneer. “She's kind of a folk artist. Belongs in a commune or something. My initial impression was right. She's nothing more than a hippie chick, and she has no place with the likes of you.”
“You and I have so little common ground that when we were married, we could hardly get through a day without a major battle,” Maestro said. “I won't go back to that. Not for anything. Even if Annasophia weren't here, I'd rather be single the rest of my life than live in a constant battlefield. You're going to have to accept things the way they are and create a life of your own. You can do it, Elena. You're beautiful and talented. Music might not be your path, but there are plenty of other things you can do.”
Annasophia's stomach knotted. She understood why Maestro was talking to Elena like this, but she couldn't help the jealousy that roiled inside on hearing him call Elena beautiful and talented.
Get a grip
, she told herself.
He's just trying to help her out, talk sense into her, so that ultimately she will leave us alone
.
Elena smiled and sidled even closer to him. Annasophia's nostrils filled with the pungent scent of jasmine. “How about if you help me figure things out? I could really use a friend. Over the years we've known each other...” She looked pointedly at Annasophia– “...the many, many years we've known each other, I've come to rely on your advice.”
Maestro sighed and stepped back. “Elena, you haven't listened to me about anything since we were twelve years old, and it's just the same now. You haven't heard a word I've said to you. Your life and where it goes is something you need to figure out on your own. We're divorced.”
“That doesn't mean we can't be friends. We were friends when we were children.”
“We can be polite to each other, sure. But you aren't acting like much of a friend now. And besides, friends have things in common that they share, that they like to talk about together. You and I never had that, not even when we were kids. Yeah, each of us thought the other was cute. That's not enough for an adult relationship.”
Annasophia shifted her weight from one leg to the other. She wished Elena would go the hell away. She was getting sick of listening to her and Maestro talk about all the many years they had known each other. And she cringed at his continual references to Elena's good looks. Sure, Maestro didn't love the woman. That was clear enough. But did they really need to stand there and talk about their whole freaking history?
Maestro rubbed the small of Annasophia's back. “Let's go,
Schätzchen.
”
Elena scowled deeply. Clearly, she knew the meaning of the endearment. Annasophia couldn't help but wonder: had Maestro once called Elena
Schätzchen
?
She pushed down the jealousy. What if he had? It didn't matter now. She'd have to be blind in more ways than one not to be able to see that Maestro had absolutely no interest whatsoever in Elena, so logically, Annasophia had no reason to be jealous. No sane reason, that was.
If only Elena weren't so damned gorgeous.
Pretty is as pretty does
, she reminded herself and squeezed Maestro's waist. “Yes,” she said, smiling up at him. “Let's go.” She had no idea where they were going, but she figured they would either get a bite to eat somewhere or go to wherever Maestro was staying in DC. She hoped like hell Elena didn't have a room at the same hotel. Talk about tiresome.
Maestro and Annasophia walked past Elena, and to Annasophia's relief, a cab was headed their way. Maestro hailed it, and when it stopped, they bustled in. She glanced back. Elena was still standing at the Kennedy Center exit, staring a hole through Annasophia. At least this time, Elena hadn't tried the humming again.
What on earth would she and Maestro do if Elena kept following them with her damn humming? Elena knew the secret to sending Annasophia back to her time. Yeah, they had been able to make a quick escape this time. But Annasophia had a feeling that the challenges were only beginning.
###
Maestro took Annasophia to Lincoln Guest Suites, where he was staying in DC. As had been the case in New York, he had sumptuous, stylishly decorated accommodations. Annasophia looked around, her eyes wide. No wonder Elena was hung up on the concert pianist lifestyle. When Elena and Maestro had been married, she would have been living this lifestyle, week after week, many months out of the year. Sad how she couldn't care less about music.
Annasophia snorted at the thought, then rapidly composed her features when Maestro looked over at her.
“Is something wrong, Miss Anna?”
She didn't want to talk about Elena. Instead, she said, “What would you like to do for dinner? Maybe we should order room service, since I still don't have a dress...”
Maestro smiled. “But you do have a dress.”
“I do?” Annasophia grabbed his hand and squeezed.
He must have bought her a dress at the shop after Elena had sent her back to her time. Would it be the black dress? Annasophia's stomach knotted at the thought. She no longer had any urge to fulfill the future the way she remembered it, except, of course, for Matt's existence. And that was already taken care of: he would be born in February 1974, right on schedule. The rest of it – his somehow being raised by Elena and him developing a terrible inferiority complex as a result – was exactly what she didn't want. The dress symbolized her desire to break from the timeline she knew and create a new one. She hoped Maestro had ditched the black dress and picked out a different one.
No such luck. He led her to the bedroom, and hanging on a peg on the wall was the black dress. She gazed at it and sighed.
He looked at her. “What's the matter, dearest?”
Dearest
. The word caressed her, and she pressed close to his side. “Nothing. It's just...” Oh, she didn't know what to say. She loved the dress. It was perfect. But if they were creating a new timeline together, a timeline in which they could be together for decades as spouses and one in which Matt wouldn't have to suffer a “mother” who resented him, why couldn't the dress change, too?
It had been the black dress – and none other – that had started these jaunts in the first place. The picture had let her know this was possible. Not only that it was possible, but that it had happened. Did that mean that the timeline she knew was fated to unfold exactly as she knew it, as well? She thought back to the 2010 timeline as she'd just seen it. Matt hadn't been around. But she had been pregnant there. And sweetly sore from lovemaking. That made sense, and it boded well for change.
“What?” Maestro pressed.
“Well, it's the picture. You know, the piece of paper.”
“The one with the handwriting that upset you so much?”
“It didn't upset me,” she said, wondering, as ever, who the heck had written those words, scanned the picture, then emailed it to her.
Oh, my God. The paper
. Panic spiraled up. “Where is the paper? Do you have it?”
“Yes,
Schätzchen
. I brought it with me from New York. I don't know why, except that it seemed so important to you.”
“It is important,” Annasophia said. “It's very important. Can I see it?”
Maestro opened a dresser drawer, took it out, and handed it to her. It looked exactly the same. Just the handwriting, with no picture. Well, what had she expected? The photo hadn't been taken yet.
She glanced up to find Maestro studying her. Concern warmed his dark eyes. “You still aren't thinking about going back there, are you?”