She looked down at her clothes. Jeans. Casual, slip-on shoes. A loose-fitting, sky blue t-shirt. She had wanted to be comfortable for her and Matt's hospital vigil. These clothes weren't exactly proper attire for a concert of this kind. At least her clothes were nondescript enough to where she – hopefully – would blend well enough into the... seventies? It must be. Maestro's appearance seemed to confirm it. He looked right around the same age as in the 1973 picture. Indeed, he could have walked right out from the picture. And here she was with him.
Strains from Rachmaninoff's Concerto No. 2 thrummed through her mind like an echo of the performance she'd just heard and in which she – in her own way – had participated. Her surroundings seemed to grow slightly indistinct, as if she had skipped her morning cup of coffee and was viewing them through bleary eyes. She caught sight of Maestro, who was heading her way with long, eager strides. He seemed as solid as anything or anyone she had ever beheld.
“I don't believe we've met,” he said, looking straight into her eyes. His gaze held warmth, intensity, and perhaps a bit of amusement. How must she appear to him, with her long, tousled dark hair, casual blue shirt, blue jeans, and slip-on shoes? If this was indeed 1973, he might figure she was a hippie chick. Perhaps that was how she should explain herself –
hippie chick
. It was a hell of a lot more plausible than
chick from the future
.
He stood in front of her. Head buzzing, she had to avert her eyes. As handsome as he had looked in that picture and in other pictures she had found on the Web, nothing could compare to his physical presence. She glanced up at him – up, up, up, because she was short and slight, and he was quite tall – and found him gazing down at her with a warm, tender expression.
“I'm Annasophia Flynn. I... well, I...”
Think
. What would she be doing here, if she were a hippie chick? Wherever this was, a concert hall of some sort, it didn't strike her as a hippie chick hangout. A flush warmed her all over, and instead of looking back up at his face, she studied his hands. Though they looked much younger, they were the hands she had seen so often at the piano throughout her student years, the same hands that had played along with her on a second piano for concerto competitions. From those hands, she'd learned so much. Now, seeing his hands so young, strong, and virile, she couldn't help but wonder what they'd feel like caressing, say, her cheeks. Or her breasts. Or taking her by the shoulders for a kiss.
Her flush deepened, and Maestro gently cleared his throat. He was waiting for her to answer, and surely, he couldn't wait all night. He probably had a plane to catch, or a hotel room to go to in order to get enough sleep to catch an early flight the next morning. In all likelihood, he was on tour, and major artists on tour didn't have time to waste.
Except he just kept standing there, and she fancied she could feel his gaze on the top of her head, a gentle warmth encouraging her to look up and receive its light on her face. She couldn't bring herself to look up, though. Or to speak. Into her mind flashed the ashen face of the Maestro she knew so well, lying in the hospital bed in 2010, dying.
He needed her. What was she doing here, anyway? She was a stranger to this Maestro. She wondered how she could get back.
“Annasophia.” the young Maestro said. He must think her shy. Or struck dumb, perhaps. “That's a beautiful name. Do you perhaps go to school at one of the nearby colleges? City University of New York?”
Her legs went weak and she flopped back down on the piano bench. So she had somehow traveled to New York City? If she was in New York City, where was Maestro performing? Wherever it was, the venue was gigantic. Again, he was waiting for her to reply, and she couldn't say a word. She did, however, manage to shake her head
no
.
People from the orchestra poured backstage through both sets of double doors, and many of them approached Maestro. They congratulated him on his performance, and he returned the favor. Clearly, he knew many of them quite well. Annasophia continued to sit on the piano bench. She received quite a few strange looks from the orchestra members. She must look like an odd specimen, sitting at this backstage studio piano wearing hippie chick clothes.
One woman touched his arm. She wasn't dressed like the other women in the orchestra, and she carried no instrument case. Annasophia enjoyed classic films, and if she didn't know better, she'd swear she was gazing at a young Lana Turner. She seemed familiar in another way, too, but if Annasophia had met this woman before, surely she would have remembered.
“You were incredible, Will,” the woman said, her blue eyes seeming to sparkle with stars as she gazed at him. “Absolutely breathtaking, as always. Why don't we go over to the Trattoria Dell'Arte? We'll share some antipasto.”
The... what?
Annasophia thought.
“No thanks, Elena,” Maestro said, the lines of his handsome face tightening a bit.
Elena
. His ex-wife. Annasophia felt as though she'd swallowed sand. Maestro had never said a thing about his ex-wife looking like a movie star. Or smelling like jasmine. If her perfume didn't have such a pleasant smell, the strength of it would otherwise be downright noxious. But Annasophia loved the scent of jasmine.
The woman nodded, made herself seem even taller by raising her head high, and cast Annasophia a scathing glance down her oh-so-elegant nose.
No. I won't look away
, Annasophia thought. She returned the woman's gaze as if she had every right to be sitting here, backstage, wherever backstage of
here
was.
“Well,” Elena said, “I'll catch you back at the hotel, then.”
What? Maestro and his ex were staying at the same hotel? Annasophia watched as the woman walked away, her long, sapphire-colored dress swishing around her legs. She cleared her throat, opened her mouth, but closed it again. And it hit her. She had seen this woman before. Not in the flesh, though. In her mind. A vision of this woman had oh-so-briefly popped into her mind before she had shown the picture to Maestro at the hospital. Had she somehow intuited this moment?
Annasophia wouldn't ask nosy questions about his ex. That would be inappropriate on all levels. If the two of them were staying at the same hotel, then that was their concern, though from the look on Maestro's face, she had a feeling it hadn't been his idea. Knowledge about what might or might not be happening – and what would, undoubtedly, soon happen, given Matt's existence – between Maestro and Elena wasn't any of her business.
Her disorientation spiraled up and up. She needed to ground herself, even if displaying her cluelessness made Maestro think she was crazy. “Where... um, where are we, exactly?”
Concern warmed his deep brown eyes. “We're at Issac Stern Auditorium.” She must have continued to look blank, because he added, “Carnegie Hall.”
She blinked. Of course. Where else would Maestro be playing, but in a venue like Carnegie Hall? He played in similar venues all over the world. What if, when the Rachmaninoff concerto had brought her to him, she had been pulled halfway across the world? Say, to a concert hall in London or Paris? Good grief. She really ought to learn the fine art of thinking before she acted. Still, sometimes the results were so worth it. A smile played on her lips, and she looked up at him, only to catch her breath at what was written all across his face: tenderness. And something else. Something she couldn't define but which she had never seen in the flaming eyes of her groupies. Maestro's expression warmed her all over, from the tip of her head to the tips of her toes, and she shivered, though she was far from cold.
“You're a lovely young lady,” Maestro said, bending closer to where she sat, and as she continued to hold his gaze, her lips parted of their own accord. His proximity made her breath come short, and nervously, she bit her lip. He brought himself up short and studied her face carefully, almost meticulously. “Are you all right? Do you need to see a doctor?”
He must think she was on drugs, only he was too discreet and polite to say so. How could she convince him she wasn't a druggie? She racked her brains for a story to tell him that would make her presence here and her complete ignorance about her whereabouts dovetail into some semblance of plausibility, but the more she tried to make a story come together, the more everything flew apart. The only thing she could find to anchor herself on was his gaze. His eyes seemed to be pools toward which she felt drawn, as if she yearned to swim – no, sink – there.
“I'm okay,” she made herself say. She cleared her throat again and decided that at some point, as crazy as it would sound, she would tell him the truth. Not now, though. Later, if they got to know each other. And she hoped they'd get to know each other very well. For now, a little mystery would have to do. She took a deep breath, then said, “I'm not on drugs, and I'm not crazy. I...” She racked her brain again.
Damn
. She had almost told another lie, that she frequented places like this.
So
not true. “I'm a traveler.” That was true enough.
A smile played on his lips. “No questions, then?”
She nodded.
“All right,” he said, still smiling a little. “You certainly seem as though you're in your right mind, so I won't worry about you. At any rate, you must have had a backstage pass to get in here, and I hope you enjoyed the concert.”
“I loved it. That Rachmaninoff concerto is one of my very favorites.”
“For me, too.” He straightened up, winked at her, and gave his suit coat a decisive tug as though he had somewhere to go.
Of course, Wilhelm Dahl would have plenty of places to go, and he couldn't stand here backstage talking to an unknown young woman all night. What would she do, if he went off to wherever his ex-wife had wanted him to go, or to a hotel room, or perhaps even to the airport to catch a flight to goodness-knew-where? She couldn't follow him around like a lost puppy dog. What would she do here in 1973 if he went his way and she had to go hers, stranded like a 2010 girl out of modern water? She wanted to smack herself. Yes, it was a wonder and a joy to encounter Maestro in his past and to talk with him, to see something of the man he had been. What an idiot she'd been, though, to not think beyond simply getting here. At least she had some money in her jeans pockets. She hoped like hell that whenever she needed to spend it, people wouldn't look too closely at the dates on the bills.
And she couldn't forget: the dying Maestro needed her in 2010 a whole lot more than this Maestro did in 1973.
Oh, what a mess!
Something of her panic must have shown in her eyes, because he leaned over her again as she sat on the bench. “Would you like to come with me to get something to eat?”
She felt a smile break out all over her face. “I'd love to, except...” She didn't want to go to that snooty sounding place and encounter Elena. Why she should have taken such a strong dislike to Elena, she didn't know... or maybe she just didn't want to admit why.
Maestro smiled then, so wide his dimples showed. She'd always thought it adorable that a man with such a masculine face as Maestro should have dimples. “We won't go to the Trattoria Dell'Arte. We'll go anywhere you want. Just name the place.”
Annasophia's smile withered. “I don't know any places around here. I'm... well, I'm a newcomer to New York City.”
Maestro's brow quirked a little. “You are quite an enigma, aren't you? Well, it's all right. We'll go somewhere nice and cozy, where we can talk. And please don't worry. I won't pry.”
Her smile returned, full bloom. “Thank you, Maestro,” she said softly, before she even knew she'd said it.
Oops. Too late now.
“What?” For a moment, his attention seemed to turn inward. “There's something about you...” He trailed off and extended a hand to her. “We'll go to Petrossian. You'll love the
foie gras
. I promise.”
Though she'd heard the term, Annasophia had no idea what
foie gras
was. It didn't matter. She would pig out on crabgrass salad all night as long as it meant she could spend more time in Maestro's company.
There was one little thing, though. She was hardly dressed for a place that served something like
foie gras.
“Maestro... um, I mean, Mr. Dahl, I mean...” She pressed her lips shut.
He grinned. “I rather like
Maestro
. It's very sweet, coming from you.”
A warm feeling grew in her chest until she thought it would get too big for her to contain it. “I'm not exactly dressed for a fancy restaurant.” She gestured to her blue jeans.
“It's okay. You can change before we go. Where are you staying?”
“Please.” She looked deeply into his eyes. “Like I told you. I'm a traveler. And please no questions. I'm not staying anywhere, and I don't have any other clothes but these.”
If he was going to bail on her, he would surely do it now. Crazy young woman. Druggie. Flaky hippie chick. Someone he wanted nothing to do with, could want nothing to do with. She looked down at her slip-on shoes. At least she hadn't worn her cruddy sneakers. Any moment now, Maestro would back away, make some excuse, and high tail it for Antipasto Central to get cozy with his ex-wife.
Ever-so-gently, he touched her cheek, and she jumped. She hadn't realized there were tears in her eyes until she looked up at him and had to blink them back.
“Yes, there's something about you, Anna,” he said, more to himself than to her.
Anna
. It was what Maestro had always called her in her time, too. Her tears spilled over, and with one of his big fingers, he wiped them away. “Come on. I'll take care of you.”
Yes indeed, this was her Maestro, however young and accustomed to luxury though he might be in this time. Underneath the tie and tails and elegance was his same fine and generous heart.