As she put her hand in his and stood up, and the warmth of his large hand enfolding hers brought the heat to her face again. She'd often tried to imagine Maestro as he had been during his years as a famous concert pianist, and she had always prided herself on doing a good job – she had a good imagination, after all – but anything she had imagined didn't even come close to doing justice to the Maestro she now saw. She couldn't help but wonder more intensely, as she had already done over many years, how on earth – and why on earth – a man like Maestro, well-traveled, urbane, and a man of the world and
for
the world, would have wound up settling down for decades in Appalachian East Tennessee.
* * * ~~~ * * *
Chapter Four
When Maestro and Annasophia exited Carnegie Hall, she had to pinch herself to keep from gaping at her surroundings. She had never considered herself a rube, but she had never been in a city whose size remotely approached New York City. Sure, she'd seen plenty of images of New York City on television and on the internet, but images couldn't compare to the real thing. She felt as if she were in a concrete kingdom, and the sheer size of the buildings that surrounded her stopped her breath for an instant as she gazed up. She hadn't realized she stopped in her tracks until Maestro gently touched her shoulder. When she glanced at him, he gave her a sweet smile. While she'd been lost in reverie, he had already hailed a cab.
Maestro took Annasophia to Lili's 57, where she tried sushi for the first time. It would certainly not be the last, either, not that delicious stuff. There were restaurants in Johnson City that had sushi bars, but Annasophia had never worked up the nerve to try it. In Maestro's company and with his encouragement, she thought she'd be open to anything.
Of course, that was how she had always felt about him. In the past, though, sushi had never entered the picture. The warm, melting feeling that suffused her every time she looked at him or he at her hadn't been part of the previous picture, either. Well, it had been, but in a different way.
While they ate, Annasophia worried about what would come next. Would he bring her back to his hotel room like a lost puppy dog? She'd told him that she had nowhere to go, which she now regretted. She didn't want him feeling sorry for her.
On their way out of Lili's, Maestro hailed another cab. A person wouldn't have any use for a car here. They climbed in, and she lightly touched his arm. “Maestro... I mean, Mr. Dahl...” Good grief. She had to stop calling him
Maestro
. To him in this time, she must sound like an idiot.
To her surprise, he chuckled softly. “Wilhelm will do, but I have to say, I like how
Maestro
sounds when you say it. But please, no
Mr. Dahl
.”
She flushed again. If she didn't stop all this flushing business at every word he said that made her tingle, she would render herself permanently red in the face. “I just wanted to say, when I told you I didn't have anywhere to go, I meant – well, I haven't got a hotel room yet because I basically just arrived. So I'd really appreciate any suggestions about a good place to stay...” She trailed off. How much money did she have in her pockets, anyway? Sixty dollars? Fat chance she'd find a place to stay in Manhattan for sixty dollars a night unless she wanted to sleep with rats. And what would she do the next night?
Panic seized her again. Yes, spending time with Maestro like this made her heart sing. She wished it could continue on and on, indefinitely. When she went back to her time, she would have to tell Maestro goodbye. Here, though, he had many, many more years left.
Practical matters, though. To his mind, they had only just met and had spent time together as casual acquaintances. Attraction already sizzled between them like a current. Could that be enough, at least for a little while? He looked at her, spoke to her, and treated her with a tenderness that had been lacking in her groupies. But that didn't mean he'd let her come back with him to sleep in his hotel room. Given a choice between becoming a street person in 1973 New York City and finding a way back to her own time, she would choose the latter.
Maestro put his hands on his knees. “Well, there are many hotels around, but I'm not sure...” He glanced at her. “What kind of hotel did you have in mind?”
He was discreetly trying to find out whether to recommend a five-star hotel or a rat hole. She turned away from him, looking out the cab's window at the lights of New York City. She had never been to New York, but she'd heard it had been cleaned up a great deal in the years since 1973 and 2010. Lights flashed by, glittering lights, lights that flashed on and off, lending credence to what Annasophia had heard was New York's nickname:
The City that Never Sleeps
.
She wondered how much sleep she'd get tonight.
Maestro gently touched her shoulder, and she jumped.
“Would you like to come back to my hotel's lounge for a nightcap?”
A nightcap
. Who talked like that anymore? Reality check.
Anymore
was no longer 2010. And Maestro had always had an endearingly old-fashioned way of speaking, ever since she'd gotten to know him as a child. She used to think he sounded just like an old college professor, which, of course, he had been. A dear, old college professor.
This gorgeous, ruggedly handsome man who sat next to her right now, though, wasn't an old college professor.
She nodded, unable to speak, and she felt her eyes grow wet with tears. Yes, she'd love a nightcap, even though she didn't drink, even though she should probably take herself out of the way, since Elena would soon be returning to the same hotel. Maestro, though, hadn't shown any interest in his ex-wife, and Annasophia had to admit: she wanted to stay with him as long as she could and put off the inevitable anguish of saying goodbye.
###
Maestro's “hotel” turned out to be The Manhattan Club, only a stone's throw away from Carnegie Hall. Annasophia was becoming slightly more accustomed to New York City's imposing and energetic feel, but at the entrance to the Manhattan Club, she paused again, blinking, unable to really believe this was happening to her. Was she really here, holding the rock-solid arm of Maestro, not
her
Maestro, her older teacher and mentor, but a man in his prime of power and talent?
Perhaps in reality, she wasn't here at all. Perhaps, instead, she was dozing in the recliner beside the dying Maestro's hospital bed and had never left the hospital to go play piano at her apartment at all. She hugged herself, unable to stop shivering.
“Are you cold, Miss Anna?” Maestro asked.
Miss Anna
. Spoken in his deep voice, the burr of his German accent tickling her ear, his twist on her name delighted her. The elder Maestro had called her, simply,
Anna,
or sometimes
dear Anna
. When she was very small, he'd sometimes called her
Mäuschen
, an endearment adults used for children. It meant “little mouse.”
Before she could reply, Maestro took off his fancy black suit coat and draped it around her. It smelled oh-so-lightly of cologne, and better than that, a spicy, primal masculine smell. She pulled it closer around her and breathed deeply. Smiling up at him, she said, “Thank you,” surprising herself when, again, she had to blink back tears.
He gazed down at her. “Are you all right?”
She opened her mouth but nothing came out.
Shaking his head, he said, almost more to himself than to her, “There's something about you that catches something deep inside me and pulls, and I just don't know what to make of it.”
Her heart seemed to jump up in her throat. She hoped she wasn't making him uncomfortable with what must seem to him to be her extreme strangeness. “I apologize, Mr. ... I mean, Wilhelm...” Damn it, what was wrong with her? “I didn't mean to pounce on you the way I did.” She hadn't meant to do that. All she'd had in mind was being with him during a time in which he had many more years to live, not mere hours or, at most, a day.
That wasn't exactly the kind of thing you said to an incredibly handsome, virile man to whom you were attracted like a hummingbird to nectar. She had promised herself to tell him the truth when the time came. How would she find the heart, though, to tell him everything? Not just that she had come from what was, to him, the future, but that in that future, he was very nearly a dead man?
Everyone knew they would die someday. But was Maestro ready to know where, when, and how?
Maybe she should leave that part out.
“Don't worry, Miss Anna,” Maestro said. “You didn't pounce. But I can't figure you out, or why I feel like I ought to know you. And I'm worried about you. I don't understand why, but maybe...” He paused as though he wanted to say much more, but added only, “Maybe we can talk about it.”
“Yes,” she said. For sure. She didn't like hiding the truth from him, no matter how fantastical it would strike him. He had shown great forbearance and patience with her while she was growing up; she expected he would show her the same now, when they were both adults.
“I'll take care of you,” he said again and put an arm around her shoulder. He was so much taller that she could just about tuck herself into the crook of his arm. When he'd grown older, he'd lost some of his height, but now, he had to be about six feet, two inches tall. By comparison, Annasophia was a shrimp at five feet, two inches. She allowed herself to rub her cheek against his starched, linen shirt, then she smiled up at him, though she was sure her tears still glistened in her eyes. Maybe he wouldn't be able to see.
But he saw. She could tell by how the hard lines of his face softened.
Yes, he would take care of her. He always had.
She wanted to take care of Maestro, too, and be by elder Maestro's side when he passed away. The question was, though, how long could she stay here? It stood to reason, at least to her reason, that she should be able to stay here with him for the rest of his life, and be by his side when he died. By remaining with Maestro in his timeline, she had to be creating something like another reality, in which they had been not teacher and student, but... what? Close friends? Perhaps even lovers? Maybe even – she gulped at the thought – husband and wife?
Don't think about that.
Husband and wife
. The words slammed her heart like a thunderbolt. Even though Maestro and Elena were divorced in 1973, the following year, 1974, was the year of Matt's birth. What had happened to bring Maestro and Elena back together, Annasophia had never really understood, but clearly, for a time, the two of them had gotten back together, and for Matt to exist, they would have to reconcile very soon.
If Annasophia stayed here – at the hotel, in Maestro's time – and kept him from reconciling with Elena, then Matt would never be born.
She shuddered. She loved Maestro. She wanted to stay here with him and maybe get lucky enough to have a life with him. But she couldn't do that to Matt. He was her friend, her loyal friend, and as much as she wanted to stay and fix things so she and Maestro could have a lifetime together, she couldn't deny Matt his own lifetime. She couldn't do it to Maestro, either. Knowing how much he loved his son, how could she deny him that? There could be other children, sure, but having known Matt for many years and the loving relationship he and Maestro shared, she couldn't let it pass away into nothingness so that none of it would ever be.
Which meant she could enjoy time with Maestro, but at some point soon, this dream would have to end. She would have to say goodbye to Maestro not only in this time, but also when she returned to her own time as well.
Two quick goodbyes. Her heart ached at the thought.
How, exactly, would she return to her time? She would have to figure it out soon; Matt's life depended on it. He'd been born in 1974, early in the year. February, she thought. It had been late May in her time, and the time of year felt similar here, in 1973.
Which meant that very soon, for whatever reason, Maestro and Elena would reconcile. Annasophia recalled Elena, meeting with Maestro backstage after his concert at Carnegie Hall just a few hours ago. She had said she would meet up with him here at the hotel, which might mean that she, like Maestro, was staying here. How lovely Elena had been, and how obvious had been her interest in Maestro, even if he hadn't seemed interested from his end. Surely, without Annasophia in the picture, Maestro would fall in love with Elena again. Annasophia wondered if his disinterest in Elena had been because of her. Good grief. Had she already screwed things up for poor Matt?
Everything in her screamed there was no way Maestro and Elena would reconcile as long as she, Annasophia, was in the way. She might look like a little wood elf next to the majesty of Elena; nonetheless, Maestro was already attracted to her. Possibly, he was even falling in love with her. He certainly acted like a man falling in love. Already, she saw in his eyes a depth of feeling and tenderness which she had never seen before in any man. Not in her experiences with previous relationships, and certainly not in her experiences with her groupies.
Could she allow Maestro to fall in love with her? Shouldn't she pull away and run, as far and as fast as she could, to avoid hurting him worse in the long run?
Her tears flowed, and she began to sob. Once he enfolded her in his arms, though, she had nowhere to go. There was, God help her, nowhere she wanted to go. She pressed her face more snugly into his chest, and he held her close and let her cry.
Then, God help her again, he cupped her chin in his big hand and gently nudged her face up. There, in front of the Manhattan Club with its concierges and cabs arriving and departing, he brushed his lips across hers. She parted her lips, wanting more, needing more, but he drew away and searched her gaze with his.