He returned to the old house off Center Street that he rented from his cousin. The dark red wood of the piano greeted him when he entered in through the front door. He shucked off his coat and slid onto the piano bench, opening the cover, caressing the keys.
The music was immediate, as if it’d been waiting for him.
All his life it had been the music that caught his attention. He craved the soft touch of the ivory keys, silky beneath skilled fingertips. The strings of the violin had added another dimension that couldn’t be satiated. Whenever life didn’t make sense, Milo yearned to step into the music, because it always welcomed him.
“Milo, come back to earth,” his mother would holler when he’d played until his fingers tingled.
And later his mother said, “I’m worried the music is taking over your life, Milo. You have to keep room in your heart for a woman. Family creates more harmony in your life than any instrument. Family is the real music.”
Now he worried that maybe his mother was right. Milo heard music all around him— in the cry of a dove, the laughter of the children next door, the screech of the garbage truck on Tuesdays. Melodies were everywhere. There was a song of promise in the whoosh of the library door as he entered the quiet space filled with silent books that held so many mysteries and memories for him.
As a child, music had come naturally; reading had not. He’d never enjoyed it and he’d fudged his way through school, relying on the gift of his ears to understand the music of math and science, and his keen memory to survive reading. It wasn’t until high school when his music teacher noticed Milo’s struggle that things began to change. After an assessment that revealed a diagnosis of dyslexia, school was a different experience. Milo received special training for his eyes and his ears to help connect a pathway in his brain that lit up books with words flowing off the page like he’d never seen before.
Words would never come as naturally to him as music, but Milo could read now. Meeting Britta had convinced him that there was a reason he was supposed to overcome his past. When Britta spoke, he heard a crescendo of notes he’d never heard before. Her words, so many coming from the books she read, played along his skin, lit up his beating heart with a desire unlike any he’d experienced.
His fingers rested on a chord that reminded him of Britta, slight but full of strength. He imagined her blond hair falling down her back instead of pulled up into a bun with a pencil stuck through the hair and a pen behind her ear. The way her dark blue eyes shimmered with excitement when she talked about the latest book she was reading.
Britta had a habit of touching the left side of her neck, and threading her fingers through her hair when she was nervous or excited. Milo knew this because every time he came to the library, Britta’s hand flew to the nape of her neck.
His mother was right, and so was Britta’s. Milo grinned. She was the girl for him.
LINDY MARCHANT WAS EVERYTHING Shennedy had promised and more. Britta bit into an apple and chewed thoughtfully as she sat at the great oak desk in her office. The Thursday morning board meeting had started to get a little off track with some of the elderly women wanting to know more details about Armand and whether he had a sparkly girlfriend or not, but Lindy had helped regain focus. They wrapped up quickly after Lindy agreed to monitor everything Shennedy had planned to do for Armand’s visit.
A staccato knock at the door had Britta swallowing and stowing her apple in a drawer. “Come in,” she called.
“It’s just me.” Lindy stepped inside. “We were so efficient that I forgot to check with you on a couple of the details for Armand’s visit.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Britta said. She shuffled a few papers on her desk until she found her trusty spiral notebook with to-do lists spanning several pages. Across the margin of one page, she’d written Armand’s flight information. “He gets in tomorrow at 3:22 in the afternoon. Shennedy was going to pick him up, but if you need me to, I can.”
“I can handle it.” Lindy waved her hand. “I’ll bring Armand up to speed on the reading and drop him by your house for dinner.”
“That’d be great. Maybe we should have reserved a room at the bed and breakfast,” Britta said. She wasn’t sure how someone as wealthy as Armand would feel staying in the apartment above the antique store.
“Shennedy said he likes to have his own space. The little apartment above her antique shop will be perfect.” Lindy replied. “And please, don’t worry. She gave me a list with all of his requests and instructions. I’ll take care of the intro to the town. All you need to do is make sure he’s fed and happy before you drop him off at the shop.”
Britta felt like they’d switched subjects and were talking about her cat, Norman. She almost laughed out loud.
“What’s that smile about? Is there a secret crush I need to know about?” Lindy asked.
Britta jolted from her thoughts and shook her head. “Actually, I was just thinking about my cat. And definitely not a crush. I’m European enough; I don’t need to date one.”
Lindy arched one eyebrow. “I’ll make a note of that. See you later.”
She left the office with a look on her face that indicated she knew something about Britta that she didn’t think she had revealed. Britta glanced at her shirt— no chunks of apples. She dabbed at her mouth and found nothing suspect. Not that Lindy would care if Britta was eating an apple, but she did her best to maintain a professional appearance in her office.
Flipping through her notebook, Britta began crossing off tasks and making notes on the priority of the items left to be done. Lindy appeared organized and able; maybe they’d make it through the fundraiser after all. For some reason, that thought made her think of Milo. He was organized and efficient, with a business that he ran by himself. He made quarterly donations to the Friends of the Library committee and had been key in improving the quality of music performed during the Harvest Hurrah.
Britta tapped the end of her pencil against her cheek. Maybe she should give Milo a chance? Her heart sped up as she imagined his blue eyes lighting up if she said yes. Britta put her pencil down and cleared her throat. With a shake of her head, she refocused on the committees for the Dutch oven cook-off. When her thoughts strayed to Milo again, she groaned. It was time to review the rules for Britta Klein’s survival: 1. No dating German men. 2. Life and books are best kept in perfect order. 3. Never skip to the end of the book (also a great parallel for life). Britta tapped her index finger three times as she focused on her rules; then she got back to work. If she stayed busy enough, maybe Milo wouldn’t have the chance to ask her out again. If not, she was afraid that she might just say yes.
THE TENSION IN THE AIR had Britta’s shoulders in knots, but she couldn’t seem to relax that Friday night. Any minute, Lindy would arrive with Armand, the Armand Dieter Beaumont with books on the New York Times Bestseller list, fans all over the world, money dripping from his ears— that guy was coming to her house. She’d never known anyone famous before, and here she was, entertaining him for the evening.
“Norman, you’d better be on your best behavior.” Britta shook her finger at the tomcat, who wound his way around her legs. She hefted him into her lap as she sat on the couch. Norman weighed ten pounds, and yet he still caught the occasional bird in the backyard. Britta took a moment to relax as she scratched Norman behind his ears. “I wonder what he’ll think of Echo Ridge,” Britta murmured.
She straightened her coral blouse and slid her arms into her favorite dark brown corduroy jacket. Britta glanced in the mirror, smoothing her blond hair. She wanted to make a good impression on Armand, but when she smiled in the mirror, thoughts of Milo crowded the anticipation of Armand’s arrival. Britta frowned. She didn’t want to think about Milo— the dimple in his cheek, the way his eyes lit up when they talked about music, the strength evident in his German roots.
She turned her thoughts back to Armand. He wanted to look through her scrapbooks and family records to understand how they were related and what simi
larities they had from being raised with a European heritage. Britta wasn’t particularly excited to revisit what to her felt like ancient history, but she had agreed because it was her best chance to spend time with a famous author like Armand.
Britta hurried into the kitchen to stir the sweet meat squash soup. The dish hailed from Germany with French notes of flavor in the buttery roux base and cinnamon spice. The creamy liquid looked like pumpkin, but tasted altogether different and divine. Everything was ready. She glanced at the clock, nearly six-thirty. Armand would be sitting at her kitchen table soon.
When he arrived, Armand was every bit as good-looking as his media kit pictures. Britta had been sure they must have been touched up, but his beautiful French face coupled with his well-built stature was real. Too bad he was a distant relative, or Britta might have allowed herself to admire him more.
“Thank you again for filling in, Lindy,” Britta said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” She waved, and closed the door behind Armand. “How was your flight?”
“Tiring,” Armand replied. “I’m not sure why, but flying iz not fun.”
Britta noticed his accent right away— the way he said “iz” instead of is. He was lucky. His accent made him sexy and desirable in everyone’s eyes. She wondered if he would’ve been treated the same growing up in America with that accent. Instead he’d grown up in France, speaking a Romance language and probably struggling to learn English. Britta still thought in German sometimes, and as she’d grown older she occasionally talked to her parents in their native tongue, but besides that she kept her heritage a secret.
She took Armand’s jacket and hung it on the hook by her door. “I feel the same way about flying,” Britta said. “It really is good of you to spend an evening with me.”
“Certainly. I’m eager to learn more about our family connections,” Armand replied.
“Let’s start with dinner and then we’ll pull out the scrapbooks,” Britta said.
“The aroma, it is very good.” Armand followed Britta into the kitchen. “It reminds me of home.”
“Thank you.” Britta kept herself from gushing, but it really was the nicest compliment Armand could have given her.
They sat at her round kitchen table for two, and although Britta knew that her house was tiny and simple, she didn’t feel judgment from the wealthy novelist.
“Were you born in Germany?” Armand asked.
“No, my parents came here when they were first married. They had many hopes for their children and they’ve been very happy, but I think they will always call the Fatherland home.”
Armand nodded. “There are many good things about all of our homes, yes?”
“Yes, I think that’s what drew me to Echo Ridge. This place has such history and traditions that have been embraced from so many different cultures and countries.” Britta stopped and stirred her soup, embarrassed at spouting off about her hidden ideals.
“It iz wonderful to love the place where you live.” Armand said.
Britta relaxed. He seemed to understand.
Armand ripped off a chunk of the crusty rosemary garlic bread and dipped it in the sauce Britta had prepared. She followed suit, and her mouth tingled with the flavors of dark raspberry balsamic vinegar and Italian herb infused olive oil.
“I think you are a fine cook, Britta, who loves books,” Armand said.
Britta laughed. “There are a few dishes I excel at preparing, but I’m nowhere near the skills of my mother.”
Armand nodded. “There is still time to learn her traditions, no?”
Britta nodded. She scooped up another spoonful of soup, savoring Armand’s compliments and the creamy soup. The truth in his words struck her— there was still time to learn her mother’s traditions, even her entire family’s traditions. For so long, she’d felt guilty about all that she’d left behind when she’d practically shunned her German heritage in her early teen years. The past few years, she’d watched her siblings raise their children and teach them skills that she had pushed aside and rejected.
When Armand settled onto the sofa in the front room with her scrapbook, Britta resolved to enjoy the moments of looking back on her ancestry.
MILO CARRIED THE POTTED chrysanthemum carefully as he approached Britta’s modest yellow house. Dusk had turned to darkness and the light from her living room cast shadows on the lawn scattered with maple leaves. She hadn’t agreed to go out on a date with him, but maybe he could talk to her for a few moments. Hopefully she would like his gift of the autumn flower.
As he climbed the steps to her front door, he glimpsed through the curtains and his breath caught. Britta sat on the sofa next to a handsome man who looked about her age. They looked so cozy on Britta’s sofa, flipping through scrapbooks, laughing, sharing conversation.
Milo’s stomach soured as he stood there, gripping the edges of the potted plant. He thought about turning around and heading home, but his curiosity kept him rooted to the spot. Finally, he lifted his hand and knocked three times.
Britta opened the door, and her eyes widened. She glanced at the plant and smiled. “Hello, Milo.”
He heard the uncertainty in her voice, as if she was deciding whether to invite him in or not. His face felt warm, but he hoped the shadows from her porch light would hide his nervousness. “I brought you a gift for autumn because you said it was your favorite season. Did you know that mums bloom until the hard frost comes?”
Britta’s smile made her eyes crinkle at the edges, and he saw something in her face that encouraged him. “That is so nice of you. Won’t you come in?”
“I— well, I didn’t want to intrude,” Milo said, indicating that he knew she had company.
“Come in. You can meet Armand.” Britta swung the door open wider and stepped aside. “He’s the author that came all the way from France to do a reading for our library. Armand, this is Milo Geissler. He tunes pianos here in Echo Ridge.”
Milo stepped inside and awkwardly handed Britta the plant.
Armand stood up from the couch and extended his hand. “Pleased to meet you. I am Armand Beaumont.”
Milo shook his hand briefly and nodded. “It’s good of you to come. I know Britta has been very excited about your visit.” He glanced at Britta and her cheeks colored, reminding him of the pink peonies his mother grew in her flower garden each year.
“I too have looked forward to meeting Britta. And for you, the accent is German, is it not?”
“Ya, my family came here about twenty years ago,” Milo said. “We love New York.”
“This Echo Ridge, this country. I can understand why,” Armand said.
“It is great living here,” Britta said. “Just wait until you see more of Echo Ridge. You might just fall in love with this little town.”
Armand chuckled. “I think you have the hidden motive.” He turned to Milo. “This lady loves her library. I think she would do anything to keep it running.”
Milo understood more than what was being said and suddenly felt like an intruder. “I must be going. It was nice to meet you. I hope your visit goes well.”
Britta looked like she was going to say more, but Armand answered, “Thank you. Have a good evening.”
Milo hurried out the door, almost running down the street before the awkwardness of the moment could catch up to him. He understood now why Britta kept turning him down. She was already taken, and the obviously wealthy European was probably exactly what she wanted. Milo stretched out the long fingers of his hands, the music itching to be released. He walked home in silence, blocking out the music all around him.
He sat at the piano bench for several minutes in the semi-darkened room. He slid the piano open and his fingers grazed the keys, coaxing out a melody that was strained and discordant, just like his heart.
The harmony between him and Britta still rang true. Milo wasn’t sure how to close the door on his hope— on his heartbeats that kept time with Britta’s movements. Drawing strength from the melody of her filling eve
ry space around him, he believed he could hope a little longer.
WHAT HAD STARTED OUT as a wonderful evening with Armand was forever tainted by the keen disappointment Britta felt whenever her eye caught the deep purple bloom of the mums on her kitchen table.
Not long after Milo left, Armand had finished looking through the scrapbooks and quizzing her about their heritage. Just before nine, she dropped him off at the antique shop and drove home, feeling utterly deflated. She should have been excited because Armand was kind, sincere, and someone she could call a friend. He was more than the famous façade painted by the world, and Britta felt genuinely grateful for the chance to spend time with him— until Milo showed up with flowers. And they weren’t just flowers, but chrysanthemums, the flower of autumn, because Milo remembered.
Britta changed into her pajamas and slumped onto her bed. Something strange was happening to her head… or maybe it was her heart? She’d been thinking of Milo before Armand came, and then, almost as if called to her house, he’d shown up. And she’d been excited to see him— surprised, but excited, and unsure of how to deal with her famous visitor and the piano tuner who had captured her attention.
She had seen the look on Milo’s face as he assessed Armand— something between fierce competitor and forlorn little boy. She should’ve jumped in right then and told Milo that she and Armand weren’t dating, they were related, just friends. But she hadn’t, and the moment had passed. Now Britta was afraid that in that moment, she might have lost the opportunity to ever agree to go out on a date with Milo.
Saturday streaked by with preparations for Armand’s private reading at the Echo Ridge Library. By the time six-forty-five chimed on her phone’s reminder, Britta felt like her head was ready to explode, especially because Armand had still not arrived.
Kisses Between the Lines: An Echo Ridge Anthology (Echo Ridge Romance Book 2) Page 3
