Love at First Note

by Jenny Proctor

  Cover image: Woman with Violin © FotoMaximum, iStockphtoto.com.

  Cover design copyright © 2016 by Covenant Communications, Inc.

  Published by Covenant Communications, Inc.

  American Fork, Utah

  Copyright © 2016 by Jenny Proctor

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any format or in any medium without the written permission of the publisher, Covenant Communications, Inc., P.O. Box 416, American Fork, UT 84003. The views expressed within this work are the sole responsibility of the author and do not necessarily reflect the position of Covenant Communications, Inc., or any other entity.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are either products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real, or are used fictitiously.

  ISBN 978-1-52440-019-4

  For Emily (of course)

  Acknowledgments

  When I started Emma and Elliott’s story, it was meant to be a novella—something easy and quick and fun. It turned out to be all of those things, so much so that it just didn’t feel fair to stop with the novella. I’m so glad my editor trusted me enough to listen and agree when I e-mailed and said, “Hey, you know that novella you asked me for? Yeah. You can’t have it yet.” It was the right call, for sure. Turning this story into a full-length novel was an absolute blast.

  Samantha, I’m so glad you’re on my team. Your steadiness and loyalty, even through hard times and not-so-great words, mean so much. This journey wouldn’t be the same without you. To the rest of my Covenant family, thank you for your support and hard work. To Kathy Gordon, thank you for your graciousness and the time you’ve taken to counsel and assist and encourage.

  Seeing as how I’m not a musician myself, I am most indebted to my musical sister Emily, who answered hundreds of questions about the inner workings of the symphony and the finer points of playing the violin. Any classical piece mentioned in this book is there only because of the numerous times I called Emily and said, “Hey, I need a piece of music that does this and this and sounds like this.”

  Emily, I’m so grateful for your musical smarts, your talent, your exhaustive research on my behalf, and your enduring patience. To speak so willingly (and so frequently) of fictional characters is the greatest gift you could ever give your baby sister, whose brain somehow depends on these made-up people. That you also happen to be brilliant with words is such an amazing bonus! Thank you, thank you. I loce you forever. (Nope. Not a typo. I really did say loce!)

  Special thanks also to Claire Gerhardt, my daughter’s violin teacher and my friend who let me spy on her musical life and ask so many questions.

  To my critique partners, Braden, Susan, and Michelyn, thank you for the numerous times you so tolerantly accommodated my tight deadlines and selfish requests. That you so graciously read chapters upon chapters instead of the prescribed one or two just to help me finish makes me certain I have the very best critique group ever.

  To my beta readers, I am forever in awe of your brilliance. Jolene, Laura, Josi, Caitlyn, Melanie, Kim, and Lindsay, thank you for your time and energy and thoughtful insight. You make me better. The end.

  And finally to my enduringly patient family, I couldn’t write a single word worth half a grain of salt if it weren’t for all of you. Josh, you’re my rock. That you read chick lit just because I wrote it is one thing, but that you love it and talk about it and celebrate it means the world. It is no small task loving a writer, but you live as if it is always a joy and never a burden. I am so grateful for that most cherished gift.

  Jordan, Sam, Lucy, Henry, Ivy, Jack, you’re my people. I love you. Thank you for being the very best kids ever, anywhere, on the whole entire planet and even on Mars.

  Chapter 1

  Moving back to North Carolina? Social suicide.

  No. Not social suicide. More like dating suicide.

  See, there were a few things that disqualified me from the general dog-walking, beard-growing, craft-beer-drinking collection of men West Asheville had to offer: I was allergic to dogs, I didn’t really like beards, and then the whole religion thing. Mormon girls and Southern boys didn’t always mix.

  I’d only been in town two months when Lilly, my roommate and childhood best friend, and her boyfriend, Travis, made it their New Year’s resolution to try every single native beer brewed in Asheville before Christmas. That might not have been very hard had they started in January, but with only four months left in the year? Asheville hadn’t been named Best Craft Beer City three years in a row for nothing. The city grew microbreweries like Kansas grew corn.

  It was a fine goal for Lil and Trav—something they enjoyed that they could do together. But had my boyfriend wanted to spend every date night touring breweries—

  Oh wait. I didn’t have a boyfriend.

  I tried not to dwell on my looming spinsterhood. I liked Asheville, even if the young single adults group didn’t reach double digits. Growing up in a neighboring town, I’d always been a sucker for the city’s urban-y, eclectic charm. And it was the perfect place to set up my new violin studio. So it lacked available Mormon bachelors. At least the symphony was great, and I was closer to my family than I’d been in years—compensatory blessings, maybe?

  When Lilly asked if I wanted to go in on renting the right side of a little house on Maple Crescent, it felt like a no-brainer. The house was perfect—tall ceilings, original hardwood floors, and bricks from 1924 in the kitchen wall. How do you say no to bricks from 1924? So I didn’t. I made West Asheville home. Even with my aversion to dogs, beards, and beer.

  I was finally starting to feel settled when, on a late September Sunday just after sacrament meeting, Bishop Bradford called me into his office. “Emma, can I speak to you for a moment?” I glanced at my watch. If my Primary class was left alone too long, I had no doubt they’d stage a revolution. Whatever the bishop had to say, he’d better say it quick.

  It occurred to me that maybe he wanted to see me so he could rescind my calling as the Sunbeam teacher. It wasn’t that I didn’t like three-year-olds, but I was clearly not cut out to teach them. The week before, I’d spent nearly half an hour scrubbing chocolate off the sleeve of my favorite Barbara Bui linen jacket—a New York City splurge I’d never regretted until hanging out with Mistress Chocolate Face and her grimy entourage. We hadn’t even eaten chocolate in class—it was like the sticky just oozed from their pores. I was not one to quit on the job, but I also wouldn’t have minded a change.

  Bishop Bradford sat behind his desk and smiled. “Rose and I enjoyed your performance last night. It was a wonderful concert.”

  I sat a little taller in my seat. “Thank you. I didn’t know you were there.”

  “A coworker gave us tickets. We’d never been before, but we enjoyed it. Rose wants to go back.”

  “I hope you do. We’ve got a great season this year.”

  “So what does it mean, exactly, when it lists you as concertmaster in the program? Is that because you played the solo?”

  I snuck a glance at my watch again, imagining the Primary president pacing the hall outside my classroom. “Um, no, it’s not . . . I mean, you do generally play the solos as concertmaster, if there happen to be any, but it’s more than that too. I lead the violin section and determine bowing gestures so we all move together as we play; I tune the orchestra before every performance, and if we have to audition new musicians, I help—” His eyebrows drew together, stopping me midexplanation. “Did I lose you?”

  He nodded. “Somewhere around bowing gestures. Rose just told me it meant you were the best one. That sounds about right.”

  A blush crept up my cheeks. There wasn’t really a graceful way to say i
t. Yes. Yes, I am the best! Thanks for noticing.

  Bishop Bradford’s voice softened. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you, Emma. We were just proud to see you up there. Was this your first concert in the hot seat?”

  I shook my head. “I played for a year as concertmaster in Cleveland before I moved home.” I tried not to think about my principal seat in the Cleveland Orchestra—a seat I’d been the youngest musician to occupy in more than forty years—or my former associates, many of them friends I’d known all the way through college. The only time I regretted my decision to move was when I spent too much time dwelling on the life I’d walked away from.

  “Well, we sure did enjoy your performance last night.”

  “Thank you,” I said again. Maybe this was all our little meeting was about: Congratulations on your lovely concert. Also, you’re going to teach Sunbeams for the rest of eternity.

  Bishop Bradford smiled and leaned back in his chair. “So, I’ve got a favor to ask, if you’re willing—something I think will be of particular interest to you.”

  Particular interest to me? Carry on, Bishop. You have my attention.

  “I got an e-mail last night from a new ward member, someone moving to Asheville from out West. He’s set to arrive next week, and I thought you might be able to reach out and help him feel welcome.”

  “Oh. Okay. Um, why me?”

  “He’s young—in his twenties—so I thought it would be nice for another young person to welcome him. What’s more, he’s moving onto Maple Crescent.” He squinted at his phone. “Three Forty-Seven Maple Crescent. That’s your street, isn’t it?”

  My brain felt too full of details as I struggled to process. He . . . young person . . . Maple Crescent. In other words, a young, potentially hot Mormon guy was moving into my neighborhood. I suddenly felt a little warm.

  I lifted my long hair off my neck and slipped it into a ponytail. I’d worked all morning to tame my semiwavy frizz into soft, smooth curls, and the ponytail was bound to ruin it, but it wasn’t like the Sunbeams were going to care. Though my first week on the job a little girl did ask why I didn’t make my hair blonde like her mommy instead of an “ugly, boring mud color.” Whatever. I wasn’t insecure enough to take fashion insults from a three-year-old seriously. Plus, I’d tried highlights once. They’d looked horrible under the stage lights—a little too much like my neighbor’s calico cat. I was happier sticking with my natural dark brown.

  Another piece of the bishop’s details clicked into place in my brain. “Wait, did you say three forty-seven? I live at three forty-seven.”

  “That’s what it says. I guess he could be mistaken.”

  I shook my head. “No, there are two apartments in the house, and my neighbors moved out last week. I guess it makes sense, but wow. What are the odds?”

  He smiled. “I guess saying hello will be easier than I thought.”

  I never would have listed matchmaking as one of my bishop’s responsibilities, but I could tell from the gleam in his eye he’d asked me to welcome the new guy for a reason. I wasn’t surprised, really. I already felt like the ward project. Cousins, nephews, grandsons, grand-nephews, old mission companions—nearly everyone in the ward knew someone who was absolutely perfect for me. They all meant well—of course they all meant well. But all that had actually come to fruition were a few e-mails from a guy who had asked if I’d be willing to move to Tuscaloosa (Tusca-where?) and a blind date with Sister Parker’s grandson that had ended in Urgent Care after the guy had tripped on the curb and face-planted on the sidewalk. I probably should have been more sympathetic, but his nose bled all over my favorite shoes—Ralph Lauren linen and cork wedges, no less. There was no saving them, and the loss totally wasn’t worth it. I mean, the guy had made an actual snoring noise when I’d told him I liked classical music. As in, his head had lolled to the side, his eyes had closed, and he had snored.

  With the ward’s matchmaking efforts going so well, it was hard to feel optimistic. But a glimmer of hope still sparked in my chest. I had never been an excitable, giddy girl. I was always the calm one, the one who read, the one who texted without ever using exclamation points. But a guy was moving to the barren wasteland of young single adults. And he was going to be my neighbor. No well-intentioned ward members necessary.

  I wasn’t the greatest at meeting new people. My nerves were ridiculous, and I was a master at getting tongue-tied. But this was too good an opportunity to pass up.

  I smiled at the bishop. “I’d be happy to reach out. He’ll be here next week? Do you know when exactly?”

  He looked back at his phone and shook his head. “He wasn’t specific. I can forward his e-mail address to you if you’d like to ask him yourself, or I guess you can just keep an eye out your window. I’m sure you’ll notice the moving truck.”

  I nodded. “Okay. And his name? With a little social media recon, I might be able to find the guy and know what to expect.”

  “Elliott. Elliott Hart.”

  Elliott Hart?

  “Wait a minute. Elliott Hart? As in the Elliott Hart?” I definitely didn’t expect that.

  The bishop gave me a funny look. “I didn’t know there was a the Elliott Hart.”

  “He’s a pianist. Have you ever seen the show Talent Hunt?”

  He shook his head no.

  “It’s this television talent search thing. Elliott Hart won the entire competition a few years ago. He’s pretty big.”

  “Famous? Really?”

  “I mean, not like bring-bodyguards-with-you-to-church famous, but they did send him somewhere totally remote on his mission so he wouldn’t be recognized. He does these crazy videos—pianos in weird places—and his YouTube following is huge. But that doesn’t make any sense. Why would Elliott Hart be moving to Asheville? Maybe it’s someone different.”

  “I guess we’ll find out when he arrives. But wouldn’t that be nice? A musician—you would already have something in common.”

  I still wasn’t going to get my hopes up. It was more likely we were dealing with a computer programmer from northern Idaho. A spelunker from central Wyoming. Or maybe a shoe salesman from Tuscaloosa. Elliott, the famous musician? What were the chances?

  “I see what you’re thinking, Emma,” the bishop said. “I promise I’m not going to scheme and plan you into this young man’s life, but I do think you should keep an open mind. If God is trying to open a door, it’d be a shame to kick it closed before you even know what’s behind it.”

  “No door closing. Got it.”

  He smiled and stood. “You better hurry if you’re going to catch those Sunbeams.”

  Sunbeams. Yay.

  Chapter 2

  I survived Sunbeams with only a little drool on my leather flats. Ha! Black. No ruination there—a small victory considering how distracted I’d been all through class. The kids could have tattooed my arms with markers and I wouldn’t have noticed. For real, Elliott Hart?

  After church, I bypassed dinner at my parents’ and opted instead for a quiet afternoon lounging around my apartment, studying my potential neighbor’s YouTube channel. Talk about time well spent.

  Lilly got home late from her shift at the hospital and flopped onto the couch, her too-long legs extending all the way to where I sat curled up with my laptop.

  I nudged her feet onto the floor. “Can you put those things somewhere else?”

  “Listen, little short person. You have no idea what it’s like to deal with limbs this long.” Lilly wiggled her toes, digging them into my leg.

  I nudged her away again. “Five foot six does not make me a short person. But those legs do make you freakishly tall.”

  “Maybe, but they also make me look fabulous in a swimsuit.”

  That was no joke. Lilly’s parents were European, her father from Spain and her mother from France, but her dad’s genes had definitely won out. She was stunning with her olive skin and shiny black hair. Throw in her supermodel legs? Total knockout. “Fine. You win.” I dropped my
laptop onto our coffee table/storage trunk and shifted to make more room for her on the couch.

  I hadn’t seen Lilly in what felt like days. Symphony weeks were like that—so much coming and going and rehearsing that our schedules never really meshed. Her hours were crazy working labor and delivery at the hospital anyway. When mine were crazy too, we’d go days without having a conversation.

  “Tell your parents I appreciate them giving me your sister’s ticket,” Lilly said from her side of the couch. “I’m happy to pay for my seat like the rest of the common folk, but I’ll always pick free when free’s available.”

  “Yeah, Mom said she was glad you could use it. Better than it going to waste.”

  “Why didn’t Ava want it? You had a solo. I thought for sure she’d want to be there.”

  I frowned. My sixteen-year-old sister, Ava, nine years my junior, was a musician as well. But she was also determined to follow her own path, and it wasn’t leading her anywhere near her big sister’s performances. “I’d hoped she’d want to, but she had something else going on. I don’t know what.”

  Lilly scoffed and tossed her balled-up socks across the room. They bounced toward the kitchen and stopped just shy of the old brick wall I loved so much. The wall didn’t do anything—it was only a half wall, separating the kitchen from the living room, and was completely cosmetic, an upcycled element saved from the house’s original kitchen—but it was funky and fun and added character, even if it did hurt like total craziness when I stubbed my toe against it. “She’s sixteen,” Lilly said. “What could she possibly have going on that’s more important than your concert?”

  “No, you’ve got it backwards. She’s sixteen, which means everything is more important than my concerts. Besides, stuff with Ava—it’s complicated.”

  “No, it’s not complicated. You gave up a lot to move down here. You stuck out your neck for her, and she’s not even giving you the time of day.”

  “I didn’t move down here for Ava. And I would never want her thinking I did.” I leaned back into the retro-style Ikea couch I’d moved down from Cleveland—an upgrade from the hand-me-down Lilly had been using before I moved in. “It’s fine. Ava’s just . . . young.”