I motioned to my apartment. “I left my sundae on the counter.”
“Oh. Well, your counter’s, what, like twelve steps away? You want to grab it, and we’ll eat together?”
So I didn’t actually do a happy dance for real, but I totally felt like it. “Okay.”
Back in my kitchen, Lilly watched me retrieve my ice cream, then turn back toward the door. “Ha! See? I knew you’d say yes!”
“Shut up,” I whispered. “He’s still standing in the hallway.”
Lilly laughed. “Go get ’em, tiger.”
Chapter 17
I loved Elliott’s living room mostly because aside from the small sitting area by the window, the rest of the room was basically a studio. A grand piano occupied the entire far corner, and a long table, covered in recording equipment, sat against the wall. Half-filled sheets of staff paper covered the back of the piano, music notes in tiny, even print scrawled across each page. I couldn’t keep myself from walking over to take a closer look.
“I didn’t think people composed like this anymore. Isn’t there digital software that does all of this for you?”
“Yeah, there is. And I use it most of the time. But sometimes picking up a pencil helps. I know—I’m old school. It’s just part of my process.”
Conspicuously absent from Elliott’s living room was the digital piano that used to sit opposite the couch.
“Wait a minute,” I said, sitting across from him. “You gave Oscar your piano?”
He lowered his gaze, looking a little sheepish. “It was sort of an impulse decision. I wanted to tell him in person that I’d like to give him lessons, but it didn’t feel right to go empty-handed.”
“So you just grabbed your piano on the way out the door.”
He shrugged. “I’ll replace it. If for no other reason than to spare Lilly’s ears late at night.”
I took a bite of my sundae. “What about that one?” I motioned to the grand piano in the corner. “I can’t even imagine how you got that thing inside.”
“It wasn’t easy. We took the legs off and managed to get it through the front door, but Lilly had to open your apartment door so we could angle it the right way to get it through here.”
“Had to go with the grand, huh? An upright wouldn’t have sufficed for your stay in Asheville?” I smiled, hoping he realized I was trying to be funny.
“Listen, it was hard enough not to bring my piano all the way from Denver. I’m just renting this one while I’m here. It’s a great instrument, but it’s still not the same.”
“I feel you. I’d never be able to handle a substitute violin, at least not long term.”
“Yeah, but you can take your violin as a carry-on bag.”
“That’s true. So what’s so special about your piano in Denver?”
“It belonged to my grandfather. He played, and before he died, I would go over and sit with him, play all his favorite hymns. Sitting at that piano is where I’ve written all my best work.”
Of course he played piano for his dying grandpa. Because that was exactly what I needed to hear to not hyperventilate and fall in love with him right there on the spot.
After a few more bites of sundae, he looked up. “For real, this is the best brownie I have ever had.”
“Mom spent years perfecting the recipe. She even does this thing where halfway through the baking you pull the pan out and shake it against the counter. It’s supposed to make them chewier.”
He smiled and shook his head. “That sounds completely ridiculous.”
“Sure it does, but these brownies—I’m not willing to risk messing them up. I will bang pans against the counter every single time if that’s what it takes.”
We talked about our families for a while, siblings, parents, experiences growing up. It took only a few minutes to determine that we both hailed from families that paid little attention to sports, loved to read books, and could sing entire Broadway musicals from beginning to end. The coincidences made us laugh more than once.
But without our really trying, whatever topic we landed on always seemed to lead us back to music. Like mine, his family had always been musical. His older sisters played the piano, his brothers were singers, and both brothers played the guitar. It made sense with so much music in the background the youngest would be musically inclined as well. But his family never expected Elliott, at four years old, to sit down with a little toy keyboard and pick out the melody to “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” His mom sat next to him and started naming songs, and every single one, he picked out after just a few experimental notes. The music was in him. All they had to do was give him the tools to get it out.
“Did you always love it? Through all the practicing?” I asked.
“Not always. I quit once, when I was thirteen. Told my parents I wasn’t ever going to play again.”
“How long did that last?”
“About twenty minutes.” He smiled. “I couldn’t do it. Mostly because there was always music in my head; I needed to play so it had some place to go.”
“So you’ve always been composing.” I put my empty ice cream bowl on the floor beside the couch.
“Always. I heard music in my head even before I was skilled enough to play its complexity. That was actually frustrating: to hear it but not know how to make it all work.”
“That’s amazing.” He was amazing. Hearing him talk about his music, it was hard to put into words how it made me feel. Because I knew without a single doubt that he understood how I felt about my music. I’d long since grown weary of trying to explain how it wasn’t just a hobby or a thing I liked to do because I was good at it. It was more like breathing. I had to play. I had to feel the music in me and around me. If I couldn’t do that, I would only be a shadow of myself—always lacking.
“So let’s talk about your music,” he said. “I really liked playing with you through the wall. Have I told you that yet?”
“Even if you did, I don’t mind you telling me again.”
“I’ve been studying up on my violin concertos. I think I’m ready for a rematch.”
“Have you? Now you’ve got me worried.”
“Oh, you should be worried. You’re going down.”
Flirty, funny, competitive Elliott? He was really adorable. “So the symphony’s playing Beethoven’s Fifth?” he asked.
“Oh yeah, next week. You’ve heard me practicing?”
“Yeah. Great music.”
“The whole season is great. After the first of the year, Antoneli Baronovsky is coming to play Prokofiev.”
“For real? Baronovsky?”
“Do you know him?”
“He’s the reason I was in Russia. I was studying in his studio. He’s incredible.”
“You’ll have to come to the concert. I’m sure he’d love to see you.”
“Which Prokofiev? Is it the Third? That one’s my favorite.”
“In C Major. Op. 26.”
“Ahhh, great piece. Hard as all get out though.”
“I keep forgetting you can hear me every time I practice. Somehow that makes me nervous.”
His eyebrows went up, and he gave me a mischievous grin. “I hear your practicing about as well as I hear your conversations.”
I froze, suddenly trying to replay every conversation I’d had with Lilly in the past . . . three weeks? Luckily, we weren’t home much. We worked, I rehearsed; it wasn’t like there were hours of time to sit around with our feet up talking about boys. But . . . I could feel the blush creeping up my cheeks . . . Yeah. We’d definitely had our fair share of conversations about Elliott.
I couldn’t decide which was worse: the idea of him hearing my earlier ill-conceived rants about his arrogance and idiocy or hearing my ardent declarations that he was most beautiful man I’d ever seen. “So we’re going to just rewind our conversation about thirty seconds and pretend like I never heard you say that,” I said.
“I promise I’m not spending hours camped out by the wall eavesdro
pping, if that makes you feel better. I’ve only heard bits and pieces here and there.”
I held my hands up and shook my head. “No! You’ve heard nothing! It never ever happened!”
He laughed. “Fine. It never happened.” He leaned forward and placed his bowl beside mine, then settled back on the couch.
“Why did you move to Asheville anyway?” I asked. “Of all the places you could go, why here?”
His eyes darkened, and he fiddled with a loose thread on the ripped knee of his jeans. “I just needed to not be in L.A.,” he finally said. “My focus has been off for a while now, and I was hoping the change of scenery would do me some good.”
“But West Asheville? How did you even find Maple Crescent, not to mention this house?”
“Oh. My mom’s cousin owns the house.”
“What? Julio is your mom’s cousin?” I had a hard time drawing a family tree line from Elliott to my short, stocky Hispanic landlord.
“Not-quite cousin but almost? Let me see if I can get this right. My mother’s cousin’s sister-in-law is married to Julio.”
“So basically you’re not related at all.”
He smiled. “I always see him at family reunions. I stayed with him when I filmed a video over in Cherokee, and he knew how much I loved the area. When he heard I was looking to come east, he called and asked if I wanted the apartment.”
“And here you are.”
“Here I am.”
“Has the change of scenery helped?”
Elliott frowned. “Not really.”
“What’s tripping you up?”
“The biggest problem is the album my label wants me to make isn’t the album I want to make. I want to do all originals, and they want top-forty covers. I’m hoping we find a middle ground, but so far, it’s not looking good.” He spoke with a detached calmness that hinted at a history of disagreements with his label.
“Your original stuff is brilliant. I can’t believe they wouldn’t want it.”
“They only want what they think is going to sell. They branded me as a crossover contemporary pianist, and that’s where they want to keep me. They get to say what I play, where I play, and when I play it.”
“Is that why the stake sent that letter about you not performing in church? Because of your label?”
He sighed. “I really didn’t love that letter. And performing in church isn’t actually the issue. They don’t care about stuff like that. But the invitations from Church members are usually for other stuff. Birthday parties, graduation parties. The church gives them an in, and they just ask without really considering the implications.”
“And your label doesn’t want you to play just anywhere, right? You’ve got to maintain that feeling of exclusivity.”
“It’s lame.”
“It’s lame that you don’t have more control over your career. You’re so much more than where they’re trying to keep you.”
“Nope. I’m not allowed to be more than that. Granted, my contract is worse than most. Talent Hunt negotiated the entire thing and pretty much sold my soul.”
I shifted on the couch, pulling my legs up under me. “So why not just walk?”
He shot me a weary look. “It’s not that easy.”
“Why not? If you don’t like the music they want you to play, why play it? It ought to be about the music, and if the music isn’t working for you, you’re the only one who can change it.”
Elliott’s entire posture changed, and I immediately wished I could take back my words. Who was I to tell him what he needed to do for his career?
“Sorry. That was an overstep on my part. I can’t pretend to know all the complexities of your contract and . . . everything.” Lame. Lame, Emma!
“No, you’re fine,” Elliott said with a shrug. “But yeah, it is complicated.”
“It’s not always all it’s cracked up to be, is it?”
“What? Fame?”
“No, not just that. I mean, all I wanted was to perform all over the country, to be good enough that people called me. When I actually made it, I was on this high for months, like I couldn’t believe I was actually living my dream. But then . . . I don’t know. The novelty wore off, and I realized how lonely I was. I’d made my life about nothing but music, and recognizing the things I hadn’t made room for was hard.”
“That’s when you went back to Cleveland?”
I felt a little tug at my heart. I nodded. “And it helped. I was closer to my grandma, and my schedule was a little less demanding. But even still, there were things I didn’t like. Sometimes I would go weeks without making it to church because my weekends were full of performances. And my social life was almost nonexistent.”
“Your grandma’s still in Cleveland?”
“Yeah. Twenty minutes outside the city. I might miss her most of all.”
“How different is it playing here in Asheville?”
“It still feels good to perform, but I went from more than a hundred performances a year to less than fifteen. The plan was to play with other symphonies—Hendersonville, Knoxville, maybe. And there are auditions in Atlanta next month. But I’m not sure it’s going to work. I can’t be as busy as I was in Cleveland if I’m also going to be around to help my mom.”
“Not many people would have the courage to walk away like you did. That you were willing to sacrifice so much for your family says a lot about your character.”
“Thanks. Sometimes I worry I made the wrong decision, but I don’t know. Things are good here too. I like being in Asheville.”
Elliott shifted so he was sitting sideways on the couch, facing me. His movement only made our knees touch, but in my hyperaware state, even that felt like a big deal. He smiled. “I think I like you being in Asheville too.”
There was an energy sparking between us—something slightly nervous and slightly exciting and completely new that made my insides get all twisted. It was ridiculous how good it felt, how much it had me wanting to rub my fingers across the stubble on his jaw line or feel the softness of his lips against mine. I could tell by the look in his eyes he was feeling something similar. He leaned in, his gaze dropping to my lips, but then pulled back like he’d suddenly thought better of getting that close. He jumped off the couch, sweeping the ice cream bowls off the floor with such dizzying speed I hardly knew what had happened before he was halfway into the kitchen.
“So how long have you been playing with the symphony?” He spoke over his shoulder as he disappeared around the corner.
I tried not to sound too deflated. “Um. I guess it’s been three, almost four months now.”
He reappeared in the living room. “That’s it? I didn’t realize you’d been here such a short time.”
I shrugged. “That’s it. I moved in June.”
Elliott moved to the piano and sat down. When he didn’t look up from the keyboard, his fingers jumping silently from one key to the next, I wondered if maybe I’d outstayed my welcome. I got up. “I think I’m going to head home.”
He stood from the piano bench. “No, don’t. I didn’t mean for you to go.” He pulled a kitchen chair around the corner and sat it a few feet away from the piano, facing him. “Here. Sit here.” He looked at me with such boyish enthusiasm I couldn’t help but grin.
“Okay,” I said slowly. “Why?”
“Because it’s been a good night and I’m feeling a little . . . inspired.” His right hand danced over the keys, forming the shadow of a melody—soft and sweet. He paused and looked up. “I think maybe there’s music in here somewhere. If you leave, you might take it with you.”
I moved to the chair and sat. “Just how long are you expecting me to sit here?”
He only smiled.
And then he started to play.
An hour later, I’d moved to the bench beside him, watching the melody pour from his fingers. His face was flushed, his eyes focused, and his attention wholly on the music he was working out minute by minute. At one point, after a ten-minute stretc
h of nothing but music, I nudged him and asked if he wanted me to go. It wasn’t meant to be a selfish question. I could just tell he was in the zone. I didn’t want to distract him. He looked up and smiled. “Please don’t. I like you here.”
So I stayed and watched and listened as the song took shape.
“So this part here,” Elliott said. He played a few measures high on the keyboard. “This will be violin.” He turned. “You want to try it? I’d love to hear how it will sound.”
“I do want to try it, but . . .” I glanced at my watch and gave him an apologetic look. “It’s after midnight.”
He looked surprised. “Oh man. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it had gotten so late.”
“Please don’t apologize. This has been amazing. To see your brain work through the music like that . . . I’m glad I stayed.”
He shifted a hair closer, and my heart started pounding. I was close enough to feel his warmth, see his pulse pounding in the hollow of his throat. “I’m glad you stayed too.” It felt like an echo of our earlier conversation right before he’d bolted off the couch, but this time he wasn’t moving away. His words were soft and slow and almost sultry, and I felt completely incapable of getting myself back to my own apartment. Walking shouldn’t be hard—left foot, right foot, and all that—but I couldn’t move, my hands gripping tightly to the sides of the piano bench where I still sat. I was keenly aware of his gaze moving from my eyes downward and lingering on my lips.
He leaned in, and I closed my eyes, waiting for his lips to meet mine. His kiss was feather light at first, a soft brush against my cheek that moved closer and closer to my lips, one tiny kiss at a time. The anticipation was enough to drive me mad; when our lips finally touched, I leaned forward, one hand moving to his cheek, the other grabbing a fistful of his T-shirt while I deepened the kiss. Heat flared between us, a crackling, delicious tension that I felt all the way down to my bones. He moaned a low, guttural moan, then tensed and pulled away. “Emma, wait.”
“Sorry. Was that . . . too much?”
“No. Don’t apologize for that. That was amazing.” He heaved a sigh and dropped his head, his eyes staring into the floor. “But I don’t know that I can do this.”
Love at First Note Page 14
