“See?” she said. “Nothing to it. Now Barb can’t extort you.”
If he picked up a slight acerbity in her tone, he didn’t let on. Instead, he killed her with kindness, flashing her a crooked half-smile that made her stomach do flip-flops.
“I appreciate that. Now, while that’s perking, why don’t you go out front and warm up for your lesson?”
She already was good and toasty, thanks very much, a condition that had little to do with the cardigan she wore. If he bottled that smile, she thought, he’d sell a million. In a way, he probably had already. She couldn’t picture James Michael Goodwin being refused much of anything, especially from women, with that full-watt charm switched on.
“Melody?” he repeated pointedly. “I’d like to stay on schedule, if we may?”
She flushed. How did one smile from this man turn her into an airhead?
“Of course. Sorry.” She nodded, not meeting his eyes. Then she made her way back to the studio area.
She hadn’t wanted to think about this moment when she’d have to sit down and start working with anyone but the Professor. She could almost see him now, at the adjacent piano, pulling the omnipresent stub pencil from his sport coat pocket, then nodding for her to begin.
For all the world, she couldn’t shake the feeling she was dancing on the grave of a man who wasn’t gone yet. Maybe if she got right into her work, it would hurt less. Like yanking a bandage off in one quick snap.
With that resolved, she moved automatically, not looking too closely at anything. She positioned herself on the cushioned stool, twirling the side knobs to adjust its height. James must have been playing already, she thought — it was set for much longer legs than her five-feet-nothing could boast. Then, drawing a deep breath, she brought her hands over the keyboard…
…and froze.
Her intuition was throwing fits. Something was different, and she took a long minute to determine what that difference was, a minute in which she looked in vain for the familiar Gothic lettering in chipped gold paint that had marked the Professor’s Steinways. Stunned, she trailed her gaze over the lid, seeking but not finding. But she did see something else — her hands, reflected as if in a glass surface.
This piano was new. No, more than new. The piano was of another world entirely from anything she’d ever played before. She knew for sure when, scanning its top, she finally found lettering and painstakingly spelled it out.
B-ö-s-e-n-d-ö-r-f-e-r.
Awestruck, Melody realized its mate bore the same brand name. She was about to warm up not on a studio veteran but on a spanking-new, custom-handcrafted piano. A priceless treasure. Something the Professor would have given his eyeteeth to have her play.
“Melody?” came a deep voice from in back. “Everything okay out there?”
“Oh, my,” was all she could say, and she knew it was too soft for him to hear. In seconds, mug in hand, James had arrived out front.
“Is there something wrong?” He was openly concerned now. No wonder, she thought. She’d probably gone white as a sheet.
“N-No.” She still couldn’t bring her hands to touch the keys. Like a shy child, she clasped them in her lap, still overcome at the instrument in front of her. “Nothing’s wrong. I-It’s just a bit of a surprise.”
He only inclined his head, but the light in his eyes held compassion.
“Yeah, I’ll bet it is.” He moved over and sat at the other instrument. “Does it bother you?”
“Bother me?” she all but sputtered. “Heavens, no! Why would I be bothered, with the world’s finest piano at my disposal—?”
“Then why won’t you touch it?” he interrupted gently.
Why, indeed. Melody felt hot color rise into her face. James only sipped from his coffee, then set the cup down carefully on a shelf to his left before he went on.
“Melody, we need to get one thing straight up front.” His voice was so quiet, Melody thought, and yet she could hear every single word with almost painful clarity. “I don’t know what you’ve heard about me — they print all kinds of fantasy out there. Fact is, I’m a straight-ahead guy, and I expect the people I work with to be straight with me as well. That means no tap dancing around the truth. Okay?”
She avoided looking at him. “I wasn’t aware I was. Tap dancing, that is.”
“Not intentionally, maybe. I have a feeling you’re incapable of lying, either by omission or commission.” He drank deeply from his cup. “But if I tell you why I made this change, will it help?”
Irritation welled up within her. I know why you did it, she thought. If it’s old, you want to change it. Old teacher, old coat rack, old coffeemaker…
On a slight jolt, she realized she couldn’t entirely blame him. If she’d have been stepping into the shoes of another teacher, she’d want to stake her territory out as well. But she would have endeavored to deserve that privilege, not luck into it the way this one had.
“You don’t have to explain, Mr. Goodwin,” she said haltingly. “If the school was willing to supply you with these, then—”
“It’s James,” he cut her off. “And I didn’t do this because the school gave me anything special. These pianos are mine.”
She felt slightly faint. “Yours? You mean you own three of these?”
“No.” He half-smiled. “Two’s more than enough for any man.”
“But—” She faced him, shaking her head. “What do you play at home?”
“A studio upright works fine for composing.”
“A studio—!” She found herself sputtering again. “Forgive me for saying so, but isn’t that backwards? You’re the artist. You should have the superior instrument. I can make do with a studio upright if we have to!”
He chuckled so coldly Melody almost shivered again.
“Don’t ask for forgiveness for speaking your mind. It’s exactly what I want out of you.” He drained his cup. “As for the rest, you’re the cream of this campus, Melody. You shouldn’t have to make do, either. It’s important that we have the best possible instrument for you — for our — work. Which we’ll get to, as soon as I return this cup to its place.”
He flashed a humorless smile, quick, thin, and taut. Once again, she could read more between the lines of what he said than he’d revealed in the words alone. Once again, the subtle hidden meaning sounded bleak, almost desperate. And once more, she had to steel herself against second-guessing what inner demons were sniping at that man beneath the surface.
James Michael Goodwin’s personal troubles were none of her business, she told herself sternly. Maybe someone else on this campus could play confidante for him, but she wasn’t that person, and she’d do well to remember it. The more distance between herself and this man, the better — a generous arm’s length, minimum. Anything closer was only asking for trouble she didn’t need.
Quashing the nagging voice in the back of her head — half curiosity, half conscience — Melody set about the task of warming up on the Bösendörfer.
CHAPTER THREE
Chuckling ruefully, James set his cup down but didn’t immediately turn around and go back into the studio. He needed time to regroup from the surprise he’d been handed this morning.
Why hadn’t they told him she was gorgeous?
If he’d been at one of those newer state-of-the-art schools with every convenience known to man, he might have had the luxury of an executive washroom attached to this office so he could go have a cold shower. The thought made him grin. Never mind whether she’d notice if he came back in the studio dripping. It’d be worth it not to have her see him stumbling all over himself trying to keep control. Normally he wasn’t so affected by one mere woman; heaven knew he’d seen his share of “babes” over his performing career. But this one was hitting him hard, way too close to the bone. Had Grandpa somehow guessed his weakness for porcelain skin and auburn hair?
Shaking his head, James laughed again at that notion. He hadn’t been captivated only by Melody’s looks — an
d her total unawareness of how beautiful she was. No doubt about it, with her fresh-scrubbed skin and her practical clothes, he had a feeling Melody Rowland wouldn’t buy most of the lines he’d learned in his misspent youth, although he wouldn’t mind trying.
But even with no gilding, this woman was way more than he was used to, for one reason alone — the talent and power that lay in those tiny hands. If he hadn’t heard it for himself, he’d never have believed it of her; she was so slight he’d have sworn a stiff wind would knock her over. But James knew that power firsthand. He’d heard it in the recordings of her recitals. Power, command…yet another softer side as well. A sensitivity, an instinct. A gift, not unlike his own had been, in its own way.
He’d thought he’d been prepared for the opportunity of working with someone of that caliber. But now, being in her presence made him half-dizzy.
Not for the first time, James wondered if he was up to the task. And if he could keep the sudden, sharp longings he felt — feelings he hadn’t allowed in a long, long time — from interfering with that task. He couldn’t let red-blooded need, loneliness, and an unexpected attraction disrupt the more important work they had to do.
Because it was a lead-pipe cinch he didn’t have anything more to offer a woman. Not with his hands bent in on themselves, and barely able to function.
Flexing them again, James cringed and shoved them in his pockets, figuratively stuffing down the nagging guilt about his new position that wouldn’t leave him alone. He wanted to help his grandfather, and he believed he could help Melody as well. But he had a feeling he knew what his new protégé would say if she knew there was no way anymore that he could make the music she could still make so easily.
He’d just need to cross that bridge when he got there.
****
Melody had played through a couple of tentative scales when she heard James returning to the studio. Seeing a pencil in his left hand, an unconscious imitation of his grandfather, brought her into full-flashback. But she didn’t dare let her concentration wander, not if she could trust the all-business look she saw on his face.
“Okay, let’s take a look at what you’ve been working on.” He sat down, nodding imperiously, and Melody didn’t waste any time opening her book bag and handing him her music folder.
“The Professor and I had started to talk about recital repertoire,” she explained. “We were looking over a list of different things and finalizing our choices.”
James leaned forward, examining the folder’s contents. “Mrs. A.A. Beach? I’m impressed.”
She was taken aback. “You know Beach?”
“Of course I know it.” He handed her back the folder. “Just because I made my living in jazz doesn’t mean I don’t know the standard repertoire and a whole lot besides. Including nineteenth-century female composers.”
She blushed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“Jump to conclusions?” he finished, with a twinkle in his eye. “Yeah, it’s a bad habit. One I’d advise you to break.” He shifted positions on the bench. “Lucky for you, you’ll have fun in the process. Throwing away your preconceptions…can be liberating.”
She wished she could have stopped the blush from deepening. But she felt certain in James’s parlance — and with that devilish light in those eyes — “throwing away preconceptions” was shorthand for a more elemental message, one that could mean only trouble when sent between teacher and student.
“Melody?” She realized from his impatient tone that he’d probably said something that went clear over her head.
“S-Sorry,” she began, but he only went on as if no lapse had occurred at all.
“I was just saying, why don’t you play through some of this for me.”
“Of course.”
Putting the music on the piano rack, she opened it up and began. But no sooner had she gone perhaps eight bars into the score when James leaned forward and tapped her arm.
“Wait a minute, Melody. Hold on.” He marked a spot with the pencil. “Did you see this phrasing line here?”
She bit her lip. “Sure.”
“Well, you need to emphasize it more. Though you’re very early into the piece, you’re making a statement, and you need to make it boldly.” He ran his pencil across the line, following the editor’s marking exactly. “In this case, the publisher knows what he’s doing, and the direction makes sense. So follow it. Now,” he finished, leaning back with an air of confidence, “try it once more. This time like you mean it.”
Melody laid her hands on the keys and started over, working through the measure to James’s murmured encouragement, vaguely aware of him nodding in places as she played. But just as she figured she was home free and began to relax, he bolted upright and tapped her arm again.
“No. No.” This time, he left his hand on her wrist. “Look at the music. Second page, top system. What do you see in the fourth measure?”
She tried to ignore the pressure of his fingers, warm and strong on her skin. Her voice came out raspy anyway.
“A marcato.”
“Which means?”
“Smoothly, but with definition.”
“Excellent,” he drawled. “Now, play it that way.”
She bristled and pulled away. “Mr. Goodwin, I did—”
“Not enough. Go back and do it again.”
Melody grit her teeth. She didn’t appreciate being interrupted. Nor did she appreciate having orders barked at her.
“Well?” he said softly. “What are you waiting for? What part of ‘do it again’ didn’t you understand?”
“I understood you just fine,” she replied. “But I — can’t work this way.”
He didn’t say anything for a long moment. The longer he remained silent, the more Melody was convinced his next words would be to tell her to get her things and leave the premises. To her surprise, though, when he did react, it wasn’t with harshness, but a dry laugh.
“Okay. You win. We’ll start over. You go out of the studio, come back in, and we’ll try again. Deal?”
She flushed. “I hardly think—”
“No, I hardly thought. That was the problem.” He sat back down, straddling the stool, and bent so his face was level with hers. “Melody, look at me. We need to talk straight here, and I do that much better face-to-face.”
Melody swallowed hard. She didn’t much relish the idea of looking him in the eye while he chewed her out, boss or not. She decided she didn’t have to like it, just acquiesce to it. At the very least, she had to meet him halfway.
“Come on.” He laughed gently and placed a hand on her shoulder, pulling her around. “I don’t bite. I promise.”
Melody felt a surge of warmth course through her. His smiles always seemed to start the same way, she thought. First, with a faint sensual spark in those eyes. Then a gradual lightening of his features, until his mouth curved upward, the left side first — and, blast it all, why was she paying such minute attention?
“Now, suppose you explain yourself,” he said. “What do you mean, you can’t work this way? What way can’t you work?”
Melody drew a deep, shaky breath. She’d have to tread carefully. She knew how they interacted today could make or break her entire recital, and she’d have only herself to blame if her personal animosities colored that.
“The Professor,” she said slowly, “didn’t believe in stopping and starting. He felt if you kept disturbing the continuity of a piece, even when you were first learning it, you never got that continuity back as well. So he’d have me play while he took notes. After a major section was finished, we’d stop and go over the section as a whole.” She drew another bracing breath. “I’d prefer working that way.”
“I see.” James leaned on one elbow, absently tapping his pencil against her score. “And how many other ways did you try before settling on that one?”
“Other ways? None that I remember.”
“None.” His voice tightened. “So how do you know what will and won
’t work?”
“That wasn’t my job to figure out,” she replied. “I did what the Professor wanted. That’s what you have a teacher for.”
He set the pencil down on the music rack slowly, deliberately. As if he were consciously restraining himself from snapping it in two.
“Melody, how old are you?” he asked.
“Twenty-four. But what has that got to do with—?”
“Twenty-four.” James sprang from the bench and paced toward the window, then pivoted to face her again. “Melody, by the time I was twenty-four, I’d been around the world twice, including some places you’ll never see in National Geographic. I could haggle at the marketplace or the customs table in three languages and fake my way through two more—”
“Sorry,” she cut in coolly. “Some of us didn’t have the advantages of the grand tour!”
“Don’t be deliberately obtuse.” He paused, his hands clenching at his sides. “You know what I’m talking about. Twenty-four is far too young to be this hidebound. And at the same time, it’s too old to blindly follow your teacher. Any teacher.”
“Even you?”
“Even me.”
“So why can’t I continue to work the way I feel comfortable?” she countered. “As the old saying goes, if it works, don’t fix it. Right?”
James resumed his seat, silent for a moment, then picked up the pencil again and twirled it between those slender fingers. That seemed to relax the clenching motion, she noted.
“If it were working that well,” he said, “I wouldn’t object. But if I had to make my best guess, I’d say you probably outgrew my grandfather a while ago. He was just too attached to let go of you and allow someone else to lead you to the next level.”
Melody was appalled. “How dare you talk about him like that? That man made me—”
“Please. I’m aware of your history with him.” He held up a long hand to stop her from protesting further. “Melody, my grandfather gave you everything he had. That’s to his credit. What’s not to his credit is not having the sense to see you were growing beyond him, that you needed to move on and get yourself some top-flight training and guidance. Something that could prepare you for how tough it is out there.”
From the Ashes Page 3
