by Terry Odell
She fetched Uncle Bob’s Tatiana Morgan CDs she’d stashed in a drawer and motioned Austin to her side. “I think we need to have a little talk.”
Chapter 44
MORGAN SETTLED INTO her seat in the school auditorium, Austin at her side. The students moving on to seventh grade were acknowledged and the talent portion of the program was about to begin. There were dancers, singers, a couple of clever—and familiar—skits. The sixth grade chorus performed, as did a string quartet from the school orchestra. When the violin soloist took center stage, Austin got up.
“I have to go backstage now. I’m next after the gymnastics girl,” he whispered.
Across the room, Cole sat with Randy and Sarah. Being apart for three weeks had done nothing to temper Morgan’s attraction to him. A home visit from a Salem social worker on behalf of the Ohio Kinship Care program had driven home the point that being a single custodial parent garnered more points if there wasn’t a boyfriend who slept over. Morgan had refrained from pointing out that Austin’s biological father had written him off, and that having a man around would provide a strong, stable male influence.
Cole had made contact once, to tell her the DNA results confirmed Kirk Webster had been buried under her porch, and the detectives would be investigating it as a cold case.
Austin had wanted Randy and Sarah to hear him perform, and she gave all three of her friends props for sitting through the entire evening just to hear Austin play. She’d suggested inviting them to her house for a private recital, but Austin had insisted they hear him play for real.
“Even if it won’t sound as good, because the school doesn’t have a Steinway,” he’d said.
When the gymnast had finished her routine, Morgan’s mouth went dry. She was more nervous now than when she performed. As three students wheeled the piano to center stage, she automatically went into her calming routine.
The emcee introduced Austin as the newest addition to Pine Hills Middle School and announced the piece he’d be playing.
The lights dimmed, then a spotlight caught Austin as he marched to stage front and bowed.
She wiped her hands on her skirt. He’d rejected her suggestion that he have the sheet music as backup, rolling his eyes and pointing out that he hadn’t used the music in ages.
Morgan held her breath while Austin took his seat, adjusted the bench, then took the centering deep breath she’d coached him on.
He set fingers to keys, and the magic began. Morgan lost herself in the music.
He finished, stood, faced the audience. After several seconds of silence, the auditorium rang with applause. A standing ovation.
She glowed with pride. Fought the tears. She knew, no matter what, she’d have to find a better instructor than the woman in Salem.
Austin and the emcee exchanged a glance. The emcee nodded. Austin went back to the piano. He hadn’t mentioned an encore. She wondered which piece he’d play.
Her eyes popped and her jaw went slack as the opening strains of “Great Balls of Fire” rang through the auditorium. A moment into the piece, members of the chorus filed from their seats in the audience onto the stage—fingers snapping, hips rocking—and picked up the lyrics, flash mob style. Soon, the audience was clapping hands, singing along.
When the song ended, the school’s music teacher jumped onto the stage, took Austin by the hand, raised it overhead, and the two took a deep bow.
Austin beamed, but not as brightly as Morgan.
“Make a note of this name,” the music teacher said. “Austin Jackson. He’s got a bright future ahead of him, and you heard his debut performance right here at Pine Hills Middle School. Now, there’s a reception for everyone in the lobby.”
More applause, and then everyone filed to the lobby where punch, cookies, and cupcakes were laid out on tables.
Morgan spotted Randy towering above the group, and went over to join her friends. Her heart stuttered when she got within three feet of Cole, but she shoved her feelings into a heavy-duty lockbox.
Austin found them, along with the school’s music teacher.
“Did you like the surprise?” Austin said. “Mr. Ilstrup thought of the idea, and we rehearsed during lunchtime all week.”
“I loved it. It was a total surprise.” Morgan turned to the teacher. “Thank you for letting Austin perform.”
“I’m looking forward to next semester.”
More parents came up to offer congratulations to Austin. Morgan remembered what it was like, and let him bask in his moments of fame. Based on how he’d embraced tonight’s performance, there would be a lot more.
Home, after getting a wired Austin calmed down enough to go to bed, Morgan took a few moments for a glass of wine and a quick check of her email. A name she recognized caught her eye. Why was Sergei Petrov emailing her?
She opened the message. Her pulse raced. Mr. Nakamura had recommended Austin to the most prestigious piano teacher in the country? He’d seen the video she’d taken at Randy’s that day. The one that, on a lark, she’d put up on YouTube. She’d never done anything beyond uploading it so Austin could see it.
Somehow, Mr. Nakamura had found it, sent it to Mr. Petrov. He wanted to meet Austin.
To study under Sergei Petrov was a dream come true. A dream she’d never entertained. She’d never put Petrov on any of her lists.
Morgan’s head swam.
SITTING IN HIS CRUISER the next afternoon, Cole read the text from Morgan a second time.
Need to talk. Please.
This couldn’t be the usual We need to talk request. He’d done as Morgan had demanded, stayed out of her life except for last night’s performance. Who’d have guessed Austin was that good? Not that Cole knew much about classical music, but the melody had been familiar. It wasn’t some kid pounding on keys. Austin had made Cole feel something with the music.
And then, “Great Balls of Fire.” Wow. Just wow.
Had Morgan changed her mind about the whole stay out of my life thing? Dare he hope that’s what she meant?
Off at 4 where
Before he hit Send, he modified it to Off at 4. Where? She seemed to prefer texts with punctuation and capital letters.
Promptly at four, Cole signed out, then went to the locker room to change. Should he shower? Wearing a ballistic vest generated sweat, even in today’s mild weather. A few minutes’ delay in the name of good personal hygiene wouldn’t hurt. He took a super-fast shower, changed into street clothes—jeans and the just-in-case button down shirt he’d put in his locker when he’d met Morgan—and headed for Elm Street.
Morgan opened the door before he’d reached the end of the drive. Her smile was a quick flash, an acknowledgment of his arrival, not a let’s get back together expression.
Cole strode up the porch steps and into the house, where Morgan marched straight for her new couch and sat.
After scratching Bailey behind the ears—at least someone was excited to see him—Cole took in the piano in the dining room. After hearing Austin last night, it made sense she’d have one. A nice one. Even he knew Steinways were a big deal.
He took a seat across from her in the easy chair.
She gestured to a bottle of wine and two glasses on the coffee table, one half-full. “Would you like a drink?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
While she poured, the quiet registered.
“Where’s Austin?”
“Birthday party for one of his new school friends.”
Cole tried not to read too much into that. Or hope the party was a sleepover. Morgan hadn’t said anything about getting together again, and he wouldn’t spoil the moment by bringing it up. “You wanted to talk?”
She nodded. “I need a sounding board. An outside opinion. I don’t know anyone else I can talk to, except maybe Randy, but he doesn’t know me as well as you do.”
Cole leaned forward to accept the glass of wine, the better to catch a whiff of her scent. “I’m listening.”
“There’s a piano te
acher, a really big name, excellent reputation, who’s interested in taking Austin as a student.”
“That sounds fantastic. What’s the problem?”
“It would mean moving to New York City.”
Cole’s heart plunged into his stomach. She’d made it clear from the get go that Austin was her priority. “New York City? You’re going to move?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I want to talk it out. New York is prohibitively expensive. I can’t sell this house before I’ve lived here for a year, and I wouldn’t get whatever’s left in Uncle Bob’s trust, either. Don’t say I should wait out the year. The teacher isn’t going to hold a spot, and Austin needs lessons. His current teacher isn’t good enough, and she’s putting a strain on my budget as it is. After I pay the monthly installments to people Uncle Bob cheated, I have barely enough money to live on. In Pine Hills. Not New York City.”
“What do you want to do, Morgan?”
“What’s best for Austin.”
Of course.
“Can you work out a payment plan with this New York City teacher? Being able to claim he taught the soon-to-be famous Austin Jackson should give you a negotiation point.”
She shook her head. “He’s too much in demand to care about losing one student, even a promising one.”
“What about changing the terms of the trust?”
Another head shake. “Already asked. It’s either stay here or move away, sacrifice the house and live on my savings and investments, which aren’t doing well in the current market.”
“What about a job in New York?”
“You have no idea what it would cost, living in New York and paying for lessons. I can’t imagine anything I’d qualify for that could pay enough.”
“Why don’t you teach Austin yourself?”
Her gaze lingered on the piano. “I can’t.”
He stared at her. “Why not?”
“Because.”
“I believe the usual response from my childhood was, ‘Because why?’”
“You ever heard the saying, Those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach.”
“I’ve heard it, but I don’t accept it for a minute. There are fantastic teachers out there. Teachers who are giving, who share skills and mold their students. Didn’t you have any teachers like that?”
He waited out the uncomfortable silence.
“Yes, but—”
“That but is as bad as because. Why do you think you wouldn’t make a good teacher?”
She hung her head. “It’s not easy to do a total reversal of your mindset. It gets ingrained.”
“You’re saying this phenomenal teacher you want for Austin can’t do? Do what? He can’t play the piano, so he resorts to teaching? From what I understand, you were a phenomenal pianist. Why should teaching mean you weren’t?”
She extended her hands, displayed the scars. “I can’t play anymore.”
“Not at all?”
“I haven’t touched a piano in years.”
“Which doesn’t answer my question. Sure, you’d be rusty, but you can’t play? At all?”
She thumbed away a tear. “I’m afraid.”
Cole stopped himself before making a flippant remark. The tears, the shaky voice, the trembling hands said this was real to Morgan, more than the fear she’d shown going into the basement.
“I told you about Jazz, right?” he said.
She put her fingertips together and made those spider pushup motions. Nodded.
“That I wanted to be a cop to be there for people.”
More pushups. Faster. Another nod.
“I didn’t tell you that I’m scared every day. Every time I get into my uniform, put on my vest, I think about what could happen. If I’ll be able to stop it if it did. What if I couldn’t protect people, and they died the way Jazz did?”
She stopped her pushups, looked as if she wanted to say something.
He raised his hand. He needed to get this all out.
“So, there I am, at Burger hut. No uniform. No vest. And—well, you know what happened. I was scared. To death. But I had a job to do, and there was nothing else but to do it. Since then, every day, I wonder if I’m cut out to be a cop. I still go to work scared. But I made the commitment to do the job, and that’s what I do. Push away the fear and do it, tell myself it’ll get easier.”
“Does it?” she whispered.
“Getting there. You can’t do my job and be complacent. You’re always looking out for potential danger. You can’t not do something because you’re afraid. Not if it’s what you want to do. Need to do.”
“You make me being afraid to play the piano sound so ... trivial. Self-centered. I know my issues aren’t logical, but they’re real to me. I was Tatiana Morgan, the gifted pianist. Then she was gone. I don’t know who Morgan Tate is, and it scares me.”
“It’s your fear, Morgan, and it’s real to you. I would never trivialize it.”
Her sigh seemed to rise from her toes. “I knew you’d put things in perspective.”
“Do you have to be able to play the piano to teach?”
“Not like practicing for concerts, no. Enough to demonstrate to students.”
“Can you do that?” he asked.
“I haven’t been brave enough to try.”
He stood, took her wine glass from her hand and set it alongside his on the table. Taking her by the hand, he led her to the piano. “Do it.”
After doing a few more of her spider pushups, she placed her hands on the keys. Cole had no clue what she was playing, other than it was classical. And slow. And dreamy. And sad. Morgan’s eyes closed and she swayed to the music she created.
And he was turned on as hell.
She stopped a few minutes later, and Cole would never have believed he’d want a piece of classical music to go on longer.
She stood, shook her head. “That sucked.”
“What are you talking about? That was beautiful.”
She gave a shy smile. The first one he’d seen tonight. “That’s another reason I asked you to come over. Let’s just say you’re hardly a music critic and would probably be impressed with ‘Heart and Soul.’
“What’s that?” he asked.
Her laughter was genuine and shot another course of blood down south. She took her seat again and played a tune he recognized from parties when he’d been a kid, and friends were showing off their piano talents. Usually two of them played this song, but Morgan did it all.
He adjusted his jeans. “Hey, what can I say. Yes, I’m impressed.”
She stood again and brushed his cheek with a kiss. “That’s part of why I love you, Cole.”
Whoa. How was he supposed to interpret that one? The words didn’t match her tone. Was he reading too much into her use of the L word?
Go for broke?
He took her hands, kissed the scars on her wrists. Stared into her big, brown, fawn eyes. “I love you, too, Morgan.” His tone was far from casual.
“Austin won’t be home before nine,” she whispered.
There was no doubt what she meant by that. Was it going to be as friends? Or lovers? Did he care?
Damn right he did.
“I meant it, Morgan. I love you. The always and forever kind. If it’s not that way for you, then—hard as it will be—I’ll leave now.”
She tugged him toward the stairs.
Chapter 45
“HURRY UP.” AUSTIN HELPED Morgan add the leaf to the dinette set. “It’s almost six, and they’ll be here any minute.”
“All under control, buddy.” She handed Austin the cheese platter. “Put this on the coffee table, and the cocktail napkins, too.”
She hoped Randy and Sarah liked chili. She wanted to pay them back for their dinner invitation, and crock pot chili fit her budget and culinary skill level. The cornbread came from a mix, one step above store-bought.
“Can we let Mr. Detweiler play our piano?” Austin asked. “He doesn’t have a Steinway.”
; “Of course.” She rested her hands on his shoulders. “Remember, telling people we have a Steinway sounds like bragging, and that’s not polite.”
“I know. But I’ll bet he’d like to play it.”
Cole showed up first, with a bottle of wine and a chocolate mousse pie from Ashley’s bakery. And a quick kiss on Morgan’s cheek. It had been three days since Cole came over to talk her off her ledge. Made her take the first steps to believing teaching piano wasn’t another admission of failure. She wasn’t all the way there, but she’d moved from observer to active participant when Austin practiced.
Her hands might not be as nimble as in the past, and she couldn’t play for more than thirty minutes before they insisted she call a halt, less time if the piece were fast and intricate, but there was nothing wrong with her ear. She could guide Austin well enough.
“Thanks,” she said to Cole. “Would you open the wine, please?”
Randy and Sarah arrived with another bottle of wine and a vase of mixed flowers. A vase Morgan had admired in Sarah’s shop.
Morgan put the wine on the counter and the flowers in the middle of the dinette set. She hadn’t thought about entertaining when she’d made the decision to resurrect her baby grand from storage. Since it took up the official dining area, the kitchen was her dining room.
“Shall we eat?” she said.
Dinner, Morgan assumed from the lack of leftovers, was a success.
Austin cleared the table, obviously eager to move on to phase two of the evening. He’d picked his top five pieces, but Morgan had suggested—strongly—that he play three and save the other two for encores or another time.
“This isn’t a concert, Austin. The Detweilers will have to get home to their babysitter.”
When Austin finished his three, Randy stood and shook the boy’s hand. “You’ll play Carnegie Hall one day. Soon.”
Austin beamed. When she’d revealed her past, she’d told him about playing at Carnegie Hall, and Austin had said he would, too. A glow of pride filled Morgan’s chest.
