A Different Blue(96)

“Perfect.” Apparently satisfied, he began to run his bow over the strings, finding a melody.

His eyes met mine. “When you hear it, tell me.”

“Why don't you just play . . . the way you do when you're alone. I'll just listen.” I gave up

any pretense of not being interested.

“You want me to practice?” He stopped playing abruptly.

“Yeah. Just do what you do every night.”

“I practice for at least an hour most nights.” It was spoken like a challenge, and I responded

immediately.

“I know.” And I did, very well. “But tell me the names as you go, so that when I hear you

practice from now on, I will know what you're playing. It will be educational,” I added,

knowing it would make him laugh. It did. “I'm all about education, ya know.”

“Yes, quite. The girl who couldn't wait to come to my class each day, so eager to listen and to

learn.”

If he only knew. But he just grinned at me and lifted his hands to play once more. He needed a

haircut again. A chestnut curl slid into his eyes, and he impatiently pushed it back. He tipped

his head to the side as if the cello he held was a lover, whispering a secret. His wand slid

across the strings, and he launched into a melody. The sound was so sweet and sensuous – the

low, trembling tones blending into one another – that I almost sighed out loud. The music

filled the room and pushed against my heart, demanding entrance.

“Do you know this?” he asked as he played.

“Mary Had a Little Lamb?”

“Ever the cheeky one, aren't you?” he sighed, but a smile hovered around his lips and his

eyelids drooped closed as he continued to play. I watched him, the length of his lashes against

his cheek, the lean jaw emphasized by the slight shadow of a day's beard. His face was serene,

lost in the music that he was creating. And I marveled that he had become my friend. I wondered

if there were other men like him. Men who loved history and carried handkerchiefs and opened

doors for girls . . . even girls like me. I didn't know anyone like him. I wondered again about

Pamela and whether he was in love with her.

“This is Brahms.” His eyes blinked open, refocusing on my face. I nodded, and he sank back

into reverie. One song bled into another, and I let my own eyes close as I listened. I felt

heavy with peace and well-being, and I curled more deeply into the chair.

And then I felt a thump. Oomph! I looked down in wonder, puzzled at the nudging against my

abdomen. The sensation came again and I gasped,

[page]“Wilson! Wilson come here! The baby . . . is . . . dancing!”

Wilson was at my side, kneeling almost before the words had left my mouth. He reached for me,

and I pressed his hand to my belly, guiding it toward the movement. I had felt the baby move

many times, but not like this.

“There! There! Feel that?” Wilson's eyes were as wide as saucers. We both held our breath and

waited. A nudge and then a kick.

“Ouch!” I laughed, “You had to have felt that!” Wilson moved his other hand to cup my

stomach more firmly, and he settled his cheek against me, listening. For several seconds his

head was cradled against me, dark curls bent over me, and I resisted the urge to run my hand

through his hair. The baby was still, yet Wilson seemed reluctant to pull away.