A Different Blue(97)

“It was the music,” I whispered, hoping to keep him close, just for a minute more. “You were

playing the song we like.”

Wilson looked up at me, and our faces were so close it would have been so easy to lean into him.

So easy . . . and completely impossible. He looked surprised by my nearness and immediately

pulled away.

“That was the song?” A smile lit his face.

“Yes. What was it?” I asked

“Bob Dylan.”

“What?!” I wailed. “I thought it was going to be Beethoven or something. Now I know I'm white

trash.”

Wilson bopped me on the head with his bow. “It's called 'Make You Feel my Love.' It's one of my

favorite songs. I embellish it a bit, but it's all Dylan, definitely not Mozart. The lyrics are

brilliant. Listen.” Wilson sang softly as he played. His voice was as rich as the moaning cello

.

“Of course,” I said sourly.

“What?” Wilson stopped, startled.

“You can sing. You have a beautiful voice. I can't even pretend that you suck. Why can't you

suck at something? It's so unfair.”

“You clearly haven't seen me try to carve something intricate and beautiful out of a tree

stump,” Wilson said dryly, and started playing again. I resumed listening, but the music made

my fingers itch to carve.

“If you would practice in the basement every night, I could listen to you while I carve. Then,

I would make sculptures that looked like your music sounds. We could make millions together. You

would be my muse, Wilson. Can men be muses?”

Wilson smiled, but his eyes again wore that unfocused look, as if his power to see was absorbed

by his need to hear. I closed my eyes too, letting myself drift away in a sea of sound. I awoke

hours later to silence. My apple green throw was tucked around me, and Wilson and his magic

cello were gone.





Since moving to Pemberley, I'd gotten into the habit of walking to work. It saved me money on

gas and provided a little exercise, though as I neared the end of my eighth month, the heat,

even in mid October, was almost enough to make me drive. But I never drove on Mondays. That was

the night Wilson walked down and ate at the cafe. When my shift ended, I always joined him, and

we would walk home together.

Once, just in passing, I'd told him how I used to bring Manny and Gracie dinner on Monday nights

so Mondays were always a little melancholy for me. After that, Wilson started showing up at the

cafe on Monday nights. I tried not to read anything into his actions. He was nice to me, kind

and considerate, and I told myself that was just who he was. I never questioned the time he

spent with me, never commented on it, never drew attention to it. I worried that if I did he

might stop.

My shift usually ended at seven, and Wilson walked in that Monday at seven on the dot. He still

wore slacks and a light blue dress shirt, rolled at the elbows. It was his standard school

attire. Bev winked at him and gave me the go ahead to clock out. I joined him for a sandwich and

a glass of lemonade, sighing as I wiggled my toes and rolled my stiff shoulders.

Bev made sure she served Wilson his standard tomato-and-grilled-cheese-with-french-fries

personally, though Bev always called them chips, as if to make Wilson feel right at home. He

thanked her and said everything looked absolutely “scrummy.” She giggled just like Chrissy