He smiled. He was tall, blue eyes, dark blond hair, a nose that looked like it had been broken in a bar fight. His smile was crooked too, a badly hung picture. Higher to the right. She was tall as well, long black hair, eyes so brown they too were almost black, muscular legs, and small, high breasts. She already knew they’d make a striking couple. Looks-wise, anyway.
“Why’d you quit?”
“I don’t know.”
“Lying. So you don’t play at all?”
Something else she liked: His boldness, his willingness to challenge her before they had done anything more than kiss. The fact he was right didn’t hurt. “Even if I wanted to, and I don’t, I don’t know where to find a piano.”
He didn’t mention it again.
But two dates later he picked her up in his old Ford F-150, dark green, tinted windows, rust drooping from the quarter panels. He made a left, a right, and they were heading north on 601, out of Charlottesville.
“Is this the right way?” She was almost sure the multiplex was the other direction.
He didn’t answer.
“Where are you taking me?”
“It’s a surprise.” His tone was flat, affectless. Her stomach tightened. How much did she know about Brian? Not much. He wasn’t a student. She’d never seen his apartment, wasn’t even sure exactly where he lived. They’d met in a bar. He had a mysterious backpack between his legs. And this truck was the rapiest vehicle imaginable short of a camper van.
Her uncle Ned was a cop in Boston, she’d heard too many terrible stories. Had she told anyone where she was going?
“Relax, ’kay?”
After a few minutes, he made a hard right onto a narrow road that ran east past farmhouses and a trailer park screened by a hedge. Not even 6 p.m., but the sun was disappearing over the hills behind them. She couldn’t decide how scared to be. She had pepper spray in her purse, police-grade, a gift from Ned. She told herself if Brian turned onto a back road she would use it.
A couple miles on, a sign proclaimed the entrance to the JEFFERSON HOME FOR THE AGED AND INFIRM. To her surprise Brian swung the pickup into it, revealing a run-down three-story brick building. Beige Buicks filled the parking lot. Rebecca felt embarrassed at her nervousness. Whatever he had in mind tonight didn’t end with her being fed through a woodchipper.
Though she still didn’t know what he did have in mind.
“This your way of telling me you want us to grow old together? One day, Rebecca, we will fill our diapers here, as our children fail to visit…”
He grabbed his backpack, came around, opened her door. “Come on, they’re waiting.”
“Don’t tell me your grandparents are in there or something.”
She followed him through the front doors. As the smell of disinfectant hit her, she saw a black grand piano in the center of the lobby. Maybe forty women and men sat in folding chairs around it.
Up close she saw that the piano was a Steinway. A Model B, vintage, the paint scuffed but otherwise in great shape, the soundboard perfect. Worth she didn’t even know how much. Lots.
An unexpected fear rose in her as she walked around the Steinway. Five years. What if she couldn’t? What if she embarrassed herself?
Brian whistled, long and piercing. All the conversations in the lobby stopped at once.
“Please welcome Rebecca Kelly,” Brian said. “America’s favorite pianist.” He winked her way and clapped. The oldsters followed uncertainly.
Oh why not? The Jefferson Home wasn’t exactly Carnegie Hall. She could mangle Billy Joel and they’d be happy to have her. Sing us a song you’re the piano lady…
He held out the backpack. “I brought music if you need it—”
She shook her head.
He nodded like he wasn’t surprised she could play from memory. She took off her jacket, pushed up her sleeves, sat down, stared at the keys. Cracked her knuckles. Flexed her fingers. Scooted the bench close.
She started with Schubert’s Sonata in D Major, a showy but technically simple crowd-pleaser, making sure she hadn’t forgotten how to play. The piano sounded like it had just been tuned, which surprised her until it didn’t. Brian must have brought in a tuner. He’d found her a Steinway… and had it tuned before he brought her to it. He’d brought music.
Gonna marry this guy. She’d never thought that about anyone before. The words were so surprising that she almost missed a note. Focus.
After the Schubert, Bach, the Italian Concerto, another crowd-pleaser, nice and slow, with chances to experiment.