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With a slight nod, Aaron stepped away from our group, rounding the ballroom tables toward the piano. The ladies all seemed to follow him like magnets, gravitating toward the promise of music. And even though I had work to do, I couldn’t help my feet from shuffling along with theirs.
He slid onto the bench with stiff shoulders, smoothing his hands down the thighs of his dress pants before giving the keys his full attention. He didn’t lift his fingers to them right away, but stared them down, as if waiting for them to begin playing music on their own.
I had to force myself to swallow, because the musician in me could recognize how hot he looked seated in front of the magnificence of the full grand piano.
My anticipation was almost like a choking grasp around my throat, and the hand braced underneath my tray of pickled cucumber twists trembled. I almost forgot I was holding it. Almost forgot I was standing in the ballroom entirely.
Aaron lightly rolled his fingers across the keys, not firmly enough to make a sound but with enough pressure that his fingertips kissed the ivory.
Alderton-Du Ponte hired musicians from time to time at events, but it was never for true performances. Those musicians were hired to fill the silence, to play pieces that were mindless and under-practiced, and they never satisfied the emptiness inside me. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d stood with bated breath, waiting for a live performance from someone who poured themselves into the piece.
Here I was, hardly blinking, stilling as Aaron began to play.
Aaron’s posture went from stiff to purposeful in an instant, holding steady while his hands flowed across the keys. He had no sheet music in front of him, but recited a piece with perfect recall.
And itwasperfect, because I recognized the piece immediately—Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 2. The second movement was the most lyrical part of the song, and my favorite part. It wasn’t difficult, but it had an almost romantic quality to it, as if begging an instrument to come in accompaniment. Like the cello.
As Aaron played, the tips of my fingers began to tingle, his notes coaxing out a side that I’d long since buried.
“Yeah, I never sounded like that,” Caroline whispered to me, awe in her voice.
My eyes were transfixed on Aaron’s frame, not even blinking.What would it be like to play with him?This wasn’t a piece that typically allowed for a cello accompaniment, but my heart imagined the gaps the deep instrument could’ve sung. The foundation of the flowing piano was all too perfect, beckoning me like a siren’s song. Too beautiful.
And then came the pause—where it was almost like the composer took a moment to draw in a breath before strong notes came in beautiful, magical succession. It was like a physical touch. Aaron’s left hand moved across the keys while his right stayed in a more standardized position, eliciting a magnificent melody that raced across my skin like a chill.
I let my eyes flutter shut, basking in the air Aaron charged. As the notes grew firmer and richer, I thought of my mother. She never understood music the way I did. I’d told her there were no lyrics to focus on, nothing but how the notes made someonefeel, eliciting an emotion without thoughts to accompany it. A conversation between the music and the soul.
She would’ve loved how Aaron poured himself into the composition, as if he were performing for a music hall of thousands rather than a troupe of women who preferred Today’s Pop Hits piano covers to Bach or Schubert.
She would’ve loved it.
I traced the outlines of my fingers as the second movement slowed, until finally Aaron rolled his fingers along the final keys. He let the composition finish with a lingering chord, one that reverberated in the ballroom.
And then, far too soon, that echo was replaced with the arrogant roar of the clubgoers’ applause, a discordant sound that shattered the buildup of emotion inside me.
Fiona rushed to his side first, the ladies trailing after her, and they gushed praises and compliments that I couldn’t grasp. My mind hadn’t switched out of the language of music yet, filled with arpeggios and an intense longing forsomething. It bit into my fingertips, leaving me wanting.
And then it was as if the word was spoken in my ear, as if instead of a C major, this one word was the piano concerto’s true final note.
Jump.
Aaron turned around on the bench then, and even amongst the sea of women, my misty eyes were the first he locked onto. For a moment, it was just him and me.
Jump.
“Lovisa!” The voice in my ear suddenly became very real, and it took on Mrs. Pine’s hiss. She came around to my side, her disapproval visible in her frown lines. “Get back to work!”
CHAPTERNINE
The grand clock on the wall chimed with five minutes to nine that night, and the ballroom was a shell of the event it’d been earlier, a blank canvas for the next party. There were two bags of trash gathered and sitting at the doorway, waiting to be taken to the dumpster, but otherwise, I was finished.Finally.
I was the last one standing from the tear-down, mostly because when only collecting the trash was left, Mrs. Pine had declared, “Lovisa can handle it.”
All by myself. It was retaliation. I knew Mrs. Pine didn’t like me, but she was being too obvious about it now.
She was probably the one who complained to Mr. Roberts about mymingling. Whatever.
I rolled my head to one side, and then the other. I’d told Caroline I’d be done at nine, so she was most likely already coming to find me. In my head, I repeated over and over what I would say, practicing my tone.I’m not mad that you didn’t tell me about Grant. I just felt a little left out.With Caroline, it was all about assurances, not accusations.