Gregory took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a minute. When he opened them, he finally faced me. “I’m not … I just don’t think I’m qualified to handle such a task.”
“Certainly not, if you are referring to the student as a task. Seriously though,” I continued when it looked like he was going to cut in, “you could totally teach him. Marcia Taylor is my roommate and she says you’re a genius.”
He chuckled a little. “As much as I appreciate the observation—”
“I’m serious,” I cut in again, sitting straight in my chair. “I was nine when I grew tired of racing up and down the rows of chairs in an empty opera house during line rehearsals. I wanted to do something. I wanted to play something. The woodwind coordinator for the orchestra was a flute teacher, and my mother paid her to start teaching me. She resisted at first because she’d never taught a child.”
“I can relate.” Gregory nodded and crossed his arms in front of him, leaning back until he was resting against the window.
I did an unattractive half-laugh, half-moan at the memory. “She was awful. Seriously. She would teach me notes and would start out by doing the standard circle diagram of the flute keys, filling in the ones where my fingers needed to go. But, then,” I reached forward and took hold of Gregory’s hand, ignoring the shocked look on his face, “she’d take my fingers and manipulate them to solidify her point. I’d be holding the damn flute with her bossy hands all over me, as if it were appropriate for a nine-year-old to be playing an open-hole flute to begin with.”
Gregory’s eyebrows shot up. “You learned to play on an open-hole flute?”
I smiled a little at his reaction to my starting with a flute many don’t use until they’ve played for several years. “She may have had no finesse whatsoever in dealing with me, but she got the job done. I’ve never played anything but open-hole, and I have her to thank for drilling me and training my hand muscles to reach far enough to cover the keys. My point? You can teach this kid, if you want to.”
Gregory nodded slowly, looking at the table just past our hands.
Our hands.
I’d gotten so swept up in the story of Giada Barone that I’d left my hands on his … demonstrating a middle E-flat. Shifting slightly to try to pull my hands away without creating an awkward moment, my fingers slid in between his and from a distance it would have looked like we were holding hands.
All the sound in the room disappeared as I felt the fingers on his left hand tighten around mine. They were as strong as I’d imagined, but softer than I’d expected. His thumb skimmed over one of my knuckles, and I yanked my hand away. I shot my eyes to his face as my lips parted, my lungs begging me to take the breath they’d been waiting ten seconds to receive. Gregory’s eyes came back from his contemplative stare into nowhere as I cleared my throat and wrapped both hands around my latte mug.
“Oh, Savannah …” He sounded rather panicked as he dug for something to say.
It was just an accident. A reaction. He wasn’t thinking. This isn’t about you.
I smiled as wide as I could in order to hide my surely flushed cheeks.
“You should give that kid a chance, Gregory. You could change his life.” I shrugged, speaking too quickly. “I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for Giada. I know that for a fact. Enjoy the rest of your spring break.”
I left my seat before he could tell me he hadn’t meant what had just happened.
“You too, Miss Marshall.” He ran his hand down his face and left it over his mouth as he continued scanning the papers in front of him.
I scrambled over to my cozy booth and regained control of my senses, looking around to see if any of my classmates may have witnessed that. As much as it could have screwed things up had someone seen it, I felt like I needed some sort of confirmation that it had happened at all.
I got all the confirmation I needed when I looked up, and Gregory’s eyes met mine across the coffee shop. For the next twenty-two seconds, we were the only people in the coffee shop. Then he broke the spell, looking away, leaving me devoid of reason and racing for the door.
Gregory
It was the afternoon of the first day of classes after spring break, and technically my office hours, which I was required by the conservatory to keep, though few students ever dared to interrupt me in here. I was sipping a cup of tea, leaning back in my chair, with my feet upon the desk. Rachmaninoff was playing, not quietly. It was a new recording by the London Symphony. Such music is never meant to be played softly, as if it were background music. It demands attention. Several nagging papers from the conservatory administration lay ignored on my desk. I wasn’t prepared to deal with them, especially while wrapped in the sounds Rachmaninoff.
My eyes were closed, so I was completely unprepared for the disturbance when my office door flew open and banged into the doorframe with a loud thump. I dropped my feet to the floor, eyes darting to the door.
It was Savannah Marshall. She had bright spots of color in her cheeks, and her right fist was clenched at her side, her left gripping a paper that was now slightly crumpled. An angry line ran down the center of her forehead where her eyebrows pushed together.
I cleared my throat, unwilling to show her just how ruffled I was by her entrance. Or her appearance, which was shockingly fetching with that dark rose color highlighting her cheeks, a tight blue sweater over faded jeans that emphasized every single curve of her body.
“Miss Marshall. Perhaps you forgot to knock?”
She held up the paper. “I came here to discuss this.”
I raised my eyebrows. This wasn’t likely to go well, given her inclination to argue everything to death, so I took a sip of my tea in an effort to maintain my equilibrium. Then I mustered the coldest voice I could manage. “There’s not really anything to discuss.”