“I’m not going anywhere,” she said, smiling up at him. “I’m happier at this moment than I’ve ever been. For the first time in my life, I’m free—free of expectations, free of responsibilities, free to be myself.” She sighed. “Free to find out just what that might be.”
His smile warmed, easily reaching his golden eyes. “Maybe I can help you with that,” he said, his voice as gentle as his touch.
She returned his smile. “Maybe you can.”
In another moment, she was reaching up to pull his face down and kissing him. He kissed her back, and her mouth opened under his at his gentle probing. His kiss wasn’t demanding, but she felt something shift inside her as his arms came around her, and their kiss deepened further. It was not as though she had never been kissed before. She had done that and a lot more with various famous musicians and conductors around the word, all at her father’s urging. This was different, though. John was different. She had met his brothers and their wives, and over the past twelve hours she had been welcomed into his family with open arms. Suddenly she knew things could be very different with this man, and she’d never felt such a yearning.
The honking of horn and a shout brought them abruptly apart.
“Get a room!”
They hastily broke apart, and Meg felt herself blushing deeply. John only laughed and pulled her back into his arms for a hug before turning her back the way they had come.
“How about we go up to my place, so I can teach you how to play a mandolin,” he said with a wink. “You did say somethin’ about wantin’ to learn, didn’t you?”
Meg kept her arm around his waist and tipped her head against his shoulder.
“Is that what they call it down here?” she teased.
John laughed and pulled her tighter to him as they picked up their pace.
36
They did stop at Mark and Addy’s apartment to pick up Meg’s violin before heading over to John’s place. The band had the full day off, so there was no hurry to go anywhere. Mel had to go to work—she worked at the Konstantine Talent Agency, which represented the band—and Bart was going in with her to work on more negotiations with Mel’s boss. Addy and Candace were taking the family’s SUV to the grocery store, as all of their larders were bare, and Matt, Mark, and Luke were headed out with the old beater van to see about trading it in on a newer model. No one seemed at all surprised that John and Meg were spending the day together at his place, and if anyone suspected music was just an excuse, no one said anything. Meg still found her face heating as they headed out under knowing eyes.
In all fairness, they did spend the first hour playing music.
“You heard me last night,” John said, as they rosined their bows, “so why don’t you give me a taste of the kind of music you play?”
“All right. What should I play?”
“What’s your favorite?”
She thought for a moment then smiled. “Rimsky-Korsakov. Scheherazade.”
“What’s that?” he asked settling himself on his worn couch.
“Not what, who.”
He grinned. “Okay. So who’s that?”
“Rimsky-Korsakov is one of my favorite composers. I’ve always loved the Late Romantics, especially the Russians. They wrote a lot of what’s now known as ‘program’ music—it tells stories, like Scheherazade, which is about a woman who tells stories to an Arabian sultan, and through a thousand and one nights, he falls in love with her and makes her his queen.
John laughed. “Cool. So when did he write?”
Meg laughed to here the great composers referred to as “dudes.”
“The late Romantic composers would have been born in the second half of the nineteenth century. There was just something about that period. Whether it was the climate, the beginning of the industrial revolution, the political upheavals throughout the world, whatever…”
Sighing, Meg tucked her violin under her chin and began to play. The melody was hauntingly beautiful, and she let it carry her along with it. She didn’t play the entire movement, but came to a stopping point, and sighing once more, she dropped her violin and bow to her sides. Then she looked at him and shook her head in wonder.
“I’ve played that hundreds of times, but I haven’t felt it—really felt the music—in a very long time.”
“It was real pretty,” John said. “You’re real pretty.”
“Thank you.”
She set her violin and bow gently aside and reached for his mandolin.
“Show me,” she said. “Please.”
He got off the couch and went to her. “Like I said, you finger it the same as a fiddle.”
He wrapped his arms around her from behind and helped her place her fingers on the strings, then handed her a pick, and held her right hand in his, to show her how to pluck the strings. She leaned against him and let her fingers find the melody she had just played. It sounded so different on the mandolin she giggled.
“No, you need to move the pick from your elbow, not your wrist,” he said, showing her how as she continued to finger the melody.
Then they were both laughing at the awkwardness of their positions.
“I’m not certain Nikolai would appreciate my efforts,” she said, laughter ringing in her voice.