Love at First Note (27 page)

“Oh. No, I, uh, I decided to stick around a while.”

It was the worst kind of feeling to know he was going to be in Asheville after all and I wasn’t.

The next forty-
five minutes were brutal. Awkward small talk, bone-burning tension pulsing between Elliott and me. Ava seemed
completely oblivious, which was probably better. She was the one
who kept us talking, asking questions about people Elliott had met, places he’d been.

Lilly finally knocked on the door just before twelve thirty. “I’m home,” she called through the door. “You’re officially rescued.”

I started gathering the leftovers from The Chocolate Lounge and
stacking the containers
on the edge of the counter.

Ava grabbed the desserts. “Here, I’ll take these. I’m sure Lilly will want something.” She turned to leave the apartment. “You coming,
Em? I’m gonna steal your favorite pillow if you don’t hurry.”

“I guess I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said to Elliott.

“Yeah,” he said. For the briefest of moments, he looked disappointed, but then it was gone, hidden behind a more neutral mask of indifference. “Tomorrow.”

Inside my apartment, I dropped my purse on the couch and pulled out my violin. I didn’t even care that it was almost one in the morning. I might not have the words to explain to Elliott how I felt,
but I did have the music. I stood close to the wall, where I knew
he would hear me, and played the song he’d sent me at Christmas
like it was the last song
I would ever play. I knew every note, every
dynamic like he’d written the music right into my heart. He didn’t have any regrets? I was determined to make sure he knew I
did
have
regrets. And I wasn’t going down without a fight.

Elliott looked up, his eyes
meeting mine
again.
When guest soloists perform with a symphony, they only rehearse once, normally the day of the performance, so Saturday morning was the orchestra’s first opportunity to meet him. He was gracious and charming and patient as people introduced themselves and asked for pictures and autographs
. But the eye contact—he was definitely seeking me out,
giving me the tiniest hint of a smile every time he caught my eye.

It was thrilling, but I was too much of a music nerd to claim it was even remotely significant compared to the exhilaration of accompanying him. I’d never experienced anything like it. After
rehearsal, the energy on stage was palpable, everyone buzzing from
the music. We sounded good. And that was a great feeling.

Brian arrived at the end of rehearsal, whisking Elliott away for a series of interviews with various media outlets and then a preconcert meeting with Richard
Schweitzer. Elliott and I didn’t have the chance to speak even once. Instead I returned home alone to take a nap and get dressed for the concert.

I chose my best concert black, a fitted dress with a wide boat neck, three-quarter-length sleeves,
and a skirt that flared at the knee just enough to give me the comfort I needed on stage. I swept my long hair into a chignon at the base of my neck, a few loose pieces framing my face, and spent extra time on my makeup.

Lilly met me in the kitchen, nodding her head in approval. “You
make black look better than anyone I know,” she said. “You’re going
to be great tonight.”

I hoped.

At seven fifty-four, I stood backstage and played through a few measures of the Dvorak that would open our performance, blending in with the other musicians warming up and tuning their instruments on stage. It wasn’t pretty, exactly, but I loved the cacophony right before a performance when everyone was getting
ready. It was the sound of anticipation,
a reminder that all our instruments with their varying sounds, from the deep thrum of
the tuba to the trill of the clarinet to the resonant hum of the cellos,
would soon blend into one great whole.

“The perks of being concertmaster, huh? You get your own grand entrance.” I turned to find Elliott standing behind me. I’d
never seen him in a tuxedo and was momentarily distracted by the sight. The man knew how to wear a suit.

“I hate it. I’m always afraid I’m going to trip.”

“I’m sure you’re going to be great.”

“
I hope so. Are you nervous?”

“More than I ever have been before.”

“You shouldn’t be. You know you’ve got this. How was your meeting with Schweitzer?”

Elliott smiled and gave me a slight shrug. “He’s interested. We listened to a few demos, and he liked what he heard. If this goes well tonight, I think there’s a good chance of me signing.”

If
the evening goes well? If Elliott played even half as well as he’d
played at rehearsal, the audience was in for the concert of a dang lifetime. “That’s amazing.
I’m really happy for you.”

He held my gaze, intensity building behind the smoky blue of his eyes. “I need to tell you something.”

I gripped the neck of my violin a little tighter. “Okay.”

“First of all, thank you for this.” He motioned to the stage and the auditorium around us.

“Why are you thanking me? You’re the one saving the concert.”

“No, it’s the other way around. You’ve given me a gift by asking me to play tonight. I had forgotten what this felt like, and it’s made me doubt what I’m capable of. I should have listened to you before
I went to L.
A. I was running scared, afraid to be true to myself
because of what I might lose. I’d stopped trusting my intuition. But
not anymore. Playing like this feels right.”

“You deserve this, Elliott. I’m just glad I get to be up here with you.”

He took a step closer. “The other thing I wanted to say is I’m sorry.”

I closed my eyes, afraid to meet his gaze. I couldn’t afford tears this close to going on stage.

“I never should have walked away from you after you told me how you felt.”

The noise on the stage finally quieted, serving as my cue to join the orchestra
.

Stupid, stupid orchestra!

“It was stupid. I’d just worked so hard to convince myself a
relationship with me meant hurt for you; it took me a few days to really process what you said.”

I gave him a pleading look. I hated to leave, but the only thing holding up the start of the concert was me. “I need to go on stage,” I whispered.

Elliott nodded. “Just one more thing. The song I sent you for Christmas. I never told you what it’s called.”

Dr. Williamson materialized beside us and cleared his throat, giving us a pointed look. “
I believe you’ve missed your cue, Ms. Hill.”

“It’s French,” Elliott continued. “
Le Coup de Foudre.
”

“Now, Emma. Time’s up,” Dr. Williamson urged.

Elliott gave me a resigned smile. “Go,” he said softly. “I’ll translate later.”

At first I worried I
might not be able to get into the right
head space to make it through the first half of the concert without dwelling on all things Elliott. But it took only
the first few notes of Dvorak’s Symphony no. 7 before everything else faded into the background.

When the music was just right, something I was particularly
passionate about, my brain went to this in
-between space where I no longer felt the solid presence of the chair beneath me or the worn wood of the stage under my feet. I didn’t see the audience or feel the heat of the bright lights overhead or notice the deep red of the heavy curtains gathered on either side of the stage. I didn’t even really see anything. I only felt the music, the vibrations running through me
like a
heartbeat. Dvorak’s Seventh? It was that kind of music.

But I did think of Elliott just moments before he joined the
orchestra on stage. As I watched my stand partner move the Dvorak
aside and pull forward the Prokofiev, I thought about the words Dvorak used to describe his Seventh Symphony
. He said it was
written without one superfluous note. In a way, it was how Elliott’s performance needed to be—intentional, purposeful, perfect. Every single note he played had to ring like it was the most important note
the audience would ever hear.

When Elliott emerged onstage, thunderous applause reverberated off the cavernous ceiling of the performance hall. He crossed to where I stood and shook
my hand, soloist to concertmaster. He caught my eye for only a tiny speck of a moment, but it was enough for me to recognize the glint of confidence in his expression.
I got this
, his face said.
I got it.

And he did.

Oh
,
how he did.

His performance was a study of opposites. One minute his notes were soulful and joyful, the next something frenzied and brusque. Whatever the piece demanded, Elliott complied, the music moving through his hands, up his arms, and into his shoulders until it was bursting from every inch of him, shining on his face like a testimony of Prokofiev’s greatness.

Twenty-
eight minutes later, when Elliott played the final notes of the concerto, there was a moment of perfect silence where it felt like the entire audience took a collective breath, then applause burst forth louder and more enthusiastically than anything I’d ever heard in the performance hall before. Dr. Williamson turned and bowed,
then motioned for the orchestra to stand. We took our bow, and then finally Elliott stood, bowing to the audience as the applause grew even louder.

He played a Tchaikovsky Nocturne for an encore. I was impressed by his choice, both because of his crazy-good talent and because choosing Tchaikovsky demonstrated good performance sense. The nocturne was a perfect contrast to the intentional chaos of the Prokofiev. Elliott was so, so much more than what his YouTube repertoire had ever given him credit for.

When a second encore brought him back onto the stage, he
carried a microphone. Just before he started to speak, he glanced over his shoulder, looked right at me, and smiled.

“Thank you.” His voice was deep and resonant as it filled the
auditorium and sent chills all up and down my spine. “It’s an honor
to be with you tonight. If you’re willing to indulge me, I’d like to
finish the evening by playing something I wrote myself. It’s my most
recent work, something I titled ‘
Le Coup de Foudre
.’” He glanced over his shoulder, meeting my gaze one more time. “It’s a French
title, but when translated into English, it means love at first sight.”

Love at first sight.
I repeated the words in my mind, hoping
against hope they meant what I thought
they meant. If he loved me
then, surely he still loved me now.

Before sitting at the piano, Elliott crossed to my chair and held out his hand. “Play it with me?”

I swallowed once and nodded my head, then took his extended hand.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Elliott said into the microphone, “your concertmaster for the evening, the lovely and talented Ms. Emma Hill.”

From the very first notes of the song, we were connected in a way that showmanship or bravado couldn’t ever explain. It was different from anything he’d played all evening because it was his.
I wasn’t just playing with Elliott Hart; I was playing his
heart
. Every ounce of his emotion poured into the music like his life depended on my hearing it. Because even though we were playing in an auditorium filled with thousands of people, it was me Elliott
was playing for. And when I joined in? I was playing for him.

Had I had time to really internalize it, I might have been uncomfortable with so many people having a front-row seat to my love life. Playing with Elliott was personal, almost intimate, and anyone with even slight observational skill could probably see exactly how we felt. My parents were in the audience.
And my little sister. My ex-boyfriend, my ex-boyfriend’s in-laws, probably my bishop. Not to mention a
New York Times
reporter, a record producer from L.A., and the slimy Najim Berkley. But none of that seemed to matter anymore. Nobody mattered but Elliott.

I was crying by the time we finished because, well, of course I
was crying. There was no way I could make it through a performance like that without tears. Elliott rose from the piano and took two steps across the stage, stopping right beside me,
and reached for my hand.
We bowed together, the applause growing louder by the second,
and Elliott squeezed my hand. He looked my way, leaning in just enough for me to recognize his raised eyebrows as the invitation they were meant to be. He might have been satisfied with a small kiss, something chaste and appropriate for our captive audience, but
I
wouldn’t have been. I dropped his hand long enough to place my violin on the back of the piano, then launched myself into his arms right there in front of everyone and their in-laws.

Funny, after an evening of so much incredible music—Prokofiev
,
Dvorak, Tchaikovsky, and Hart—nothing had brought the house down quite like that kiss.

There was a post-concert reception at a restaurant just down
the street from the performance hall. I knew as soon as Elliott was in the room he’d be consumed by those anxious to talk with him. I wished I
could have even a minute alone with him first, but there were people everywhere. Any alone time with him felt a long way off. By the time I put my violin away and made it to the reception,
he was already standing with Greg and a man I presumed to be
Richard Schweitzer. Agnes stood off to the side with another woman
and a couple I didn’t recognize.

Even though Elliott was completely engaged in his conversation with
Greg, I could still tell he was looking for me, glancing toward the door every few moments. I moved into his field of vision, my heart tripping over itself when our eyes locked and he smiled. The smile was an invitation, I could tell, but I didn’t join his conversation. Only because I knew if I did, it would take only a matter of moments before Greg said something about my joining Cleveland for the spring tour. A part of me still hoped Elliott wouldn’t figure out my involvement in upping the significance factor of his audience, but when he looked across the room, catching my gaze for a second time, I could tell by
his expression he already knew.

For nearly half an hour, Elliott worked his way across the
room, signing programs, talking, smiling, posing for photographs. I hung back, waiting for him, not wanting to make a scene, even
though I was pretty sure quite a few people in the room really
wanted us to make one.

I killed some time finding and thanking Agnes for all she had done. “Oh, the pleasure was mine,” she told me. “You weren’t wrong about him, Emma. He’s sensational—the best I’ve ever seen. And, good grief, to get to stare at that face all night . . . I’d have enjoyed the evening even if he’d been
awful.”

“Did the woman from the
Times
—Jeanine—did she like the performance?”

“Well, you know how they are, so close-lipped about things, not sharing their opinions until they can write them up properly, but just between you and me, I saw tears during the second encore. I’m sure her review is going to be fantastic. It didn’t hurt that she was sitting next to Yvonne, who was just riveted by the entire evening.”

I took a deep breath. They were the words I’d been hoping to hear. “Thank you,” I said again. “For everything.”

I found my family next,
trying my best to field the specific questions my mother tossed at me. Did you know he was going to ask you to play? Was the kiss rehearsed? Is he staying in Asheville?
What happens now? Has he proposed? I laughed out loud at that one.

“It was a beautiful night,” Grandma said. “Your best perfor
mance, Emma—ever.” Gram had seen more of my Cleveland per
formances than anyone, which made her compliment feel huge.

“Thanks,” I told her. I reached out and gave her a hug.

“That really was some kiss,” she said.

“It was way more than a kiss,” Ava said, her voice a little dreamy. We all turned in unison to look at her. She folded her arms across her chest, looking slightly panicked by
her new captive audience, but then she thrust her chin out and rolled her eyes. “I mean, whatever.
The kiss part was totally cheesy, but when you played together, it
just seemed like it was . . . more.”

“I think I’m inclined to agree with your sister.” I felt Elliott’s hand on the curve of my waist the same moment I heard his voice.

“See? What did I tell you?” Ava said. “He agrees with me, and he should know better than anyone.”

Elliott gave me a quick squeeze, then extended his hand to my parents. We all visited together for a few minutes before my family turned to leave, Dad
and Gram walking beside Mom’s chair and
Ava trailing behind. Finally alone, Elliott put a hand on each of my
shoulders. “Want to get out of here?”

“Can you?” I asked. “Have you talked to everyone you need to talk to?”

He gave me a pointed look. “I don’t know. Maybe you should tell me if there’s anyone else I need to talk to.” If his eyes hadn’t been smiling, I might have worried he was annoyed.

“I . . . have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said.

“Don’t play coy with me. Greg spilled it. You’re busted.”

“He’s terrible at keeping secrets.”

“You shouldn’t have done it, Em.”

“I should talk to Greg before we go. Have you seen him lately?” I spotted Greg and started weaving my way through the restaurant to reach him.

“Don’t ignore me. I’m serious.”

I stopped and looked Elliott right in the eye. “
You can’t tell me I shouldn’t have done it. Not after how successful tonight has been.”

He huffed. “But that’s not fair. You put so much on the line.
You didn’t know if it would work. You didn’t even know if I’d play.”

“But I did know. And it did work. And come on—what did I get out of the deal? A four-month tour of Europe? Not a bad bargain if you ask me.”

“A four-month tour you never would have chosen had it not been for me.”

A
flock of smiling symphony patrons descended upon Elliott, asking for autographs on their programs. A few asked for mine as well, which was slightly surreal and more than a little unnerving, but I still managed to break away before Elliott, so I was on my own by the time I reached Greg.

“Congratulations on a successful evening, Emma.” He smiled and glanced back toward Elliott. “Looks like things happened just as you’d hoped.”

“It wouldn’t have happened without your help. Thank you for getting Schweitzer here. I won’t forget it.”

“I have no doubt I’m getting the better end of the deal. You’ll be sensational on tour. Especially if we can get Elliott on stage beside
you. He’ll be busy working on an album, but I’m taking his name
back to Cleveland, and I’m calling his agent. We’ve got to work something out. The crowds will love the two of you together.”

I couldn’t even process half of what
Greg had said. Elliott working on an album. Elliott on tour? Elliott on stage with me? I’d had high hopes for the evening, but we’d just officially crossed into too-
good-to-be-true territory.

“That all sounds wonderful.”

Greg said good night with a promise to be in touch as soon as he was back in Cleveland. “I’ll see you in a couple of weeks,” he told me. “I’m looking forward to it.”

* * *

“Do you want to come in?”

I stood with Elliott in the entryway between our apartments. I nodded. “Yeah, just give me a minute. If you leave the door open, I’ll be right there.” I slipped into my apartment long enough to drop off my violin and kick off my shoes. Lilly and Trav sat curled up together on the couch
, watching a movie.