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He laughs. “If I knew you’d be this excited, I’d have told you on the plane. You know, when you were so
sorry
.”

“Yeah, um, I guess I’m
sorry
about that, too. Nerves. Am I forgiven?”

“With a reaction like that, hell yeah.”

He leads me inside, and I have an out-of-body experience. Jordan Hall looks like the inside of a gilded Faberge egg that someone cracked open to reveal glowing gold within. It’s the most grand concert hall I’ve ever seen. I can’t make my eyes big enough to take it all in, and I want all of it. I want to be greedy and keep every little piece of this hall—this night—for myself. I’ll tuck it away in my pocket and when things go dark, I’ll pull it out so its golden shine illuminates every part of my world. If only it were possible.

The program has a biography of Rozum, along with tonight’s lineup. I read aloud, “Variation on a Theme of Paganini. The
Paganini
? I thought you hated it, said it was overplayed?”

Isaac shrugs. “Not my favorite, but has its merits. Seeing you so happy for once is worth suffering through it.”

My heart swells and again, I have to fight the urge to kiss his cheek. While we wait for the performance to start, I take a picture of the stage and send it to R.J. He texts back with a smiley face. There’s also a text from Dave:
How was your flight? Will call tomorrow.
xoxo
.

As expected, Sasha Rozum is astonishing. After each piece, I leap to my feet and clap until my hands can’t take it anymore. So what if it makes me look like a country bumpkin? I don’t care—good performances deserve to be appreciated.

Afterward, we break away from the masses filing out into the frigid night to find the Keller Room. It’s around the corner and toward the back of the building, which is dark and locked tight. We stop in front of the door and I raise my hand over my eyes, leaning in to peek through the glass.

Small.
Lots of chairs.
No stage. The panel will be able to see every move I make, every fingering, every expression on my face. This could be good or bad; I’m not sure which.

“Seen enough?”

I nod. “Yeah. It’s nice to get a lay of the land. Now I know what to expect tomorrow.”

“You hungry?”

My happy pills must have worn off, because my stomach rumbles at the thought of food. “Starving.”

“Good. I know a place.”

Isaac takes my hand and twines his fingers with mine. He leads me back out of the darkened hallway to the main entrance. Now my stomach not only growls, it flops around as well. This is…nice? And super weird. I decide to go with it. How many times does a girl like me get to have such a magical evening?
Boston, Jordan Hall, Sasha Rozum, a hot guy taking me out to dinner?
Yeah, I can handle this.

***

I try to interpret the menu, but Isaac knows exactly what he wants.

“The sea bass with saffron, please.”

We’re at a little restaurant across from Jordan Hall called House of Kabobs. I didn’t expect much from the name, but it’s a quirky, ethnic place with great
people-watching
. When in Rome, right? I settle on something called
ghormeh sabzi
with
basmati
rice
and hope for the best. And I’m pretty sure the waitress laughed at my accent.

Besides the snooty waitress, there’s only one thing keeping this night from being perfect, and because I’m a sucker for punishment I have to bring it up.

“So, does Heather know you’re in Boston with me?”

Isaac chokes on his drink. “Heather Swann? Don’t know, but I certainly didn’t tell her.”

So this is a secret, huh? Too embarrassed to admit he’s with me for three days.

“Won’t she want to know where you are?”

He shakes his head. “Why on earth would she want to know where I am?”

“Well, aren’t you together again? When I saw you after I was sick, you were in such a good mood.
No offense, but good mood isn’t really your thing.
So I figured,
you know
.”

He sets his drink down on the table and levels those hydrangea-blues at me. “Why do you always assume the worst? No, don’t answer, I know why.” He clears his throat and tries again. “Did it ever occur to you that I was excited to be coming to Boston
with you
?”

No, no it didn’t.

“Well, I am. And I hope you’re having as great a time tonight as I am.”

I nod this time. I don’t trust myself to speak. I need to think, but my brain is mushy as grits. I could kiss the snobby waitress for choosing that moment to bring us our mystery meals. Isaac practically devours his sea bass, but I just poke at my food. The rice isn’t bad, but the rest looks funny. Then I kick myself. I’m in Boston where I swore I’d try new things, start a new life.

After dinner, it’s too cold and I’m too tired to do any more sightseeing. I’m so full and content that I lean against Isaac on the train back to the hotel. Plus, the woman on the other side of me smells like
moth balls
. I shiver in my thin coat and he puts an arm around me. I’d like to pretend it means something, but I don’t dare. I shouldn’t even be thinking about Isaac or why he’s suddenly all warm and fuzzy. It’s time to concentrate on what I came here to do. Tomorrow I’ll seal my future with the best performance of my life.

Chapter Seventeen

I wake at five a.m. and pull open the curtains to look out at the street below. It’s less crowded than last night but still alive with early risers. The corner of the window catches my eye. It looks foggy, but when I peer closer, the white patch has texture. Frost. I’ve never seen it before. I shiver and close the curtains.

This calls for a hot shower. From the sounds of it, I’m not the only one up early. Water runs in the adjoining bathroom. It shuts off while I undress, and it’s then that I hear Isaac singing. I have no idea what the tune’s supposed to be, but he gives it his all. I raise my fist and knock out the first part of “shave and a haircut.” Tap, tap-tap, tap,
tap
. I wait for the response.

Tap. Tap. “
Two bits.
”

I giggle and step into the shower.

The audition isn’t until after lunch, so we use the morning to walk around campus. Isaac clearly enjoys his stint as tour guide. Every fifteen feet he has another story to tell about some funny event associated with the spot—a prank, a party, a run-in with a famous musician. He shows me the residence hall, the academic building and nearby landmarks. The campus is tiny so it doesn’t take long. Before I know it, we’ve run out of buildings, and the slumbering butterflies awaken.

“Isaac, it’s time. I need to warm up.”

“Want to get lunch first?”

“No. I wouldn’t be able to keep it down.”

He nods knowingly. He throws his arm over my shoulders—I wince as little as possible—and leads the way.

The practice rooms are impressive, not at all what I expected. I had counted on small, smelly, outdated closets with orange shag rugs and spray-painted soundproofing material on the walls. When Isaac opens the door for me, a little yip of excitement slips out.

I look around to make sure no one else heard me. These are roomy, state-of-the-art rehearsal rooms with Steinway model
Bs
! No cookie-cutter uprights at the NEC, I’m happy to see. I shed my coat. Isaac doesn’t.

“Want me to stay, or do you want to be alone?”

I curl my lip and do that eyebrow thing R.J. loves so much. “Don’t you dare go
anywhere.
Unless you’ve got somewhere else to be, I mean. What I mean is—”

“I get it. Relax. Don’t have anywhere else to be, so unless you want me gone, I’ll be right here with you. Okay?”

“Okay. Sorry. Nervous.”

“Understandable.”

I take a deep breath and plunge into a full-keyboard scale, followed by the corresponding arpeggio and chords. I flex my fingers. Cold.

“Isaac? I need a favor. Remember that thing Dave did with me the first time I met him? When he came to the studio?”

“The
Musicophilia
relaxation thing? Yeah.”

“Could you help me with that? If you don’t want to, I understand.”

“No problem. Bet it’ll be good for your shoulder.”

“Thanks. You don’t need to say anything, just, if you could—”

The weight of his hands sends an electric current from my shoulders to my toes and everywhere in between. I close my eyes and pretend
it’s
Dave who touches me, not Isaac. I think of Dave’s velvet voice and the soothing words he used all those months ago in my studio. That was the day I realized I really do have a thing for Isaac.

Stop.

This line of thinking is not working. I try again. I focus on my breathing: Steady, deep, even.
Better.
In no time at all, my hands are warm and tingly, my fingers relaxed and ready. My shoulders pulse under Isaac’s touch and the energy in the room is palpable, like the smell just before a sudden thunderstorm. I take a deep breath and blow it out.

He gently squeezes my shoulders, but before he lets go, he gently runs his thumbs over the back of my neck, teasing the little curls at the nape. I nearly slide off the bench.

No time to think about that. I plunge into the pieces with all the energy, precision and emotion I can muster. Considering I feel like a coil about to spring, it’s not hard. Isaac makes some observations and offers a few tips, and before I know it, it’s time.

It’s time.

It’s time.

It’s time.

It’s time to see if I’ve got what it takes to get into the school of my dreams.

***

Musicians fill the hallways outside the Keller Room. Their activities reflect the intense emotions each is feeling. Or not. I raise my eyebrows at Isaac when we walk past a guy asleep on the floor with his head inside his black fabric tuba case. The naked tuba sits upside down next to his head. Another boy about my age paces across the hall from one side to the other and taps on his forehead every few seconds. Now and then, he yells at the small woman who tries to stop his back-and-forth progress. Most huddle in pairs, whispering and pointing at the sheet music they hold.

We choose a spot against the wall and stand side-by-side, taking in the crazy atmosphere. Forehead Boy drops a couple of F-bombs at the now-crying woman I assume is his mother. A door to our right opens, and a girl with short blonde hair walks out and into the arms of her much older twin. I’m jealous of both Forehead Boy and Blondie—at least they have their mothers with them to abuse or hug, respectively. I don’t even have my daddy to put his hands on his hips and tell me what I should and shouldn’t feel.

No, I’m glad it’s Isaac here with me. It’s perfect, really. We started this journey together, and we’ll end it together. But, when this is all over, when we fly back to Mobile, will that be the end? I won’t need his help anymore. Somehow, getting what I want—an audition—loses a little of its luster.

“Isaac Laroche! How wonderful to see you here, my friend.” A short man with gray hair and squinty eyes shakes hands with Isaac and pulls him in for a man-hug, complete with back thumping. There are gasps from the others in the hall. “I hoped I’d see you. And this must be the Julianne I’ve heard so much about.”

My jaw slaps my chest as Sasha
Rozum
—the same one I saw perform last night—takes my hand and air-kisses both of my reddening cheeks.

How does—what—he knows my name?

“Juli, I’d like to introduce you to Sasha
Rozum
, my mentor and friend.” Isaac tries to suppress a smile, but it peeks out on both sides of his mouth until he gives in and flashes me a brilliant, mischievous grin that only adds to the absolute awesomeness and impossibility of the past few seconds.

I blink a couple of times, but I can’t think of a thing to say. If I open my mouth, I’ll probably scream like a
fangirl
.

Isaac chuckles. “Sasha, you just accomplished the impossible—made Juli speechless.”

I shoot him a look and recover. “So pleased to meet you, sir. I’m sure you hear this all the time, but I’m a huge fan.”

“Thank you, Julianne. Meeting a fan never gets old. And I shouldn’t tell you this”—he leans in conspiratorially—“but your biggest fan stands right next to you. I’ve been hearing about your abilities since summer, when you and Isaac began working together.”

I blush again, but his words can’t be true. They just can’t be or—

“Wait till you hear her audition, Sasha.”

Say what?
It hits me.

“Wait, you’re…?”

“On the audition panel? Yes. I am one of three who will be listening. Isaac tells me you’re a Rachmaninoff devotee?”