“Come on, I'm sorry. Here. I'll hum now so you can poke fun at me.” He pulled the chair back directly under the vent. “Sit right here and put your feet up.” He pushed me down gently into the chair, and lifted my feet so they were propped on the recliner's footrest. “Even better, I'll run up and get my cello, and I'll bring it down and I'll play for you.”
“Not interested,” I lied. The thought of him playing his cello for me made me feel slightly breathless and lightheaded. Thankfully, he just laughed and jogged out of my apartment. I could hear him flying up the stairs and his door bang above me. In minutes he was back, carrying the huge cello case. He snagged one of my armless kitchen chairs, sat down in front of me, and pulled out his shiny black cello. He proceeded to tune and tighten his strings as I watched, trying to hide my anticipation.
“Perfect.” Apparently satisfied, he began to run his bow over the strings, finding a melody. His eyes met mine. “When you hear it, tell me.”
“Why don't you just play . . . the way you do when you're alone. I'll just listen.” I gave up any pretense of not being interested.
“You want me to practice?” He stopped playing abruptly.
“Yeah. Just do what you do every night.”
“I practice for at least an hour most nights.” It was spoken like a challenge, and I responded immediately.
“I know.” And I did, very well. “But tell me the names as you go, so that when I hear you practice from now on, I will know what you're playing. It will be educational,” I added, knowing it would make him laugh. It did. “I'm all about education, ya know.”
“Yes, quite. The girl who couldn't wait to come to my class each day, so eager to listen and to learn.”
If he only knew. But he just grinned at me and lifted his hands to play once more. He needed a haircut again. A chestnut curl slid into his eyes, and he impatiently pushed it back. He tipped his head to the side as if the cello he held was a lover, whispering a secret. His wand slid across the strings, and he launched into a melody. The sound was so sweet and sensuous – the low, trembling tones blending into one another – that I almost sighed out loud. The music filled the room and pushed against my heart, demanding entrance.
“Do you know this?” he asked as he played.
“Mary Had a Little Lamb?”
“Ever the cheeky one, aren't you?” he sighed, but a smile hovered around his lips and his eyelids drooped closed as he continued to play. I watched him, the length of his lashes against his cheek, the lean jaw emphasized by the slight shadow of a day's beard. His face was serene, lost in the music that he was creating. And I marveled that he had become my friend. I wondered if there were other men like him. Men who loved history and carried handkerchiefs and opened doors for girls . . . even girls like me. I didn't know anyone like him. I wondered again about Pamela and whether he was in love with her.
“This is Brahms.” His eyes blinked open, refocusing on my face. I nodded, and he sank back into reverie. One song bled into another, and I let my own eyes close as I listened. I felt heavy with peace and well-being, and I curled more deeply into the chair.
And then I felt a thump. Oomph! I looked down in wonder, puzzled at the nudging against my abdomen. The sensation came again and I gasped,
“Wilson! Wilson come here! The baby . . . is . . . dancing!”
Wilson was at my side, kneeling almost before the words had left my mouth. He reached for me, and I pressed his hand to my belly, guiding it toward the movement. I had felt the baby move many times, but not like this.
“There! There! Feel that?” Wilson's eyes were as wide as saucers. We both held our breath and waited. A nudge and then a kick.
“Ouch!” I laughed, “You had to have felt that!” Wilson moved his other hand to cup my stomach more firmly, and he settled his cheek against me, listening. For several seconds his head was cradled against me, dark curls bent over me, and I resisted the urge to run my hand through his hair. The baby was still, yet Wilson seemed reluctant to pull away.
“It was the music,” I whispered, hoping to keep him close, just for a minute more. “You were playing the song we like.”
Wilson looked up at me, and our faces were so close it would have been so easy to lean into him. So easy . . . and completely impossible. He looked surprised by my nearness and immediately pulled away.
“That was the song?” A smile lit his face.
“Yes. What was it?” I asked
“Bob Dylan.”
“What?!” I wailed. “I thought it was going to be Beethoven or something. Now I know I'm white trash.”
Wilson bopped me on the head with his bow. “It's called 'Make You Feel my Love.' It's one of my favorite songs. I embellish it a bit, but it's all Dylan, definitely not Mozart. The lyrics are brilliant. Listen.” Wilson sang softly as he played. His voice was as rich as the moaning cello .
“Of course,” I said sourly.
“What?” Wilson stopped, startled.
“You can sing. You have a beautiful voice. I can't even pretend that you suck. Why can't you suck at something? It's so unfair.”
“You clearly haven't seen me try to carve something intricate and beautiful out of a tree stump,” Wilson said dryly, and started playing again. I resumed listening, but the music made my fingers itch to carve.
“If you would practice in the basement every night, I could listen to you while I carve. Then, I would make sculptures that looked like your music sounds. We could make millions together. You would be my muse, Wilson. Can men be muses?”
Wilson smiled, but his eyes again wore that unfocused look, as if his power to see was absorbed by his need to hear. I closed my eyes too, letting myself drift away in a sea of sound. I awoke hours later to silence. My apple green throw was tucked around me, and Wilson and his magic cello were gone.
Since moving to Pemberley, I'd gotten into the habit of walking to work. It saved me money on gas and provided a little exercise, though as I neared the end of my eighth month, the heat, even in mid October, was almost enough to make me drive. But I never drove on Mondays. That was the night Wilson walked down and ate at the cafe. When my shift ended, I always joined him, and we would walk home together.
Once, just in passing, I'd told him how I used to bring Manny and Gracie dinner on Monday nights so Mondays were always a little melancholy for me. After that, Wilson started showing up at the cafe on Monday nights. I tried not to read anything into his actions. He was nice to me, kind and considerate, and I told myself that was just who he was. I never questioned the time he spent with me, never commented on it, never drew attention to it. I worried that if I did he might stop.
My shift usually ended at seven, and Wilson walked in that Monday at seven on the dot. He still wore slacks and a light blue dress shirt, rolled at the elbows. It was his standard school attire. Bev winked at him and gave me the go ahead to clock out. I joined him for a sandwich and a glass of lemonade, sighing as I wiggled my toes and rolled my stiff shoulders.
Bev made sure she served Wilson his standard tomato-and-grilled-cheese-with-french-fries personally, though Bev always called them chips, as if to make Wilson feel right at home. He thanked her and said everything looked absolutely “scrummy.” She giggled just like Chrissy used to do in history class. It was all I could do not to laugh right out loud.
“I think Bev has a crush on you, Wilson. I know you're probably used to that by now. Don't you have a fan club at school? The 'I Heart Wilson' club, or something?”
“Ha, ha, Blue. I have never been all that popular with the girls.”
“Wilson. Don't be an idiot. You were all Manny could talk about the whole first month of school.”