Love at First Note (10 page)

I was keenly aware of
Elliott’s presence in the congregation on Sunday when I stood up—wearing red, of course—to play with Sister Hansen. I didn’t have anything to prove, especially not to
him, but I’d looked stupid in front of him enough, and I was ready to look good.

We played a beautiful rendition of “Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing.”
I wasn’t good at bearing my testimony, but playing that
song felt more personal and more revealing than anything I could ever say over the pulpit. Every single note felt like a little piece of
my heart. By the time we finished, Sister Hansen and I were both in
tears.

After the meeting, I left the stand, violin slung over my shoulder, and walked toward the back of the chapel. I smiled my thanks
as a few members of the ward stopped me to compliment my
performance. I noticed Elliott watching me from the doorway as I moved through the room.
He wore a light-gray suit and a deep-blue tie that matched his eyes so perfectly I had to wonder if he’d had it custom made. I mean, celebrities did that kind of thing, right? The closer I got, the more his eyes pulled me in. I tried not
to stare, but it was hard. He just looked so
good.

When I finally reached the door, Elliott joined me as I walked
into the foyer.
“That was really beautiful,” he said. “You’re very good.”

“Thanks.” Things were definitely different between us. Mostly because he wasn’t avoiding me and I wasn’t hiding behind the ficus tree in the corner. But there was also a new kind of spark in his eyes, something that made my heart get all flip-floppy. We walked together to the end of the hallway. “I’ve got to get to Primary,” I said.

As if on cue, the Primary president rounded the corner. “Emma,
I’m glad I found you. Can you also take the next class up today? We’re missing a teacher.”

Three-year-olds and four-year-olds? That sounded fun.

“It’ll be kind of a big group, eleven kids total.” She looked at Elliott with raised eyebrows. “I don’t know, maybe you could ask someone to help out?”

I glanced at Elliott. “That’s okay. I think I can handle it.”

“How about you, Brother Hart? Are you up for helping Emma today?”

Seriously? She wasn’t even being subtle.

“Sure. I’d be happy to.”

I didn’t want to be excited about spending an hour with Elliott and eleven preschoolers. I didn’t want to worry about whether my breath was bad or my hair looked all right. I didn’t want to care. But I totally did, which was just annoying.

Elliott excused himself, claiming he’d meet me in the classroom. Except he didn’t even know where my classroom was. I didn’t want
to think he was making an easy escape.
It was sunbeams, after all.
Could I really blame him? I tried to move away, but the Primary
president grabbed my arm. “So did you hear about the e-mail?”

“The e-mail?” I had no idea what she was talking about.

“There’s been so much chatter about Elliott being here that the stake presidency sent an e-
mail to each unit, reminding everyone that he’s here as a member of the Church, not as a famous musician, and we are all to respect his privacy. I heard about it in ward council.”

“Huh. I guess that makes sense.”

“It also says he’s not looking to do performances of any sort, so we are to refrain from asking.”

I knew Elliott wanted to lie low and had figured what I’d told Sister Hansen about his disinclination to play was at least close to the truth. But I was still surprised to hear it officially. No performances at all? His music was his livelihood. How long was he planning on keeping
that up?

Turns out Elliott really was happy to help with my class. He
showed up right before we started. Fifteen minutes later, I decided Sunbeams was
maybe my new favorite place to be. Elliott was right at home interacting with the kids. It was fun to watch such a different side of him. When the kids settled around the table to draw pictures of their fish, Elliott and I managed to steal a few minutes of normal conversation.

“Do you come from a big family?” I asked.

He nodded. “I’m the youngest of five
.”

“So that means lots of nieces and nephews.”

I saw it coming, the lift starting around his eyes, but it still took all my willpower not to fall out of my chair when he smiled. The man was so good-looking it literally made my breath catch. As in, I had to remind myself to start breathing again.

“There’s sixteen of them. I guess the oldest is, let’s see . . .
almost fourteen? I can hardly remember a time before I was Uncle Elliott. What about you?”

“Just one sister, Ava. She’s sixteen.” I reac
hed down and pulled one of the Sunbeams off the floor and set her back on her seat. “You have to keep your bum in your chair, Chloe, and here, let’s put your shoes back on. Can you leave them on for me?”

“I wanna take dem off,” she grumbled.

“I know, sweetie, but if you take yours off, then everyone will want to take their shoes off, and then we’ll have twenty-two shoes all over the room, and yours might get lost.”

“Also the room might get really stinky,” Elliott said. “I hear Jasper over there has really s
melly feet.”

“I do not,” Jasper said with a giggle.

I was completely charmed by Uncle Elliott’s interactions with the kids. It was also eye-opening to see him out of the context of his stardom. In my mind, and in our few brief encounters up to that point, he’d always
been the critically acclaimed Elliott Hart, famous and he knew it, which was pretty dang intimidating. But
in the Sunbeam classroom, he was just a guy—a really hot guy—
hanging out with some preschoolers, talking about how God wants
us to be nice to animals.

It could have been a perfect beginning to our second-
chance friendship.

Then one of the little miscreants puked on Elliott’s shoes.

Elliott had every reason to lose his cool, what with vomit
dripping into his socks, but he didn’t. He was still standing in the middle of the vomit puddle when he crouched down and looked Jasper right in the eye. Jasper had tears streaming down his cheeks, his face a sickly green. “Hey, you okay?” Elliott asked.

Jasper shook his head. “I want my mommy.”

“Let’s go find her, okay?” He picked Jasper up—Jasper, who had
vomit
on his shirt—and held him against his chest. Elliott looked down at his shoes,
then looked to me for help. “I’m not sure I thought this through.”

“Here, I guess . . . Can you step out of your shoes?”

He slid them off one at a time, stepping wide to avoid getting any messier than he already was.

“There’s a little on your pants, but it doesn’t look like it’ll drip.”

“This might be the most disgusting conversation I’ve ever had,” he said.

I couldn’t help but laugh. I was amazed that he was being such a good sport.

“So I’m going to go clean him up a little bit. Do you want to find his mom?”

I looked at the ten other kids cowering in the corner behind me, their hands pressed over their noses.

“Jasper is really stinky,” Chloe said.

“No, you stay here,” Elliott said. “I’ll walk past the Primary room and let them know what happened.” Jasper had laid his head on Elliott’s shoulder, and Elliott rubbed his back. “Just sit tight,” he told me. “I’ll get you some help.” He stepped into the hallway in his socks and glanced one more time into the classroom before
giving me a sympathetic grin. “Don’t breathe too deep.”

Says the guy who’s covered in kid vomit. I mean, it wasn’t even his kid and he was still patient and gentle and helpful.

I wasn’t the only one charmed by his gallantry. Later, as he walked to the parking lot, suit pants rolled up, socks and shoes in hand, the Primary president leaned over to where I still stood in the hallway and said, “Emma, if you don’t marry that man, I’m gonna.”

“You’re already married,” I replied. “Nice guy? Doctor? Father of your three children?”

“Oh. Right. Well, I guess that means you should. Really, really, Emma. You really should.”

I wasn’t ready to propose, but I did follow Elliott out to his car. “Elliott,” I called.

He dropped his shoes into the backseat and turned to wait for me.

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry about your shoes. And your
pants.” I looked at his shirt. “And your shirt. Can I get them cleaned
for you?”

“Don’t worry about it. The
suit was probably due to be cleaned anyway.” He loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt.

It made me blush, which was totally stupid. “I, um . . .” I swallowed. “Thanks again for helping. I think the kids really liked you.”

“It was no problem. I was happy to do it.” He reached for the door handle of his car,
then paused, turning to face me one more time. “I really did enjoy your playing today. I know I already told you that, but I appreciate how connected you were to the music.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “I guess I didn’t realize how much I missed that connection.”

I was speechless. His compliment-turned-confessional was not what I’d expected to hear. It was a pretty personal revelation to make, and it surprised me. He was a professional performer. To think he felt like something was missing from his music? I never would have
guessed. “Thank you,” I finally stammered. “That means a lot.”

He turned and leaned against the side of his car, which was encouraging because it seemed like he wasn’t anxious to leave my company but worrisome because he also looked a little sad.
I took a few steps closer and leaned against the car too, not too close but close enough to let him know I was listening if he had something else he wanted to say.

He remained silent, his eyes locked on the pavement beneath his feet. I thought of my first week at the Cleveland Institute of Music when my hopes and dreams had been huge and my ego sized to match. I’d been completely overwhelmed by all the talent that filled the school. I’d never had to work very hard to be the
best in my high school and youth symphonies, but in Cleveland . . .
I’d been
playing in a different league. At the end of my first week of symphony rehearsals, my conductor, who would later turn out to be one of my biggest advocates, had taken my bow out of my hand and, with great flourish, said, “No more! You’re playing like a robot. Like all we need to hear from you is the notes. Where is your heart, Emma? Where is your music?”

So I guess I understood just how possible it was to play, to even play with technical perfection, but to still be missing the most vital part of any performance: the heart. My career wasn’t even a shadow of the success Elliott had found, but those early weeks in college, I’d been so caught up in the business of being a
professional musician the magic of playing was lost. It wasn’t hard to imagine a brutal career in show business sucking the life right out of a performer.

“I’ve felt it before too—that disconnect from my music,” I said. “When I’m working too hard and focusing too much, that’s when it happens for me. And sometimes when I’m scared of what
I have ahead of me and I’m not sure I can do what’s expected.”

Elliott shifted, and I saw his jaw clench.

“It’s safer to be disconn
ected, you know?” I continued. “Because when I’m all in, it almost feels like I’m playing naked. Like the music is me—all of me—and I’m just throwing it out there for everyone to see. It feels risky because what are people going to make of it? What are they going to make of me when I’ve just emptied my entire soul into each note?”

“That’s what makes you so good.” He spoke without looking up. “That you’re willing to be that transparent.”

“Thank you.” It was more than a little unnerving to be having such an intensely personal conversation with someone I’d only just begun to know. But, then, we weren’t really speaking as Emma and Elliott. It felt more like we were speaking musician to musician, the commonality of our experiences pulling us closer than our regular acquaintance allowed.

“I used to feel that way,” Elliott said. “Every performance, every composition was my whole soul.”

“But you don’t feel that way now?”

He was quiet a moment longer before he pushed himself off the car. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean for this to turn into . . .” He shook his head and opened the driver’s side door of his sedan.

“No, it’s okay. I think I get it.”

“Yeah.” His eyes held mine for a beat longer than necessary. “I think you probably do.”

He was halfway into his car, but I wasn’t ready for him to leave yet. This was the best conversation I’d had in years. “You play a mean Gershwin.”

He grinned. “He’s one of my favorites.”

“I should have known when you quoted him the other night.”

“Was that symphony music you were playing? Before I crashed your practice? It was Mozart, right?”