Love at First Note (9 page)

“Do you want to sit?”

Yep. At my kitchen table. With a plate of food in front of me. “Um, sure.” I shifted my bags, lowering them and my violin to the porch before moving to the chair opposite his.

“Lilly told me you’d be home soon. Sorry if this is weird. I just didn’t want to miss you.”

What was weird was hearing him talk to me all normal-like, as though the last conversation we’d had hadn’t
included him calling me a crazy, psycho stalker. “It’s fine,” I managed to say. “What’s up?”

“Only that I owe you an apology. I made some pretty ridiculous assumptions about you. It wasn’t fair, and I’m sorry.”

I was impressed. My mother once told me the best way to judge a man’s character was to wait for a situation where he owed someone an apology. Elliott was passing Mom’s character test like someone had slipped him a cheat sheet. His words were straightforward and clear, no hemming or hawing over what to say next, no elaborate
explanation to justify why he’d mistaken me for a nutso fan. Just a
straight up “I was wrong, and I’m sorry.”

“I can understand how you might have gotten the wrong impression,”
I admitted.

“Maybe, but that was no reason to be rude.”

Elliott seemed genuine and humble and gracious. I shouldn’t have been annoyed, but I totally was. I’d convinced myself he was arrogant and condescending, which went a long way to soften the embarrassment of his door-slamming-in-my-face rejection. Now he was messing that up, being all nice and stuff. It just left me feeling embarrassed all over again.

I stood up. “It’s really okay,” I finally said. “I’m already over it.”

“I don’t always love what this business does to me.” He stood as well, like he wasn’t quite ready to let me go. “Sometimes it’s hard to stay grounded and remember that everything isn’t always about me.”

I cocked an eyebrow. Was it really hard to remember that?

“Wait. That didn’t sound right,” Elliott said. “I’m
not
that guy. I don’t want to be that guy. That’s what I’m trying to say.”

“It’s cool,” I said calmly. “I get it.”

With my eyes finally adjusting to the darkness on the porch, I managed to make out a few details of Elliott’s appearance. It
was hard not to stare once I really took him in. His dark hair was completely unstyled—long-ish and shaggy, hanging loose on his forehead
. He also wore glasses, which I hadn’t expected. It was a different look, a little less intentional and a lot less like the polished
star image I was used to seeing.

He leaned forward. “So . . . better than Uncle Nesbit, huh?”

I laughed. “I’ve never actually heard Uncle Nesbit play, but I hope he’s good. He’s been the benchmark for every single one of my church performances.”

“Do you play full-time?”

“Yeah. And teach.”

“That’s cool.”

I shrugged. “Cool enough to pay the bills.”

His eyes narrowed at first, then he chuckled. “That was . . . Man, I really seemed like a jerk, didn’t I?”

“Yeah. But m
aybe not more than I seemed like a groupie.”

“I don’t know.” His voice was light and teasing. “I think you’d actually have to like my music to be a groupie.”

I cringed. “Right. Sorry about that.”

“You shouldn’t apologize. You’re entitled to like what you like.”

I realized with a perfunctory satisfaction that aside from the darkness of the porch, which made things slightly weird, I was having a bona fide
conversation with Elliott and wasn’t acting like an idiot. I wasn’t throwing up. Or even sweating. Maybe it was the anticipation that always made me so sick—all the build-up of wondering how things were going to go. I just needed all our conversations to be a surprise. Or maybe I just needed it to be dark. I still wasn’t sure I was ready to forgive him for his earlier arrogance, but at least I wasn’t acting like a moron.

“I really like your original s
tuff, if that’s any concession.”

“You don’t like the mash-ups?”

“I mean, for what they are, you do them really well. It’s just . . .” I had no idea how to share my opinion without sounding like I was dogging on his career.

“It’s just that you’re a purist when it comes to the classics?”

Good word. And spot on. His acknowledgment gave me the freedom to speak a little more plainly. “You can’t mess with Vivaldi,” I said. “
It feels like cheating.”

“Cheating? I don’t think anyone’s ever called me a cheater before.”

“Sorry. That sounds harsher than what I mean. I promise it isn’t personal.”

“Then I promise not to take it personally if you explain.”

Explain? Without hurting his feelings? What sort of mess had I gotten myself into? I took a deep breath and sat back down on the seat behind me. “I guess I just feel like every classical piece has this depth,
a purpose behind why it was written and what it’s supposed to accomplish. There’s emotion behind those notes—every single one of them—and the challenge as a musician is to play them in a way that explores that depth.
Vivaldi, for example. When you listen to his
Four Seasons
, you capture the threads that tie each movement together. You can literally feel the surge of a summer storm or the fall of leaves in autumn. You feel and hear and relate to the music because of what it represents.

“Or take
Rhapsody in Blue
. G
ershwin composed the piece in five weeks in answer to a newspaper article that asked ‘What is American music?’ He called it a—”

“Musical kaleidoscope of America,” Elliott interrupted. He leaned against the porch railing and crossed his arms. “I know.”

“Right! And the music is so much more moving when you understand the context, when you think of the sights and sounds and feelings that inspired Gershwin to write it in the first place. To truly do the music justice, a musician has to capture all of it, all that emotion the composer poured into the piece. When you only borrow a few lines here and there? I think a measure of musical integrity is lost.” Elliott was silent for so long
I started to worry I’d said too much. “Sorry,” I said again. “That was probably more of an answer than you bargained for.”

“No. I admire your passion. And I get it. I actually think you’re right.”

There was no way he was agreeing with me right out. “But?”

“But I also think there’s something to be said for making classical
music a little more accessible. If there’s a way to create music that introduces Vivaldi to people who wouldn’t hear him otherwise, I
don’t think that’s a bad thing.”

“Lilly made the same argument when we had this conversation. But only if it leads to enjoying Vivaldi as he’s meant to be enjoyed. It’s a valid point, but
. . .”

“You’d still rather be listening to straight-up Vivaldi?”

I smiled. “Yeah. I mean, why choose a cheeseburger when I can have steak?”

He frowned.

“Oh gosh. That didn’t come out right. I must sound like such a snob.
”

He raised his eyebrows, one side of his mouth lifting into a half smile. “Knowing what you like doesn’t make you a snob.”

“No, but implying what I like is best and everyone else is
wrong? That’s lame.” Especially since I’d just been all judgy over his
arrogance. What was I trying to prove?

He looked me right in the eye. “That’s true. Some people like cheeseburgers best
.”

I grimaced. I couldn’t decide which was worse: Elliott thinking I was stalking him or me comparing his music to a slab of ground meat.

With his eyes locked so unwaveringly on mine, my nerves got all jittery, and I stood up. “I, um, I think maybe I need to stop talking before I
say something else ridiculous.” I reached down and picked up my bags and my violin. Elliott moved to the front door and held it open for me.

“So I guess I’ll see you around,” he said.

“Yeah, I’m sure you will.”

And suddenly everything with Elliott felt different.

I pulled out the piano
bench in my living room and positioned it in front of my music stand. Four glorious hours with nowhere to be. I’d been tempted to be lazy after I finished my breakfast, to go back to bed and lounge around watching bad television. But I couldn’t ignore the pull of a quiet, empty house.
I had too much to practice to waste such perfect circumstances.

I thought of Elliott as I pulled out my music, wondering if he was awake, if he was on the other side of the wall close enough that he might hear me play. I’d heard his piano more than once since he’d moved in, and it made me nervous to think that now he might hear me. It was dumb. I didn’t get nervous when I played. Except this was Elliott. Of course I was nervous.

I had to wonder if he’d been offended by my less-than-graceful pontifications
the night before. He’d probably developed a pretty thick skin after eight years in show business. Even in my tiny niche of the orchestra world, I’d dealt with enough rejection and criticism to learn that one person not liking something couldn’t ever be a deal breaker. But still. A
cheeseburger
? It wasn’t even an appealing analogy.

I tuned my violin, then
reached for Mozart. I played through the first movement, pausing to repeat a few lines, then worked out the bowing of a particularly tricky section. I grabbed my pencil and made a few notes on my music, then
raised my violin to play through it again. My fingers were in position, my bow on the string when I froze, straining to hear the music that wasn’t coming from my instrument but from the one next door. I relaxed my position and moved closer to the wall. It couldn’t be, but . . . it totally was. Elliott was playing Gershwin’s
Rhapsody in Blue
.

I leaned against the wall and listened as he powered his way through the piece. That he’d picked that song to play after our conversation the night before was no coincidence. He was sending me a message, and I was hearing it loud and clear.

I’d heard a lot of people play Gershwin, but Elliott’s version was perfect, with the same rhythm and energy and insanely fast finger work I’d heard on the original recordings of the piece—
Rhapsody
played by Gershwin himself. I’d known Elliott was talented, but I was ashamed to admit I’d also kinda thought he was a little bit of a gimmick. Famous only because a panel of people on television had decided he should be. But there was nothing gimmicky about the way he was playing
Rhapsody
. The man had skill—more than skill.

I leaned into the wall and wished I could see him play, watch as his long fingers raced up and down the keyboard, reaching high
, then low, over and under, then over again. Instead, I only listened, ignoring the itch my fingers felt to join in and play. I’d played the piece enough times I probably could have picked out the melody
,
but I didn’t want to miss a single note of his performance.

When it came to an end, there was a moment of perfect stillness, the echo of his final notes still humming in the air. Those notes were a challenge, a declaration that I’d dang well better not underestimate Elliott Hart.

Okay, so, yeah, I was impressed.
But it was just one song, and one song was not enough to make a classical repertoire. I had to wonder what else he could do. I picked up my violin and played the opening movement of Vivaldi’s
Four Seasons
: “Spring.” He responded almost immediately with a few measures from “Summer
.”
Seconds after he finished, he launched into the opening lines of Joplin’s
The
Entertainer
. He played the first few measures, then paused and played
them again, emphasizing the final two notes.

It was an invitation. I played the next line of the song. That must have been what he was waiting for because he moved on, playing the next line, then waiting for me to pick up the next. A few lines of
The Entertainer
, and he changed it up. When he
played the
opening lines of Copland’s
Appalachian Spring
, it was game on.

Back and forth we went: Beethoven’s Fifth, Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto no. 3, Debussy, Chopin, Tchaikovsky. He would play an opening line for me to match
, then I’d pick one and do the same. I dug through my brain, trying to find those obscure pieces he might not know, knowing the game would be over as soon as one of us was stumped. I started a Shostakovich symphony, and
he picked up his part like he’d been ready and waiting for his
cue. Then he played the first movement of Rachmaninoff’s Third Piano Concerto in all its impressive power, and I wondered if I was out of my depth.

Finally, when my music arsena
l started to dwindle, I picked
one of Mozart’s violin concertos. It was a great piece but lesser known and not something I would expect even a classical pianist accustomed to being accompanied by orchestras to recognize. He was totally stumped, playing back only the lower octaves of the piano, like a rock falling to the ground and landing with a thud. It
was the
sound of Elliott’s defeat.

I was amazed by the extent of his musical knowledge. He knew
his classics as well as I did, maybe better. And the way he played
them? I mean, listening through a shared apartment wall wasn’t quite
like watching him on YouTube, but it was still extraordinary. And it
was different from everything I’d heard him play before. He wasn’t
supposed to be a classical pianist. He was contemporary, edgy.

Except he wasn’t. He’d known Prokofiev and Rachmaninoff and Tchaikovsky
, and he’d known them from memory. Even when he hadn’t known the full-blown piano parts, he’d at least known the melodies of every single classical piece I’d played.

On the other side of the wall, Elliott played the last line of the “Hokey Pokey” with ridiculous flourish.
That’s what it’s all about!

I started to laugh. That
was
what it was all about for me. Moments like that—when music became a living, breathing, incredible thing—trumped just about everything else.

I put my violin away and reached for my iPhone, pulling up the web browser. I keyed in Elliott’s name and opened the Wikipedia page that detailed his musical training. I’d watched a lot of his videos on YouTube and read all the news articles
Deseret News
and
LDS Living
had done about his rise to fame and how he’d transitioned into missionary service, but I’d never thought to look up the finer points of his musical education.

He had started young, when his parents realized he had a natural affinity for the piano. He
blazed his way through teachers until he was studying at university level by age eleven, spent two years with private tutors in Europe, then attended a performing arts high school for all but the summer months, which he spent at Juilliard’s Summer Institute Program. That definitely counted as classical training, even if he didn’t continue on to college. I couldn’t help but wonder how, with all his ability, he wound up with a career playing mash-ups and covers of top-forty
radio.

I tossed my phone onto the couch with a resigned sigh, realizing with growing certainty and frustration that not thinking about Elliott wasn’t even an option.