Page 71 of Perfect Pitch

“Playing the harp.” I’m trying to picture the rainbow-hued woman amid the staid people of the New York Philharmonic and just can’t.

“The harp is a noble instrument,” she informs me haughtily.

“In my entire life I’ve never met anyone who plays the harp. A recorder, yes. A guitar, sure. But a harp?”

“I’ve played it for about eight years, Mitch.”

That’s when I hear the plucking of strings making ethereal sounds through the speakerphone. The sounds are both delicate and powerful—much like the woman playing them. Now, I’m curious. “Do you own your own?”

“Yes. It was a graduation gift from my grandfather. I think he believed it would encourage me to travel down a more sedate musical path.” There’s love and humor in her voice when she speaks of her family.

“How often do you have to practice?”

“I have to keep my fingers limber and piano doesn’t cut it. So, about three times a week.”

“I know a few professional musicians,” I begin. I’m not breaking my NDA with Hudson by admitting that, I tell myself. “And not one of them plays the harp.”

“It’s like being transported through time by music when I sit down at one.”

My shoes kicked off, I prop my feet up on the low table in front of me when I ask, “What do you mean?”

Austyn explains the earliest harps were found in 2500 B.C. Then she says, “Now picture me dressed as an Egyptian high priestess playing for you.”

Immediately, I lift my cell—grateful for the invention of earbuds—and search the web. When I get a load of what the high-born Egyptian woman wore, a fierce groan leaves my throat. “Thanks for the imagery. Now all I can picture is how that would hug your body, Beats.”

Smugly, she heightens my senses even as she declares, “I know.”

* * *

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

NOVEMBER

Big doings are happening at Redemption tonight. If you’re not already inside, well, too late. This might be the best music played since I last heard Beckett Miller play live.

—Moore You Want

“Mama!” I shout!

Her head whips around until she spots me. Then I tear off in her direction like a torpedo. The minute I’m close enough, she wraps me up in her arms. And just like that, I’m home. New York, Texas, the physical location doesn’t matter. It’s love that determines a heart’s true home.

“Let me get a good look at you,” she demands. She clasps my face between her hands and uses her motherly superpowers to itemize every detail. Her smile spreads before she declares, “Your gramps is going to have a coronary over the hair color.”

I cup her face before pressing a smacking kiss to her forehead. “Let him. It will do him some good. He’s too stuck in his ways.”

“You have no idea how true that statement is, darling.”

I hook an arm around her waist. “Let’s get your bags, Mama. Then we can head into the city.”

“I hired a car so we wouldn’t have to deal with a cab.”

“Good. Once we get you settled, we can swing by my place and I can get my bag.”

She stops dead. “Your bag?”

“Surprise! I’m going to stay with you since you won’t stay with me.” Because right now, with all this nervous energy pulsating through me, I need the support of the only person who has ever believed in me. I can’t be alone to deal with the kaleidoscope of images twisting and turning in my head between the unfamiliarity of success and the uncertainty of my relationship with Mitch. Both are within my grasp and both feel like there’s a glass barrier between me and them.

My mother, bless her, takes it in stride only remarking, “There goes any rest I planned on.”

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