Page 56 of Counterpoint and Harmony

It’s breathtaking.

He’sbreathtaking.

Everything about his performance, the way he moves with the music, with his cello, like it’s an extension of himself, like every movement, every note, is effortless.

I’ve never managed that with the piano, and I doubt I ever will.

Oh, I can perform. I can work a crowd and dance and sing and execute choreography and costume changes. I’m a good performer, a good entertainer. I know this, because otherwise I wouldn’t be able to do what I do.

But I am not this. I do not become this sublime creature who delivers art and beauty to earth. Communicating the heart of emotion without words. The oracle of artistry and truth.

When he reaches the end, all I can think is how glad I am to be in the audience instead of backstage or in the wings. That I get to experience this the way it’s intended, not as a stowaway hidden somewhere.

Damian stands and bows. And when his mother moves to take him the bouquet of flowers wrapped in cellophane that I just now notice she has, I hold out my hands for them. She hesitates, but when I wiggle my fingers, she hands them over.

With a giant grin on my face, I jog down the outside aisle and cross the front of the stage, picking my way past the people in the front row so I can get to Damian.

When he sees me coming, he stops and stares, waiting for me to get there so I can give him his flowers. He crouches down, one hand supporting his cello next to him where the neck joins the body, the bow pinched between two fingers. “What are you doing?” he hisses, but he’s smiling, even if his eyes are wide and surprised.

“Giving you your flowers.”

He takes them from me, glancing around at the people behind me. That’s when I notice the murmuring blending with the dwindling applause. Then there’s a flash. And another. Someone crowds in close on my right, the flash on their phone going off as they take another picture.

The applause has completely died, and now I can clearly make out people whispering my name. The whispers are turning into full-voiced comments, and then someone shouts, “Charlotte James, sing us a song!”

My mouth is still smiling, but it’s a frozen rictus now. Dammit. I was supposed to slip out before they turned on the house lights, not run down to the front with Damian’s bouquet. Blinking hard, I suck in a breath, prepared to turn around and offer to sign autographs at intermission and after the concert. And then make a donation to the symphony as an apology for interrupting everything.

But before I can do any of that, Damian’s mouth firms, his eyes refocusing on me after scanning the crowd behind me. He lays the bouquet on the stage next to him and offers me his hand.

When I don’t immediately take it, he whispers, “C’mon, Charlie. We can go out the back. Then you won’t get mobbed.”

That’s all the convincing I need. I place my hand in his, my fingers wrapped around the meaty base of his thumb. Planting my other hand on the stage, I use that in concert with Damian’s strong pull to get up on the stage.

We take a bow together as the tone of the crowd turns from wonder to confusion. A few people clap as we straighten and Damian places his hand on my lower back to hurry me off the stage.

As we get to the wings, the house lights come up. A glance over my shoulder shows the conductor heading our way, his face equal parts confused and annoyed.

“Come on.” Damian threads his fingers through mine and tugs me down a hall to a tiny dressing room. Once we’re inside, he closes and locks the door, his breath coming hard and fast as he turns to look at me.

But then he smiles, that wide, sexy smile of his, and I can’t help but smile back.

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