Page 75 of Beautiful Rose

“It’s Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. It’s very befitting in this weather.” I look around at the rain.

“I can think of so many other things befitting this weather.” He winks and I snicker in response.

“I’m noticing you have a one-track mind, Mr. Teager.”

“Only for you, Ms. Marlin,” he replies, increasing the volume of the music.

“Who got you this music? I’m sure you didn’t select Beethoven by yourself.”

“Your confidence in my music interests is humbling, sweetheart.” He chuckles, making me giggle.

“So, am I wrong, or is there a hidden virtuoso inside you?”

“If there was a hidden virtuoso, Beast would have dragged him out of me. He painfully made us play piano for several months before we could give it up.”

“Really?”

Zander nods. “Beast is an amazing pianist. In the past, he even gave some public performances. So, he tried to teach us, even arranged a music teacher and all. I couldn’t connect with the instrument, and neither did Zach. Zane, however, took an instant liking to the flute. He found it in our music teacher’s studio. He’d practice for hours and hours, making me and Zach nearly deaf. It was a surprise, as those days, he wasn’t…speaking much.” A pained expression dawns on his face.

I’m getting to know this look. It’s the same from when I asked him to say my name in the café. And the same when I showed him my accessory box yesterday.

“What happened to Zane?” I motion toward my neck.

“He was sick as a baby, and I couldn’t provide him the needed medical care.” The guilt in his voice surprises me. Zander would have been a kid himself back then.

“You guys were in a home?” He’d once told me that before Ashcroft Miller adopted him and his brothers, they lived in a boys’ home.

“No. We were with… some other people.” He swallows hard after saying the last three words. The numbness in his voice, the fear, scares me. And now I know something happened when he was with those other people.

I squeeze his hand. “Someday, if you want to talk about it, I’m here to listen. But do not feel obligated. If you decide not to share, I’m still here.”

He gives me a weak smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

We stop at the traffic light when he asks me, “So how did you turn into a Beethoven protégée?”

I smile coyly. “I am no protégée, but I did take piano lessons for several years from Kristy’s mother. In fact, that’s how I met them. She’s one of the most graceful pianists.”

He nods, asking me to continue.

“Kristy’s mom, Sophia, is a music therapist. She worked with Kindred Hearts Orphanage. One day, I heard her play while she was working with another student. I stood outside the door listening to her for the entire hour of the class. The same evening after dinner, I went to the music room and tried to play, at which I failed, of course.” I smile, remembering my silly effort. “Someone reported this to the headmistress. The next day, she called me into the music room and Sophia was waiting there. Dressed in all white, with blonde hair and pink lips, she looked like an angel. Her eyes were exactly like mine. I wondered at that moment if I would look like her when I grew up.” I look at him, making sure he’s following me.

He pulls the car on the side of the road and stops the ignition.

“What—” I’m silenced by his finger on my lip.

“Continue.” He holds my hands in his, which tremble in hopeful nervousness.

“It was the first time I’d thought about my future. Before that, I never realized I would grow up and do something with my life.” I peer at him after saying those words, and Zander, being his beautiful self, places a kiss on my palm, smiling and urging me to continue.

“Sophia asked me to sit on the bench, and when I did, without saying a word, she directed my hands with her soft ones on the keys.”

I skip the part where I shrieked after her first touch and bolted out of the room. Those early days, anything and everything scared me. After four days of convincing from the headmistress, I returned to the music room, where Sophia used a small wooden rod to direct my hands. A month later, we were able to get rid of that stick, and I had the first feel of motherly soft hands.

“Kristy is also a Beethoven protégée, I presume.” He grins, breaking my chain of thoughts.

But I can’t return his smile on that one. “No, she has different memories with the instrument.”

“What does that mean?” he asks, confused.

---