Davidson's [POV]
Whether I get a temp assistant or not, it's only for two months. Should I just rent a Doberman to keep people away? But then there are calls, emails, deliveries, and things. I can't deal with all of it myself. No single human can deal with it, because the mailmen drop off a mountain of stuff every day. If I weren't busy trying to figure out my next acting role, I might consider letting it just sit, but...
There's no way around it. I need somebody.
I take a deep breath and stretch my neck to release the tension at the base of my skull. There are event stages set up along the concourse. A soft piano melody comes from one to my left as I stride by.
There's a black baby grand on it, and a young woman is playing. She isn't bad. She sounds pretty good, in my amateur opinion. I started taking piano lessons when I was ten but gave up after a couple of years.
My fingers are too clumsy for anything other than moderately paced scales, and I didn't want to bother if I couldn't play Schubert's Impromptu Opus 90, Number 2 with an acceptable degree of proficiency.
My teacher complained that I was fixated on Schubert. But then, she didn't know what that piece meant to me and didn't want to understand when I tried to explain it to her.
The piece the woman is playing is mellow and lovely. Soothing, even, and the mild headache that's been aggravating me starts to dissipate. But I maintain my pace. I want to hit the lounge and grab a shower and some snacks before it's time to board.
But I slow and then stop when she begins the Impromptu.
I heard the piece for the first time when I was ten. A girl was playing it on a white Steinway baby grand. Listening to her was like holding a mug of hot chocolate on a freezing, snowy day.
It was a tense time in my life, and a warm sweetness spread through me, all the way to my heart, giving me not only comfort but a sense of well-being, that everything would be fine.
I own every recording of this piece out there. And I listen to them all the time. But none
recapture the feeling I had when I heard it that first time. I've never gotten that sense of comfort again.
But now... This pianist is giving me exactly that. And something more. A frisson of electricity that brings all my nerve endings to attention.
I turn and study her more carefully. She seems to be in her early to mid-twenties. Straight auburn hair frames her small face just so. Her lashes are lowered, her full mouth set in a straight line.
She keeps her shoulders straight, her slender arms and long fingers relaxed and fluid as they move. The Impromptu ends all too soon. But then, played at the correct tempo, it's not even five minutes long.
She launches into another piece, this one tumultuous and rapid. Her hands are a blur as they fly over the keys like a hummingbird's wings. I wonder how long she practiced to master the instrument like that, then decide probably too damn much time, much more than I'm capable of.
I want her to go back to Schubert. But I wait. There's a command to her performance that says she won't appreciate an interruption.
Thankfully, the new piece isn't long. She pauses for a moment and exhales softly. I step forward.
"Are you a concert pianist?" I ask. "If so, could you tell me your name so I can buy some of your recordings?"
She lifts her head and turns toward me. Her steady dark brown gaze hits me and lances me to the spot. For a moment, I can't move or breathe. It's like somebody's sending an electric shock through my system to restart my heart.
But as soon as the shock's gone, my whole body feels tight, my blood hot and flowing rapidly through my veins. All my senses seem sharper, as though they've just awakened.
I breathe in a little bit through my mouth. It feels like I can taste the air, the cool, industrial flavor of a large international airport mixed with something a little more intimate. Her scent. Sweet and citrusy, with a hint of flowers.
If I were the romantic type, I might think I was in a Hollywood freeze frame where a guy falls in love at first sight. Thankfully, my head's screwed on tighter than that.
Instead of answering, the woman looks at me oddly. Maybe she could tell I was having a moment.
Or maybe she can tell I'm starting to get hard, like some teenager. Damn it. A man shouldn't be having a libido surge when he's been sitting on a damned tarmac, had his flight delayed, and is tired and jet-lagged.
Or maybe that's why my penis is out of control. Maybe if I were better rested...?
"Don't worry, I'm not trying to pick you up or anything." I shift a little to better hide my unmanageable reaction to her nearness.
Then it hits me: maybe she doesn't speak English. Shit. I don't speak French. She might not even be French. She could be any Asian connecting through to somewhere. Paris is one of the biggest hubs in the world.
"I don't play concerts," she finally says. "I'm not a professional."
Oh, good. So we can communicate. My dick keeps saying we should hook up, but there isn't enough time. Transiting, Davidson, transiting. Time to go home soon.
The fact that she doesn't have any recordings is disappointing. It's taken over two decades to find somebody who can re-create my unforgettable childhood comfort. Her being hot is another point, but that's probably just due to me being exhausted. Not as much control as usual.
Should I offer her a job as my pianist?
Maybe not. Her Georges Hobeika dress alone is worth thousands of dollars. I know because Ella whined endlessly to get me to buy one for her and failed. A woman who can afford an outfit like that doesn't need a job.
So I go for the second best option. "If you take requests, would you mind playing that Schubert again?"
Her eyebrows go up. "Why that piece?"
"It's...comforting."
She regards me for a moment, then nods. "Sure."
This is the second time I'm listening to it within a few minutes, and I wonder if the second time is going to be as good as the first. It usually isn't.
Her fingers start moving. The rapid notes flow like the gentle murmuring of a clear stream in spring, and the second time is better like the previous one was just a warm-up.
When she's finished, I murmur, "Perfect. Brilliant yeh."
Her cheeks flush, pleasure shining in her eyes. She leans a little closer, then squints at me. Maybe she's recognized who I am.
I want to ask her her name and if she has an interest in making some recordings. I'll pay all the expenses.
Better yet, she can play it once more now, and I'll record it with my phone.
But before I can make the suggestion, an airport-wide announcement calling for some flight comes over the speaker system. She jerks looks up, then checks her phone.
"That's my flight," she says and steps down from the stage.
Fuck, no, no, no.
"Wait," I say as the announcement continues in English. I catch something about Los Angeles, and I place my hand on her elbow. "Are you going to L.A.?"
"Yes. Are you on my flight?"
"No. I'm on the next one." Mine better be the next flight. "Here." On sheer impulse, I pull out my card and hand it to her. "I live in the city, so call me if you want to hang out or...whatever."
She takes the card but doesn't look at it. "But why? You don't know me."
"Any woman who can play Schubert like that is worth getting to know."
She smiles. Her entire demeanor changes from prim and slightly standoffish to warm and friendly. It reminds me of the happy feeling you get when the sky's cloudless and the breeze is just cool enough to be refreshing.
"Okay." She puts the card in her purse. "Gotta go. Don't be shocked if I do call you." She waves as she starts walking off.
"I'll try not to faint," I murmur. I'm never shocked when women call. It always happens within twenty-four hours, like they're afraid if they make me wait too long I might lose interest. No reason this pianist will be any different.
As she vanishes into the crowd, I realize I didn't get her name. But it doesn't matter. I'll have it soon enough.