at him, she said, “Thank you,” surprising herself when, again, she had to blink back tears.
He gazed down at her. “Are you all right?”
She opened her mouth but nothing came out.
Shaking his head, he said, almost more to himself than to her, “There's something about you that catches something deep inside me and pulls, and I just don't know what to make of it.”
Her heart seemed to jump up in her throat. She hoped she wasn't making him uncomfortable with what must seem to him to be her extreme strangeness. “I apologize, Mr. ... I mean, Wilhelm...” Damn it, what was wrong with her? “I didn't mean to pounce on you the way I did.” She hadn't meant to do that. All she'd had in mind was being with him during a time in which he had many more years to live, not mere hours or, at most, a day.
That wasn't exactly the kind of thing you said to an incredibly handsome, virile man to whom you were attracted like a hummingbird to nectar. She had promised herself to tell him the truth when the time came. How would she find the heart, though, to tell him everything? Not just that she had come from what was, to him, the future, but that in that future, he was very nearly a dead man?
Everyone knew they would die someday. But was Maestro ready to know where, when, and how?
Maybe she should leave that part out.
“Don't worry, Miss Anna,” Maestro said. “You didn't pounce. But I can't figure you out, or why I feel like I ought to know you. And I'm worried about you. I don't understand why, but maybe...” He paused as though he wanted to say much more, but added only, “Maybe we can talk about it.”
“Yes,” she said. For sure. She didn't like hiding the truth from him, no matter how fantastical it would strike him. He had shown great forbearance and patience with her while she was growing up; she expected he would show her the same now, when they were both adults.
“I'll take care of you,” he said again and put an arm around her shoulder. He was so much taller that she could just about tuck herself into the crook of his arm. When he'd grown older, he'd lost some of his height, but now, he had to be about six feet, two inches tall. By comparison, Annasophia was a shrimp at five feet, two inches. She allowed herself to rub her cheek against his starched, linen shirt, then she smiled up at him, though she was sure her tears still glistened in her eyes. Maybe he wouldn't be able to see.
But he saw. She could tell by how the hard lines of his face softened.
Yes, he would take care of her. He always had.
She wanted to take care of Maestro, too, and be by elder Maestro's side when he passed away. The question was, though, how long could she stay here? It stood to reason, at least to her reason, that she should be able to stay here with him for the rest of his life, and be by his side when he died. By remaining with Maestro in his timeline, she had to be creating something like another reality, in which they had been not teacher and student, but... what? Close friends? Perhaps even lovers? Maybe even – she gulped at the thought – husband and wife?
Don't think about that.
Husband and wife . The words slammed her heart like a thunderbolt. Even though Maestro and Elena were divorced in 1973, the following year, 1974, was the year of Matt's birth. What had happened to bring Maestro and Elena back together, Annasophia had never really understood, but clearly, for a time, the two of them had gotten back together, and for Matt to exist, they would have to reconcile very soon.
If Annasophia stayed here – at the hotel, in Maestro's time – and kept him from reconciling with Elena, then Matt would never be born.
She shuddered. She loved Maestro. She wanted to stay here with him and maybe get lucky enough to have a life with him. But she couldn't do that to Matt. He was her friend, her loyal friend, and as much as she wanted to stay and fix things so she and Maestro could have a lifetime together, she couldn't
He gazed down at her. “Are you all right?”
She opened her mouth but nothing came out.
Shaking his head, he said, almost more to himself than to her, “There's something about you that catches something deep inside me and pulls, and I just don't know what to make of it.”
Her heart seemed to jump up in her throat. She hoped she wasn't making him uncomfortable with what must seem to him to be her extreme strangeness. “I apologize, Mr. ... I mean, Wilhelm...” Damn it, what was wrong with her? “I didn't mean to pounce on you the way I did.” She hadn't meant to do that. All she'd had in mind was being with him during a time in which he had many more years to live, not mere hours or, at most, a day.
That wasn't exactly the kind of thing you said to an incredibly handsome, virile man to whom you were attracted like a hummingbird to nectar. She had promised herself to tell him the truth when the time came. How would she find the heart, though, to tell him everything? Not just that she had come from what was, to him, the future, but that in that future, he was very nearly a dead man?
Everyone knew they would die someday. But was Maestro ready to know where, when, and how?
Maybe she should leave that part out.
“Don't worry, Miss Anna,” Maestro said. “You didn't pounce. But I can't figure you out, or why I feel like I ought to know you. And I'm worried about you. I don't understand why, but maybe...” He paused as though he wanted to say much more, but added only, “Maybe we can talk about it.”
“Yes,” she said. For sure. She didn't like hiding the truth from him, no matter how fantastical it would strike him. He had shown great forbearance and patience with her while she was growing up; she expected he would show her the same now, when they were both adults.
“I'll take care of you,” he said again and put an arm around her shoulder. He was so much taller that she could just about tuck herself into the crook of his arm. When he'd grown older, he'd lost some of his height, but now, he had to be about six feet, two inches tall. By comparison, Annasophia was a shrimp at five feet, two inches. She allowed herself to rub her cheek against his starched, linen shirt, then she smiled up at him, though she was sure her tears still glistened in her eyes. Maybe he wouldn't be able to see.
But he saw. She could tell by how the hard lines of his face softened.
Yes, he would take care of her. He always had.
She wanted to take care of Maestro, too, and be by elder Maestro's side when he passed away. The question was, though, how long could she stay here? It stood to reason, at least to her reason, that she should be able to stay here with him for the rest of his life, and be by his side when he died. By remaining with Maestro in his timeline, she had to be creating something like another reality, in which they had been not teacher and student, but... what? Close friends? Perhaps even lovers? Maybe even – she gulped at the thought – husband and wife?
Don't think about that.
Husband and wife . The words slammed her heart like a thunderbolt. Even though Maestro and Elena were divorced in 1973, the following year, 1974, was the year of Matt's birth. What had happened to bring Maestro and Elena back together, Annasophia had never really understood, but clearly, for a time, the two of them had gotten back together, and for Matt to exist, they would have to reconcile very soon.
If Annasophia stayed here – at the hotel, in Maestro's time – and kept him from reconciling with Elena, then Matt would never be born.
She shuddered. She loved Maestro. She wanted to stay here with him and maybe get lucky enough to have a life with him. But she couldn't do that to Matt. He was her friend, her loyal friend, and as much as she wanted to stay and fix things so she and Maestro could have a lifetime together, she couldn't
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