Sweet Memories by Lavyrle Spencer Page B

nice,” he praised softly, and she became conscious of that warm hand resting where the strap of her bra cut a deep, painful groove into her flesh. “I seem to remember an old movie that used that as its theme song.”
    “The Eddy Duchin Story.”
    The hand slipped away, making her wish it had stayed. “Yes, that was it. Tyrone Power and ...” She heard his fingers fillip beside her ear and swung around on the bench to face him, again tucking her palms between her knees.
    “Kim Novak.”
    “That’s it. Kim Novak.” He noted her pose, the way she rounded her shoulders to minimize the prominence of her breasts, and it took an effort for him to keep his eyes on her face.
    “It’s Chopin. One of my favorites.”
    “I’ll remember that. Chopin. Do you play Chopin tonight, too?”
    He stood very close to her, and Theresa raised her eyes to meet his gaze. From this angle, the shoulder-to-shoulder seam across his white jersey made his torso appear inordinately broad and tapered. His voice was honey smooth and soft. Most of the time he spoke that way, which was a balm to her ears after the affectionate grate of Jeff’s clamorousness and her mother’s usual bawling forte.
    “No, tonight we do all Christmas music. I believe we’re starting with ‘Joy to the World’ and then a little-known French carol. We follow that with ...” She realized he probably couldn’t care less what they were playing tonight, and buttoned her lip.
    “With?”
    “Nothing. Just the usual Christmas stuff.”
    She was becoming rattled by his nearness and the studied way he seemed to be itemizing her features, as if listing them selectively in credit and debit columns within his head. She suddenly wished she knew how to apply makeup as cleverly as Amy, picturing her colorless eyelashes, and her too-colorful cheeks, knowing Brian could detect her many shortcomings altogether too clearly at such close range.
    “I have to peel potatoes for supper.” Having dredged up that excuse, she slid off the bench and escaped to the kitchen, where she donned a cobbler’s apron to protect her white blouse as she worked.
    A short time later her mother and father returned from work, and in the suppertime confusion, the quiet moment with Brian slipped to the back of Theresa’s mind. But as she prepared to flee the house with violin case under the arm of her gray coat, she came to a halt in the middle of the kitchen. There stood Brian with a dish towel in his hands, and Amy, with her arms buried in suds, having uttered not a word of her usual complaints at having the job foisted on her.
    “I’m sorry I had to eat and run, but we have to be in our chairs ready to tune up by six forty-five.”
    Jeff was on the phone, talking with Patricia. “Just a minute—” He broke off, and lowered the receiver. “Hey, sis, do good, okay?”
    She gave him a thumbs-up sign with one fat, red mitten and as she headed toward the door, found it held open by Brian, his other hand buried inside a dish towel and glass he’d been wiping.
    “Good luck,” he said softly, his green eyes lingering upon her in a way the resurrected the closeness they’d shared at the piano earlier. The cold air rushed about their ankles, but neither seemed to notice as they gazed at each other, and Theresa felt as if Chopin’s music was playing within her heart.
    “Thanks,” she said at last. “And thanks for taking over for me with the dishes.”
    “Anytime.” He smiled, grazed her chin with a touch so light she wondered if she’d imagined it as she turned into the brisk night that cooled her heated cheeks.
    __________
     
    THE ANNUAL CHRISTMAS CONCERT  of the Burnsville Civic Orchestra was held each year at the Burnsville Senior High School auditorium. The risers were set up and the curtains left open as the musicians made their way to their places amid the metallic premusic of clanking stands and metal folding chairs. The conductor arrived and tuning began. The incessant drone of the