A Cowboy For Christmas. Rachel LeeЧитать онлайн книгу.
at the sight of him. Guilty and maybe a little silly, like a fan with a crush. She’d even sneaked online to listen to a couple of his songs, to learn something about the music that was so important to him. Listening, she had wondered how she’d managed to miss this phenom for so long.
But it was her guilty secret and pleasure. She didn’t want to lose her job because she acted like a star-struck fool around him, nor did she want to cause the kinds of problems Regina had mentioned. She did wonder, however, if he felt as used as Regina had sensed. That would be awful.
She ought to know. She felt she had been used by Porter and Joan. How long must they have been carrying on behind her back? Using her for cover to prevent talk? She had no idea, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.
Bad enough that she felt branded by shame. She wasn’t going to make it worse be allowing herself to go overboard about Rory. She was just a housekeeper. She needed to remember that.
But Rory didn’t come into the kitchen. She heard music coming from the piano in the living room and perked up, listening. It was a gentle melody, almost mournful, yet achingly beautiful.
Regina fell silent, listening, too. Then she hopped up and went to the living room.
Abby didn’t feel she had the right to follow, but the melody, soon accompanied by some minor chords, held her riveted.
A weight fell on Abby’s thigh and she looked down to see that Rally had laid his head there. Not since that one night had he come into her room, but now he looked up with those sad eyes, as if asking for something.
She scratched his huge head. His tail wagged, but only a little. Was he hungry? Regina always fed him at dinnertime and it was still too early. Maybe a treat?
The melody still drifted from the living room, but the dog’s intervention broke the spell and she rose. There were treats in the pantry, and no one had told her she couldn’t give one to the dog. A soft bacon chew settled him down, then she leaned against the doorway listening to the music.
She could hear the stops and restarts as Rory seemed to be searching for something just right. She heard no voices, just the music. It would have been nice to keep on listening, but inevitably she remembered she had a job and needed to figure out a fast dinner.
Sighing, she began to hunt in the refrigerator and pantry when she would have vastly preferred to creep into the living room and just sit and listen.
Magic was being created out there, and she wished she could be part of it.
Dinner was a tossed-together affair. Rory didn’t return to his studio, but instead staked out the living room and piano. Eventually Regina popped into the kitchen to say good-night. That was Abby’s cue to head for her apartment.
But just as she was turning out the light, Rory’s voice startled her from across the foyer. “What do you think?”
She paused, her hand on the switch. “The music?”
He smiled faintly. “The almost music, yes.”
“It’s beautiful. I love it.”
“It’s mournful.” He paused. “Sometimes I guess you need to mourn. Unless you’re busy, come and sit with me. I’d like your reactions.”
Her reactions? She knew nothing about music at all. But the desire to be with him overrode every other consideration. “Coffee?” she asked.
“Yeah, I’ll probably be up most of the night. Thanks.”
So she brewed another pot and ten minutes later carried two hot mugs into the living room. He was sitting at the piano, staring into space, noodling some keys. She wondered where to put his coffee, but he pointed to a nearby end table without saying anything. Then she sat in one of those huge chairs with hers.
He continued to stare at nothing, probably more involved with what was going on inside him as he touched occasional keys as if trying them out. He seemed lost in another world, and she wondered why he needed her at all.
She rested her coffee on the end table, then closed her eyes and let her head fall back. Interrupted though the music was, often changing to random notes as if he were seeking something, she found it easy to let it carry her away. A while later he spoke.
“Abby?”
She opened her eyes without moving her head. “Yes?”
“Were you sleeping?”
“No, I was listening.” She turned her head just enough to see him, thinking how gorgeous he was. She hadn’t met many men who looked like a feast for the eyes. This one did.
“What do you think? Is it like a dirge?”
That popped her head up. “Not at all. It’s melancholy, but a beautiful melancholy. It’s kind of like...” She hesitated. “I shouldn’t say anything. I don’t know music.”
“Most of the people I play and sing for don’t know music. They know what they like is all. I’m not asking a technical question. I want to know how it makes you feel.”
She rolled her head a little more. “Play the melody part again. With the chords.”
So he did, letting the notes ripple through the room. It stopped too soon.
“So?” he asked.
“It makes me feel like I’m drifting on a warm, slow river all by myself. It’s pretty, but kind of lonely.” Making those statements seemed awfully bold, but they were as true an expression as she could find.
He nodded. “It’s not my usual,” he admitted. “But it’s my heart.”
Touched, she felt an unexpected sadness for him. So he felt lonesome, too? But then she wondered if everyone didn’t at times. As if something was lacking or missing. She gathered her courage. “It’s like looking for something you can’t quite remember.”
His smile grew. “That’s it. That’s what I was trying for.”
“Then you succeeded because I think it’s going to follow me into my dreams. It’s...haunting.”
“It’ll drive my manager and agent crazy.” He sighed and turned back to the keyboard, running through it again, his fingers delicate on the keys. A rippling current of music and magic ran through the room.
“There’s a part of me,” he said as he played, “that vanished a long time ago. That’s what I came back here to find.” As he spoke, his baritone began to echo the music. Not lyrics, not yet, but she guessed they were starting to come to him.
He stopped playing and held out an arm toward her. “Come sit over here with me,” he said. “I think we’re both a little mournful and wistful.”
Nervously, but feeling a kind of hope anyway, she rose and walked over. He drew her down on the bench beside him until their shoulders were touching.
“Lost long ago. Homesickness for something we can’t quite remember. Dreams?”
She wasn’t sure how to answer. He began playing again, and she watched his hands glide over the keys. This time he played the haunting melody more strongly, and this time he didn’t pause as missing notes seemed to spring from his fingertips. When he finished, the last notes trailed slowly away.
Then he smiled at her, causing her heart to leap. “You’re a great Muse,” he said. “And I’ve stolen your evening. Sorry.”
“You just gave me a wonderful gift. I loved it.” The words came straight from her heart. She felt blessed to have shared this with him, to have entered however briefly into his creative process and to have been one of the first to hear a truly incredible piece of music.
Much as she didn’t want to, she rose to go to her rooms. She sensed he wanted to be alone now. The haunting notes of the melody followed her all the way down the hall to her quarters. She was reluctant to leave them behind, but since she’d taken to