5
“Rudolph!” a little girl in a red winter coat yelled, holiday excitement shimmering in her eyes as she jumped up and down, holding her mother’s hand. “Pwease pway Rudolph!”
Sylvie smiled towards the child and complied – after all, the kid had used the magic word. Despite Sylvie’s recent traumatic experience with red noses, Last Christmas morphed easily into Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer . It wasn’t quite seamless, but you couldn’t have everything, and her audience didn’t seem to mind.
This wasn’t too bad. She’d survived yesterday, and this morning had been pretty uneventful too. She was getting to the point of relaxing at the piano, even with half the city’s children running back and forth around her.
She was probably playing Rudolph for the third time that morning. It was quite amazing how few Christmas songs there actually were when you had to play them for hours on end. And even more amazing how her young audience would request the same three or four all the time.
The piano was wonderful though. An expensive brand, gleaming and polished, almost new from the look of it. No cola stains, no false notes, no chips and cracks. Thanks to the platform – she had to climb a ladder to get here – it didn’t even have millions of little fingerprints all over it.
She’d played in stores before, mostly department stores, and in comparison, this was a dream. The acoustics were better than most places, and the platform meant minimal interruptions. Sometimes the kids even stopped to look and listen, their attention drawn away from the lure of the toys all around them. Some would shout requests, and she was glad to oblige – as long as there was a vague Christmas theme. Okay, so it wasn’t a concert hall, wasn’t Beethoven or Chopin, but all in all it could be worse.
On the downside, she’d already played Jingle Bells so often that she’d probably be hearing it in her nightmares for weeks.
“Hey!”
Her fingers faltered, striking the wrong chord and then another one, before she recovered. Very unprofessional, but then her gorgeous boss was standing in the ladder, his head and shoulder clearing the platform, and he still had the strangest effect on the butterflies who’d moved into her stomach. She smiled back at him before she remembered he’d pulled a rotten trick on her, and deserved to be punished.
She reined in her imagination before it started suggesting suitable punishment and instead greeted Nick cheerfully. Punishment would come later. When he least expected it – and not sooner. It was Grandma Alex’s way. “Good morning, Mr. Falcon.”
He frowned at her. “Nick.”
She smiled demurely back at him, didn’t argue, but didn’t acquiesce, either. Nobody else around here referred to him as Nick. Why should she?
“Time for a break?” he suggested. “How about lunch?”
“Lunch?” she repeated. Her brain tended to slow down around him. Very annoying. It meant she had to buy time by repeating what he’d just said, and sounding like a parrot. Probably a polka-dot parrot.
Nick tilted his head to the side. “I know you said you were a starving artist, but you do eat, right? You don’t have an ethical objection to food?”
“Eh... no. I mean yes. I do eat. Occasionally.”
His smile flashed again. “Great. It’s on me. We’ve got that contract to sign, so it’s business. Come on down.”
When the boss offered a break and free food, you didn’t protest. She reverently put the lid down over the keys. This was one gorgeous instrument. What a waste, sticking it in the middle of a huge store where it only got a workout around holidays. It didn’t belong here. It belonged somewhere else. It belonged someplace it would be appreciated.
Like, say, her living room.
She climbed down the ladder with Nick waiting below; double glad she’d worn trousers this morning.
“Is the piano okay?” Nick asked, and she paused on the second-to-last rung, because he was standing
“Rudolph!” a little girl in a red winter coat yelled, holiday excitement shimmering in her eyes as she jumped up and down, holding her mother’s hand. “Pwease pway Rudolph!”
Sylvie smiled towards the child and complied – after all, the kid had used the magic word. Despite Sylvie’s recent traumatic experience with red noses, Last Christmas morphed easily into Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer . It wasn’t quite seamless, but you couldn’t have everything, and her audience didn’t seem to mind.
This wasn’t too bad. She’d survived yesterday, and this morning had been pretty uneventful too. She was getting to the point of relaxing at the piano, even with half the city’s children running back and forth around her.
She was probably playing Rudolph for the third time that morning. It was quite amazing how few Christmas songs there actually were when you had to play them for hours on end. And even more amazing how her young audience would request the same three or four all the time.
The piano was wonderful though. An expensive brand, gleaming and polished, almost new from the look of it. No cola stains, no false notes, no chips and cracks. Thanks to the platform – she had to climb a ladder to get here – it didn’t even have millions of little fingerprints all over it.
She’d played in stores before, mostly department stores, and in comparison, this was a dream. The acoustics were better than most places, and the platform meant minimal interruptions. Sometimes the kids even stopped to look and listen, their attention drawn away from the lure of the toys all around them. Some would shout requests, and she was glad to oblige – as long as there was a vague Christmas theme. Okay, so it wasn’t a concert hall, wasn’t Beethoven or Chopin, but all in all it could be worse.
On the downside, she’d already played Jingle Bells so often that she’d probably be hearing it in her nightmares for weeks.
“Hey!”
Her fingers faltered, striking the wrong chord and then another one, before she recovered. Very unprofessional, but then her gorgeous boss was standing in the ladder, his head and shoulder clearing the platform, and he still had the strangest effect on the butterflies who’d moved into her stomach. She smiled back at him before she remembered he’d pulled a rotten trick on her, and deserved to be punished.
She reined in her imagination before it started suggesting suitable punishment and instead greeted Nick cheerfully. Punishment would come later. When he least expected it – and not sooner. It was Grandma Alex’s way. “Good morning, Mr. Falcon.”
He frowned at her. “Nick.”
She smiled demurely back at him, didn’t argue, but didn’t acquiesce, either. Nobody else around here referred to him as Nick. Why should she?
“Time for a break?” he suggested. “How about lunch?”
“Lunch?” she repeated. Her brain tended to slow down around him. Very annoying. It meant she had to buy time by repeating what he’d just said, and sounding like a parrot. Probably a polka-dot parrot.
Nick tilted his head to the side. “I know you said you were a starving artist, but you do eat, right? You don’t have an ethical objection to food?”
“Eh... no. I mean yes. I do eat. Occasionally.”
His smile flashed again. “Great. It’s on me. We’ve got that contract to sign, so it’s business. Come on down.”
When the boss offered a break and free food, you didn’t protest. She reverently put the lid down over the keys. This was one gorgeous instrument. What a waste, sticking it in the middle of a huge store where it only got a workout around holidays. It didn’t belong here. It belonged somewhere else. It belonged someplace it would be appreciated.
Like, say, her living room.
She climbed down the ladder with Nick waiting below; double glad she’d worn trousers this morning.
“Is the piano okay?” Nick asked, and she paused on the second-to-last rung, because he was standing
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