A Different Blue (25 page)

“What if he had?”

“Had what? Asked me to marry him? Get real, Wilson.”

“Would you want to keep your baby then?”

“And we could be a happy little family?” I squeaked, incredulous. “It's bad enough that this baby has our combined DNA. It doesn't deserve to be raised by us, too.

“Ahh, Blue. You wouldn't be a bad mother.”

“I wonder if that's what someone told my mother when she found out she was pregnant with me.”

Wilson swung his head around, surprise evident on his handsome face. I shrugged, pretending nonchalance. I didn't know if I would be a bad mother. I didn't know if I would be a good mother. But I knew I wouldn't be as good a mother as Tiffa Snook, not yet anyway. And that was the bottom line.

Thursday came. I had slept poorly all week, worried that Mason would show up with his parents in tow and that they would sue for custody of my unborn child. If that happened, I would be keeping my baby. Giving her up to Tiffa and Jack was one thing. Giving her to Mason and his parents was another. But Mason was unaccompanied in the courtroom when I arrived Thursday morning. He was an adult and didn't need permission for what he was about to do. I wondered if he had even told his parents. He wore a tie and a shell-shocked expression, and I felt bad all over again.

When the judge questioned him, making sure he understood his rights as well as the rights he was terminating, he nodded and then looked at me. I didn't sense anger anymore. He just seemed stunned. With a notary looking on, he signed the documents, and Tiffa and Jack hugged each other tightly as if they too had been terrified of a derailment. I felt faint with relief and struggled to hold back a sudden flood of emotion. As soon as the proceedings were over, I found Mason. I owed him that much.

“Thank you, Mason,” I said quietly, extending my hand.

Mason slowly took my outstretched hand in his. “Why didn't you tell me sooner, Blue? I know we were never serious, but I . . . I wanted to be.”

It was my turn for shock. “You did?” I never thought Mason liked anything about me but the sex. It occurred to me then that my low opinion of myself may have blinded me to his true feelings.

“I know I can be an asshole. I drink too much, I say things I shouldn't, and I get mad too easy. But you could have told me.”

“I should have,” I acquiesced. We stood awkwardly, looking everywhere but at each other.

“It's better this way, Mason,” I suggested softly. He looked at me then and nodded.

“Yeah. I know. But maybe someday you'll give me another chance.”

No. I wouldn't. Mason was part of a past I didn't want to repeat. But I nodded noncommitally, grateful that there was peace between us.

“Take care of yourself, Blue.”

“You too, Mason.” I turned and made my way to the door. Mason called out behind me, and his voice seemed awfully loud in the almost empty courtroom.

“I never pictured you with a guy like Adam.”

I turned and shrugged. “Neither did I, Mason. Maybe that's part of my problem.”

Chapter Eighteen

“Why is your recliner in the middle of the floor?”

“I like to sit under the vent.”

“Are you cold? Don't be shy about turning up the thermostat. This little space isn't exactly expensive to heat.”

“Wilson. It's August in Nevada. I'm not cold.”

“So . . . why is the recliner in the middle of the floor?” Wilson insisted.

“I like hearing you play at night,” I admitted easily, much to my surprise. I hadn't planned to tell him. “The sound travels through the vent.

“You like to hear me play?” Wilson sounded shocked.

“Sure,” I said easily, shrugging as if it was no big deal. “It's nice.” Nice was an understatement. “I just keep wishing you would play something by Willie,” I teased.

Wilson looked crestfallen. “Willie?”

“Yes, Willie,” I insisted, trying not to giggle. “Willie Nelson is one of the greatest songwriters of all time.”

“Huh,” Wilson said, scratching his head. “I guess I'm not that familiar with his . . . work.”

He looked so flummoxed that I couldn't help myself and burst out laughing. “Willie Nelson is a country singer – an old-timer. Jimmy loved him. Actually, Jimmy kind of looked like him, just with darker skin and less scruff. Jimmy had the braids and the bandana, though, and he had every album Willie had ever put out. We listened to those songs over and over.” I didn't really feel like laughing anymore and abruptly changed the subject.

“There's one song you play that I especially like,” I ventured.

“Really? Hum a bit.”

“I can't hum, sing, dance, or recite poetry, Wilson.”

“Just a bit, so I know which tune you like.”

I cleared my throat, scrunched my eyes closed, and tried to think of the tune. It was there in my head, like a cool stream of water. Beautiful. I attempted a couple of notes, and gaining confidence, hummed a few more, still with my eyes closed. I felt quite pleased with myself and opened one eye to see how my humming had been received.

Wilson's face was bright red, and he was shaking with laughter. “I don't have a clue what song you're humming, luv. Maybe you should hum a few more bars until I have it.”

“You . . . jerk!” I fumed, slapping at him as he laughed harder. “I told you I couldn't sing! Stop it!”

“No . . . really, it was brilliant!” he wheezed, warding me off. I gave up with a huff and started dragging my recliner from the middle of the floor, indicating I wouldn't be listening anymore, now that he'd gone and embarrassed me.

“Come on, I'm sorry. Here. I'll hum now so you can poke fun at me.” He pulled the chair back directly under the vent. “Sit right here and put your feet up.” He pushed me down gently into the chair, and lifted my feet so they were propped on the recliner's footrest. “Even better, I'll run up and get my cello, and I'll bring it down and I'll play for you.”

“Not interested,” I lied. The thought of him playing his cello for me made me feel slightly breathless and lightheaded. Thankfully, he just laughed and jogged out of my apartment. I could hear him flying up the stairs and his door bang above me. In minutes he was back, carrying the huge cello case. He snagged one of my armless kitchen chairs, sat down in front of me, and pulled out his shiny black cello. He proceeded to tune and tighten his strings as I watched, trying to hide my anticipation.

“Perfect.” Apparently satisfied, he began to run his bow over the strings, finding a melody. His eyes met mine. “When you hear it, tell me.”

“Why don't you just play . . . the way you do when you're alone. I'll just listen.” I gave up any pretense of not being interested.

“You want me to practice?” He stopped playing abruptly.

“Yeah. Just do what you do every night.”

“I practice for at least an hour most nights.” It was spoken like a challenge, and I responded immediately.

“I know.” And I did, very well. “But tell me the names as you go, so that when I hear you practice from now on, I will know what you're playing. It will be educational,” I added, knowing it would make him laugh. It did. “I'm all about education, ya know.”

“Yes, quite. The girl who couldn't wait to come to my class each day, so eager to listen and to learn.”

If he only knew. But he just grinned at me and lifted his hands to play once more. He needed a haircut again. A chestnut curl slid into his eyes, and he impatiently pushed it back. He tipped his head to the side as if the cello he held was a lover, whispering a secret. His wand slid across the strings, and he launched into a melody. The sound was so sweet and sensuous – the low, trembling tones blending into one another – that I almost sighed out loud. The music filled the room and pushed against my heart, demanding entrance.

“Do you know this?” he asked as he played.

“Mary Had a Little Lamb?”

“Ever the cheeky one, aren't you?” he sighed, but a smile hovered around his lips and his eyelids drooped closed as he continued to play. I watched him, the length of his lashes against his cheek, the lean jaw emphasized by the slight shadow of a day's beard. His face was serene, lost in the music that he was creating. And I marveled that he had become my friend. I wondered if there were other men like him. Men who loved history and carried handkerchiefs and opened doors for girls . . . even girls like me. I didn't know anyone like him. I wondered again about Pamela and whether he was in love with her.

“This is Brahms.” His eyes blinked open, refocusing on my face. I nodded, and he sank back into reverie. One song bled into another, and I let my own eyes close as I listened. I felt heavy with peace and well-being, and I curled more deeply into the chair.

And then I felt a thump. Oomph! I looked down in wonder, puzzled at the nudging against my abdomen. The sensation came again and I gasped,

“Wilson! Wilson come here! The baby . . . is . . . dancing!”

Wilson was at my side, kneeling almost before the words had left my mouth. He reached for me, and I pressed his hand to my belly, guiding it toward the movement. I had felt the baby move many times, but not like this.

“There! There! Feel that?” Wilson's eyes were as wide as saucers. We both held our breath and waited. A nudge and then a kick.

“Ouch!” I laughed, “You had to have felt that!” Wilson moved his other hand to cup my stomach more firmly, and he settled his cheek against me, listening. For several seconds his head was cradled against me, dark curls bent over me, and I resisted the urge to run my hand through his hair. The baby was still, yet Wilson seemed reluctant to pull away.

“It was the music,” I whispered, hoping to keep him close, just for a minute more. “You were playing the song we like.”

Wilson looked up at me, and our faces were so close it would have been so easy to lean into him. So easy . . . and completely impossible. He looked surprised by my nearness and immediately pulled away.

“That was the song?” A smile lit his face.

“Yes. What was it?” I asked

“Bob Dylan.”

“What?!” I wailed. “I thought it was going to be Beethoven or something. Now I know I'm white trash.”

Wilson bopped me on the head with his bow. “It's called 'Make You Feel my Love.' It's one of my favorite songs. I embellish it a bit, but it's all Dylan, definitely not Mozart. The lyrics are brilliant. Listen.” Wilson sang softly as he played. His voice was as rich as the moaning cello .

“Of course,” I said sourly.

“What?” Wilson stopped, startled.

“You can sing. You have a beautiful voice. I can't even pretend that you suck. Why can't you suck at something? It's so unfair.”

“You clearly haven't seen me try to carve something intricate and beautiful out of a tree stump,” Wilson said dryly, and started playing again. I resumed listening, but the music made my fingers itch to carve.

“If you would practice in the basement every night, I could listen to you while I carve. Then, I would make sculptures that looked like your music sounds. We could make millions together. You would be my muse, Wilson. Can men be muses?”

Wilson smiled, but his eyes again wore that unfocused look, as if his power to see was absorbed by his need to hear. I closed my eyes too, letting myself drift away in a sea of sound. I awoke hours later to silence. My apple green throw was tucked around me, and Wilson and his magic cello were gone.