Timekeeper (8 page)

“Come on, you guys. We should get to class,” said Caissie, following her gaze.

Ben fell into step with them and they had no choice but to face Philip and Kaya, who were approaching the same classroom from the opposite end of the hall. Philip met Michele’s eyes, and Ben chose that moment to snake his arm around her shoulder. Philip looked away, but not before furrowing his brow at the sight of Ben’s arm around her.

What if I’m the only one who ever remembers?

For the third straight lunch in a row, Michele had the misfortune of watching the Philip & Kaya Show. It was enough to dull all other emotions, even her fear of Rebecca and the battle that she knew lay ahead of her.

What if it’s just me who feels the missing touch, hears the sound of laughter long gone, and sees the two of us in a forgotten New York?

Philip seemed to look through Michele, his expression unfazed and innocent, and it was that ambivalence that seemed to mock her.
Could he be playing a role … or did he actually forget me?

She couldn’t look away. Philip’s blue eyes sparkled as he and Kaya shared a joke. He broke into his signature smile, and for the first time, Michele found it heartbreaking.
But then, isn’t
that always the case with a smile—when you know it’s not meant for you?

She wished she could stop this speeding train of jealousy, but she couldn’t help it. To have him back, just as he’d promised, but not remember what they once had? It was as though Time was playing a particularly cruel trick.

And then his glance met hers. She’d been caught staring, but she held her gaze. So did Philip. She noticed Kaya touching his arm, trying to regain his focus, but he looked at Michele a moment longer than he should have before turning back to his lunch date.

It was a small victory, but she savored it. He couldn’t have forgotten her completely.

As Michele walked to study hall that afternoon, she was stopped by a lilting melody echoing off the school walls. The piano keys sounded like they were flying, dancing, and then wailing in a breathtaking blur of music. Michele knew of just one person who could play like that.

She turned around, breaking into a run as she followed the noise through the hallway. As the piano playing grew more frenzied, she reached the door to a room she hadn’t seen before. Gingerly stepping inside, she found herself in some sort of choir room, filled with music stands and band equipment. In the corner of the room, his hands moving majestically over the piano while his body swayed to the rhythm, was Philip.

Michele’s eyes closed. For a moment she was transported back to 1910, to the candlelit nights in the Walkers’ music
salon, sitting beside Philip as he played his newest compositions just for her. When she blinked her eyes open, she almost expected to find herself inside the extravagant Walker Mansion instead of the casual school choir room. The sight of Philip in the Berkshire uniform of khaki pants and navy blue polo shirt, instead of his black suit and white tie, jarred her senses. The only thing that hadn’t changed was his playing, which sounded as incredible as when she first heard it—as beautiful as it had been last night, in 1934.

Philip glanced up. Upon seeing Michele his hands froze, cutting the song off abruptly.

“I didn’t see you there.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I heard the piano and … I just had to see who was playing.”

Philip couldn’t help smiling, and Michele’s breath caught in her throat. It was the first real smile he had given her since arriving at Berkshire, and it gave her the confidence to take a step closer to the piano.

“The way you play—it reminds me of someone,” she began.

Philip looked away. “Not that same guy you thought I was the other day?”

Michele let out a nervous chuckle. “You sound just like the pianist Phoenix Warren.”

Philip studied the keys. “Funny—my piano teacher says the same thing.”

Now
—now
is the time to show him the sheet music
, Michele thought. But something held her back. She felt a disconcerting distance between them, as though they had only just met, and
she wondered if the clue might go over better after having a real conversation.

“What were you playing?” she asked. “I loved it.”

“You did?” Philip looked pleased. “I wrote it.”

Michele stifled a gasp.
Philip was right
. There would never be a version of him in any Time that wasn’t a musician. If she’d had the slightest doubt that the two were one and the same, she was now more convinced of their connection than ever.

“What kind of music do you write?” Michele made a valiant effort to keep her voice steady.

“Everything. Classical and jazz are my favorites to play, but I write a lot of pop and rock.”

“Do you perform your own stuff?”

Philip laughed. “Nah, I’m not the greatest singer. I write for other artists.”

Michele watched him in fascination. She could tell by his ease that this new Philip had more confidence about his music than the eighteen-year-old she had known in 1910. It was as though the twenty-first century had given him a new fortitude.

“Who were you writing that song for?”

“Ashley Nichol,” Philip replied. Michele’s eyebrows shot up at the name of the twenty-year-old Grammy winner. “I’ve sold two other songs to her, but she hasn’t done anything with them yet.”

“Third time’s got to be the charm, then.” Michele smiled. “That’s really amazing, though, to be selling songs to a major artist when you’re still in high school! How did you do it?”

“Thanks. Well, I’ve been writing and playing forever, and one night two years ago I got a gig opening for a singer/songwriter
friend at Joe’s Pub. This was obviously before I realized I wasn’t cut out to be a singer.” He grinned. “But a music publisher happened to be in the audience that night, and she liked my songs and signed me to a deal. Since then, I’ve been recording demos after school and on the weekends, and she pitches them to artists. It’s been really cool,” he said modestly.

“I’ll say.” Michele took a deep breath before asking the question. “Do you write everything yourself? Music and lyrics?”

“Yeah, but I’m a lot better at the music,” Philip admitted. “My publisher keeps trying to set me up with different lyricists, but I haven’t really felt it with any of them.”

Michele’s mouth fell open. Philip’s words from last night in 1934 echoed in her ears.
“This is the way to remind him of us, and of who he used to be. After all, writing music together is how we fell in love.”
It felt as though he had somehow orchestrated all of this from the past, providing her with an opening back into his life.

“How about giving me an audition?” she asked lightly. Philip’s expression turned wary, and Michele quickly added, “No pressure. It’s just that I’ve been writing lyrics for as long as I can remember, and I have the opposite problem you do—I’m way more skilled with words than music.”

Philip gave her an amused smile. “Okay, why not. I’ll just keep playing the song and I guess we’ll see what you come up with.”

As he played the tender melody, a title came to Michele immediately. “I Remember.” She pulled a notebook and pen
out of her school bag, and soon the words were pouring onto the page.

You’ve got a new life now
,

You’re free from old ties
.

I can’t understand how
,

Was all I knew a lie?

We could live all we ever dreamed

If you’d just remember you love me

’Cause I …

And then the chorus flew from her pen in a simple, urgent plea.

I remember

The way you used to hold me
.

I remember

The thrill we used to share
.

We seem to be

Strangers passing by now
.

Tell me, did you forget how

We once cared?

She looked over what she’d written, a self-conscious flush heating up her cheeks. She hadn’t meant to write something so personal … and the lyrics were far simpler than what she usually wrote. For a moment she hesitated, but then she gathered her resolve. She knew her words would fit the song.

“I have a verse and chorus,” Michele called to him over the sound of the piano. “Want to hear it and let me know if I’m on the right track?”

Philip looked at her in surprise. “That was fast. Yeah, let’s hear it.”

She moved toward him, her heart thumping loudly in her chest.

“I’m not much of a singer either, but here goes.” Michele began to sing to Philip’s melody, looking down at the piano keys shyly. She started off shaky but gained confidence as she reached the chorus, and dared to glance up at him as she sang:

“I remember

The way you used to hold me
.

I remember

The thrill we used to share
 …”

Philip looked away, but Michele could see that his body had become still. When she finished the song he glanced at her in a way that showed she had moved him.

“That was great,” he said softly. “It’s not what I would have done, but I like it. It fits the song.”

Michele felt her body warm with pleasure. “I’m glad you think so. Should we try it again with the piano?”

Philip nodded. As she sat beside him on the piano bench, she felt her senses heighten. They were close enough to touch—close enough that with just a turn of the head, his lips could meet hers.

Philip leaned over to arrange his sheet music, his hand
brushing against Michele’s in the process. He quickly moved it, but she saw that he was breathing faster than normal, his eyes filled with an expression she hadn’t seen in a long time.

He began to play, and as Michele sang along quietly, her words were a seamless blend with his music. She studied him, his forehead creased in concentration, and for a moment she once again felt transported to the previous century, seated beside the Philip who would look at her with desire, who always had just the right melody for her words.

It is you
, she thought with amazement.
I know it’s you
. And suddenly, it felt like the right time.

“What’s wrong?” Philip glanced at her. “You stopped singing.”

“Yeah, I … I need to tell you something.”

Philip’s hands moved away from the piano keys. “Okay.”

“Remember when I thought you were someone else, someone who was also named Philip Walker?”

Philip cracked a smile. “How could I forget a weird moment like that?”

“I feel more sure now than ever.” Michele’s words tumbled out in a rush. “I hate to sound crazy, I know you don’t remember so I must seem like a nut job to you but I swear I’m not, and I need you to know …” She took a deep breath. “The Philip I knew was a musician too. He asked me to give you this, to help you remember.” She reached into her bag and pulled out the music.

Philip hesitated, his expression confirming that he
did
think she might be a nut job, but still he took the pages. He glanced over the sheet music and did a double take, his eyes
widening with shock. The piano bench scratched against the floor as he jumped up.

“How did you do this?” he demanded, shaking the papers in front of her.
“How?”

Michele swallowed hard. She had never seen Philip angry. “I—I don’t know what you mean.”

“How did you do it?” he repeated as all the color drained from his face. “How did you copy my handwriting—and
read my mind
?”

His panic was starting to rub off on Michele. What in the world had 1934 Philip written?

“I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about,” she pleaded. “I don’t read music. What are you seeing?”