I'm back with another chapter! Your reviews give me life! To answer some of your questions/thoughts: I am a musician! I have been in choirs my whole life, I took piano lessons for a couple years, and I played the violin for a few more years. Thank you for all your love on this story and As Fate Would Have It. I'm so glad you're reading and enjoying! Stay safe and healthy.

Christine

My alarm jolts me awake.

I am so tempted to hit the snooze button, but Sunday mornings are the one day of the week I can't procrastinate. I pull myself out of bed and bitterly notice that I'm up before the sun today. A groan rumbles in my chest and I go take a shower.

For the summer, I'm substitute directing the choir at an Episcopalian church out in the suburbs. The usual director, Anne Giry, took a sabbatical and asked me to take over for her. It doesn't pay much, but it's another paycheck. It's something. Plus, I'd do just about anything for Mrs. Giry. I know her very well, having spent a large portion of my childhood with her daughter Meg.

It's almost a weird full circle, going back to the church I grew up in. I'm not very religious now, but I grew up going to church services with my dad. I was in the youth choir, which is actually how we met the Girys to begin with. Mrs. Giry was the church music director. She saw potential in me at a young age and took me under her wing. While my father taught me a love of music, she taught me the foundations of it—how to read a staff, the terminology, the history, technique.

Mrs. Giry and my dad got along very well, sharing a similar love for music. Meg and I fantasized about being sisters and tried to get them to date. We were very into "The Parent Trap" that spring. But they weren't interested—just two single parents who loved their daughters.

When Dad died and I had to move in with my Grandma Vee, Mrs. Giry made every effort to keep me in contact with her and Meg. I love her like a close aunt. So when she asked me to sub for the summer, of course I agreed.

I finish my hair and makeup, pour coffee into a travel mug, grab my binders of sheet music, and head out the door. Now, a 45-minute drive out to the suburbs. I also get to take this drive on Wednesday evenings, when the choir rehearses. Directing this church choir is very different from directing my preteens. The average age is sixty and we stick to the classic hymns—my binder is full of pre-approved songs from Anne. The choir members and the pastor would flip a lid if I chose a different song from their usual repertoire. Sometimes I like to imagine what their reactions would actually be, just for fun.

I arrive at the church an hour before the first service begins. Enough time to settle, prepare, warm up the choir, and run through the songs one last time. Or so I think. I'm not five steps in the front door when a disgruntled-looking woman approaches me.

"The robe closet is locked."

Shit. "Sorry about that, Margie. I can help!" I scramble in my purse to find the very large key ring Anne gave me. We head over to the rehearsal room where two other choir members are hovering around the locked door, murmuring passive aggressive comments under their breath. I fumble with the key ring, trying to find the right one.

It's interesting how the church members interact with me in different settings. When Anne first announced me as the substitute, there were mixed reactions. Some thought it was sweet that I was returning after attending the church in my childhood and Christmases as an adult. I could tell others saw me as a heathen—how sacrilegious for a non-member to lead the choir in worship songs! In choir practice, most of the singers treat me with respect and kindness. But when I'm working on Sunday mornings, some of them go sour. I don't let it get to me, most of the time.

Finally, everyone gets their precious robes and we warm up. The rest of the morning goes smoothly; even the organist seems to be in a good mood. I get a pleasant surprise when I turn toward the congregation in the second service—Meg Giry is hiding out in the last pew. She is still wearing sunglasses, clearly a little hungover from last night. Meg also lives in the city and only comes back to church for Christmas like me. We usually sit in that back pew together for Christmas Eve services while Anne directs.

After the service, I find Meg in the lobby trying to dodge patronizing conversations about where she's been. I hug her immediately.

"What are you doing here?" I ask in surprise.

"I was in town last night for Jamie's bachelorette party. Damn, those girls can still party. And since Mom is living it up in Europe, I figured I'd come see you."

"Jamie's getting married?"

"Yep. You and me are the only single ones left from dance class, as Sarah so condescendingly reminded me last night." Meg rolls her eyes. "We're twenty-six, can I live a little?"

Meg is a paralegal for a well-known law firm in the city and she is working on becoming a defense attorney. Similar to me, she is dedicated to her work and schooling. She is brilliant and I admire her dedication.

"You and I never went with the flow anyways," I link arms with her and guide us to a side hall, away from eavesdropping congregants. "Speaking of high school… do you remember Raoul DeChagny?"

Meg pauses for a beat before her eyebrows shoot up in recognition. "The hot baseball player?"

I nod.

"I haven't thought about him in years! Those baseball pants..." Her eyes go dreamy and then she looks at me suspiciously, "Wait, why?"

"I kind of went on a date with him last night."

"What the f—!" Meg scream-whispers and sensors herself, remembering where we are. I giggle and shush her. It feels like we are back in high school. "Tell me everything!"

So I do. I explain my lounge singing gig and how Raoul was an admirer. And that he remembered me. And that we have another date in a couple weeks. But before I can go into all the details she wants, a woman approaches us.

"It's so nice seeing you two here again! I remember when you were just little girls."

"It's nice to see you too, Shirley." I smile warmly. Shirley is one of the few who doesn't make passive aggressive comments. She's genuinely nice.

"Why don't you girls come over for lunch this afternoon!"

Some of the choir members and church clergy have taken to inviting me over for lunch every week. It's really a sweet gesture and I find it hard to say no to a free homemade meal. I just have to make sure I leave room for about three hours: pre-lunch gossip, mealtime, dessert and coffee, post-lunch gossip, and napping. I usually skip out before the last part.

I glance at Meg and nod. She shrugs.

"We'd love to."

Shirley and her husband have a daughter named Emily who is a few years older than Meg and me. She lives out of state, so I figure Shirley misses having her around. Another couple from the church comes over as well, so the conversation almost never lulls. We spend the afternoon catching up on all of our families, jobs, summer hobbies, and of course the latest church gossip.

Shirley serves us roast chicken with all sorts of sides and fixings. I'm so deliciously full it almost feels like a holiday meal. We all move to the living room to regain our appetites before dessert and coffee. The conversation now drifts between family drama, the local minor-league baseball team, and summer vacation ideas.

Meg has been relatively quiet the entire afternoon save for answering questions about her earning her degree and career. Until she suddenly chimes in, "Shirley, do you remember the DeChangy family?"

I freeze and stare at her, surprised. She smiles wickedly back.

"With a name like that, how could I forget! I think the parents emigrated here from France in the '80s, right Steve?"

Steve is already starting to nod off in his recliner. His head jerks up and he shrugs before closing his eyes again.

"Anyway, the DeChagnys built their hotel empire from the ground up. I remember it being so popular, everyone wanted to visit. They were French and had that authentic European style and flair no one else did. It didn't take long for them to expand internationally. Phillippe is the eldest—he was in Emily's class in high school. He manages most of their international hotels now… Italy, Germany, Switzerland, Greece…"

"How exciting!" Meg exclaims, then she prompts further, "What about their youngest?"

"Oh, Raoul! I remember he was the pitcher for the baseball team when they won state! Remember, Steve? Ruth's son Cody was on the team." Steve doesn't stir. Shirley continues, "I think he just manages the local hotels. Didn't he get engaged last year?"

It feels like my stomach drops ten floors. Engaged? "What?"

Shirley doesn't notice how the color has drained from my face. "Yes, he was engaged to a girl he met in business school. Vanessa or Victoria somebody. Word is, she broke it off with him a few months ago."

My relief is only momentary. Then I start spiraling, wondering if they really broke up, how long ago they broke up, if I'm a rebound…

Meg notices my silent tailspin and redirects the conversation, "So what is Emily up to?"

Shirley happily launches into the latest story and I retreat deeper into my thoughts.

Why am I so invested in Raoul anyways? We only went on one small date yesterday. It just all still feels so fresh, my feelings are still new and exciting. He made me feel seen in a crowded bar. He listened to me, he laughed with me, he made a legitimate effort to work around my schedule for a second date. I bite my lip.

We aren't dating. We didn't say we were exclusive. It's new and we reunited by happenstance. We don't owe each other anything. I don't need to get so concerned about all the details. I shake off this weird anxiety and listen to the end of Shirley's story.

Erik

I don't have much interest in shopping. I can find nearly all my necessities online these days, so I have them shipped directly to the apartment. But when it comes to musical instruments and equipment, I need to ensure I find the best care in-person. I'm very particular, but I can't imagine many professional musicians aren't. I also feel better about supporting smaller, local music businesses.

I've been going to Milo's since I moved here six years ago. He has a small, unassuming music shop in the middle of the historic district downtown. His Italian-immigrant father started the business in 1946. He sells instruments, repairs them, and has other parts and equipment for sale as well as a music library.

For the past three months, Milo has been restoring a vintage violin I found. I'm very curious about the process, so he has taught me a lot along the way. Since I'm familiar with piano maintenance and restoration, I've wanted to learn more about the other instruments I play.

Milo called me this week to let me know it's finally ready. The shop is usually closed on Sundays, but he allows me to come in when I need a part or have a question. He says I've given him enough business to visit whenever I want. He lives in the apartment above the shop. I appreciate his generosity and opportunity for privacy, but I try not to take advantage. Today is an exception.

I arrive as early as Milo allows and climb the creaky stairwell in the back of the building up to his apartment. The faint scents of wood polish and resin waft into the hallway as I knock on his door. The 73-year-old man answers surprisingly quickly. His thinning white hair looks like wispy cotton candy.

"Erik, my boy! Please come in!"

I follow Milo inside and he ushers me to his humble kitchen table. "How are you?" I ask.

"You want a drink?" Milo asks, ignoring me. "Espresso?"

"Water is fine, thank you." I decline the coffee every time, but he always offers it. "How is your arthritis?"

"Some days are good, some days aren't so good. The medication helps." Milo hands me a glass of water with a shaky hand. The tremors always seem to dissipate whenever he's repairing or refurbishing an instrument.

The first time I came into his music shop, Milo assumed I was trying to steal from him—the mask tends to have that effect on business owners. Instead of trying to dissuade him from calling the police, I sat down at the closest piano and played Mozart. I remember the look of confusion and then awe on his face as he came closer to watch me play. He never acknowledged the mask again and we've become friends bonded by music.

"Do you want to see her?"

I smile ever so slightly and nod.

Milo fetches the violin and returns holding it like a precious heirloom. The once dull and cracked wood of the body now gleams. It has a new bridge, strings, and pegs. Milo points out where he repaired the crack, drilled new peg holes, cleaned the wood, and polished it up. He explains how he used Chladni patterns to ensure the symmetry of the violin's body.

"I'm going to need to see that technique in action next time," I say, touching the back of the violin gently. I flip it back over and pluck the strings, listening for any needed tuning tweaks.

"I have one last surprise," Milo says mischievously, shuffling back out of the kitchen. I smirk and shake my head. He always has something up his sleeve. I pluck a simple melody while I wait and file it away for composing later. He returns holding a vintage case to match the era of the violin. My jaw falls open. "Milo, this is…" I brush my fingers against the velvet lining.

Then he hands me a new bow. "Give her a whirl."

I want to hug this man. Which is saying something for me. But I take the bow and lift the violin up to my chin and play the simple melody I had been plucking. The tone is rich and full, nothing like it was when I first found the instrument. I add some syncopation, relishing the friction of the bow on the strings.

Milo's eyes glisten. "Well done."

I pack the violin and bow away in my new case and we discuss Milo's other projects—repairing a cello, building a viola by hand, purchasing a new piano. He will always find ways to stay busy. I hope to be half as talented and knowledgeable as Milo some day. I thank him and pay him generously. He tries to refuse, saying it's more than we agreed to, but I remind him of the new bow and case. He humbly gives in.

I grab an Uber home and think about what to do with this violin. I know how to play, but I could always practice and learn more techniques. I can use it for some of my recordings in the future, but I know it deserves a larger purpose. I just haven't discovered what that is yet.

When I get home, I take the violin out of the case and display it on a stand near the piano. I wouldn't normally leave a violin out like this—it needs to be protected from humidity, dust, and accidents in the case. But for tonight, she gets to breathe.

Tonight, she is free.

Christine

By the time I get home from Shirley's, it's early evening. I wish I could have taken a nap like Steve. But now I need to catch up on my online classes for my Master's program. I take a seat at my desk and pull open my laptop. I read a few chapters of my assigned reading on curriculum development and answer some online discussion posts. It feels tedious at times, but many of the assignments are actually very helpful.

Shirley sent us home with leftovers, so I reheat some of the roast chicken and vegetables for dinner. I desperately want to drink a glass of wine with dinner, but I need to finish writing a paper on music history first. It's due by midnight. So I bring the laptop over to the kitchen table and type as I eat.

When I'm finally finished with all my homework, I reward myself with that glass of wine and decide to make brownies. I'm exhausted, but I know I won't be able to sleep for a while. My mind is too stimulated and wired from the day. Directing the choir, talking to so many people, catching up with Meg, learning that information about Raoul… I have too much to think about. I take the brownies out of the oven and pour myself a second glass. As I sit and stare at the pan waiting for it to cool, a familiar sound catches my ear.

It's the first time I've heard Keith—Erik play since we met. Last night. Was it only just last night? It feels like a week ago already! I glance at the clock. He's a little later than usual but now I understand his schedule has to be as crazy as mine and probably more inconsistent. I open a few of my windows and listen to him play as I clean up the kitchen.

He's doing jazz standards tonight. I hum along at first. I was so ecstatic to learn that he was 6A. I laugh at myself, embarrassed now. The way he looked down at me when I asked him if he was 6A sent a weird jolt down my spine. Not bad, just… different. Exhilarating. I wonder why he wears a mask. That was a little off-putting at first, to say the least. I thought he was going to murder me! Other than that, he seemed normal. Yes, incredibly tall and thin, but relatively normal nonetheless.

Then Erik plays one of the songs from my set, "La Vie en Rose." I pause and smile. It's like he's expecting me to join in… No! That can't be right. He's not inviting me. I met Erik for two seconds, he doesn't even know me. I set the wine glass down, wondering if it's gone straight to my head. But I guess he did watch my set. And we've been sending each other requests for a while now. I do feel like we understand each other on some weird level. Maybe he is inviting me? Am I looking too deep into this?

I decide to stop wondering. I've done too much of that today. I'm tired of sending myself down anxiety-inducing rabbit holes, being afraid of the infinite possibilities of what the answers might or might not be. I am done spiraling. I am done wondering.

I finish washing the dishes, slice up the cool-enough brownies, arrange them nicely on a plate, and march downstairs. When I get to his door, I don't let myself hesitate this time. I knock.

His playing falters. Then I hear the piano bench scrape against the old hardwood floor and his steady footsteps toward the door. Erik opens the door about a quarter of the way, so I only see a sliver of him. But his visible eye glows when he recognizes me.

"Christine," he says reverently. Reverently? A pleasant heat climbs up my neck. The door opens a few more inches.

"I was wondering if I could make my request in person?" I ask, holding up the brownies.

Erik's eyes flick from the plate in my hands back to my face. He smiles slightly and opens the door wider. "Please come in."

I don't know what I was expecting of his apartment—maybe something like an untidy artist's studio with handwritten sheet music littered everywhere. Or at least a similar level of everyday clutter to mine. But no. Erik's studio apartment is immaculate. His bed is made, the shelves of music and books are orderly, there are no dirty dishes littering the sink. I can't decide if I'm jealous or impressed.

But the most impressive part of his apartment is the piano. It actually takes up most of the apartment. It's a Steinway baby grand, the same my father had when I was growing up. Erik's is in much better condition, however. The wood finish is dark, rich, and glossy. Unchipped. The lid is propped open, as I interrupted his playing.

"It's beautiful," I murmur, nodding toward the piano.

Erik looks at the instrument. "It was a gift to myself after a few good gigs."

Must have been some very good gigs. I set the brownies on the kitchen counter and move closer to take a look at the taut strings inside. Erik shifts behind me and I catch a whiff of his cologne. "Do you mind?" I ask, turning to look up at him. Gosh he's tall.

"Please," he gestures toward the bench, then reaches to adjust the height. "I don't have many guests who can play."

I take a seat and peer at the stark keys, glistening up at me. My dad explained the difference between the piano keys when I was very small. Naturals and accidentals. 52 white keys, 32 black. His big hands showed me how to play arpeggios, then chords, then songs. I learned how to play the piano before I learned how to read music. Almost before I learned how read, period.

I play one of Chopin's Nocturnes. It's been years since I had it memorized, but the muscles in my fingers remember. Like old song lyrics you don't realize you retained or lines from a movie you watched constantly as a child. I'm so lost in nostalgia, I almost forget where I am. When I finish, I open my eyes to see Erik standing in the curve of the piano, looking bemused. It's the set of his mouth and something about his eyes. The mask doesn't seem so menacing as it did last night.

"That was lovely, I had no idea you played as well."

"My dad taught me when I was young, but it's been a while since I played anything like that from memory. I'm a middle school choir director, so I just know the basics." For some reason, I feel the need to minimize my abilities when playing in front of a piano virtuoso.

"That explains the breath control." He smirks and I laugh at our little inside joke from last night. "Would you like a drink?"

"Sure."

For as tall and lanky as he is, Erik moves lithely around his apartment. He pours us each a glass of wine and pulls out dessert plates for the brownies. We sit down on opposite ends of the couch, comfortably distant.

"So what do you do?" I ask between bites of brownie.

"As unrealistic as it sounds, I am actually a pianist by trade. I perform live occasionally, but the majority of my work is recording in a studio."

"Wow, how did you break into that scene? It seems like it might be difficult."

"I started out doing piano bars, entertainment, and accompaniment where I could, but once I moved here, I hired a manager, who made a world of difference professionally."

"Where did you move from?" I don't know if it's the brownies, the wine, or his mask, but this conversation is the easiest I've had in a long time.

"I've lived all over the US since childhood. Charlotte, Denver, San Francisco, Portland… Most recently, however, I moved from Chicago."

"So what brought you to Kansas City of all places?"

"I found I like the Midwest the most. And I like the perks of smaller cities—namely, cheaper cost of living."

"I'm sorry, am I grilling you with all these questions?" Erik chuckles and I take a drink of wine. "I've just been so curious about who you could possibly be… I had this idea in my head and I was very wrong." I shake my head, a little embarrassed.

He seems to relax a little more. "That's all right. I just don't usually talk this much about myself. Are you from here?"

"I grew up in the suburbs, but I came into the city for college and stayed."

"Do you teach in the city?"

"Yes, at Jefferson Middle School."

Erik shifts to face me better. Looking at him head on rather than from a foot below is fascinating. He has long dark hair that is mostly styled back but a few stray pieces lay over the forehead of his mask. The mask is white—a stark contrast between his dark hair and clothes. It looks like it was handmade just for him. The sculpted contours match the natural planes on the visible side of his face, with sharp cheek and brow bones. His eyes are so blue they almost look gray.

"What is your favorite part of teaching middle school choir?" he asks thoughtfully.

I think for a moment. "It's a weird time in a kid's life. Puberty, finding where you fit in, not knowing a ton but there's so much potential… I like instilling a knowledge of music and hopefully a lifelong love of it. I teach some of them how to read music for the first time, and with others I give them a deeper understanding of how to interpret it. But the fun we get to have is what makes it all worth it, you know?" My eyes connect with his and I can't look away for a few moments. But then he blinks and sets me free.

I clear my throat.

Erik finishes his brownie and says, "Oh, what is your request?"

"What?"

"You said you wanted to make your request in person." He nods toward the piano.

"Oh, right. Since you were in the jazz realm tonight, I was thinking Duke Ellington."

"I think I can manage." Erik moves to the piano and plays through Duke's standards.

The jazz style is so different from his usual repertoire, but he executes it just as perfectly. Which just validates my opinion on his skill level.

I get up from the couch and wander around his small apartment. I pause in front of a built-in shelf full of records, books, and sheet music. The records cover opera, ballet, musicals, symphonies, jazz, classic rock, and alternative indie. The books range from historical non-fiction, instruction manuals for pianos, biographies of composers and musicians, travel, and psychological thrillers. I feel like I've learned more about Erik just looking at this shelf than what he could tell me in an evening.

I let my fingers brush the spines of the books and record sleeves as I walk past the shelves. I stop in front of the windows and glance back over at Erik. He's so focused on what he's playing, I feel like I can see the music staff flowing out of his head. This part of my idea of "Keith" is still accurate. So engrossed in the music, in the feeling of the song. The sun has set and his apartment is bathed in dark blue and streaks of orange lights from the building across the street.

Something reflects the orange light and catches my eye. It's a glossy violin. I walk over to the instrument and Erik's playing trails off. I look back over at him. "Is this vintage?"

"German-made in the 1940s," he replies, turning around on the bench.

"It's in gorgeous condition," I murmur and take a closer look.

"I found it in an antique store and had a music shop owner downtown restore it." Erik gets up and switches on a nearby lamp so I can see it better. The wood has a red tone with an interesting wood grain pattern. "I'm more familiar with piano maintenance and restoration myself."

"Which shop?"

"Milo's."

I quickly look up at him. "I go to Milo's all the time! He has a great sheet music library I use for school."

Erik laughs heartily and I notice his teeth for the first time. Perfectly white and tall.

I cross my arms, tilt my head, and give him a dazed look. "How have we never met?"

He puts his hands in his pockets and shakes his head, just as dazed. "That's a good question."

Our eyes meet and I'm caught in his spell again.

Erik takes a step toward me but my phone chirps and startles us both out of the moment. I clear my throat and glance at the clock on the wall. Nearly midnight.

"It's late, I should get out of your hair."

He rubs the back of his neck. "Right. Next time, you can sing my request."

I pick up the rest of the brownies and can't help smiling. "It's a deal."

Erik walks me to the door. "Goodnight, Christine."

"Goodnight, Erik."

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