Chapter Ten #2
“Go on…tell me,” she urged, and gave him a meaningful look, her nerves easing. “Are we talking disco here? Glam rock? Grunge?”
“Motown,” he muttered, barely loud enough to hear.
“I like Motown,” she said. “Most of it. Got anything by The Temptations or Marvin Gaye?”
His face lit up. “I have, actually.” He gestured for her to go inside. “Take a look at my collection and see what you fancy, while I fetch the Baileys and some ice.”
Eloise followed him into his living quarters, and as he went into the kitchen, she walked over to a shelving unit whose focus was an old-fashioned turntable surrounded by several racks of vinyl records.
“Goodness gracious!” she called, running her fingers across the spines of the albums. Pulling one out at random, she tilted her head to read it and smiled wryly: Louis Armstrong.
She was reading the track titles on the back when he returned with the Baileys, an ice cube tray, and two glasses. After popping a couple of ice cubes into each glass, he opened the bottle and poured the thick, creamy liquid into the stocky tumblers.
He handed one to her, and when she took it she sniffed the liqueur appreciatively. The aroma filled her nose and she closed her eyes before taking a sip. The taste was heavenly, and she savoured it with delight, the whiskey notes warming her from the inside.
Bart licked his lips. “I hope it isn’t too festive for you?”
She grinned, “Not at all. It’s rather addictive though,” she added, as she took another sip.
He nodded at the Louis Armstrong album she was holding. “You do know that’s jazz?”
“I happen to like ‘As Time Goes By.’ Can you play it?”
“Now?” He glanced at a rectangular black case lying open on the sideboard. Nestled inside was a shiny brass saxophone.
“Oh, I didn’t mean for you to—” She broke off and stared at him as his gaze met hers. She couldn’t read his expression.
“I can,” he said slowly, “if you like.”
She would like. Very much indeed.
To diffuse the awkward intensity that came over her, Eloise quipped, “Play it again, Sam,” although she couldn’t have felt any less like Ingrid Bergman if she tried. And Bart didn’t look like Humphrey Bogart, either. He was more of the Steve Carell ilk, especially when he wore his reading glasses.
Gosh, the Baileys certainly had a kick; her insides were glowing and her cheeks were warm.
“Okay, if you really want me to,” he said, and reached for the record she was still holding.
As their fingers touched, Eloise felt a rare and barely remembered bolt of pleasure at the contact.
Startled, she snatched her hand back as though she’d been stung.
Thankfully, Bart didn’t seem to notice her reaction. He’d already turned away to place the album on the turntable.
The record started to spin, but he didn’t put the arm down. Instead, he picked up his instrument.
“Do you play often?” she asked, lifting the glass to her lips with a hand that felt clumsy and not quite her own.
Bart fiddled with the mouthpiece. “Not as often as I used to when Penny and I were first married. Penny sometimes—” He broke off and swallowed, then turned to the record player and lowered the arm.
A faint crackling sound emanated from the speakers; then the air was filled with the opening bars of the piano, followed by Louis Armstrong’s gravelly baritone and the simultaneous warm mellow notes of the sax as Bart began to play.
He swayed to the music, his fingers working the keys, and as the song deepened he half closed his eyes.
Longing stirred inside her: those fingers, that sultry, sleepy-eyed look, his immersion in the music…He was magnetic and charismatic, and Eloise was mesmerised. Enraptured, her heart soaring, she didn’t take her eyes off him until the last note faded.
Bart opened his eyes, the emotion behind them deep and unfathomable. His gaze locked onto her and she swallowed, her pulse thudding in the sudden silence.
Then a blast of music as the next song came on startled her, and she inhaled sharply. The mood was broken, and whatever had given the atmosphere its strange charge dissipated.
He cleared his throat and wiped the mouthpiece. “It’s good to know I haven’t totally lost it,” he said, his voice hoarse.
Eloise took a second to find hers—and to regain her composure. Watching him play had turned her inside out. “That was phenomenal.”
“You’re very kind, but it was average, at best.”
Not to her. No one had ever played an instrument just for her. But even as the thought entered her head, she saw Bart’s eyes flicker to the gilt-framed photo, and she understood that he hadn’t been playing for her at all.
He’d been playing for his wife.
Bart settled back in “his” chair, the one nearest the window, his eyes straying to Penny’s recliner.
For months after she’d died, he used to catch glimpses at the edge of his vision of her sitting there, but when he looked the chair would be empty, of course.
Each time it happened, it had sent a wave of grief washing over him.
The raw grief had muted to sorrow, but he still felt sad, and this evening he felt even more lonely.
After she’d died, he’d sought solace in music—not just listening to it; he played it too.
He’d found the sax in the back of Penny’s wardrobe when he’d been clearing out her things after she’d died, and he’d cried when he’d seen it, not realising she’d kept it. He’d assumed she’d got rid of it years ago.
Not long after he’d found it, he’d played it again for old time’s sake, and had been surprised by how much comfort it had given him.
These days he played the sax because he enjoyed it. But this was the first time in decades he’d played to an audience—even if it had only been an audience of one this evening.
And Eloise had appeared to enjoy listening to him, but…
As he’d taken the album from her, his fingers had brushed against hers and he’d had to suppress a sharp intake of breath.
Although the contact had been brief, he’d felt a shocking and unexpected rush of desire that had rocked him to the core.
It had reverberated through him like a struck bell, and he had no idea how he’d managed to go on and play, but it had been imperative that Eloise didn’t have any inkling how she’d affected him.
Bart had struggled on to the end of the track, and after he’d swapped the sax for the glass of Baileys and taken a large gulp, he’d been relieved when she’d announced that she’d changed her mind about the jigsaw and decided to have a quiet read in her room instead.
And now here he was, hours later, nursing another glass of the whiskey liqueur, deep in thought.
And what he was thinking about was Eloise.
She might be spiky and direct, even a little cranky and uptight, but he liked her. And that was the problem.
He liked her too much. He also thought she was incredibly attractive. But she was a guest, and even if she wasn’t, was he ready for this?
Bart felt guilty, as though he’d betrayed his wife, and it was this that was keeping him from his bed tonight. Penny might have made him promise not to mourn her for long, and he knew she’d want him to be happy, but this was too quick, too sudden, and he wasn’t prepared.
But he’d wanted to kiss Eloise so badly!
To feel this way about a woman he’d only just met was foolish, especially when she’d be gone in a couple of weeks.
Anyway, she’d not shown the slightest interest in him.
In fact, when their fingers touched earlier, she’d snatched her hand away; then she’d changed her mind about working on the jigsaw and had taken herself off to her room.
So maybe his attempt to hide his reaction to her hadn’t been as successful as he’d hoped?
Conflicting emotions swirled inside him, and Bart let out a groan. “Oh, Penny, love, what am I doing?”
With a heavy sigh, he placed the half-drunk glass on the little table and went upstairs to the lonely room and his even lonelier bed, and wished he’d never answered that damn phone.