Free The Gallery by Barbara Steiner Page A

baby to stay well for his recitals,” she teased. “Are you playing in May?” Her plan was to distract him from everything except his music.
    â€œYes, and I’m nowhere near ready.”
    â€œYou will be. You always are.” They splashed in puddles until they climbed Seventeenth Street hill where water ran towards them in small rivers. “I’m painting again, Johnny. Good stuff. But Eric Hunter thinks it’s not my work.”
    â€œThat phony. He’s probably envious. You realize we haven’t seen any of his paintings. Or one sculpture. Whatever he does. You know how you feel about what you’re doing. Ignore anything he says.”
    â€œI will. But I didn’t like his saying this isn’t my work or that I’ve copied something.” LaDonna knew that one reason she hated what Eric said so much was that she had her own doubts. She just couldn’t shake them, believe entirely in herself.
    Their silence as she and Johnny walked was comfortable. But when they reached Old Main, LaDonna felt Johnny tense. He lowered the umbrella and stepped away from her, entering the building. He stared at the staircase as if reluctant to start climbing.
    â€œRace you.” LaDonna leaped up the first steps, pounding ahead of Johnny. She heard him behind her. She kept running as far as she could. Then she gasped and slowed to a walk. “I never claimed to be athletic. You can win.”
    Johnny was panting, too. “You already beat me. I usually take the elevator.”
    â€œYou don’t!” LaDonna laughed, or tried to. Laughter seemed wrong up here.
    On the third floor, Johnny hurried to his room, unlocked the door, and slid in, as if once inside he’d be safe from his awful memories. LaDonna knew he’d never be free of them, but she stayed right beside him and kept him talking.
    â€œI’m not going to sit beside you. I’d be in the way. I’ll just sit right here on the floor in the corner, Johnny, behind you. Is that okay? What are you working on?”
    Johnny opened the bench. “Rachmaninoff. His Concerto in F Sharp Minor, Opus One. Everyone plays his second. He wrote this when he was about seventeen. I’m way behind.” He set his music on the piano, plopped down on the bench, adjusted the bench, adjusted his shirt sleeves, wiggled to get comfortable. La Donna figured his motions were ritual. He did this every time he sat down in order to get his mind and body ready.
    She leaned against the corner wall, slid until she was on the wood floor. Stretching her legs in front of her, she wriggled until she was comfortable. Then she waited.
    Johnny limbered his fingers with some scales and bits and pieces of runs and trills up and down the keyboard. Suddenly, his hands both came down hard, making her jump, then his fingers cascaded across chord after chord. Once he started to play the concerto, she was surrounded and caught up in the melody. He didn’t need the music. He had the piece memorized. And in no time she knew he was unaware of her presence.
    She was not unaware of Johnny Blair, however. He expressed the music with his whole body, leaning forward, straightening, leaning back, his face tilting up as if, like fine wine, he was savoring the notes he struck.
    When the melody softened with a hint of nostalgia, Johnny’s fingers caressed the keys. His hands arched, he raised them on and off the ivory with such grace, like gentle ocean waves slipping in and out on a quiet beach. Without meaning to, she imagined those same fingers caressing her face, her body. She shuddered with emotion.
    Now with crashing waves, Johnny poured his heart into the piece. The music intensified as did her emotion. The low notes stirred her deep inside, pounding, churning, sending her into passion she had never even imagined.
    A sudden realization flooded her. She was in love with Johnny Blair. She had been in love with him for all of time, their time, as