Tags:
Fiction,
General,
Humorous,
Romance,
Love Stories,
Women Singers,
New York,
New York (State),
Religious,
Christian,
Veterinarians,
Country Life,
Iowa,
classical music,
Midwest,
Sadie,
diva,
Women Music Teachers,
Country Life - Iowa,
Women Singers - New York (State) - New York,
Veterinarians - Iowa
âWhat, exactly, does that mean?â
âI take care of farm animals. Cattle, horses, sheep, pigs. Immunizations, bone setting, putting animals down when needed. Weâre coming up on spring, which will be busy with all the castrating.â He looked at me out of the corner of his eye.
âLovely,â I said. âYou know how to castrate large animals.â
âNot a lot of guys like me running around New York City, I imagine.â He winked at me.
I sighed. âYou are correct. Castration is not a hot topic in Manhattan, at least not in the literal sense.â I popped in the other earphone and pushed play for the Handel. I closed my eyes and listened until the truck rolled to a stop in front of Kjellman. I reached for the door handle, but Mac was already out of the cab. He opened my door and helped me down.
âThank you,â I said, noting flecks of green in his blue eyes.
âYouâre welcome.â He looked down at me, face as serious as the grave but his eyes dancing with laughter. âI donât wish to offend, but we pickup types prefer a lady to sit tight until we can open her door. Hope thatâs not too prehistoric for you.â
I raised my chin slightly. âOf course not,â I said and adjusted my bag strap on my shoulder. âItâs an admirable gesture, though certainly not necessary.â
He shoved his hands into his coat pockets and grinned. âYou donât like depending on people, do you?â
A formidable wind sucked the air right out of my lungs. âYou,â I sputtered, âdonât know me well enough to make that comment. See you this evening.â I snapped my gaze away from his grin and strode up to the double doors. I didnât know what was worse: living in Iowa in the winter or having to share a small, enclosed space with a psychoanalyzing castration expert. I shivered as I walked down the tiled hallway, shaking off the cold for my first day of school.
11
Andante
âNext week the Copland,â I said.
âThank you, Ms. Maddox,â James said. Five weeks into the semester and with a burgeoning studio of students, James was one of my favorites. He wasnât a music major, which explained why he was so self-assured. James came from a long line of athletes, and Moravia paid his tuition in exchange for services on the basketball court. Music, heâd told me, was his guilty pleasure. A deep, easy baritone came naturally to James. And though I wouldnât have predicted it judging by those horrible nylon shorts hanging well below his knees in all kinds of weather, James had a poetâs appreciation of language.
He shoved his notebook and lieder into a fraying backpack. Long, dark curls fell into his eyes. He pulled a strand behind an ear and straightened to his full six feet, six inches. He looked down at me wide-eyed and said, âMs. Maddox, you were amazing in the faculty recital. My music friends canât stop talking about it.â
âYouâre too kind, James,â I said. The truth was that Iâd forgotten about the recital until a few days before, when the insecure Norwegian had sent me a reminder e-mail. Iâd chosen two tried and true encore arias and had met only once with the pianist. The reception, particularly from the students, had been very warm. I couldnât remember the last time Iâd received such unfettered and thunderous applause. Too bad no one from the Times had been there to review.
âDude, I know Iâm a baritone, but Iâd kill to have your pipes. Even as a guy.â James looked mildly confused by his own reasoning.
I arched one eyebrow. âJames, Iâm sure there are counselors on campus who can help you work through any gender issues you have.â
âOkay. All right.â His eyes twinkled. âI can take the sass. âGender issues â¦ââ He shook his head of curls in mock disapproval. âYouâre not
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