Kimberly Stuart by Act Two: A Novel in Perfect Pitch

“What, exactly, does that mean?”
    â€œI take care of farm animals. Cattle, horses, sheep, pigs. Immunizations, bone setting, putting animals down when needed. We’re coming up on spring, which will be busy with all the castrating.” He looked at me out of the corner of his eye.
    â€œLovely,” I said. “You know how to castrate large animals.”
    â€œNot a lot of guys like me running around New York City, I imagine.” He winked at me.
    I sighed. “You are correct. Castration is not a hot topic in Manhattan, at least not in the literal sense.” 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.
    â€œThank you,” I said, noting flecks of green in his blue eyes.
    â€œYou’re welcome.” He looked down at me, face as serious as the grave but his eyes dancing with laughter. “I don’t wish to offend, but we pickup types prefer a lady to sit tight until we can open her door. Hope that’s not too prehistoric for you.”
    I raised my chin slightly. “Of course not,” I said and adjusted my bag strap on my shoulder. “It’s an admirable gesture, though certainly not necessary.”
    He shoved his hands into his coat pockets and grinned. “You don’t like depending on people, do you?”
    A formidable wind sucked the air right out of my lungs. “You,” I sputtered, “don’t know me well enough to make that comment. See you this evening.” I snapped my gaze away from his grin and strode up to the double doors. I didn’t 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
    â€œNext week the Copland,” I said.
    â€œThank you, Ms. Maddox,” James said. Five weeks into the semester and with a burgeoning studio of students, James was one of my favorites. He wasn’t 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, he’d told me, was his guilty pleasure. A deep, easy baritone came naturally to James. And though I wouldn’t have predicted it judging by those horrible nylon shorts hanging well below his knees in all kinds of weather, James had a poet’s 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, “Ms. Maddox, you were amazing in the faculty recital. My music friends can’t stop talking about it.”
    â€œYou’re too kind, James,” I said. The truth was that I’d forgotten about the recital until a few days before, when the insecure Norwegian had sent me a reminder e-mail. I’d 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 couldn’t remember the last time I’d received such unfettered and thunderous applause. Too bad no one from the Times had been there to review.
    â€œDude, I know I’m a baritone, but I’d kill to have your pipes. Even as a guy.” James looked mildly confused by his own reasoning.
    I arched one eyebrow. “James, I’m sure there are counselors on campus who can help you work through any gender issues you have.”
    â€œOkay. All right.” His eyes twinkled. “I can take the sass. ‘Gender issues …’” He shook his head of curls in mock disapproval. “You’re not