Maestro by Thomma Lyn Grindstaff

beer. She'd thought it was just him, and found him a refreshing antidote to her mother's addiction problems. Perhaps, though – just perhaps – Maestro had decided to swear off any kind of drinking before coming into her life. Could she have impacted him that much?
    A world-renowned concert pianist, settling in East Tennessee to teach at a state university. Yes, she supposed she had.
    And a world-renowned concert pianist, playing juke joint honky tonk. She couldn't wait to hear it. “Lay it on me, Maestro.”
    The bartender was watching, a big grin on his face. Obviously, Maestro had put on quite a show last night. Maestro pushed the bench away and started “Great Balls of Fire,” and to Annasophia's surprise, he started it just like Jerry Lee Lewis would: the introductory chords with the singing.
    She'd had no idea Maestro could sing. He had a gift for imitation, too. If she closed her eyes, she would think Jerry Lee, not Maestro, was standing at the piano. Well, Jerry Lee faking a German accent, of course. That made Maestro's performance even funnier somehow. She didn't want to close her eyes. Maestro was adorable. He sang well, and he would wear the title “Killer” of the piano just as well as Jerry Lee, with his fierce chops and wild glissandos . She walked over to watch him from the side. As he played, he moved his hips in a powerfully suggestive way – oh, yeah! – and she wished that she, not the piano, were in front of him. As he sang, “Kiss me baby,” he shot her a smoldering look. Her heart skipped a beat. Dimly, she became aware she was grinning like a fool. Playing and singing, Maestro firmly held her gaze with the power of his own, and she couldn't have broken it even if she had wanted to.
    The bartender heartily clapped, and Maestro segued with hardly a break into “Whole Lot of Shaking Going On.” Annasophia began to sing along with him, and she moved closer to accompany him on the lower register of the piano. She swung her hips in synchronicity with his and pictured this kind of synchronicity happening in a much more private place than this.
    At the end of the song, Annasophia said, “I had no idea you could sing.”
    “Well, I don't sing very much. Mostly in the shower.” As Maestro said the word shower , he gave her another long, burning look. Sweat was beaded on his brow, and Annasophia longed to kiss it off. “Want to hear one more?” he asked.
    Oh yeah, he was worked up. If not for her worries about Matt, she'd be happy to work Maestro up a lot more. At the thought, she let out a long breath, but she smiled and nodded, happy, also, to listen to him play all night, whether covers of Jerry Lee Lewis or pieces by Rachmaninoff, Beethoven, Bach, or Mozart. Or his own music. Had he ever composed his own?
    Before she could ask, Maestro started playing another Jerry Lee tune, “Wild One.” He played the piano intro and began to sing, but a woman's voice rang out, smooth, cultured, and insistent. “I'm sorry I'm late... oh, Will. Why must you make a spectacle of yourself in public?”
    Snooty thing , Annasophia thought. What did she mean, spectacle ? Jerry Lee rocked, and Maestro's covers of Jerry Lee's songs rocked, too. Out of the corner of her eye, Annasophia got an impression of frothy blond hair and sapphire-colored silk, and she picked up a whiff of jasmine. She glanced over. Elena strode toward them, stopped beside the piano, and fixed Maestro with a half-lidded, studied look. Maestro gradually stopped playing, drew himself up to his full height, and glanced over his shoulder at Annasophia. She avoided his gaze. Time to make my exit .
    She wouldn't run off, though, before she'd told him goodbye. And thank you.
    “So you're staying here, too?” he asked Elena.
    “Of course I am. I thought we could spend some time together tomorrow before your next concert.” She peered at him. “Where is it you're going?”
    “D.C.,” he said, folding his arms across his chest. “Kennedy