o.o.o
Schroeder is not trying to avoid Lucy, truly he isn't. But in the weeks that follow that Chopin concert, he doesn't see her much; she's always busy with Richard, and he's not that keen to spend time with the pair of them together, even when Lucy invites him to hang out with them. He can be gracious about this; he can be mature about this. But that doesn't mean he's eager to spend his free evenings watching the girl he's fallen in love with getting cozy with another man.
So he focuses on his music, and he tries to ignore how quiet his evenings are without Lucy rustling through her papers on his couch, and he stops eating out or going out for ice cream, and he just generally finds himself back to living the same austere life he knew before she came to Omaha. And it's fine. It's all fine.
Although "fine" doesn't explain how relieved he finds himself when Thanksgiving break rolls around and he can get out of town.
He does stop avoiding Richard long enough to let the man drive him to the airport for his flight to South Carolina; Lucy's flight to Minnesota is at nearly the same time as Schroeder's, and when she discovers this, she insists on carpooling, and when Richard hears about it, he very kindly volunteers to take them both.
"No sense paying for parking when you have friends with cars," he says jovially on the drive over, and Lucy grins and says "My sentiments exactly," and Schroeder forces himself to smile at them both because really, Richard's an extremely nice guy and it's very rude of Schroeder to be a jerk to him just because the man saw Lucy's admirable and dateable qualities before Schroeder did.
It's great to spend Thanksgiving with his parents; South Carolina doesn't feel like home, given that his parents moved there after he graduated high school, but anywhere his parents are is a happy place to be, and also his mom's cooking is absolutely amazing. Over the course of the weekend, his parents ask him all about life in Omaha and playing with the orchestra and how his piano students are doing. They ask after Lucy and tell him to send her their love; he's told them over the phone about his and Lucy's friendship, and they were very pleased that he's got a friend from the old neighborhood there with him in Omaha and very pleased at the spark and warmth that came into his voice when he talked about tromping all over the city with his best friend.
(What he did not tell them is that he fell in love with that friend and now she's dating someone else and suddenly everything's just a little less bright than it used to be.)
The night before he leaves, he's helping his mother dry the dishes in the kitchen when she brings up the question that every unmarried adult dreads from their mother:
"So, are you dating anyone?"
Still, she's his mother, and she asks it in such a kind way that he just smiles at her. "I would have told you, Mom," he points out.
"Any prospects?" she presses. "Anyone you're interested in?"
And he really doesn't mean to say a word on the subject—but it turns out he doesn't have to. He hesitates, just for a moment, and his mom pounces. "There is someone!" she smiles. "Who is she? What's the story?"
"There's no story," he says firmly. "There's nothing going on between us."
"But you want there to be," she says confidently. And then her expression softens, and she steps just a little bit closer. "Does this have something to do with why you've been so down this weekend?"
He blinks in surprise. "Have I been?"
"I mean, not so much that your father noticed." She grins wryly. "Though you'd probably have to wear a sign around your neck if you wanted him to pick up on it, bless his heart." And then her smile softens. "But I'm your mother," she says. "I notice these things."
Into his mind comes the memory of so many heartfelt conversations at the kitchen sink in his younger days; of course, they tended to be about fears about his upcoming recitals, or frustrations at losing another baseball game, rather than confessions about girls and romance. But he always has found solace in talking to her.
"There is this girl," he confesses after a moment. "That I . . . wanted to ask out."
His mother's face brightens. "Who is she? How'd you meet her?"
"At one of my concerts," he says, because he is for sure not going to admit that it's Lucy van Pelt, about whom he used to complain to his mother at least three times a week. "She came up to compliment my playing, and we . . . got to know each other."
"But there's a problem?" his mother guesses.
He sighs. "Right when I decided I wanted to ask her out, she she started dating someone else. They seem . . . I mean, it's only been a month, but they decided to be exclusive pretty quickly."
"Oh, sweetie." His mother dries her hands and comes to wrap her arms around her son. "I'm sorry." She lays her head on his shoulder—he passed her in height when he was 14 years old and she now barely comes up to his chin—and hugs him tightly a moment. "But I do want you to remember one very important thing."
He looks down at her, one eyebrow raised in question.
She grins. "Dating isn't married."
He rolls his eyes. "Very helpful, Mom, thanks." But he can't ignore the little voice in his head that says that she's right.
o.o.o
December passes by much the same; he only hangs out with Lucy twice, both times when Richard's out of town on business. (One of the times is on December 16, when she insists on taking Schroeder out to dinner to celebrate Beethoven's birthday, and the fact that she remembered—well, if he didn't adore her already . . .)
The three of them do hang out together once, after the Omaha Philharmonic's annual performance of The Messiah, at which Schroeder is forced to play harpsichord despite explaining to his conductor on several occasions that is it not the same thing as piano and he's not precisely qualified for this. The conductor just smiles each time and tells him that they don't have the money to hire a guest harpsichordist, so Schroeder stumbles through the performance and tries hard to remember to be conscious of how he's releasing the keys, and when it's done Lucy and Richard treat him to dinner to congratulate him for not embarrassing himself. And Schroeder is forced again to admit that at least Lucy's chosen a really nice guy.
For Christmas Schroeder's going back to South Carolina, but in early December he gets an unexpected call from Linus, who talks him into coming up to Minnesota for New Year's; a bunch of the gang is going to be in town, and they're turning it into a mini-reunion. It's probably not the wisest option, monetarily, but Schroeder can afford it and besides, Linus has always had a way of convincing people to do things.
So on December 30, he flies to Minnesota and is met at the airport by Charlie Brown, who's changed so much that Schroeder hardly recognizes him. Oh, he's still got that round head and sparse, fair-colored hair, but he's got an aura of calm and confidence that he never had as a kid. He talks easily with Schroeder all the way back to their hometown, catching him up on his life since high school; turns out that going away to school in Chicago, away from everyone who knew him as a kid, did him a world of good, and he came into his own and thrived in college. And Schroeder smiles and thinks, his mother will be so pleased to learn she was right about Charlie all those years.
He's staying at the Browns' house, as the van Pelts are full with their own family, and he spends that first evening catching up with Charlie and Sally, and getting an earful about Sally's boyfriend—some doctor she met in Minneapolis.
The next day, nearly the whole gang gets together to visit their old haunts—or at least to do as much visiting as they can in the harsh Minnesota winter. Both Browns and all three van Pelts are there, along with Peppermint Patty and Franklin, and Violet and Shermie come and bring their baby bundled up in about a thousand layers against the winter chill. (Frieda's married and living in Florida, and Marcie's working as a personal assistant to a high-powered banker in Hong Kong, of all places, and wasn't able to make the lengthy flight back to the States.)
They visit their old elementary school—Shermie's got a key, because he's a teacher there—and they visit the park and the pond and the church and the ice cream shop, and they go to the baseball diamond where they spent a thousand summer afternoons, and where a mock baseball game using snowballs turns into a real knock-down drag-out snowball fight (which Charlie and Patty win handily).
That evening there's a New Year's Eve party at the van Pelts', and the mood is bright and spirits are high and the food is good, and Schroeder catches up with all his friends, and Lucy actually manages to drag him out onto the living room floor to dance, and all things considered he's feeling really glad that he let Linus talk him into coming on this trip.
At midnight they count down to the New Year. A few couples get ready for a New Year's kiss—Shermie and Violet holding hands, and Sally clinging to her doctor, who came into town for the occasion—and Schroeder can't help stealing a few glances at Lucy, wondering if she's missing Richard, and wishing . . .
Midnight strikes, and Shermie kisses Violet, and Sally kisses her doctor, and Peppermint Patty very unabashedly kisses Charlie Brown, who looks absolutely poleaxed, and everyone else hugs each other and sings an enthusiastic rendition of Auld Lang Syne. With the excitement over, the party starts to die down; Shermie and Violet go to relieve their babysitter, and Sally and her doctor leave as well, and everyone else falls to talking in quiet groups.
Schroeder goes to refill his cup of punch in the kitchen and finds himself momentarily alone and staring out the front window at a yard he knows nearly as well as the one at his own childhood home. There's the tree they used to climb when they were playing at being pirates; there's the corner where Lucy would set up her psychiatric help booth. And he's still gazing out the window when Linus comes in and finds him there.
"I wondered if you'd left," his friend smiles.
"Just got distracted," he admits. "Lots of memories in this place." He glances around for a moment. "Although when I was a kid, I thought that tree was a lot taller."
Linus chuckles. "Me too. Anyway I'm glad you haven't left yet; I've hardly had any chance to talk to you. How've you been?"
They discuss Schroeder's music and Linus's graduate studies for a while; Linus says he wasn't at all surprised to find out that Schroeder is making a career out of music, and Schroeder says the same about Linus and theology.
"Remember that Christmas program?" Schroeder laughs. "When we were all making fun of Charlie Brown's Christmas tree, and you got up and recited Luke 2, and that convinced Lucy, of all people, to do something nice for him?"
Linus chuckles. "Lucy being nice to Charlie Brown; that really was a Christmas miracle." And then his smiles softens. "Though she's certainly grown up a lot since then. But I guess you know that, since you two are such good friends these days."
Schroeder gives him a little half-smile, sadder than he intended it to be, and Linus examines him with a thoughtful expression for a moment and then observes, "Although I suppose you see her less, now that she's dating Richard."
And Schroeder can't help it: his expression falls, just a little. And Linus notices, it's clear from his eyes. He looks at Schroeder in that way he's always had, ever since they were children, like a wise old sage or a kindly old priest—that look that's always followed by a profound insight or observation. And this time is no exception:
"So how long have you been in love with my sister?"
Schroeder turns to look and him, surprised and embarrassed and ready to deny everything, but Linus's knowing look makes the objection die on his lips. So instead he sits down in a nearby chair, leans over to rest his forehead on the table, and covers his head with his arms.
"Don't worry, you have my blessing," says Linus with a laugh in his voice.
Schroeder's answer is muffled by the table his face is currently pressed against. "Am I that obvious?"
"Honestly, not hugely obvious," Linus says, and some of the tension leaves Schroeder's shoulders. "But I'm good at reading people. Not to mention I was standing right next to her at midnight when you kept throwing longing glances her direction."
A heartfelt groan is the only answer.
"Hey," says Linus bracingly, "I know she's with Richard right now, but they're only dating—it's not like they're married, right?"
"You sound like my mother."
"Good," laughs Linus. "I always liked your mother."
"I don't like romance," Schroeder announces. "It distracts and unbalances the mind. I'll just be like Handel: 'I have no time for anything but music.'"
"Personally, I prefer Paul's take on it to the Corinthians," says Linus. "'Neither is the man without the woman, neither the woman without the man, in the Lord.'"
"Then why are you still single?" Schroeder grumbles, then winces, wondering if that was rude.
But Linus only laughs again, and after a moment Schroeder hears him take the chair next to him, and then a friendly hand settles on his shoulder. "I do sympathize. Sometimes getting the timing right is the hardest thing. In all sorts of endeavors, not just romance."
"So what do I do?" Schroeder asks.
"The only thing you can do," says Linus. "Wait. Either this thing with Richard works out or it doesn't, but telling her while they're still dating either scares her off forever or puts her in a very uncomfortable position, and you don't want to do that to someone you care about. So just wait. And if that relationship ends, don't let the chance pass you by to do something about it. And if it doesn't, try to love her enough to want her happiness, even if things didn't turn out the way you wanted."
"I suppose I can do that," Schroeder agrees with a sigh.
They fall into a companionable silence, and Schroeder finally sits up and rubs his face, wondering if he has a wood grain pattern pressed into his skin from the table.
"Can I tell you something?" says Linus after a moment.
Schroeder shrugs. "Sure."
"I always thought you and Lucy would be good together," he says. "Always assumed you would end up together, actually, when I was a kid, before I learned how many things can happen between childhood and adulthood to change your life's trajectory."
"Well, then, you clued in a lot earlier than I did."
Linus laughs again. "So what I'm saying is, I'm rooting for you. For what that's worth."
And Schroeder looks at his old friend and is glad all over again that he came out to Minnesota for the holiday. "It's worth a lot, Linus. Thanks."
o.o.o
Linus's words stay with Schroeder on the flight back to Omaha, and through the shuttle ride back to his house (neither Lucy nor Richard is in town to give him a ride), and as he gets back into the swing of normal life: "Love her enough to want her happiness, even if things don't turn out the way you wanted."
And Linus is right: he shouldn't hold this against Lucy, and he should want Lucy to do what brings her joy, and he should make more of an effort to get to know Richard, if the man's going to be an important part of Schroeder's best friend's life. After all, they've been dating each other exclusively for more than two months now, which isn't precisely a long-term commitment, but it's definitely starting to move past the casual dating stage.
So with that in mind, a week after he knows Lucy's returned from Minnesota, he calls her up. "What are you and Richard doing on the 18th?" he asks. "Bill in the trumpet section has a brother-in-law who's opening a Japanese restaurant downtown." Lucy, he knows, loves trying new foods. "It's already booked up for ages but Bill offered to get me in that night. I thought maybe I'd find someone to take and we could make a double date of it." What he doesn't point out, although he assumes she remembers, is that the 18th is his birthday.
But Lucy, to his surprise, is not enthusiastic about this idea. "It's a really nice offer," she says, her voice sounding strangely subdued over the phone. "And obviously the food sounds amazing. But this isn't really a good time. Could I take a rain check? Future Japanese restaurant outing?"
Schroeder blinks in surprise. Are she and Richard really both so busy with work that they don't have time to go out for dinner? And is she really planning on leaving him with no plans on his birthday? But there's nothing to do except say "Of course, we can go another time."
She sounds tired when she answers. "You're the best, Schroeder. Oh! But I have good news: I'll see you on the 14th."
"Why?" he asks. "What's on the 14th?"
"The Introduction to the Orchestra day," she says. "Where all the school kids come to the concert hall. Guess who's volunteering?"
"Are you?" he asks, a broad smile stealing over his face. "But isn't that during the workday?"
"You remember I told you about that partner at my firm who loves classical music?" she asks. "He's got kids in school, and he's really into them learning about classical music, so he talked the firm into being a sponsor for the event. And he's getting a group of employees to go and help, you know, shepherd the kids around."
"That's wonderful!" he says sincerely. "It'll be great to see you."
"If you have time to see me," she points out. "I'll be down wrangling third graders while you'll be busy looking important and impressive at the piano. Are they going to make you wear a tux?"
"Casual clothes," he says. "They want us to look more approachable. You know, 'regular people can like classical music too, not just stuffy snobs in penguin suits!'"
Lucy laughs at that, and it occurs to him how much more cheerful she sounds now than she did at the beginning of the conversation. "Well, I'll see you then, all right?"
"See you then," Schroeder smiles.
o.o.o
On Introduction to the Orchestra day, Lucy's volunteer shift doesn't start until after lunch, so he doesn't see her for a good long while. The kids are being bussed in from local elementary schools, and they come in several waves, with the first showing up at 9.
The first group comes in and is seated in the hall. The conductor makes a little speech about the importance of music, and then he talks about how music can tell a story. He tells them to listen closely to the piece they're about to play: to listen to the twelve notes that mimic a clock, marking the strike of midnight, the violin that represents Death calling the dead from the grave to dance, the oboe that mimics the rooster's morning cry that puts an end to the revels. ("Kids love all that morbid stuff," he told the orchestra when they were rehearsing. "They'll eat this up.") Then the orchestra plays Saint-Saëns' Danse Macabre.
With that done, the first chair of each section of the orchestra stands up, introduces their instrument, talks about why they like playing it, and then plays a brief excerpt of something to show off the instrument. After long consideration, Schroeder decided the best thing to do is wow the kids, so when it's his turn, he stands up and gestures at the Petrof grand.
"My name's Schroeder, and this is a piano. Do any of you have one of these at home?"
Many hands shoot into the air.
"Pianos are great because you don't have to clean up your spit when you're done."
Most of the brass and woodwind players laugh at that, although the kids don't seem to get the joke. Maybe he should cut that for the next group that comes in.
"And they're great because you can play fast." And he sits down and plays a portion of the Minute Waltz at such a blistering speed that when he finishes, he hears several kids in the audience give out a breathless "Whoa," and the harpist turns around and mimes applauding.
When all of this is done, the kids are led out to be given a tour of the backstage area and rehearsal rooms, and the orchestra is left to wait for the next group to come in.
This is repeated every hour, on the hour—although without the spit joke—until the lunch break at noon. And it's when Schroeder is sitting in the lobby with his sandwich that he finally hears the voice he's been waiting for all day.
"Hey stranger, fancy some company?"
"Lucy!" he grins, looking up. "Please, join me."
This she does. "How's it been going so far?"
"Great," he says. "At least none of the kids have started crying yet or anything." He tells her about the program, and how he's been playing the Minute Waltz to impress the kids.
"Wait, I thought that was called the Min ute Waltz. As in 60 seconds."
And oh bother, he can already feel himself going in to lecture mode. "It's often read and mispronounced that way," he hears himself say, "but it's actually the Min ute Waltz. Minute as in small." Geez, why is he so weird about this stuff?
"That's a letdown," she says. "So you can't play it in under a minute?"
"I don't know if anyone can," he laughs. "Most people take closer to two."
At that she grins. "So how fast can you play it?"
He hesitates.
"Oh, come on, I know you've timed yourself," she says. "Go ahead and brag. I'm giving you permission."
A pause, then: "A minute forty-four," he admits with a bashful grin.
"Not bad, Metcalfe! You keep practicing, you might be able to make a career out of this piano thing someday!"
He laughs and rolls his eyes and nudges her with his shoulder, and she laughs and pushes back, and they fall into silence.
"Hey," she says softly after a minute, "I want to apologize about the other day. It was really nice of you to think of inviting us to that restaurant, and I didn't meant to shoot you down or sound ungrateful."
"You didn't," he assures her.
"And then I realized later . . . that's your birthday isn't it?" When he nods, she grimaces. "Sorry, I didn't mean to turn you down for birthday plans. And don't worry, we're definitely going to do something that night." Then she gives him a small smile. "It's just . . . I'd actually broken up with Richard not long before you called."
And until this moment, Schroeder has never known what people mean when they use the phrase "I felt like my heart stopped." Because right then, he feels like his heart has stopped.
"Why?" he manages to ask.
She shrugs. "He's great, don't get me wrong, and we had fun together. But it was never more than fun, and he was never more than pleasant company. I'd realized . . . I didn't see a future for us. When I pictured my life, I couldn't see him in it. I didn't really care if he was in it. Not even that much in the short-term."
"Oh," he says a bit blankly. "Was he . . . upset?"
She shakes her head. "When I started to bring it up, he admitted he'd been thinking the same thing. In lawyer's terms, we call that an amicable separation."
And for a moment he genuinely can't answer. Lucy is single. Lucy is available. He did like Linus said, and he waited, and now Lucy is single and available and sitting right next to him, close enough that their legs are brushing and he can feel the warmth of her and wow he needs to do something.
Or does he? He's suddenly unsure. Lucy is very calm about this whole thing, but she did break up with her boyfriend only a week ago. They hadn't been that serious or long-term, but still, should he give her more time before he asks her out?
But his indecision lasts only a moment, because suddenly Lucy is speaking again. "And I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I just . . . I'm really not very sad about it, as it turns out, but I knew people would expect me to be and want to talk about it, so it was easier just not to bring it up until I was in the mood for that conversation." She shrugs. "Sorry. Anyway, now you know."
"It's fine," he assures her.
"So, back into the dating pool!" she says. "Carol from reception is really excited. She's been wanting to set me up with her nephew for a while, so now she figures this is her chance."
Schroeder blinks, then blinks again. "Oh, so you're getting back into dating really quickly."
"I guess so," she chuckles. "At least this'll get Carol to stop telling me how perfect me and her nephew would be together."
No. No no no, is all Schroeder can think; he is not letting Lucy slip through his fingers again. He is not letting this chance to ask her out pass him by again. He is not letting her go off and fall in love with Carol-from-reception's nephew before he's had a chance to take her out at least once and try to convince her to give him a chance.
He has to do something.
But what?
He doesn't have a lot of time to ponder that question, because suddenly the call goes out for the orchestra members to finish their lunches and get back on stage, and Lucy squeezes his arm. "Play good!" she tells him cheerfully, one of her favorite well-wishes for him. "I'll come find you after, okay?"
And she's gone again, disappearing into the crowd of instrumentalists making their way back from lunch, and he's left alone to wonder: what does he do now?
He could just ask her out, he supposes as he makes his way back into the hall. When she comes to find him after the day's end, he could say he'd like to take her on a date, and they could go get dinner . . .
But it's not very dramatic, is it? That's not to say that every romantic gesture has to be dramatic, but for Lucy van Pelt, formerly the self-proclaimed queen of the neighborhood, he feels like something dramatic is in order.
But what?
The kids start filing in, and Schroeder sees Lucy guiding a group in right in the center of the hall. Soon the conductor is giving his spiel once again. "Music isn't just sounds strung together," he says, as Schroeder sits at his piano and flexes his fingers, still deep in thought. "It can tell a story, like the piece we're about to play for you. It can bring up a feeling, or a memory. It can remind you of something or someone you love."
And suddenly Schroeder knows what to do.
But does he dare? This is the question he grapples with as the orchestra strikes up Danse Macabre again. There's not a piano part in the original, so they're playing an arrangement where he mostly just plays bits of the xylophone part, so he really doesn't have to pay much attention here. He has time to stare at the keys and sneak glances out at where he knows Lucy's sitting and go over and over the pros and cons of his plan in his mind.
(Pro: it might go really well. Con: if it goes poorly, it'll go poorly in front of all his co-workers and several hundred third graders.)
But as he plays, he looks across the piano and remembers that night that Lucy came back into his life, when she sat at the other end of this very piano and watched him play, and a sense of peace and confidence steals over him: this is the right thing to do. And he's going to do it.
So when Danse Macabre is finished, and when all the strings and winds have done their little spiel about their instruments, he wipes his suddenly sweaty hands on his pants and stands to face the audience.
"My name is Schroeder," he recites, "and this is a piano. How many of you have pianos at your house?"
If this were a normal concert, the stage lights would be up and the house lights would be down, and he wouldn't be able to see anyone out there in the seats. He thinks he'd prefer that. Because with the house lights up as they are right now, he can see perfectly well that Lucy is sitting in the center section, about halfway back, and that she's watching him with a smile on her face. And this would be so much easier if he couldn't see her.
"I like to play the piano, because like the conductor said, the music you make on the piano can remind you of feelings and memories and things you love." His hands are starting to tremble, and he quickly hides them behind his back. "This song I'm going to play for you got its nickname because someone once said it reminded him of moonlight shining on Lake Lucerne." He swallows hard. "But I love this song because it reminds me of the girl I'm in love with."
Quickly he sits down before he can see Lucy's reaction; in front of him, the harp player gives him a quizzical look. He ignores her and, willing his hands to be steady, reaches out and plays the opening notes of the Moonlight Sonata.
The familiar sounds soothe him instantly; his hands stop shaking and he is able, for a few measures, to ignore the fact that he just laid his heart bare in front of every single person in this room; he thinks instead of a hundred afternoons when he was a child, attempting to get through the song while Lucy distracted him with talking about their future marriage.
Who'd have ever thought there'd come a day when she'd be proved right—when he would want to be with her the way she'd wanted for so long to be with him?
All of a sudden he recalls that they are supposed to keep their demonstrations brief, and he manages to improvise an ending that brings the melody to a satisfactory close. The last chord rings out for a few moments, and then he puts his hands in his lap and stares down at the keys as the conductor moves on to the next person who's supposed to play. He can tell that a few people in the orchestra are staring at him—people who know he's not dating anyone, most likely—but he can't bring himself to make eye contact with any of them.
And he certainly can't bring himself to look into the audience.
So he sits there, awkwardly staring at the keyboard, until the timpanist finishes his demonstration and the children all applaud politely. He stares while they start filing out of the room. And he stares until someone comes and sits hesitantly at the end of his piano bench, just a few inches from where he sits.
"Schroeder," says Lucy, and he's never heard her sound quite so surprised.
He glances over at her and sees that she's wide-eyed and staring, and he blushes and looks away again. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices the harpist getting up from her stool and ushering the percussionists away, clearly trying to give them a bit of privacy.
"Schroeder," she says again, almost breathlessly, after a moment, "I . . . I always kind of thought that you thought of that as my song."
Okay, time to be brave. He takes a deep breath and turns to face her, forcing himself to sit up straight and meet her eyes. "I do," he confesses.
Lucy's eyes widen. And then the loveliest smile starts to steal over her face. "Schroeder Metcalfe," she says, "are you in love with me?"
His throat is suddenly dry and he has to swallow before he can speak. "Yeah, I am."
She stares. And then: "HA!"
In his surprise, and in order to focus on her better, he scoots back so that they have a bit of space between them. "Ha?" he repeats. "Is that really the most appropriate response here?"
"Ha, I was right!" she says triumphantly. "How many times did you tell me that you'd never be interested in me? Never want to get involved with me? And now here you are, confessing your feelings in front of the orchestra and God and everyone."
And despite the roiling anxiety in his stomach, he finds himself laughing. After all, whatever happens, it at least seems like she isn't mad about the confession. "In my defense, I was eight," he points out. "I still thought girls had cooties."
"Well, I have to say," she grins, "your taste and your sense have matured very nicely."
He stares at her a moment, and then the waiting is just too much. "Thanks," he says, "but do you have any, you know, response to what I said?" He can feel heat rising to his face as he asks. Very smooth, he thinks wryly to himself, and is glad that the orchestra members remaining on the stage are all too busy chatting or noodling or tuning to pay any attention to what's happening back at the piano.
"Several," she tells him. "Such as, Wow, I didn't even realize. You certainly do play things close to the chest, don't you?"
Is she determined to drive him insane? He genuinely can't tell if she feels positively about the confession or is just being very easygoing and cool about turning him down. "Well, I didn't realize it until right before you started dating Richard."
She winces sympathetically. "Bad timing."
His laugh then is half amusement and half disbelief. "Definitely. But, um, did you have any other response to what I said?"
She gives him an innocent look that he learned long ago not to trust from her. "What are you after, specifically?" But there's laughter in her eyes, and he feels hope rising in his chest, because Lucy's a lot of things but she's not cruel and he has to believe she would be reacting very differently if she was about to break his heart.
"A date?" he gathers his courage enough to say. "Maybe we could go to dinner? And you could see how you feel about all this?"
"How I feel about you being in love with me?"
He nods.
And now she smiles delightedly at him from her end of the piano bench, and he spares a thought about how thoroughly at home she looks there. "Dinner sounds great," she says. "I hear that some trumpet player's brother-in-law just opened a Japanese restaurant. We could give it a try. Maybe for your birthday."
Tension that he didn't even realize was spiraling up his spine suddenly dissipates. Lucy is willing to give this a try. She's willing to give him a try. And he can't help grinning, broad and bashful all at once, and for a moment he can't quite meet her eyes, like some part of him is afraid of frightening her off with the intense happiness he knows she'd see there.
When he glances back up at her, she's tilted her head a little and is giving him a thoughtful look. And then she smiles. "But, fair warning," she says. "I already know exactly how I 'feel about all this.'"
His brow furrows in an unspoken question, which she answers by scooting across the piano bench, leaning forward and kissing him.
It's over too quick for him to even process what just happened, and he just stares in surprise as she leans back, looking thoroughly self-satisfied. "I feel good about it, is what I'm saying," she explains with an impish grin.
Schroeder feels good about it too. So he reaches out to pull her to him and kiss her back.
Sitting side by side on a piano bench, surrounded by the Omaha Philharmonic and knowing that you might at any moment be walked in on by a bunch of school kids on a field trip, isn't the best place in the world to finally kiss your (sort of) childhood sweetheart. But it doesn't matter: neither the awkward angle nor the knowledge that his fellow musicians are going to tease him about this later can ruin such a thoroughly wonderful kiss: wonderful because he's been wanting it so much for two months and it almost didn't happen; wonderful because this moment is twenty years in the making, or maybe, as he suddenly feels, his whole life has been leading up to this moment . . . and wonderful because Lucy is a pretty great kisser.
"So," she says with a grin when they break apart and she's left with her arms draped around his neck, "did I say 'I told you so' yet?"
"I mean, you laughed in triumph because you'd been right all along," he says. "Does that count?"
"Not quite," she says, and leans forward to whisper in his ear. "I told you so."
Before he can respond, there's a very pointed throat-clearing from somewhere in front of him, and he looks up to see that the conductor has returned to the podium to address the orchestra and is giving Schroeder a very expressive look.
Immediately his face flames bright red, but Lucy, as blithely unconcerned as ever, just laughs, gives Schroeder a wink, and quickly makes her way off the stage.
The conductor eyes Schroeder a long moment, and then he smiles. "She seems nice," he says to Schroeder, and now the whole orchestra is looking back in confusion at the piano, wondering who this 'she' is.
Schroeder manages a smile through his embarrassment.
And then the conductor gives him a sardonic look. "But I'd stick with the Minute Waltz, if I were you. Much more impressive."
And Schroeder wonders if he can hide under the piano until his blushing subsides.
o.o.o
Schroeder and Lucy don't wait until his birthday for their first date. The second that the Introduction to the Orchestra day ends, she runs up to his piano bench with a wide smile. "Hey there," she grins. "How about you let a cute girl buy you dinner?"
He grins too, but disagrees, "How about you let a cute boy buy you dinner? Since I'm the one who asked you out?"
She tilts her head. "You think you're cute, do you?"
He can feel himself blushing again, but the teasing smile on her face emboldens him to say, "Well, there must be a reason you were in love with me all those years."
"Must be," she agrees. "If you pay tonight, though, I get to pay next time."
And that's a compromise he can live with.
They end up at their usual diner; Schroeder would have preferred to take her somewhere special for their first date, but Lucy's having none of it. "This place is special," she says as she takes his hand to tug him out the concert hall doors. "All the time we've spent there together? It's our place. Not to mention, that's where we ate that first night, when I realized you were going to let me be your friend."
Schroeder's a little distracted with wishing that it wasn't so cold out, so that there wasn't a layer of gloves between their clasped hands, but he's not so distracted that he doesn't notice that statement. "You thought there was a chance I wouldn't want to be friends with you?"
She shrugs. "I mean, when I decided to go to your concert, I knew you wouldn't pretend not to recognize me or anything," she says. "But I didn't know whether you'd be interested in ever seeing me again after I'd said hi that night."
"Seriously?" he asks. "After all we'd been through together?"
"When we were kids," she points out. They're standing still now, waiting for a light to change so they can cross the street, so he sees perfectly well that when she glances up at him, there's an uncertainty in her eyes that doesn't jive at all with the Lucy van Pelt that he knows. "But that was ages ago. I hadn't seen you in eight years, and for four years before that we'd practically been strangers. Not to mention that even when we were friends, our interactions were mostly you trying to get me to leave you alone."
He grimaces. "Lucy, I'm sorry—"
"Don't be," she smiles. "I know I was a pest back then. And really, you tolerated me pretty well when I wasn't interrupting your playing to plan our wedding. But you can see how I'd be unsure of the response I'd get when I showed up at your concert last summer." And then her usual confidence returns. "But then you were really happy to see me so it turned out fine."
"I was happy to see you," he confirms as the light changes and they make their way across the street. "I'd been . . . honestly I'd been really lonely, and it was so great to have you around. But Lucy—" and here he squeezes her hand for emphasis— "even when we were kids, I was always glad when you were around. I mean, not when you were interrupting my practicing, and I didn't like you talking about us getting married because I was so convinced I should stay single like Beethoven, but I liked it when you'd come listen to me play. I liked ball games and playing in the neighborhood with you. I've . . . I've always liked spending time with you. I missed you when you stopped coming over all the time."
She smiles. "I missed you too," she confesses.
"Then I'm glad we're getting another chance," he says. They're nearly to the diner now, and he pulls her to a stop for a moment on the sidewalk. "I . . . I've been worried these last two months that maybe you getting over me in middle school was permanent."
At that she chuckles. "I'd hoped it was permanent," she confesses. "I was tired of having these feelings I was sure would never be returned. And I really was over you. But for a long time, there was always just the tiniest piece of you, somewhere in the back of my mind. Even when I was dating other guys, I'd hear your name or someone would play Beethoven and I'd just get sort of . . . wistful."
"Even when you were with Richard?" he asks, and he can't help the feeling of satisfaction he gets at the idea.
But she disabuses him of that notion. "No, by the time I moved to Omaha, I'd gotten you out of my system. I have to admit, I didn't really consider the idea of dating you until today. Not seriously, anyway."
He blinks in surprise. "Really? You went from not even considering it to kissing me in ten minutes?"
And she grins at him. "I'd spent a long time not letting myself think about you that way. But as soon as I gave myself permission, it was really easy to fall back into my old habits." She shrugs. "What can I say? You're a likeable guy."
But for a moment Schroeder hesitates. She'd kissed him so quickly that he'd been supposing she'd been at least a little bit interested in him before that moment. Now that he knows he was wrong . . .
"What?" she asks.
He decides to go ahead and voice his insecurity. "That's a short time to make that decision. What if you change your mind just as quickly?"
But Lucy just smiles at him. "Kid, I loved you for years," she says. "And even after I stopped, I always sort of regretted you. And now you're my closest friend and I love spending time with you and I'm very attracted to you and I really like kissing you. I don't think you need to worry about me changing my mind any time soon."
And he looks at her a long moment, and then he smiles. "Okay," he agrees.
And she beams at him. "Glad we have that sorted," she says. "Now, can we eat? I'm starving."
He feels a rush of affection for the extraordinary young woman currently grasping his hands, for brash, bold, clever, funny, fearless Lucy van Pelt. "One thing first," he says, and pulls her into another kiss, because they've got twenty years of lost time to make up for.
When they pull apart, she looks a little bit dazed and breathless, and he can only assume that he's even more so. "Or we could just stay out here and kiss until we freeze to death," she suggests, and looks like she'd be genuinely happy with that option.
He grins at her. "Tempting, but I think that deep down you want pancakes."
She considers this a moment, then nods. "I do want pancakes," she agrees.
And, hand in hand, they walk inside the diner.
o.o.o
fin
