The Butterfly and the Violin (17 page)

“Adele and the young musician?” she asked, on a whisper.

“Yes. The song would have been popular during their time, wouldn’t it?”

Sera felt the warmth of his breath burn her forehead and shivered. He must have thought her chilled because he gently pulled her closer, until she was cradled up against the heat of his chest, her head nudging his chin with each melodic sway.

“I believe so. Probably sung by Billie Holiday or another popular singer of the era. But I always think of this song as sung by Nat King Cole.”

“In the fifties?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

He nodded, his chin bobbing against her forehead.

They danced silently, swaying to the chorus with its enchanting words.

“And do you believe in second chances?” William’s words were faintly whispered.

What was he thinking? She wished she knew.

“Second chances?”

“If they were a couple as we suspect, wouldn’t they have given anything for one more chance to do what we’re doing right now, especially given what might have happened to them?”

She shook her head. She’d been searching for a painting of Adele—not looking to uncover a decades-old romance. Love had been taken off the table long ago when her heart was shattered. So was she supposed to care about fresh chances now? What did they hold but broken promises?

He seemed to notice her pause, but chose to ignore it and whispered closer to her ear, “What should we do with this stolen moment?”

Sera felt a pit forming in her stomach. She was leaving in twelve hours. That was it. She’d be on a plane flying thousands of miles away from California and those blue eyes of his.

“William, I’m leaving tomorrow and—”

He tightened his grip at her back and laughed softly. “See? You didn’t call me Mr. Hanover. I knew you could do it if you set your mind to it.”

“It doesn’t matter what we call each other,” she admitted, trying to find the right words to soften the truth. “I’m just . . . not sure I’m ready for this.”

“Is it because I’ve hired you? Or is it something else?” William leaned back, enough so that their eyes met. Their dance became slower, each step more intentional. More connected, even. “Something more than the painting?”

She tilted her chin in a soft, singular nod. “It always has been.”

As if waiting for something, he whispered, “Who hurt you, Sera?”

She stared back, feeling the weight of his eyes as they searched her face. So she wasn’t able to hide everything.

“Someone who was supposed to honor a promise until death do we part.” She sighed. “But he couldn’t honor it even to walk down the aisle.”

His voice was heavy, laden with tenderness. “I’m so sorry.”

Sera took a deep breath against the emotion that threatened to pinch her eyes to tears.

“I’ve thought about this. A lot. And—”

William’s mouth flipped into a sudden grin. “You thought about me?”

“No.” She shook her head, embarrassed that she couldn’t think straight around him.

“No, you didn’t think about me?”

She fumbled her steps and nearly took off the tip of his oxford with the heel of her shoe. “I’m sorry,” she apologized, and halted their swaying. “We’ve both got baggage, William. Just different kinds. We’re both searching for something outside of what happened to Adele—your search happened to cross with mine. And given the fact that there’s the painting between us, and your family’s future at stake, it’s not a reality that we can be friends.”

“Good.”

He surprised her with the one word.

Really? He thought it was good?

Sera popped her head up and looked him dead in the eyes. “Good?”

“I thought that might get your attention.” The words were whispered a scant second before his lips brushed hers. It was soft, sweet, and a blink of a kiss that she hadn’t expected. “I don’t think I want to be friends with you either.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

September 1, 1939

S
ee? He’s looking at you again.”

Margie kept tugging at the sleeve of Adele’s blue-and-white flowered dress as she whispered about the tall, dreamy-eyed gentleman who’d walked into the dance hall a few moments before. He stood across the room, casually leaning against the wall and looking every now and then in their direction. The band played, couples danced, and the overhead lights dimmed over the dance floor in between them, but he appeared not to notice.

Margie and the rest of the girls thought it was a chance sighting, didn’t they?

Her heart quickened as he stood there, leaning to one side with his long legs crossed, looking toward where she sat with her gaggle of red-lipped friends.

“Did you hear me?” Margie poked her in the shoulder. “That hotsy-totsy over there keeps giving you the eye. I’m sure of it. He turns this way every few seconds. See?” The bright-eyed brunette raised her brows and smirked. “He did it again! He’s looking at our sweet little violinist, I do believe.”

Adele stirred the straw in her cola bottle, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible. “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

Margie could see through her. Always did. She was the first
friend Adele had made when she’d started college that autumn, and boy-crazy though Margie was, Adele enjoyed her caring nature. The other girls, Faye and Greta, were both studious musicians in the music program. They were lovely and proper, and far more reserved than their unofficial brunette-haired leader.

“I think he’s going to ask you to dance, Adele.” Greta winked, her long lashes upturned on a smile that softened all the contours of her face. “And on your birthday, no less.”

Adele felt her cheeks tinge with a blush.

Of course she hoped he’d ask her to dance on her birthday. What else could she want?

“He’d better ask, after all the staring he’s doing. You haven’t noticed?” Margie rolled her eyes, causing a chorus of giggled sighs from the other two friends at the table. “You’d better start noticing, Adele. Look at him—he’s perfect. Austria’s Sweetheart may have been gifted with more than a seat onstage for her special day.”

“Leave her alone, Marg. She’s trying to forget who she is for one night. Can’t she just be Adele? Why does the orchestra have to be brought into it?”

“He plays for the Philharmonic, doesn’t he?”

Adele nodded and tried to steel herself from looking over at him in return. Instead, she looked down at the cola bottle she’d been turning in her hands. “Yes. He’s a new cellist.”

“See, Faye? She’s playing coy with us. Our Adele is officially falling for mystery man number one over there and . . .” Margie exhaled noisily and sagged into a playful sigh against Adele’s shoulder. “Let’s face it. I can’t blame her. I’d be smitten with that one too. I’ve been trying to get the dirt on him for weeks, and curiously, she never has any details to share. Don’t you think that’s a bit odd? I think they’re secret friends and she refuses to tell us.”

Adele had to smile.

Her eyes had clamped on Vladimir’s tall form the second he’d
strolled in through the front doors. As a matter of fact, Adele had been waiting for him all night, though she’d never have admitted it to her group of friends. They sat around like lovesick kittens, purring over every dark-haired man who gave a half smile in the direction of their table. But when Vladimir had strolled through the doors, a collective sigh rose up from the group.

For some reason, Adele was reluctant to share much.

Maybe it was because she feared her parents would find out about their friendship. Or maybe she didn’t want to admit to the mad crush that was building on her part? Surely the older Vladimir wouldn’t notice her as anything more than the orchestra’s young guest violinist.

Adele wore a pearl comb in her hair that night. She’d rolled her hair high on her head and let the back trail down her neck in a riot of curls about her shoulders, like many other girls there. But the comb? That was for him and him alone. She hoped he noticed it, hoped he didn’t see her as the little college girl who played with him onstage. Could he see something of the woman in her?

“The odds are that he’ll be walking over here within the next five minutes.” Margie, always romantic with the swoony daydreams about happily ever after, smiled at her knowingly. “And you, miss, will find yourself swept away.”

“But one of us might not be here to see it,” Faye whispered, shoving her with an elbow. “Look.”

A handsome officer was walking in their direction. He stopped before the table, inclined his head to the group, and then turned . . . to her.

“Excuse me, miss. Might I have the honor of a dance?”

Margie kicked her leg under the table, the heel of her shoe knocking her shin. Adele glanced across the table to see her brunette friend smiling wildly and bobbing her head in a hopeful nod. “
Are you crazy? Say yes,
” she mouthed. Faye and Greta stared
back at her too, their eyes wide while the officer waited for his answer.

On instinct, she moved her eyes to glance at Vladimir, hoping he’d see the exchange and swoop in to ask her to dance instead.

The wall was empty.

Her eyes scanned that side of the room but found no evidence of him. When had he moved?

The sound of someone clearing their throat brought her back to the table. She turned her attention back to the officer who was waiting patiently and the friends who seemed breathless while the agonizing seconds passed for her to render a response.

There was nothing else to be done. Vladimir hadn’t asked her to dance. Surely he didn’t want to or he’d have intervened.

Adele nodded slightly and rose up out of the chair. The officer beamed a smile back and offered a gloved hand, which she took, and they moved to the dance floor.

Though seeming a bit nervous, the young man was an expert dancer, likely as schooled as she’d been in her youth. Her mother had always planned that she’d have a moment like this, a chance encounter on a dance floor with a young man as privileged as she, and they’d drive off into the sunset together in a Rolls Royce with Nazi red flags flying. But though her mother’s wishes for grandeur would no doubt have been found in the polite and handsome young man, he’d never hold the slightest candle to the penniless cellist Adele wished had asked her to dance instead.

She nodded politely to the officer’s conversation, listening as intently as she could. She danced almost robotically, feeling not the slightest spark as he continued talking. And while she hoped to feel something, it was no use. Her eyes wandered the room every second while the young man held her so stiffly in his arms.

Adele could scarcely wait for the song to be over so she could escape. But each time she tried to excuse herself, another eager young man would fill the place of the one before. It was three
more dances before she had a moment to catch her breath. And still, with each twirl around the floor, Vladimir had never come back into view.

She needed some air.

The moment the notes of the present song stopped and the applause began, she gave the last young man a polite thank-you and turned on her heels toward the door.

Thank goodness it wasn’t too cold out. She didn’t have the will to go back to the table for her coat. Her friends would have noticed the tears building in her eyes and questioned her.

Adele burst through the front doors without a look back.

She nearly bumped into a couple of young officers standing near the entrance, smoking and laughing about something. One of them whistled when she walked by, causing her to quicken her pace.

Maybe she’d just walk all the way home.

It wasn’t that far. And it would give her time to compose herself before she had to walk through the door. No doubt her mother would be up, waiting to hear every detail of the night out. Who did she dance with? Had there been any eligible young men there that night? It always occurred in the same manner.

There was no way she could hide tear-streaked cheeks.

“Adele?”

She heard footsteps clamoring behind her. She stopped, her heart quickening to the sound of Vladimir’s voice. After hastily wiping at her eyes, she turned to face him.

“Where are you going?” Panting, he came to a stop in front of her.

“I’m going home.” She gave him a forced smile. “I’m tired.”

“But you left your things,” he said, holding her peacock blue coat and leather purse out to her. Confused, she took them from him and mumbled, “Thank you,” as she shrugged the coat up over her shoulders.

She didn’t understand him at all.

He stood in the dance hall, looking at her for the longest time, yet never asked her to dance. One after another, other young men had asked her. She’d been good enough for them to waltz around the floor.

Vladimir was older. And probably more experienced with matters of the heart. Adele knew she must be a child to him. Having realized it, she now wanted nothing more than to tear the pearl comb from her hair and march off into the night away from him.

Hers was a schoolgirl crush, plain and simple.

“I was looking for you.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to her. “Are you upset?”

“No,” she lied, but accepted the handkerchief and used it to dab at the corners of her eyes.