“Me too,” Dad adds.
I exhale, my tense shoulders relaxing.
Dad gestures to me, waving his hand in the air as he thinks. “Tate, play Larry that one about becoming who you are. You know which one I mean.” He snaps his fingers, humming the tune to remind me. But I know exactly which song he’s referring to.
I shake my head, my throat tightening. “Not right now. I’m meeting Ashley. I should get ready.”
“Ah, okay.” Dad nods, and the love in his eyes makes my throat ache even more.
I close the lid of the piano and stand, picking up my purse. “I’ll make some dinner and leave it in the oven for you.”
“Don’t worry about me,” he says.
“I’ll leave it in the oven,” I repeat firmly. I know if I leave it up to my father, he’ll skip dinner altogether.
He chuckles. “Okay. Thanks, love.”
“Don’t wait up, it could be a late one,” I tell him. “Nice to see you, Larry,” I add as I head toward the stairs.
“You too, Tate,” he replies.
“Have fun,” Dad calls. “And bring that uniform down before you go. I’ll put it in the next wash.” He jerks a thumb toward one of the ancient machines. “Thing needs it; it’s covered in that brown stuff again.”
I look at the cocoa powder that’s covered my pink shirt and black skirt. He’s right. I’m covered, just like I am after every shift. The stuff gets everywhere. But I love it. I’ve even designed a couple of new stencils with CaffeineCouture’s logo on that I can’t wait to try out. Maybe it’s silly, but I love the smile they bring to people’s faces when they notice them.
“Will do, thanks, Dad,” I call back as I head for the stairs.
“Oh my God, is it always this busy?” Ashley shouts over the crowd’s cheers that erupt around us.
“There are more people each time. People fly in from overseas now if there’s a rumor that he’s going to do a performance,” I shout back.
My eyes zone in on the man dressed all in black, including a ski mask, who’s appeared seemingly from nowhere in front of a piano on wheels that’s been set up in Grand Central Station, tucked away around a corner at the base of one of the staircases.
“How does he get away with it?” Ashley asks.
The sound from the crowd reaches a new high as the man takes a seat.
“I don’t know. The charity donations, I guess?” I shrug as I point out the giant collection tubs that have been set up on our side of the rope fencing that surrounds the piano. They’re already spilling over with bills and coins.
When I first discovered The Masked Maestro a couple of years ago, it was by accident. He had a following of two hundred people on his YouTube channel. He turned up during a ‘Sing for Hope Pianos’ event and blew people away with his rendition of Beethoven’sFür Elise. Good Morning America even played a clip of him.
After that, everyone wanted to know who the guy in the mask was. And his followers jumped to over six hundred thousand overnight. Now he gets the city’s permission to dorandom pop-up shows comprising of just four songs each time. He announces on his social media the date of when one will be. But doesn’t release the location until thirty minutes before it starts. Ashley and I had a mad dash to make it here in time.
The crowd falls silent with anticipation as he rolls his shoulders, preparing to start. The broad muscles of his back rise and fall as he takes a deep breath. I wonder if he gets that bundle of nerves before he plays, like I do. I doubt it.
His first note draws a collective intake of breath from the crowd. I join them, entranced as he plays a perfect rendition of Beethoven’sMoonlight Sonatafrom memory, each note delivered flawlessly.
Ashley stands beside me, dumbstruck as he flows throughEtudeby Chopin, followed byLittle Red Riding Hoodby Rachmaninoff.
“Oh wow, he’s incredible,” she says, her eyes glued to his dark form hunched over the keys.
“I know, right,” I whisper back, unable to look away from him as he plays the final bars.
I hold my breath waiting to see which piece he’ll choose for his final one. I’m hoping for an Einaudi piece. I loved hearing him play Nuvole Bianche a few months ago.
He pauses, head bowed to his chest, fists clenched above the keys. The crowd falls silent again. Waiting.
I swear I can hear the emotion thick in his lungs as he drags in a rough breath, his chest rising with it. For one long, tense second, I wonder if he’s going to play at all.
