He turned. “Oh?”
“I’ve prayed for the impossible to be possible since I read Anne Rice when I was a teenager.”
“I’m not familiar with Ms. Rice’s works.”
“She writes about vampires and other creatures.” I’d fallen in love with Lestat and continued to fall for every leading male vampire I’d read about ever since, from Edward to Eric and all in between. “Do vampires exist?”
He chuckled. “In some form or another. Most every creature you’ve ever heard of exists, though the legends may be skewed.”
Sir Studly’s head whipped around, and he crowded in, blocking me from view. I saw a pair of legs walk by. Studly nodded his head. “Just trying to get the costume off.”
A voice reached me from behind the car. “I saw that! It was some trick.”
“Thank you,” Studly replied. “We’re thinking of taking the show on the road, maybe trying out for that talent show on TV.” I couldn’t see anything, so I contemplated his accent. It wasn’t Scottish. I kept leaning toward Irish.
The stranger’s voice laughed and faded away. Studly turned back to me. “Are you calmer?”
“I think so.” My heart had stopped racing. People thought it was a costume, so I was in no real danger of anyone freaking out—besides me. I closed my eyes again and sucked in a deep breath, counting out slowly as I exhaled.
It occurred to me I had no idea what his name was. I couldn’t exactly call him Sir Studly. “I’m Jen, by the way,” I said without opening my eyes.
“Roan. Nice to meet you. Focus.” Smiling, I did as he said.
I’d never been one to meditate. If I needed to relax I grabbed a bottle and a friend. Not to say I was a lush, I drank maybe twice a year, but when I did, I drank myself into oblivion and relaxation.
Focus.My breaths rattled in and out as I ignored the itch on my left butt cheek. I was failing miserably.
“When are you at your happiest?” Roan could probably tell it wasn’t going well.
“When I’m playing.”
“What do you play?” His voice was skeptical.
“Piano, guitar, violin. A few other things.” I determinately didn’t open my eyes; I had no desire to see the skepticism in his face.
“Play.”
“Play? What do you mean?”
“In your mind, play. Picture yourself wherever you’re happiest playing, and play.”
I doubted his advice would work, but I gave it a try. The last time I’d been truly happy playing was with the symphony. I didn’t mind accompanying the kids, but I absolutely loathed teaching them.
The stage was dark, and the auditorium full. A spotlight hit me, decked to the nines in a black evening gown. The white keys of the piano glowed with promise.
Chopin flowed from my fingers, Nocturne in E-flat major committed to my memory. My fingers flew across the keys as the light, haunting melody filled the air. My back swayed, and my hands moved up and down the piano keys.
I sucked in my breath as the orchestra joined in, moving me to play better, to make them proud and to reach the audience’s discerning ears.
At the end of the piece, I sat my hands in my lap and opened my eyes. My hands were pale again, the sort of pale that required SPF 50+ and a sun hat. I blamed my Irish mother.
“Well done,” Roan said. “You did it.” His grin was infectious. He was truly proud of me for accomplishing the transition.
I smiled up at him and climbed to my feet. He offered me a hand since I rose so slowly. I’d sat there so long my feet had gone to sleep and didn’t want to move. “I didn’t even feel the change.”
“It’s described as a tingle across the skin, or a tickle, usually.”
Shrugging, I closed the back door and grabbed my purse from where I’d dropped it beside the car. “Well, thanks. We should exchange numbers. I’m sure I’ll have questions about what happened today.” Boy would I.
