I missed the manner of transportation that was used to take us from the train station to my mother’s white house on the side of the mountain above the lake. Without me being aware we were traveling; we were simply there.
“This is us,” she said.
Mom’s house was the definition of eclectic, filled with the most interesting things imaginable. Soul of an artist meets billions of dollars. I’d never known my mom had such elite taste or such a range of interests. I reached out to touch an Asian bronze statue.
“That’s called Dancing Fairy,” she said. “I’m not at all surprised you like it.”
“You’re not?”
She laughed softly, but said no more. I followed her through the house thinking each new window revealed an even more breathtaking view. When I passed a large hallway mirror framed in decorative wrought iron tulips, I stopped for a doubletake. The woman looking back was me, but younger and I was pretty sure I’d never looked quite so good even with the advantages of youth.
Mom came up behind me. “I love the everything about you as you are, but if you choose to look different, you can. No plastic surgery needed. You can change shape, gender, even species.”
“Um. Maybe later?”
With a happy chuckle, she said, “Of course. Too much information too soon.”
We stepped into a large room with white walls, rosewood flooring, windows on three sides and a concert sized Steinway. “It’s just like the one in the Curious Goods store,” I said.
Sprigly trotted in and flopped down next to the piano.
“Hello.” I heard a man’s voice from behind. When I turned to see who’d joined us, I found myself looking squarely into someone’s chest.
I stepped back so that I could take in the six-foot six figure of an attractive young man. My first thought was that his eyes were soulful. Yellow flecks mixed with deep gray. So beautiful I couldn’t look away. He had several silver earrings on his left ear, spikey hair, a lightweight, loose-fitting tee in a blue color that made the gray in his eyes stand out even more, and jeans.
He wasn’t handsome in the sense that every feature was flawless, but he was striking and gave the impression of being an artist. Hip.
“Mary Marie,” Mom said. “I’d like you to meet Sergei Rachmaninoff.”
I laughed. “Is it April the 1st?”
Ignoring that, she said, “He’s going to teach you to play that piece you like.”
I looked at our guest. ‘“Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini’?”
Mom nodded. “I’ll leave you to it. If you need anything, the house will rearrange itself to accommodate you.”Wait. What?She smiled. “Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it. If you need me, just call. I’ll hear and come.” Before she closed the door, she said, “Maybe we’ll go for a picnic later. And a swim.”
I followed the trajectory of the direction where she pointed toward the gorgeous blue water below and nodded. That did sound heavenly.
“The water is always a perfect temperature. And the wildflowers are to die for.” She sniggered. “That’s one of my favorite jokes. Anyway. We can bring watercolors along. In case you’re so inclined.”
Hmmm.
I looked up at the lanky hipster standing next to me. “Are you really Rachmaninoff?”
His smile was gorgeous and disarming. I wondered if he’d been a romance magnet in life. “I’ve gone by that name among others.”
His voice drew me in. I knew I should feel excited, and probably nervous, to be in the company of one of my heroes.
“Well, what do you want to be called?”
“Andrei.”
“Nice choice. So. Okay. Andrei. I can’t possibly take piano lessons from you,” I said.
“Why not?” he asked. “I have a lot of teaching experience.”
Even his slight Russian accent was charming, and I wondered if it was an affectation for my benefit.
“Well, certainly I’m not questioning your qualifications. Just the opposite. I’m saying someone who was a god of classical music can’t possibly want to spend part of the afterlife teaching me to play ‘Row, Row, Row Your Boat’. Because I can call you Andrei until the cows come home but I’m not likely to forget that you’re Rachmaninoff.”
He grinned. “I don’t know ‘Row, Row, Row’. But I get the gist of your concern. I’m not doing anything this afternoon. Let’s play.” He sat down in a chair next to the piano bench that hadn’t been there a moment before and gestured for me to sit. “Learning something new here isn’t the same sort of challenge as when you’re in temporary form. You’ll see.”
Reluctantly I sat. I don’t know how time passes in heaven. I don’t know if time exists in heaven. I just know that, in a short time, I was playing my favorite Rachmaninoff piece for a young, sexy Rachmaninoff, and he was smiling like he was pleased.
