Meet Me at Midnight (Romance, Completed)

Chapter 8

Oh, how I wished I'd never volunteered to help Mother with the floral party, because not only was Midnight conspicuous by his absence, she naturally assumed I'd love to help with her Music in May event too. A string quartet, a classical singer, and a pianist would be joining us for an evening of cultural celebration. At least that was how Mother described it. I knew they'd be joining us for an evening of alcohol and small talk, just like every other event she ever held.

No longer trusted to organise the flowers after the lily debacle, I'd been demoted to furniture—chairs specifically, plus those little tables people abandoned their drinks on. Oh, and could I find a piano tuner for the Steinway grand? Sure, I knew hundreds of them. What next? Cloakroom duty?

Over the past two and a bit weeks, all I'd managed to do for work was write out two loose plots for historical romance novels and a whole bunch more dirty scenes like the one I'd pressed into Midnight's hands before he ran out on me again. Two weeks, and I'd heard nothing. Despite what he said about his self-control, I thought the contents might have at least warranted a text message.

The pent up sexual energy combined with my inability to find a bloody piano tuner available at any point before Saturday left me brimming with frustration.

I was sitting at the piano in the ballroom, googling piano tuners from as far away as France when my phone trilled, not with a message, but with Beethoven's fifth, the generic tune I'd set for unknown numbers. Please, let this be good news.

"Hello?"

"This is Althea Warlingame. Is that Augusta?"

"Yes." Althea was the pianist Mother had booked. Maybe she'd know a piano tuner, although I wasn't sure I liked her tone. She sounded a little...worried.

There it was, a nervous giggle. "About the party—I'm afraid I won't be able to make it. I tripped over walking the dog yesterday, and I've fractured one of my fingers."

I gritted my teeth then forced myself to relax before I cracked my jaw. "I'm so sorry to hear that. Your finger, I mean. I hope it heals up quickly."

"Eight weeks before it's fully functional, the specialist says, but I'd be happy to play at any events after that."

"Wonderful. I'll let my mother know."

Bloody hell. It was all I could do to keep from throwing the phone across the room, preferably towards the caretaker who was polishing the floor on the far side because the quiet hum of the machine he was pushing back and forth was grating on my last nerve.

"Hey, you!" I didn't even know his name.

Nothing.

"You, with that polishing thing."

A second or two passed before he turned and peered at me from under his battered baseball cap. "Me?"

"Yes. Could you stop that for a few minutes? The noise is driving me crazy."

He shrugged and turned the machine off before pulling out a tin of wax and a rag and setting to work on the edges. Great—he probably thought I'd inherited Mother's bitchy tendencies, and I tried so hard to avoid behaving like her.

I chewed on my bottom lip as I considered my options, idly playing the first few bars of Für Elise. On the plus side, if I didn't have a pianist, I wouldn't need a piano tuner, but realistically if I told mother we were a musician short, she'd allocate me the washing up next time. Gah! I slammed my hands down on the keys then regretted it as the hideous noise made the caretaker jump in alarm.

Just when I thought things couldn't get any worse, a voice came from the doorway.

"Is everything okay?"