Chapter 17

He sighed. “I would kill for this.” And he went back to his music as the motorcycle popped and silenced.

“You did it!” Jennalee squealed. “You won!”

Harley stopped playing but kept the violin at his chin, Jennalee trying to fathom his expression until the motorcycle roared to life and he returned to his accompaniment. Jennalee did not, however, return to her keyboard. It sat nearby like some small desert creature desperate for invisibility while she simply listened, while the engine below rose and fell and Harley—and Vivaldi—carried her along.

“So do you perform?” she asked when both motorcycle and violin were silent.

“Recitals, competitions, the usual. Ribbons, cups, a few checks, not enough according to Dad, but Mom hangs in pretty good. I’ve got a big competition in New York next week.”

“You’ll nail it.”

“I better.”

When he said nothing more, Jennalee persisted. “So do you still take lessons?”

“No.”

“What’s it like on your own?”