She spun and her normally gray eyes shined silver. “So? You don’t need college to be a musician. In fact, education can hamper creativity because teachers expect their students to do everything their way. You think Stephen King gave a shit if he got an ‘A’ in creative writing? He wrote what he wanted to write. He still does.”
Her knowledge of Stephen King surprised him. He didn’t take her as a reader. “True. But I also have a degree in music. Double major from the University of Michigan.”
She crossed her arms over her chest, plumping up her breasts nicely. “You think you could do better?”
“Lyrics for you off the top of my head? Let’s see . . .” He thought about his dream. A lonely siren sitting on a rock waiting for her lover, while always knowing she’d kill him in the end. Effortlessly, the words came to him and flowed from his lips.
Music drifts on the wind taunting with its pleasures
Tantalizing notes of happy-ever-after
But I’ve known the truth since long ago
When all my dreams died with his laughter
The tales he spun like a spider weaves his web
Lies and broken promises, he was the master
I carry it inside, I cannot let it go
I am a hypocritical disaster
No one sees the real me
They believe what they want to believe
If I showed you what’s deep inside
Could I trust you not to deceive?
And accept the girl alone at sea?
They locked gazes and neither spoke.
Then she threw her arms up in the air and stormed off the stage. “That song made no sense.”
He followed her down the steps, caught her by the arm, and spun her around. “It’s poetry. Lyrics don’t have to make sense to anyone but their author. Haven’t you ever heard a song that spoke to you even though you didn’t know exactly what it meant?”
“Yes.” Her fingers fidgeted, moving as if she was still playing guitar. “Some of Bob Dylan’s songs.”
He dropped his hand from her arm and immediately missed the softness of her skin. “I enjoy his music, too. There’s more to his songs than the words themselves. They mean something to him. He’s painting a picture and telling a story. When I spoke my lyrics, did you picture anything?”
She hesitated and looked away. When her gaze returned, the silver in her eyes gleamed like the perfect diamond. “I pictured myself alone in the middle of the ocean, sitting on a large rock, almost as though I were a mermaid, but . . . not. I couldn’t swim. I couldn’t leave my rock. When I spotted yo—someone—swimming toward me, I thought I was rescued. Then he disappeared and I was alone again.”
He shivered as though he stood naked in the walk-in freezer. She’d described his dream, albeit from her point-of-view. He couldn’t tell her the truth. Besides, she’d never believe it. “You see how a poem can inspire an image to form in your mind? An image so real you could practically touch it?”
She gave away nothing as she nodded.
He clapped his hands together. “Enough poetry for today. It’s time for your first cooking lesson.”
“I should warn you. I’m not a cook. I can boil water for mac and cheese and make scrambled eggs if you don’t mind a couple of pieces of shell in your omelet, but other than that, I spent most of my time in the communes cleaning rather than cooking.”
He tried not to show on his face how much the thought of her disadvantaged childhood churned in his gut. He hadn’t spoken more than a couple of words to her mother, but Ryan had filled him in on some of the things the Dubrovsky sisters had gone through. While their mother had kept them safe, never abusing or neglecting them, she wouldn’t accept money from her rich sister, Alexander’s wife, and insisted on raising her children on her own. They’d moved from one shelter to the next, often living in communes, and for a brief time, even joined the Renaissance Faire as it traveled from state to state. He could imagine Lola didn’t get the chance to spend much time in the kitchen.
He entwined his fingers with hers, surprised at how good her hand felt in his. “We’ll start with something easy. Baklava.” He led her to the kitchen, bumping the doors open with the side of his arm, so he didn’t have to release her hand.
“To me, baklava is simple because I’d buy it from a bakery.” She peeked up at him through her lush lashes when he laughed. “I didn’t know you baked the desserts for the restaurant.”
“I make them at home and bring them in. Christopher is a fine chef, but it takes a special talent for pastries. My grandmother taught all of us to not only cook authentic Greek cuisine, but to bake as well. It’s an art, not unlike music.” He reluctantly let go of her hand and went into the freezer to pull out a tray of phyllo. “While most recipes call for ready-made phyllo dough, a real artist will bake his own. We use it in several recipes, including the spinach pie. I will admit, this was made by Christopher. I gave him my family’s recipes only after he signed a confidentiality agreement, which if breached, will ensure he never works again in this business.”