"I wasn't going to," I assured him, choosing my words carefully. "Though I don't see why you're so adamant about it. Music is all about connecting with people's hearts and minds, after all. Yours seems to do that in spades."

"Yes, well, that's the problem, isn't it?" he said bitterly. "It's a little _too_ personal."

"What's wrong with being personal?" I asked. "How many other composers can say their music fits even a single person like a handmade silk glove?"

He threw me a frown. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Silently, I cursed myself. "Nothing," I said. "Just something a friend once said about your music." She wasn't exactly a friend, of course, but he didn't need to know that. "She's a fan of yours, too."

"Then she doesn't know a thing about music," he declared bluntly, the notes flowing out of his fingers taking on a harsh, discordant flavor. Here and there, I noticed, heads were starting to turn in our direction. "I can only write for one person at a time. Period."

"Okay, fine," I said hastily. "I didn't mean to step on your toes. Sorry."

He glowered at the piano, but I could hear the harshness starting to smooth out. "I tried to sell a few pieces once," he said, the music taking on a wistful tone. "I thought maybe I could help people. Like..."

"Like you helped that brunette?"

He snorted. "Yeah. Only no one wanted it. They all said it was ... none of them wanted it."

I nodded, taking a sip of my beer. That wasn't strictly true, I knew. One of the five publishers he'd sent music to in the past three years had expressed some definite interest.

But then Weldon had suddenly withdrawn it from consideration. None of the biographies I'd read had given any explanation as to why he'd done that. "Maybe they were just feeling too good that day," I suggested. "Your specialty seems to be encouraging people who are down in the dumps."