and tugged him towards the pianola.
‘I really do. It’s a little bit beautiful, a whole lot fascinating, and kind of cracked when you look up close. I’m hoping it might be the way you see me. Because, newfound sense of belonging or not, I’m still trying to figure out what you see in me.’
She fiddled with the pianola settings and the machine began to play a bright and jazzy tune that put her in mind of Gershwin and New York.
‘I should have packed the red lampshade dress.’
‘Or you could sit this one out.’
‘Good idea.’ She reached for another of the scrolls crammed into the shelving beside the pianola. ‘Hey, I remember this one from my mother’s jewellery box! Open the lid and music played and the little ballerina went round and round and round.’
‘I don’t want to go round and round,’ said Trig.
She pulled out another roll. ‘ABBA?’
‘Don’t make me shoot you.’
‘You do realise you’re not going to be able to threaten our children or our nephews and nieces with a shotgun every time they don’t share your taste?’
‘I’ll figure something out.’
‘What about this one?’ she said, holding up a pianola roll for his inspection. ‘I think it’s French.’ It was also something she could sway to—her dancing skills hadn’t exactly improved with age. ‘Bear with me,’ she said as she went to swap the rolls, only now Trig had decided to figure out how pianolas worked too. ‘Focus.’
‘I am focused.’
‘On me.’
He poked his head back out of the old machine’s innards. ‘But I can focus on you any time.’
He looked sincere. He sounded sincere. He set the pianola roll to rolling and the first few notes of gentle piano music flowed into the room.
‘Seems a little slow,’ he murmured.
‘It’s perfect. Which carpet would you like to dance on?’
He smiled at that. ‘The blue one by the end of the bed.’
‘That’s your favourite? Because I’m thinking of buying one just like it for the farmhouse on the banks of the lazy river.’
‘I do like the idea of a farmhouse on the banks of a lazy river,’ he admitted. Moments later he surrendered a wry smile and held out his hand for hers. When they reached the blue carpet he swung her gently around and into his arms and she put her hand to his chest, deeply satisfied when he drew a swift breath. His nipples had tightened and wasn’t that a pretty sight against the cotton of his shirt? She swiped her thumb across one well-defined little bump and he bit back a whimper. ‘You like that?’
He nodded.
She pressed a gentle kiss to his jaw next. ‘And that?’
‘Not complaining.’
‘Not encouraging me either.’
‘About that—’
She kissed his throat next and slid her hands beneath his shirt as he stood there and trembled beneath her touch. Heady business, seducing this husband of hers.
‘We should dance,’ he muttered.
‘To do that I’m pretty sure someone has to move.’
So he stepped in closer, wrapped his hands around her waist and began to move. He’d always been athletic. Occasionally, in the midst of one of his teenage growth spurts, he’d get a little clumsy until he figured out the workings of his bigger, broader body.
He wasn’t clumsy now.
Lena let her body follow where he led, and revelled in the brush of her chest against his, of her hips against his. Trig’s eyes darkened as he pushed her hair back off her face with his fingertips.
‘You do that a lot,’ she murmured.
‘Been wanting to do it for years.’
‘What stopped you?’
‘I wasn’t sure if it was what you wanted. Still not sure.’
‘I’m sure,’ she said, but he was already turning away.
‘C’mon, let’s finish the feast,’ he said and drew her back towards the table. They finished their main course and then smiling people cleared the table and dessert and coffee arrived.
Lena looked at the table laden with sweet delicacies and groaned. ‘I can’t.’ There was simply no room left in her stomach.
Trig grinned and popped a baklava into his mouth.
‘Oh, stuff it,’ she said and reached for a baklava too.
Trig began to laugh, a sound that was front and centre of so many of her memories. He hadn’t laughed much on this trip. For a man on his honeymoon he seemed to have a hell of a lot on his mind.
‘Are you really worried about having sex with me?’ she asked and Trig promptly swallowed down hard on his baklava. ‘Because I truly don’t understand why.’
‘I just want you to have all your memories back first.’
‘I don’t understand that either. What’s wrong with making new memories? I’m loving these new memories.’
Trig sat back and began to fiddle with the stem of his wine glass. ‘Me too.’
‘Is it the room? Is it too weird? Because, I have to say... I really like this place. I could get naked here and my scars wouldn’t look that out of place amongst the freaky furnishings. They fit. I fit. Being here with you in this place, it’s like a gift. Makes me want to check my inhibitions at the door.’
Trig pinned her with an intent gaze. ‘What inhibitions?’
‘Well, there’s the scars... I saw the way people stared at me in the bath house. I know the marks aren’t pretty, they’re never going to be pretty but they’re mine and the getting of them wasn’t without honour. You told me that.’
‘Lena—’
‘We don’t have to have the lights on. They can be off.’
‘I thought you said you were checking your inhibitions at the door?’
‘I’m just thinking about ways to make it better for you. You said you had performance pressure. I wondered if maybe you had trouble staying interested because of the scars.’
‘I don’t need the lights off,’ he said flatly.
‘Because you wouldn’t have to touch them. The scars, I mean. I don’t know what we usually do, but I do know that they wouldn’t be a turn-on for you. You probably
