concertos. Millions of notes. She could look at a page and know how it was going to sound. She could hear everything without even playing, but she missed the feel of the keys, the music that was able to flow through her.
Blessed and cursed, she thought, trembling as she placed her hand on the shiny black surface. This was her life and without it, she was nothing. At least that’s what she’d always been taught. She was here to find out differently.
She thought of the dozen or so messages from her manager. Lisa was nothing if not persistent. But Claire had ignored every one of them. She didn’t want to get sucked back into that world. Oh, but she missed the music.
Amy gave her a little shove toward the bench, then walked over and stood with her hands on top of the piano.
“Play,” she said.
Claire took another step toward the bench. Immediately she found it difficult to breathe. Her chest tightened until she was sure she was going to have a heart attack. She would die right here, in Wyatt’s living room, scarring his child for life. She couldn’t do that. She should just walk away.
Instead she forced herself to take that last step, to sit on the bench, to open the cover and stare down at the keys.
She was breathing hard, sucking in air that never seemed to fill her lungs. She shook so much, she couldn’t possibly play. Without wanting to, she remembered the looks of horror and disappointment as people had gathered around her. They’d issued a statement saying she’d collapsed from overwork. Not that she had been afraid. Not that she might be crazy.
Because she knew the panic was all in her head. That she was doing it to herself. If she couldn’t fix that, wasn’t she, by definition, insane?
“Play,” Amy said again.
Claire nodded slowly. Ignoring the fear and the way her chest seemed to be collapsing on itself, ignoring the trembling and the knowledge that she had lost this forever, she put her fingers on the keys.
Something simple, she told herself. Something for a child.
She began to play one of Bach’s lullabies. The melody flowed from her with an ease that astonished her. She remembered every note and never stumbled. Music filled the room, surrounding them. Amy stood, her eyes closed, her hands pressing hard on the piano.
Tears burned in Claire’s eyes. She’d missed this, she thought sadly. Had missed playing. Even when she hated it more than anything, the piano was a part of who she was.
She played and played, losing herself in the sound, safe with her audience of one—a child who could only feel the music and who couldn’t hear a single note.
CHAPTER EIGHT
CLAIRE HOVERED by the oven, practically dancing with impatience as the timer counted down the last few seconds. When it dinged, she opened the oven and pulled out the roasting pan.
At first glance, everything looked all right. The chicken was golden-brown without being burned. The rosemary she’d put in the cavity smelled great.
She set the pan on the hot pads she’d already put in place, then pushed the meat thermometer into the breast. It read “done for poultry.” Next she used a knife to break the skin by the leg and stared at the juices pouring out. They were clear. At least they looked clear to her, but as this was her first chicken, she couldn’t be sure.
The last, and most important test involved actually cutting into the chicken. Claire braced herself for disappointment, then peeled back the skin and sliced into the breast.
It was cooked, but still juicy. She took a bite. Perfect!
“I did it,” she hummed to herself. “I did it. Yay me.”
Her first chicken ever. She’d managed to buy it and clean it and bake it and have it turn out. Amazing.
She opened the second oven and pulled out a casserole dish of scalloped potatoes. She wasn’t going to take as much credit for those because they’d come from a box. Still, they looked good. Last, she checked on the steaming green beans.
When everything was ready, she got out a plate for Nicole. But before she could fill it, she heard a noise in the hallway. She looked up and saw her sister slowly walking into the kitchen.
“I got tired of living in one room,” Nicole said as she pressed one hand to her midsection and made her way to the table. “I’m going to eat down here, if that’s all right.”
“Of course it is. How were the stairs?”
“Challenging. I’ll be very slow going back up. Dinner smells good.”
Claire was both proud and nervous. “I baked a chicken.”
“Impressive.”
Claire looked at her, not sure if the comment was really a compliment or something else. Nicole gave her a brief smile.
“I mean it. You said you didn’t know how to cook. Now you’re making dinner every night. You didn’t have to do that. So thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
She hurried to set the table, then put the food out.
Nicole sat in one of the chairs and continued to press her hand against her stomach.
“Do you want a painkiller?” Claire asked.
“No, I’m cutting back. I’ll be fine. It’ll get better in a minute.”
Claire served both of them, then took her seat.
She’d gotten used to taking Nicole her dinner, sometimes eating with her, sometimes not. But this was different—being in the kitchen like regular people. She wasn’t sure what to say.
“I brought home a couple of slices of chocolate cake,” she said. “I’m not ready to try baking.”
“One of the advantages of owning a bakery,” Nicole told her. “You never have to worry about that kind of thing.”
Claire nodded and cut into her chicken. Silence stretched between them. She wished they had wine with the dinner. Getting buzzed might help with the tension she felt. Not that she was a big drinker. One glass and she was happy—two and she was on the road to loopy. She struggled frantically to find a topic of conversation.
“It’s been nice being in one place,” she said. “I really like Seattle. Do you enjoy living here?”
Nicole stared at her for a second. “It’s my home. I’ve never lived anywhere else. I don’t have much to compare it to.”
“Oh. Right. I guess New York is my home, although I don’t spend a lot of time there. I have an apartment.
It was difficult to find one that would accommodate a piano and still leave room to walk around. Moving day was a nightmare. The piano barely fit in the service elevator, so that took hours. I don’t think I can ever move. It would be too much trauma.”
Nicole
