Okay, no advice, then.
I pushed to my feet. “I’m gonna head back in—but I’ll see you later?”
He smiled at me, a nice, easy smile, but it didn’t make my heart swoop or my pulse pick up. “See you.”
I felt lighter, freer as I walked back through Golden Doors. Who knew having clarifying conversations could make you feel so good? I felt like I’d disposed of some of the tense anxiety I’d been carrying around all week. A bit of nervous energy remained, but it felt more positive, friendlier, instead of dragging me down.
I wound up in the piano room by the mini grand, my fingers drifting over the keys. They were so familiar, even after so many years of ignoring them. I pressed my fingers down and a minor seventh sang out, melancholy and somber.
Maybe you didn’t have to be brilliant at something to enjoy it. Not such a novel idea, and yet... it was hard for me to internalize. What was the point if you weren’t brilliant? Wouldn’t it hurt too much, knowing you’d never reach the top? Or could you simply love something anyway, a love without envy and self-criticism, based solely on joy?
I sat down on the bench, the ghost of my younger self taking control of my muscles. I hesitated, unsure what I was doing, unsure if I’d remember how to do this. How long had it been since I had played? I’d gone cold turkey; when I didn’t place in the Harrington Concerto Competition at age twelve, I’d stopped lessons all at once and focused on ice-skating.
I flipped through the songbook on top of the piano, a compilation from classical composers.I paused at Debussy’s “Nuages.” I’d loved this song so much. Growing up, I’d played it in this room, from this book, so often. Looking at the music felt like revisiting an old friend. I hesitated, then set my hands over the keys.
The music filled the room. It hooked inside me, slow and haunting. My hands were more confident than I’d expected, my eyes focused on the notes. I’d forgotten what playing music could do to me, how it could tug something out of my chest and unspool it, how it could be physical and emotional at once.
The good thing about music was you didn’t have to think, you could simply pour all your emotions into playing. I wasn’t sure how much time had passed—two, three songs?—before I realized Noah was in the room. I paused. “Hey.”
My father had taught me the basics of piano when I was very small, before my parents put me in lessons. I felt like half my childhood had been stuck in recitals with other cousins. But not Noah. Noah had quit after the first year, because Noah could be a stubborn brat (a family trait, it had to be said). For a while, though, we’d played together.
“You don’t need to stop,” he said.
I’d rather talk than play, but I was almost done with the song, and there was something satisfying about someone else listening to me be good.
Because Iwasgood. Not great, and not peak me, since I’d goneyears without practice. My hands were stiff and my notes occasionally jarring. But I could be good again, if I wanted. This could come back to me.
Noah reached out to turn the page half a measure before I did. I shot him a startled glance, then finished the last half page of music, throwing in a bit of overdramatic shoulder movement, like when I was really little and pretending to be Beethoven. Noah grinned as I ended, which had been the point.
I swiveled to look at him. “I didn’t know you could read music still.”
He smiled. “I’m not completely illiterate.”
“No. But you haven’t played for years.”
“I can follow along.”
I nodded. I’d been sad when Noah refused to play anymore, since I’d loved playing with him. But if he could still follow music, maybe he still had muscle memory. “Do you think you could play ‘Heart and Soul’?”
He looked surprised, then contemplative. He nodded as he placed his hands to the left of mine. A surge of emotion washed through me, and I had to close my eyes against it. I’d missed Noah. Then we plunged into the familiar music, the ’50s progression coming easily on my part despite years without playing this melody.
When we came to the end, I looked up and saw we’d gained another visitor. Grandpa stood in the doorway, listening silently.His face, so weathered, seemed more relaxed than usual, like the lines had been softened. “Very nice,” he said before slipping away.
I looked over at Noah, who’d gone very still watching Grandpa’s disappearing back. “Do you think Grandpa would be sad if Grandma left him?” I asked.
Noah plucked at keys: a melodic fourth, a discordant third. “I don’t think she’ll leave him. I think this whole thing with her brothers, with her stock, is about making Grandpa suffer a bit, since she suffered when she learned she wasn’t his first choice. Making him afraid she’ll give control of the company over to her siblings. But this is her family, her home, so I don’t think she’ll leave.”
Interesting, but not an answer to my question. “But do you think he would be sad if shedid?”
He frowned. “Sure. He’s been used to her being at his side for decades.”
“Yeah. But what I mean is, do you think he loves her? Obviously he loved Abby’s grandmother when they were young, but you can love multiple people, right? Do you think they’ve been happy?”
He looked at me, serious, and I realized he’d thought about this, too, and it also bothered him, the idea our grandparents’ marriage might not have been as strong as we’d thought. “I hope so.”
“Me too.” I thought about what could make you happy; I thought about the music moving through my body, about Noahplaying a duet with me, about my skates cutting across the ice, about Olivia laughing over shared croissants, about the beauty of a Nantucket winter. About my family being happy, and how much that mattered. “I like Abby.”
He smiled, and it transformed his face, lifting away the clouds and making him look like a kid again. “Yeah. Me too.”
