She adjusts. My palms cover her hands.
“This is middle C.” I press her finger down with mine. The note rings out, familiar as my own voice. “Everything starts here. Every song I've ever written started from something this simple.”
“Are you writing a song now?”
“Haven't written a song for a while now. A long while.”
“Do you miss it?” she asks.
She's looking down at our hands on the keys, not at me, which makes it easier to answer honestly.
“Every day,” I tell her.
I'm close enough that I can smell her hair and I want tobury my nose in it. Her shoulder is an inch from mine. Maybe less.
“Play it again,” she says,
So I press her finger down again. C. Then I guide her through the notes, one at a time. Not chords yet. Just the melody, single notes, one after the other. My hand over hers, her finger finding each note, the melody building bar by bar.
Just like that, there's a song.
Not one of mine. Those are still locked up somewhere I don't have the key to.
She makes a small sound of delighted surprise. I’d compose a whole symphony if I could, just to get that reaction out of her again.
I think about all the times I've played to tens of thousands of people and felt nothing. Now I’m playing a couple of chords for one woman, and feeling things I’ve never felt before.
“That's beautiful,” she whispers.
She turns her head to look at me then, and she must not have realized how close we are, because her breath catches. Her eyes drop to my mouth for just a second. Maybe not even a second.
But I catch it all the same.
My hands are still over hers on the keys. I don't press another note. I'm not sure I remember how.
Then the door bangs open and Jonah comes skidding in on socked feet, all elbows and energy, sliding the last three feet on the hardwood.
“Are you playing piano? Can I learn? Dad, can I learn?”
Sadie pulls her hands back from the keys and tucks them into her lap. I lean back and clear my throat, grateful and very much not, in equal measure.
“I thought you weren't interested,” I say.
“I changed my mind.” He's already wedging himself towardthe bench, completely without concern or awareness of the tension he just shattered. “Scoot over.”
“There's not enough room, kiddo. Come sit on my lap.”
He stops. Draws himself up to his full four foot tall height with enormous dignity. “Dad. I'm too old for that.”
“You're five.”
“I'm almost six.”
“You're never too old to sit on someone's lap,” Sadie says, easy and light and teasing.
“Thenyoudo it!” He grins like he knows he successfully turned her logic against her.
I let the corner of my mouth pull up in a silent challenge.Go on then.
