Chapter Eighteen
Clara huffed out a frustrated breath and snapped the switch on her electronic piano to off. This wasn’t working. She couldn’t compose with headphones on. It had seemed like a great idea when she first got the keyboard. Okay, the truth was she could compose on it. She’d written several pieces and after perfecting and recording them, uploaded them for sale. What she couldn’t work on was Zane’s music. She needed the piano. She had to get this music out of her before she went crazy. Her mind wouldn’t rest until she perfected the melody.
She’d composed it six nights ago and had tried to polish it every night since. Something was missing and unless she put her hands on a real piano, she wouldn’t know what it was. Logically, it shouldn’t make a difference. A keyboard was a keyboard. Only it wasn’t. Given her druthers, she’d rather be playing on a grand piano, but her regular upright would work.
It had been a week since he kissed her. That perfect, toe curling, heart pounding, lust inducing kiss. The kiss that had inspired a rush of music that she couldn’t escape. There was no option, she was going to have to use the piano. Was it too late? She glanced at the clock. Ten thirty. Not too bad. Maybe if she played softly. The dampener would help. She had no choice - it was either try the piano or stay awake for another night with the music as backdrop for yet another Zane Ryder fantasy of making love beneath the Christmas tree.
She was exhausted. Another sleepless night would make her angry and unfunctional.
She crept upstairs and listened outside of each occupied room. Silence. Nobody talking. No televisions. If she kept it quiet, she could get away with composing on a real piano.
She scurried downstairs and pulled the French doors to the common room closed to help block the sound. She slid onto the bench and opened the keyboard cover. A few quick finger warmups and scales and she was all set. Scales morphed into the first snippets of music she’d composed since Zane arrived. One flowed into another until all ten snippets turned into a cohesive musical story. She gave it another run through from the beginning and let her mind free the melody burrowed in her brain. The tune trickled to her fingers and onto the keys.
She fumbled and began again.
Another missed note. And another. Her fingers felt tied in knots. They tripped over each other and stumbled to a halt.
Why wasn’t it coming?
Clara rested her fingers on the keys and closed her eyes. She pictured Zane in her mind, his beautiful peacock blue eyes with the tiny purple dots. His warm smile. The way his lips felt on hers. His caring. His kindness. His passionate kiss. The soft touch of his hand on her arm. The way his arms felt wrapped around her and the solid strength of his body against hers.
Music flowed from her. Without looking, she played out her heart. Opening her emotions and exposing them in the music. The music softened, soared, and ended in a loud crescendo.
Exhausted, her hands dropped to her lap. She rested her head on the music board and closed her eyes. It wasn’t complete. But she’d overcome the flaws and composed the music pounding in her heart and soul.
A soft sound drew her attention to the dining room doorway. Wren stood there, tears streaming down her face. “Wren! What’s wrong?” Clara jumped from her seat and rushed to Wren’s side.
“Nothing.” Wren sniffed loudly and dashed away her tears. “That was incredible and moving. What song is that? Who composed it? I need to buy it right now.”
Clara ignored the questions. “What are you doing up? It’s late. That baby needs sleep. Come to the kitchen. I’ll make you some herbal decaf tea.”
“This babyiswhat’s keeping me up. She won’t settle. She’s doing cartwheels. Or she was. I came down to get tea and heard the music. She settled right in. She’s still awake and moving, but she’s not frantic now. Your playing calmed her. I’m going to need that music for after she’s born.”
“You liked it?” Uncertainty rocked her despite Wren’s praise and tears. Could it really be that good?
“It was incredible and moving. Seriously, the baby settled right down as you played. I’ve heard classical music was good for babies, but wow. Just wow! I know it’s not really classical.”
“It’s not finished yet. It’s kind of a movie score meets jazz, meets, I don’t know, a little bit of everything. I don’t plan anything specific when I compose, I play what comes to me.”
“You’re saying you made that up? Just now? That’s insane. I can’t imagine having that kind of skill. Why are you running an inn when you could have a stage career?”
“I’m not one for public playing. I compose for me. Before I inherited Sweet Dreams, I was a studio musician. I did well because I memorize scores quickly.”
“How could you give that up?” Wren asked, following Clara into the kitchen where she put on the kettle.
She had a hot water dispenser as part of her coffee pot as well as a pod brewer, but for tea, she preferred the traditional route of heating the water and steeping in a ceramic tea pot. Something about the ritual made the tea taste better.
“Some personalities can be hard to work with. It got … difficult at times. The inn, with its piano gives me the ability to compose. I sell the odd piece of sheet music or recorded score. I don’t know,” she shrugged and threw a couple tea bags into the pot. “The inn gives me more, I guess.”
“You don’t sound certain.” Wren lowered herself carefully into a chair.
“I love this inn. It brings me close to my aunt even though she’s gone. I found some of her journals. I like the heritage in this place. But I miss group music sometimes. I don’t miss big music egos.”Why was she baring her soul like this? Wren was a guest, not a friend.
“That makes sense.” Her stomach growled. “I hate to be rude, but do you have any snacks? I ate all the ones Noah brought home today. I’m starving.” She looked embarrassed.
“No problem. I’ve got brownies, cookies, potato chips. Fruit. Nuts, candy, or chocolate. I can cook something. Maybe a plate of nachos?” She felt bad for Noah and Wren. What a shame to be trapped here, in Coyote Creek at an inn, when they were supposed to be traveling to see Wren’s mother.
“Something sweet would be nice.”
