Page 43 of Solo

“Did she…” she begins and hesitates. “Did Casey write it? Is that why you don’t play it anymore?”

“What? Oh no. I wrote it. That’s what I did before. I was a composer.”

She looks stunned. “Really? A composer? I just assumed you were a Music Theory major.”

I smile at her surprise. “Nope. I was a composer. Maureen thought that would make me a good Theory and Orchestration teacher.”

“That piece is so beautiful. Would you…would you play it for me?” she asks a little tentatively. Her expression is so earnest and open that I find myself drawn in.

“I like the way you played it, actually. Why don’t you give it another go?” I prompt her back toward the piano bench with a raise of my eyebrows.

“Are you sure?” she confirms, her voice excited and hesitant at the same time.

“Yes, I’m sure.”

She returns to the bench and I watch in fascination as she spreads the music out on the bridge of the piano. Then, without so much as a glance down at her hands, she begins to play the notes I wrote so many years ago. I’d forgotten how much I love this piece.

I didn’t write in any tempo markers or accents because I was the only one who played it and I knew exactly what it was supposed to sound like. But under her fingers it comes to life in a way I never imagined. She pauses where I played through. She uses the pedals to soften and sustain passages that were meant to be bold and jarring. When she gets to the intricate section in the middle, she leans in a little closer to the music, as if she’s afraid she’ll miss a note. But she doesn’t. She sight-reads the rapid-fire figures with perfect fluidity. By the time she’s finished the last line of the last page, I’m standing there watching her like a fool with a ridiculous grin on my face, shaking my head.

She looks up at me, clearly anxious about how I’ll respond to her performance. “Was that okay? Did I get the gist of it?” she asks quietly.

I try to keep myself from laughing.

“I’d say the gist and then some.”

I notice she’s looking at me strangely all of a sudden.

“What?” I ask, still smiling. “What is it?”

She shakes her head slightly.

“I just—it’s just, you never…”

“I never what?”

“You never smile like that. It’s a good look on you,” she murmurs, almost to herself.

Suddenly, it’s as if my world has flipped upside down, I can feel the heat creeping up from under my collar. I clear my throat and look down at the floor briefly. When I look up again and meet her eyes, I’m back in check, emotions locked safely away.

“Okay, well, I’m going to get started on that pizza,” I say, extricating myself from her orbit and taking a step toward the kitchen. “Oh, and I remembered another Alan Rickman classic. Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves. You haven’t lived till you’ve seen him upstage Kevin Costner.”

She’s still looking at me strangely when I turn my back and walk out of the room.

Chapter Nineteen

Kate

“Are you feeling up to some wine?” he asks me, bringing a pair of glasses and a bottle into the den, where we’ve relocated post–Alan Rickman movie marathon.

“Um, sure, I guess,” I say, not doing a good job of hiding my discomfort. He notices.

“Would you prefer something else? This is a riesling. But, if you like red, I think there’s a shiraz in the basement,” he offers, clearly thinking I’m put off by his wine selection.

“I…I don’t really drink much,” I say a little sheepishly. “And when I do, I hardly ever drink wine. But I’ll try it.”

I see the confusion register on his face. For him, this does not compute.

“I know. You probably assumed I was a big drinker, right? Because I look tired and hung over all the time?”