Seizing the opportunity this distraction presents, I lean over and whisper to Ana, “I am going to take you to the boathouse and finally spank you in there if you don’t snap out of this mood.”
She gasps and checks that no one is listening. “You wouldn’t dare!” she challenges, her voice husky.
I raise a brow.
Bring it, Ana.
“You’d have to catch me first—and I’m wearing flats,” she hisses for my ears only.
“I’d have fun trying.”
Ana turns a delightful and familiar shade of pink and stifles her smile.
There she is, my girl.
Mom serves us strawberries and whipped cream, which reminds me of London; this and Eton mess were the staple summer desserts there. As we finish up, we’re caught short by a sudden shower. “Ah! Everyone inside,” Grace cries as she gathers the serving dish.
We all grab plates, cutlery, and glasses and bolt back into the kitchen.
Ana looks happier, her hair a little wet, while she giggles with Mia. It warms my heart to see her with my family—they have fallen in love with her, like I have. Perhaps Mia will tell her what’s happening with Ethan. I smile; inquiring minds need to know.
We head into the den to shelter from the rain and I take a seat at the upright piano. It’s an old, worn, but much-loved Steinway, with a warm, rich tone. I press the middle C key and the sound rings through the room perfectly in tune. I smile, thinking of Grace. I suspect she keeps it tuned, as she plays on the odd occasion, though I haven’t heard her play for years. And I haven’t played here for so long—I can’t even remember the last time. As a child, music was my refuge. It was somewhere I could escape and lose myself, at first in the tedious repetition of scales and arpeggios, and then in each piece I learned.
Music and literature got me through puberty.
There’s sheet music on the rest, and I wonder who it belongs to, maybe Grace, maybe her housekeeper—she plays, I think. It’s a song I know, “Wherever You Will Go” by The Calling. My family gathers, continuing their conversations, while I read the music. My fingers flex, instinctively following the song.
I could play this.
And before I know it, I’ve started to play. The words are on the sheet music and I sing along. A few bars later I’m lost in the melody and the poignant lyrics—it’s just me and the piano and the music.
It’s a beautiful song. About loss…and love.
“I’ll go wherever you go…”
Slowly, the silence in the room intrudes into my consciousness. The chatting has ceased. I stop playing, and turn around on the stool to find out what has caught everyone’s attention. All eyes are on me.
What the hell!
“Go on,” Grace prompts, her voice wavering with emotion. “I’ve never heard you sing, Christian. Ever.” She’s almost inaudible, but I can hear her because of the oppressive silence in the room. Her face glows with pride and wonder and love.
It’s a gut punch.
Mom.
A well of feeling pours from my heart into my chest, filling me up and threatening to drown me.
I can’t breathe.
No. I cannot do this.
I shrug and surreptitiously take a deep breath and look at my wife, my anchor. She seems puzzled, possibly by the weird reaction of my family. In an effort to blot them out for a moment, I turn and stare through the French windows.
This is why I distance myself.
This.
To escape these…feelings.
There’s a sudden and almost spontaneous burst of chatter, and I get up and stand at the window. From the corner of my eye, I see Grace embrace my wife with an unbridled enthusiasm that surprises Ana. My mother whispers in her ear, and my throat burns with the same choking emotion from a moment ago. With a beseeching look, Grace kisses Ana’s cheek, then announces in a throaty voice, “I am going to make some tea.”
Ana takes pity on me and comes to my rescue. “Hi,” she says.
“Hi.” I slip my arm around her and tug her to my side, finding comfort in her warmth. She slides her hand in the back pocket of my jeans. Together, we watch the rain through the French window, the sun still in the distance. Somewhere there must be a rainbow.
“Feeling better?” I ask her.
She nods.
“Good.”
“You certainly know how to silence a room,” she says.
“I do it all the time.” I grin down at her.
“At work, yes, but not here.”
“True, not here.”
“No one’s ever heard you sing? Ever?”
“It appears not.” My tone is wry.
She stares up at me as if she’s trying to solve a puzzle.
It’s just me, Ana. “Shall we go?”
“You going to spank me?” she whispers.
What?
Ana is, as ever, unexpected. Her words twist and turn through me, awakening my desire. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I’m more than happy to play.”