6. STORM

Samson and Delilah snore softly beside each other on the rug in my room. They’ve finally stopped following me everywhere I go in the house, which I guess that means they’re used to me. It makes me feel a little more at home.

I know this isn’t really my home, but it’s as close to one as I have right now. And Nick is the only person I can count on. What does it say about me, about my life, that the one person I trust in the whole world is someone I’ve known for less than two days?

Up here on the second floor are mostly guest quarters and sitting rooms, but there’s a big open area at the end of the west hallway that I’ve only seen in passing. Now, with Nick in town picking up groceries and the dogs napping, I decide to take a closer look.

There’s no door on this particular room; it simply opens directly from the hallway and fills the entire floor space. All I can see of it from the hall is a huge crystal chandelier that hangs in the exact center, and some antique chairs lining the far wall.

Once inside, I recognize it immediately and my heart swells: it’s a music room! In the center at the far end is a low stage with a gorgeous square grand piano. I walk toward it as if in a dream; it’s in perfect condition, with a Brazilian rosewood finish and intricate curved legs carved in period patterns from the late 19^th century. In the center of the wood above the keys is the word Hamlin.

My pulse is racing. This is a genuine Mason & Hamlin square grand, probably circa 1885. I’ve only ever seen photos of one in a book. And here it is, in Nick’s house, of all places.

I pull out the matching bench and take a seat at the keys, sucking down a deep breath before hitting a C chord. The sound is rich and elegant, but with an undertone of sharpness. It needs a good tuning, but you can’t argue with quality like this.

God, it’s been so long since my fingers have touched the ebony and ivory keys. It feels so right, like coming home. My eyes close of their own accord as I run through a series of scales to warm up. Again, the sharpness, magnified by the incredible acoustics of the room, but it doesn’t bother me. I’m playing. That’s all that matters.

My scales eventually turn into Chopin’s Prelude No. 15, also known as Raindrop. It’s a soft piece, but punctuated by strong notes that act as a counterpoint. I don’t know how long I play, or whether I finish the piece and start again. All I know is I’m transported by the sound, and that, for the first time in years, I’m feeling true joy.

My mind registers hot tears spilling down my cheeks, but just barely. All of me is absorbed in the music, the sound of this room, the feel of the keys under my fingers and the pedals under my feet.

Finally, after what feels like a lifetime, I stop. I know this sounds crazy, but I can almost feel an audience in the room with me, absorbing what they just heard.

The crisp sound of clapping breaks the silence, startling me so badly I almost wet myself. I turn to see Nick standing in the hallway, staring at me intently with red-rimmed eyes. Was he – was he actually crying?

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

I smile sheepishly. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to realize you’re an incredible musician. Storm, that was absolutely mesmerizing.”

Hot blood warms my cheeks as I stand and walk off the stage.

“I haven’t played in years,” I say. “Sorry, I couldn’t help myself. This piano is a work of art.”

“It is?”

I goggle at him. “Seriously? You don’t know that?”

“I don’t know anything about it,” he says with a shrug. “It came with the house. I think I’ve been in this room twice in the whole time I’ve owned it.”

“It’s a 19^th century Mason & Hamlin square grand! In perfect original condition!”

He raises his eyebrows. “And?”

I shake my head. “I can’t believe it! There are maybe a dozen of these in the whole country in this kind of shape. I bet it’s worth a hundred grand, easy. There are collectors across America who’d do anything to get their hands on this.”

“Huh,” he says thoughtfully.

His response is ridiculous, and yet so utterly Nick that I can’t help but laugh.

He smiles. “Good thing I have you to tell me these things. Maybe I’ll hire you as my antique appraiser.”

“Sorry,” I shrug. “I only know pianos.”

“How did you learn to play like that?”

My stomach clenches at the memory. “We – we had a piano when I was growing up. I took lessons. But I got bored with it.”

The piano was actually repossessed when my parents lost everything, but I’m not interested in talking about that. Don’t ask, don’t tell.

“I hope you’ll play for me again,” Nick says.

I smile. “I’d like that. This is the perfect room for it. But the Hamlin really needs a good tuning.”

“Well, then,” he says, reaching into the bag on the floor at his feet. “You’d better find a piano tuner.”

He hands me a small, white box with the words iPhone X on the side. My eyes go wide as I open it.

“This is – is this what I think it is?”

He frowns. “I don’t know. I asked the kid at the store to give me the best cell phone he had.”

“These things are a thousand dollars!”

“Is that a lot?”

I gape at him, shaking my head. “It’s the best phone on the market.”

“Then, what’s the big deal? They gave me what I asked for. The kid activated it for me in the store, so you should be able to do whatever you need to on it.”

He’s done it again. I’ve never known such kindness; I don’t know how to deal with it.

“Thank you,” I say for the umpteenth time since he found me.

He nods. “You’re welcome. I’m glad you like it. Just don’t go taking pictures of yourself all over the house, okay?”

I giggle. “I’ll do my best, but I can’t guarantee anything.”

He reaches into the bag and pulls out another box and hands it to me. It’s another iPhone, identical to mine except black instead of white.

“Can you set this one up too while you’re at it?”

“What do I need a second one for?” I ask stupidly.

“It’s for me,” he says. “Just in case – you know, you ever need to reach me.”

The embarrassment on his face is so sweet it makes my heart melt. He got a phone just so he could stay in touch with me. The realization sends a tingle through me below the waist, but I quickly will it away. We’ve been down that road, and he doesn’t want to go there.

Besides, I wouldn’t even know what to do if he did.

“Okay,” I say, taking the box. “I’ll set us up with each other’s number as first in our contacts. Sound good?”

“I don’t need any other contacts,” he says simply.

Steady, girl. Don’t give in to impulse. The tingle will go away.

“So what fabulous meal are you going to make me for supper tonight?” I ask, trying to avoid eye contact.

“Stroganoff,” he says.

“Oh, hey,” I stammer. “I was just kidding. You don’t have to –”

“I want to. I told you, I enjoy cooking for people. For you.”

I shake my head inwardly. What did I do to deserve this guy? Sometimes I think I must be in a dream, that I’m really at the bottom of the ocean having some final crazy vision before I drown.

“Okay,” I say. “What can I do to help?”

“You can call that piano tuner,” he says. “Because I can’t wait to hear you play again.”