piece, Michael applauded with enthusiasm. She sat back, wondering what was going through his mind. Considering the antagonistic remarks he’d made earlier, she couldn’t begin to guess what he expected of her—so she said nothing and waited. Finally, he spoke.
“I’m sorry.”
She glanced at him sharply. His expression was equal parts surprise, admiration, and contrition.
“I behaved like the most vulgar, offensive, and ill-mannered Neanderthal,” he continued. “You went to great effort—I imagine—to prepare a nice meal for me, and I was entirely unappreciative. I said things I didn’t mean. Please forgive me.”
Okay, as apologies went, it was satisfactory. Nicole sensed that it was genuine and came from the heart. Still, she was in no mood to forgive him.
“I appreciate the apology,” she said coolly, “but it doesn’t excuse or explain the behavior. What were you so angry about? That I found out you have a blood disorder? It’s not such a big deal.”
“You’re right. What can I say? Except, again: I’m sorry. Can we chalk it up to cabin fever?”
The look in his eyes was so hopeful, repentant, and filled with teasing good humor that—despite herself—Nicole felt her anger scattering to the wind, like the billowy parachutes of Damn him , she thought, straining to hold back the beginning of a smile. I can’t even stay mad at him when he deserves it.
“If I seemed frightened, it had nothing to do with you,” she said. “It was the sight of all that blood.”
“The sight of blood makes you squeamish?” He stared at her, shaking his head slightly, as if for some reason he found that ironic.
“Yes. It didn’t used to. But . . . anyway. If you’re worried that I’m going to tell the press you’re a hemophiliac, don’t be. You’re a private person. I get that. And I would never tell anyone who you are.”
“Thank you.”
“I hope you don’t mind that I played your piano.”
“Not at all.” In a few graceful strides, he crossed the room and joined her. “I haven’t heard anyone else play in a long time. I can’t begin to tell you how wonderful it was—how wonderful you were. That’s a very difficult piece, and you’re very good.”
“Not as good as you.”
To his credit, he didn’t try to refute that. “Perhaps I’ve just had more practice. You have a lot of talent. How long have you been playing?”
“Twenty-three years. You?”
“A bit longer.”
He stood beside the bench, a foot from where she sat, one hand resting on top of the piano as he gazed down at her. The look on his face was tender. Nicole wanted to bang her head against the keyboard. A few minutes ago she’d been so furious with him that she was ready to cut his head off. All it had
“The piano has long been my solace,” he said, “a source of pleasure when things go right, and a place to escape when things go wrong.”
“The same for me,” she admitted.
“It’s like opening a door to the subconscious.”
She nodded. “To allow the mind to wander.”
“When I play Chopin’s Nocturne no. 2 in E-flat Major, I sometimes feel as though I’m in a kind of trance.”
“Have you played his Nocturne no. 5 in F-sharp Major?” she asked.
“I have.”
“It always carries me away.”
“Me, too. I’ve gone through entire pieces of music without being able to actually remember playing them.” The excitement in his voice was infectious.
“When I get really angry, I play scales and arpeggios.”
“If that doesn’t work, I launch into massive chords.”
“It’s like magic,” she enthused. “I love hearing the music, knowing that I can create this big, beautiful sound all by myself.”
“And the best part is how your own emotions change the meaning of the music.”
“Yes! The same tune played by three different people can express three entirely different things.”
Their eyes were locked now and they were both smiling broadly, bound by mutual interest and excitement. “Would
“I’m sorry.”
She glanced at him sharply. His expression was equal parts surprise, admiration, and contrition.
“I behaved like the most vulgar, offensive, and ill-mannered Neanderthal,” he continued. “You went to great effort—I imagine—to prepare a nice meal for me, and I was entirely unappreciative. I said things I didn’t mean. Please forgive me.”
Okay, as apologies went, it was satisfactory. Nicole sensed that it was genuine and came from the heart. Still, she was in no mood to forgive him.
“I appreciate the apology,” she said coolly, “but it doesn’t excuse or explain the behavior. What were you so angry about? That I found out you have a blood disorder? It’s not such a big deal.”
“You’re right. What can I say? Except, again: I’m sorry. Can we chalk it up to cabin fever?”
The look in his eyes was so hopeful, repentant, and filled with teasing good humor that—despite herself—Nicole felt her anger scattering to the wind, like the billowy parachutes of Damn him , she thought, straining to hold back the beginning of a smile. I can’t even stay mad at him when he deserves it.
“If I seemed frightened, it had nothing to do with you,” she said. “It was the sight of all that blood.”
“The sight of blood makes you squeamish?” He stared at her, shaking his head slightly, as if for some reason he found that ironic.
“Yes. It didn’t used to. But . . . anyway. If you’re worried that I’m going to tell the press you’re a hemophiliac, don’t be. You’re a private person. I get that. And I would never tell anyone who you are.”
“Thank you.”
“I hope you don’t mind that I played your piano.”
“Not at all.” In a few graceful strides, he crossed the room and joined her. “I haven’t heard anyone else play in a long time. I can’t begin to tell you how wonderful it was—how wonderful you were. That’s a very difficult piece, and you’re very good.”
“Not as good as you.”
To his credit, he didn’t try to refute that. “Perhaps I’ve just had more practice. You have a lot of talent. How long have you been playing?”
“Twenty-three years. You?”
“A bit longer.”
He stood beside the bench, a foot from where she sat, one hand resting on top of the piano as he gazed down at her. The look on his face was tender. Nicole wanted to bang her head against the keyboard. A few minutes ago she’d been so furious with him that she was ready to cut his head off. All it had
“The piano has long been my solace,” he said, “a source of pleasure when things go right, and a place to escape when things go wrong.”
“The same for me,” she admitted.
“It’s like opening a door to the subconscious.”
She nodded. “To allow the mind to wander.”
“When I play Chopin’s Nocturne no. 2 in E-flat Major, I sometimes feel as though I’m in a kind of trance.”
“Have you played his Nocturne no. 5 in F-sharp Major?” she asked.
“I have.”
“It always carries me away.”
“Me, too. I’ve gone through entire pieces of music without being able to actually remember playing them.” The excitement in his voice was infectious.
“When I get really angry, I play scales and arpeggios.”
“If that doesn’t work, I launch into massive chords.”
“It’s like magic,” she enthused. “I love hearing the music, knowing that I can create this big, beautiful sound all by myself.”
“And the best part is how your own emotions change the meaning of the music.”
“Yes! The same tune played by three different people can express three entirely different things.”
Their eyes were locked now and they were both smiling broadly, bound by mutual interest and excitement. “Would
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