few minutes momentarily blinded by blazing bright headlights on the other side of the road.
She looks at James. His cheeks are flushed, his skin tone ashen in the dim light; his full lips deep red. Trace stubble hardens his baby face. He looks unscathed, normal—drop dead gorgeous kind of normal. His left palm is on the top of the wheel, his long fingers extending past it, and they're moving with the music. Kate is certain he not consciously aware he’s subtly, but clearly, picking air guitar in perfect time to the complex Vertical Horizon piece, Washed Away . Of course, it’s obvious he’s a player, but she’d only made the connection when she saw him at the piano at Paradise. She lets the piece end before speaking.
“That was a beautiful piece you played on the piano earlier.”
“Ravel’s, Gaspard de la Nuit. But I massacred it.”
“I wouldn't know. So, you play piano, and the guitar, too.” It’s more statement than question since she knows the answer. His fingers are still contorted in the closing pick.
James glances at her, his eyes narrow, like he’s suspicious of her question. “I used to.” He drops his hand from the top of the wheel and grips the bottom. “Don’t know that I can anymore.” A quick, angry laugh with a shake of his head. “You’ve seen my wrists. The restraints they had on me cut the circulation to my hands. I may have lost the dexterity. I don’t know.” He shrugs. His expression is somber. His eyes are glassy as he squints at oncoming headlights, and only then does Kate notice his long lashes sticking together from tears. He blinks and they stream down his face. James flashes her a quick glance, half-laughs, but not like it’s funny, and wipes his eyes on his shirtsleeve. “I suppose it doesn’t matter. Even if I could get back to where I was, I’m not so sure I ever want to go back there.”
“Why? Music is very powerful. It touches a lot of people.”
“Maybe my music did, but I’m finally getting that I probably didn’t.” His jaw hardens. He stares straight ahead.
“Are you famous? I mean, should I know you, know your music?”
“Probably not. You may have heard things I've written but I’m in the background, in the studio mostly.”
“What other instruments do you play?”
He flashes a smile. “Most all of them.”
“That’s impressive.” Kate is awed by people with passion, as she’s yet to find her own.
“Not really. Get good at anything with practice. I’ve been playing all my life. My stepfather taught me to play the guitar when I was five.” He speaks as if telling a tale. “He was a violinist with the Boston Pops. My mom was a piano teacher at Berklee School of Music. She could pick the harmony out of a vacuum.” He seems to drift, like he’s hearing her sing. “She had the most amazing ear, and perfect pitch. I mean perfect .”
“Are your parents still in Boston?”
“They’re dead.” And he’s back in the car with Kate.
She’s astounded by his admission, and for the first time feels a real connection to James. “Mine, too.” She practically whispers. “My dad died of a heart attack about a year ago. My mom, of cancer in late November, almost three months now.” She shuts her mouth, holds her breath and swallows back the lump in her throat.
“I lost my parents when I was thirteen in a plane crash on their way home from a benefit concert in Haiti. So much for Karma.” He stares out the windshield. “Everyone said it would hurt less with time. But the longing is often still intolerable.”
Kate crumbles. He’s right, of course. She still thinks of calling her mom almost every day, the impulse always followed by that horribly empty realization no one’s there to answer the phone. Tears spill down her face, and she can’t stop them. She stares out the windshield.
James stops at the crossroad of Hwy 50 and looks at her. “No shame in grief, Kate.” He reaches out to her and wipes her tears away with his huge
She looks at James. His cheeks are flushed, his skin tone ashen in the dim light; his full lips deep red. Trace stubble hardens his baby face. He looks unscathed, normal—drop dead gorgeous kind of normal. His left palm is on the top of the wheel, his long fingers extending past it, and they're moving with the music. Kate is certain he not consciously aware he’s subtly, but clearly, picking air guitar in perfect time to the complex Vertical Horizon piece, Washed Away . Of course, it’s obvious he’s a player, but she’d only made the connection when she saw him at the piano at Paradise. She lets the piece end before speaking.
“That was a beautiful piece you played on the piano earlier.”
“Ravel’s, Gaspard de la Nuit. But I massacred it.”
“I wouldn't know. So, you play piano, and the guitar, too.” It’s more statement than question since she knows the answer. His fingers are still contorted in the closing pick.
James glances at her, his eyes narrow, like he’s suspicious of her question. “I used to.” He drops his hand from the top of the wheel and grips the bottom. “Don’t know that I can anymore.” A quick, angry laugh with a shake of his head. “You’ve seen my wrists. The restraints they had on me cut the circulation to my hands. I may have lost the dexterity. I don’t know.” He shrugs. His expression is somber. His eyes are glassy as he squints at oncoming headlights, and only then does Kate notice his long lashes sticking together from tears. He blinks and they stream down his face. James flashes her a quick glance, half-laughs, but not like it’s funny, and wipes his eyes on his shirtsleeve. “I suppose it doesn’t matter. Even if I could get back to where I was, I’m not so sure I ever want to go back there.”
“Why? Music is very powerful. It touches a lot of people.”
“Maybe my music did, but I’m finally getting that I probably didn’t.” His jaw hardens. He stares straight ahead.
“Are you famous? I mean, should I know you, know your music?”
“Probably not. You may have heard things I've written but I’m in the background, in the studio mostly.”
“What other instruments do you play?”
He flashes a smile. “Most all of them.”
“That’s impressive.” Kate is awed by people with passion, as she’s yet to find her own.
“Not really. Get good at anything with practice. I’ve been playing all my life. My stepfather taught me to play the guitar when I was five.” He speaks as if telling a tale. “He was a violinist with the Boston Pops. My mom was a piano teacher at Berklee School of Music. She could pick the harmony out of a vacuum.” He seems to drift, like he’s hearing her sing. “She had the most amazing ear, and perfect pitch. I mean perfect .”
“Are your parents still in Boston?”
“They’re dead.” And he’s back in the car with Kate.
She’s astounded by his admission, and for the first time feels a real connection to James. “Mine, too.” She practically whispers. “My dad died of a heart attack about a year ago. My mom, of cancer in late November, almost three months now.” She shuts her mouth, holds her breath and swallows back the lump in her throat.
“I lost my parents when I was thirteen in a plane crash on their way home from a benefit concert in Haiti. So much for Karma.” He stares out the windshield. “Everyone said it would hurt less with time. But the longing is often still intolerable.”
Kate crumbles. He’s right, of course. She still thinks of calling her mom almost every day, the impulse always followed by that horribly empty realization no one’s there to answer the phone. Tears spill down her face, and she can’t stop them. She stares out the windshield.
James stops at the crossroad of Hwy 50 and looks at her. “No shame in grief, Kate.” He reaches out to her and wipes her tears away with his huge
Similar Books
