Page 61 of The Sound of Harmony

“Do you need a minute?” Emma edged toward the door. “Maybe I should go.”

“No, please don’t.” Kendrick reached out a hand to her. “Can you not be my organizer for a minute? I need you to be my friend.”

Emma sat next to him. His hand was cold, and she squeezed his fingers as he took a long, silent breath.

“What did those doctors do to you?” she asked. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Kendrick rubbed his right ear. “I’d like to talk about anything but that. I’m feeling fine today. No dizziness. No vertigo. How was your day?”

“So you’re in denial? Cool, cool.”

“Not denial. I’m still processing things.” Kendrick’s fingers twitched, moving up and down as if playing his flute.

She hadn’t seen the flute in the unpacking. It must still be at Mitch’s. But maybe his piano would give him comfort. She stood and tried to pull him off the couch. “Come here.”

“Just let me—”

“Have you played your new piano yet?”

He shook his head. “The tuner left five minutes before I had to go to Columbus.”

“You should give it a try.” She pulled harder and managed to get him upright. “I’ll sit with you.”

Kendrick let her lead him to the piano in the octagon-shaped sitting room in the front of the house, where soft afternoon light shone through the many windows. She could picture him here, happily composing music, even if he couldn’t picture it himself.

She sat next to him on the bench. “Play me something,” she said. “You don’t have to talk. Just create. This is what you love.”

Kendrick exhaled. Emma bumped him with her shoulder. He bumped her back. How odd that she knew him so well, but this was the first time they’d been alone together. She was hyper-aware of the places where their bodies touched—shoulders, hips, thighs—and of the warmth of him through his thin shirt.

Kendrick finally played a C-major chord with three fingers. The sound quickly faded, leaving nothing but its memory.

“Nice start,” she said. “Go on.”

Kendrick switched to a G-major chord. Emma went two octaves above and hit the B, and then the D.

Kendrick stopped and put his hands in his lap.

“Keep going,” Emma said. She trilled the two notes. “You play the bass line. I’ll just be up here, doing my thing. Let’s improvise.”

“This is very unlike you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Improvising is messy.” Kendrick tried a few more major chords, looking at her out of the corner of his eye. “Uncontrolled. Chaotic.”

“True.”

“There might be dissonance. Clashing of the notes. Anything could happen.”

“Anything at all,” she said, trying to make her tone less rocky. Her heart beat an urgent rhythm in her chest and her stomach was dancing like a dervish. This was far outside her comfort zone. Making music. Making music with a man. Maybe making more than that. With a man. This man. She wanted to do all of those things, but she hadn’t done them in such a long time.

“Or we might sound good together,” Kendrick said. So far, he was taking it easy, playing major chords that were simple for her to build on. But the movement of his hands seemed to free him from his glum mood, and each chord sounded easier than the last.

Emma tentatively touched the keys, making a jarring tune that made them both wince, until she stumbled on a half-remembered, half-invented melody. She repeated the little riff she’d found and swayed on the bench, bopping along to the music.

Kendrick found the chords that would go with it, and they repeated it twice more. His shoulders relaxed and a small smile played at his lips. “Ah,” he said and picked up the tempo.

“Ah,” she repeated, and matched his pace.