She reached outside to grasp Jill’s coat sleeve, and in the next moment Jill found herself snatched over the threshold with a suddenness that nearly threw her off balance. The door shut behind her with a firm thump.
“I must have forgotten to turn my phone back on after my appointment, and then I went by Centerside to see Mom.”
Jill had barely unfastened the last button of her coat when the garment was whisked off her shoulders and tossed haphazardly over an already-full coatrack.
“We’ve been waiting for an hour.” Nana placed a hand on Jill’s back and propelled her toward the living room.
Jill almost stumbled over the threshold. “We?”
The small room was filled to capacity with elderly ladies. Chairs from the kitchen table had been brought in and placed between the existing furniture to form a circle around the perimeter of the room. Every available seat was occupied, and somehow five ladies had managed to wedge themselves into the depths of the sofa. A mishmash of brightly colored clothing and various shades of gray hair blurred together in Jill’s vision, while an alarming clash of perfumes threatened to send her nose into sensory overload. She barely had time to identify the mob as Nana’s knitting group when a communal squeal arose from a dozen throats. In the next moment, they swarmed.
“You’re getting married!”
“So happy for you.”
“I remember your eighth birthday party like it was yesterday.”
She was swept into a hug, then passed from one set of arms to another before being nearly squeezed breathless by Mrs. Montgomery, an enthusiastic eighty-year-old with the bosom of a stripper and the strength of a wrestler.
A clap of hands behind her cut through the excited babble. “All right, girls, we’ve got work to do.”
At Nana’s commanding voice, the chatter ceased and the ladies returned to their seats. Mrs. Montgomery gave Jill’s arm a final pat before settling into one of the armchairs and picking up the cup and saucer from the floor beside it.
Jill turned to Nana. “Are you having a tea party?”
“No, dear. We don’t have time for that. They’re here to help us with the wedding.”
Nods of assent around the room. Jill managed an awkward smile, then grabbed Nana’s arm and pulled her toward the kitchen.
“But we told you last night we’re having a private ceremony,” she whispered. “Small. Just family. We don’t plan to invite anyone from town.”
“Oh, we don’t expect to come, hon.” Mrs. Tolliver twisted around on the sofa to give Jill an earnest glance. “We’ll just help you work out the details beforehand. Then we’ll watch the video at the reception.”
“Video?” Jill widened her eyes. “Reception?”
Mrs. Fontaine spoke up from her chair near the fireplace. “We were thinking it would be nice to have a reception afterward, maybe in late January. You know, a celebration with your friends and church family.”
“Now, Alice, we haven’t made any decisions about the reception yet.” Nana blinked blue-shadowed eyelids in a display of mild rebuke. “We have enough to handle with planning a decent wedding in exactly a month. And on Christmas, too.”
“Oh, yes. Quite enough. I don’t know how we’ll manage to pull it all together in time.” Mrs. Montgomery’s eyes gleamed, obviously not the least bit intimidated by the daunting task.
Obviously, preparations for her own wedding had been plucked out of Jill’s hands. She made one last attempt to wrest control from the tenacious troop of geriatric wedding planners.
“Nana, Greg and I really don’t want an elaborate ceremony. Just a quiet exchange of vows in front of the Christmas tree. Maybe a few snapshots we can put into a photo album, but nothing extravagant, like a video.”
“Extravagant? Nonsense.” Mrs. Tolliver set her cup in the saucer with a determined clink. “You won’t even know my nephew is in the room. He’s an excellent videographer.” She lifted her eyebrows and spoke to her neighbor on the sofa with obvious pride. “He used to work for a cruise ship doing vacation videos. People paid a lot of money for those videos.”
Was she kidding? Take a man away from his family on Christmas to record a private wedding ceremony on an apple orchard ninety minutes away? Jill opened her mouth to voice another protest, but Nana grabbed her in a firm grip and turned her toward the bedroom.
“Let’s get you into the dress. We need to get started on the alterations. You’ve a slimmer waist than Lorna when she married, and I’m sure we’ll need to let out the bust.”
They left the women scurrying for their sewing boxes. Judging by their energetic expressions, the alterations would be finished by the end of the day.
Her mother’s wedding dress lay across Nana’s bed. Jill stopped when she caught sight of it, and then inched slowly into the room. She’d forgotten how lovely the dress was. Creamy white satin fell in graceful folds from an empire waist, the bodice covered with subtle but elegant beadwork. She reached for the short train and caressed the silky fabric between her fingers. An image arose in her mind of the framed photograph on the dresser in Mom’s room at Centerside. She’d been stunning in this dress, the smile on her youthful face radiant. Happy. So happy.
Would Jill be that happy on her own wedding day? If she could ever be truly happy again, surely it would be that day.
“Hurry up, now. Slip off those clothes.” Nana flipped the dress over and began unfastening the pearl-shaped buttons. “Oh, before I forget to tell you, Eloise Cramer’s granddaughter will be here tomorrow at ten, and then Alice’s granddaughter at eleven.”
Jill paused in the act of lifting her sweater over her shoulders. “Why?”
Nana blinked. “For their piano lessons.”
The meaning of Nana’s words sank in. She had two piano students coming in the morning. Anger flickered at the edges of her mind. Nana had arranged it without consulting her.
Jill let the sweater fall back in place. “Why did you do that?”
Her grandmother looked up from her work on the dress, surprise widening her eyes. “Alice has been bragging about her granddaughter’s talent for a long time, so I knew she’d jump at the chance for the girl to learn from you.” She scowled. “I don’t know a thing about Eloise’s granddaughter, but she wasn’t about to let Alice get away with saying her granddaughter was taking lessons from Jillian King.” Concern replaced the scowl as Nana peered up at her. “You did say you wanted to give lessons, didn’t you?”
Jill set her teeth together against the battling emotions that raged inside. Yes, she did say that, but there was a giant chasm between saying something and doing it, between making a decision and acting on it. She needed a few months to get used to the idea.
On the other hand, Jill knew Nana meant well. She wanted to be supportive, to help. Which was the reason she’d organized the planning posse in the living room. She didn’t mean to meddle, really. Or if she did, it was only what she considered helpful meddling.
Jill swallowed a gulp of resentment. “Yes, I did say that, but I didn’t intend to start tomorrow. I would prefer to arrange things on my own, that’s all.”
“I’m sorry, dear. I understand.” Worry lines appeared in Nana’s forehead. “You know I would never do anything to upset you. Alice and Eloise are both in the other room. I’ll go right in there and tell them I spoke out of turn.”
With an effort, Jill forced the knotted muscles in her shoulders to relax. “No, that’s okay. It’s done now. I — I appreciate your help.”
Maybe this development was for the best. A kick in the pants by her well-meaning grandmother might be exactly what she needed. Now she’d be forced to cross the invisible barrier she’d erected around her piano.
With a forced smile to assure Nana she wasn’t upset, she allowed herself to be dressed. As the silky fabric slid down to settle against her hips, she realized she was hoping the fitting would take a long time — hours and hours. The longer she spent downstairs with the ladies, the less time she’d have upstairs wher
e the piano waited for her, but that was merely a delay tactic that would ultimately serve no purpose at all. Before ten o’clock in the morning, she’d have to overcome her reluctance to touch the ivory keys.
Tonight, she’d have to play.
Chapter 7
JILL STOOD IN THE DOORWAY between her kitchen and front room, her hand hovering over the wall switch. In the corner of the living room, the dark, winged shape of the piano waited. For nearly a year she’d managed to avoid approaching it — no easy task, since it dominated the room. If she allowed her imagination to run unfettered, she could feel the instrument’s resentment as it hovered beneath the quilted cover.
Ridiculous. It’s an object. It doesn’t have feelings.
But all her life, the piano had been Jill’s best friend. Oh, she had school friends, but why confide in another girl when she could pour her emotions out through the keyboard? The piano accepted. The piano understood. The piano responded with mournful canon when she felt sad, or joyous sonata when she felt glad. To her, the piano was the most feeling instrument ever created.
She hadn’t touched it in a year. It was time.
At a flip of the light switch, the tract lighting she’d installed in the ceiling illuminated that corner of the room. From where she stood, Jill could see a thin layer of dust on the quilted cover. A twinge of guilt pricked her conscience. A Schimmel Konzert was an intricately crafted instrument, a work of art manufactured in Germany, and far too expensive to be allowed to become a dust collector. At least she’d had the tuner here twice in the past year, so even though she had neglected it, the piano would be in good repair. And the cover had done its job in protecting the instrument.
For a moment, her feet refused to move. They felt heavy, stuck, as if she’d happened across a patch of sticky flypaper in the doorway. With an effort, she pried them up and dragged herself across the room.
Heart pounding against her ribs, she stood beside the hulking object and rested her right hand on the quilted cover. There. She’d touched it. She waited, giving her heartbeat time to return to normal.
I’m being silly. It’s a piano, for heaven’s sake. It won’t bite me.
But no matter how much her mind understood that, her body reacted with a visceral tensing of every muscle, from her toes on up. For a full five minutes, Jill merely stood with her hand on the cover.
She heard Doreen’s voice in her head. Describe your feelings, Jill.
Okay, use the tools she’d learned. What was she feeling? She closed her eyes and performed an inventory. Sadness. Anxiety. Fear. Yes, the overriding emotion was fear. Standing here beside the instrument that used to mean more to her than anything else reminded her of all she once hoped to attain. She flexed open her left hand, which hung at her side, until she felt the stretching pain she’d come to accept as normal in recent months. Those goals had been lost to her. Even though she could compensate for the smaller reach, the pain would impede her movements. She would never again play like she once did. She’d come to accept that.
But how much had she lost? That was the question that lay at the base of her fear. What if she couldn’t play at all? Could she live with never playing the piano again?
She opened her eyes. There was only one thing worse than never playing again, and that was living in fear. It had been almost a year since the accident. It was time to heal, to move on.
With slow, careful movements, she pulled back the quilted cover and exposed the graceful curves of the Schimmel. The glossy ebony finish gleamed in the soft tract lighting. She raised the lid and stepped back to admire the symmetry, the beauty of the instrument. This wasn’t the same piano she’d used as a child. Nana could never have afforded a Schimmel. They’d owned an inexpensive upright until Jill started performing on the concert circuit during college. Then she had invested in this one.
Sitting on the padded piano bench felt like sliding into a favorite summer blouse after a long winter of heavy sweaters. She lifted the music rack and ran a finger across the smooth top edge. Her sheet music had all been stored in the attic, but she didn’t need it. The notes from hundreds of pieces came into focus whenever she closed her eyes, and the intricate harmonies created by masters like Chopin, Beethoven, and of course Liszt, vibrated deep in her soul.
She rested her right hand on the keyboard. The ivory caressed her fingertips, smooth as the softest silk yet firm as marble. Her eyelids shut almost of their own accord as her thumb stroked middle C. The note rang out to fill the silent room with a pure, sweet tone that raced up Jill’s arm, vibrated over her collarbone, spread through her ribs and, finally, crept into her heart with agonizing sweetness. A tear slipped between her eyelids and traced a path down her cheek. She ran up the scale, C to C, and her fingers flew over the keys as though they’d danced this dance only yesterday. They raced back down to middle C, then back up again, faster and faster, moving with joyful abandon through the familiar exercise that was seared into muscle memory from years of repetition.
Without conscious thought, she switched to a one-handed version of a simple tune she’d learned long ago. The chords of Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy” flowed from fingertips that skipped across the keyboard’s upper registers like a child on a sidewalk. The harmonies weren’t complete, though. They needed the lower octaves. She raised her left hand.
In the moment before she touched the keys, she caught sight of the scar, red and vivid and ugly. Both hands jerked back as though the keyboard had grown thorns. The last notes she’d played hung heavy in the air.
I can’t.
Tears clogged her throat as she slid off the bench and backed away from the piano. A harsh truth pummeled her brain. She couldn’t risk knowing if she could play. Not yet.
Tomorrow’s lessons were introductory sessions. She could spend the time getting to know her new students and introducing them to the basic keys and finger exercises. No need to play anything.
She rushed to the wall and flipped off the lights. The piano settled quietly into the darkness.
Flames, voracious and vicious, roared in the cold air, whipped into a fury by a morning breeze that drew its strength from the icy Atlantic. Screams joined with the fire in a deafening dissonance of sound. People dying. Suffering. Burning flesh, followed by freezing cold and a horrible squeezing of lungs.
No air. Can’t breathe.
Jill sat up in bed, gasping. The roar of the fire deafened her. She covered her ears, pressing with her palms to block out the screams.
No. The room was silent. She was at home, in her own bed, her own quiet bedroom. No sound at all except her pulse pounding like an aboriginal war drum.
It’s not real. I’m safe. I’m safe. I’m safe.
She repeated the mantra over and over, willing herself to believe it. But her thudding heart refused to take heed.
The people of Seaside Cove must be warned.
The idea again seeped into her consciousness as though from an outside source. It went deeper than thought, more like intuition, something that bypassed logic and resonated in her soul with a sense of urgency impossible to ignore.
“It’s just a dream.” She spoke aloud to drown out the tumult in her mind. “A stupid dream that happened because I tried to play the piano and couldn’t. That’s all it is.”
But why was it the same dream as the night before? And why had it returned when she hadn’t taken any sleeping pills?
And why couldn’t she dismiss the thought — no, the insane notion — that she had to warn people about a coming disaster?
Chapter 8
Saturday, November 26
“Oh, Greg, I’m so happy. This will be the best Christmas ever.” The enthusiasm in his mother’s words bubbled through the phone line.
Greg laughed. “You say that every year, Mom.” Standing behind his desk, he cocked his head sideways to wedge the receiver against his shoulder. His hands free, he flipped through a stack of law journals, searching for the issue containing an article on exclusivity in property law
.
“Well, a wedding on Christmas Day will definitely make this year the best so far.”
“I’m glad you feel that way.” He couldn’t help but smile. Mom could always be counted on to applaud any decision he made, and she had loved Jill from the first time he’d taken her home to meet his parents. “You’re sure you won’t mind having Reverend and Mrs. Hollister there for Christmas dinner?”
“Of course not. Here, your father wants to talk to you.”
A shuffle sounded as the phone changed hands on the other end. Greg found the magazine issue he wanted and pulled it from the pile. He tossed it onto the corner of his desk, then straightened to attention as his father’s voice came on the line.
“Congratulations, son. Jill’s a fine young woman. She’ll make a good wife for you.”
Some of the tension left his spine at his father’s words. He’d been a bit worried that Dad would chide him for not talking this decision over with him first. “Yes, sir, she will. And I hope I’ll be a good husband for her.”
“Timing’s good, too. Marriage will be good for your career. People like their politicians to be married. Makes ‘em more sympathetic, easier to identify with. It’s a good move to get it done before the election.”
Greg indulged in an eye roll that his father could not see. He didn’t bother explaining that the timing of the wedding had nothing to do with the election. Dad wouldn’t hear him anyway. That seat on the HRM city council meant the world to his proud and ambitious father.
Mom’s voice sounded in the background. “Let me talk to him again, Harold.” More rubbing noises, and then she asked, “Are you and Jill free to come for dinner on Wednesday night? I can just see the ceremony in my mind, with you two standing near the fireplace and a cozy fire burning on the hearth. I want her to see what I’ve done with the mantle decorations this year. She might not like all the greenery. If not, we’ll need to hurry and figure out what we want to do instead.”
“Mom, we don’t want you going to a lot of trouble. We just want a simple family ceremony. No special decorations or anything.”
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