“You—really?”
Walker stepped close to her. The tips of his black boots brushed against her shoes and he took her hand. Her fingers curled around his, and she let him lead her toward the gleaming piano.
“This is gorgeous,” he said, running his finger around the curve at the back of the piano.
“Thanks. My uncle left it to us when he died. It’s pretty much the only nice thing in our house.”
Walker peered at the rows of strings and hammers beneath the open top. “It’s so . . . complicated.”
“Not really.” Keira slid onto the bench, feeling more comfortable than she had all afternoon. “But wait until you hear how it sounds.”
She positioned her hands above the keyboard, hesitating for a moment while she decided what to play. She’d been practicing the new Beethoven piece so often that it was waiting in the tips of her fingers, but it didn’t fit what she was feeling right then, and it wasn’t 100 percent perfect yet. She didn’t play anything for anyone unless it was perfect.
Finally, something came to mind. She hadn’t practiced the piece in ages, but it would be exactly right. Rachmaninoff. The Prelude in C-sharp minor. With her fingers poised on the keys and her feet on the pedals, she started to play, her left hand reaching way down the keyboard for the low notes that marked the first lines. The music flowed through the piano, filling the room with its dark, sweet sound. Her eyes closed for a moment as the tempo built, rising in intensity until the room crackled with it. Her fingers flew over the keys, and the rhythmic thrum of her foot against the pedal was as natural as breathing. The music carried her up, sweeping her into the crescendo, washing away all her tension and uncertainty.
The final, rising chord sang in the room even after she’d taken her hands from the ivory keys and dropped them into her lap. With a satisfied sigh, she looked up, flipping a strand of hair out of her eyes.
Walker stared at her, pale as snow.
“That’s the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen anyone do.” His voice was gravelly. “That was unbelievable, Keira. You’re unbelievable.”
She smiled. “Thanks.”
Holding her gaze, he stepped around the keyboard and sat down next to her on the bench. “No, I mean it. I’m not giving you some random compliment.” He swallowed hard. “Where I come from, music is everything. And no one can do anything remotely like what you just did. Growing up, I spent years trying to play. Years. Piano and violin and dulcimer—whatever I could get my hands on. And it never worked. I was terrible at everything.”
“It’s not for everyone,” Keira offered, slouching into herself as though she were protecting her talent. As though Walker might want it badly enough to twist it right out of her.
“I know. That’s the problem. But you . . . ” He shook his head slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. “Do you know how you look when you play? It’s like you’re making the music from scratch. I could almost taste it.”
The compliment washed over Keira. “I guess we’re all good at different stuff. I mean, I suck at math and history. And I draw like a three-year-old.”
The intensity of Walker’s iron-hard expression cracked. A laugh slipped from his mouth like steam. “Really?” He eyed her. “I’m not sure I believe you.”
“Believe it,” Keira said. “Stick figures are about as good as I get.” She leaned against the edge of the keyboard. “So what about you? You must have a talent of some sort. What are you good at?”
Walker tipped his head to one side. The inviting set of his shoulders, the way his hands slid across the wooden curves of her piano—it was a reply all its own, and it sent an ache through her. “Numbers. Sleight-of-hand. Making you blush.” He ticked them off on his fingers, his lips curving up when the hot flush in her cheeks proved him right.
In the hall, the front door flew open and Keira’s mom came rushing into the house and dropped her briefcase with a thud. “Keira! Thank goodness you’re okay. Let me look at you.”
Walker slid off the bench and stood with his hands in his pockets while her mother checked her hands and peered into her eyes. “Are you sore anywhere? Any bruises?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“She was complaining about her vision being weird,” Walker offered.
Keira shot him a dirty look, then turned back to her mother—and immediately panicked.
Her mom’s tired, dark-ringed eyes and bobbed hair were the picture of normal. It was the enormous black tree that had appeared behind her mother that freaked Keira out.
Chapter Ten