We both laughed and I pulled her closer.
Thunder rumbled across the water. God either disapproved of our heaven talk or had just bowled a perfect strike. The surface of the water seemed to blur where the rain made contact. Another flash of lightning, this time with only a three-second delay before the CRACK! and rumble.
“Holy shitballs,” I said. “We’re going to get drenched!”
The wind picked up as we turned for the house. The temperature felt like it had dropped fifteen degrees. Ahead, the partygoers scrambled to rush inside. The first fat, cold drops hit our heads, followed by a whoosh as the downpour swept up the hill after us. Lightning cracked again, this time with no delay between flash and sound.
“Hurry!” yelled Rose.
We made it inside just before getting soaked. Everyone crowded into a marble-floored foyer. The catering staff scurried around with serving trays and carts, getting everything inside, out of the storm.
Sylvia climbed a few steps up the central staircase and addressed the party. “Everyone! Everyone! We won’t let a little storm get in the way of a good time. If you’d all follow the hall to the right, we’ll resume in the great room. Eat! Drink! Be merry!”
Rose and I followed the herd into the great room, which was aptly named. We sat in a corner on two mahogany-colored leather chairs. The party guests filed in, and the murmur of conversation grew to a low buzz. I noticed a grand piano in the opposite corner.
I nudged Rose, pointing to it with my chin.
She looked, squinted, then her eyes went wide. “Is that a Steinway?”
“No, it’s a piano,” I said.
Rose swatted my leg. “Let’s go look!”
We shuffled through the crowd to the piano. Embossed above the keys was Steinway & Sons. “You were right,” I said.
Rose ran her fingers along the smooth, polished wood. “God, this probably cost sixty thousand dollars.”
“Eighty,” said Jake, who had walked up behind us with a couple of his friends.
“That’s insane,” I said, shaking my head.
Jake shrugged. “We have one at home. It never gets used though.”
Just then, Sylvia showed up with my aunt. “Zeus, I’m told we have quite the pianist in our presence.” She smiled at Rose.
“Yeah, play them a little Tom Jones,” I said, poking her in the arm.
“I don’t think this is a Tom Jones crowd,” she said under her breath.
“Just one song!” Sylvia urged. “There’s sheet music inside the bench.”
Rose thought for a moment. “That’s okay, I don’t need it. There’s one I’ve been working on.”
“Marvelous!” said Sylvia, splashing around her champagne. “And what’s the song?”
“Raindrop Prelude by Frédéric Chopin,” said Rose. She sat at the bench, uncovered the keys, and began.
The first notes hung in the air, soft. Then her right hand drummed two repetitive notes while her left hand climbed around a dark minor melody. It got louder. It got darker. I glanced over my shoulder to see interested heads turn; a few walked toward the piano. Halfway through the song, Jake and the deck-shorts crew had turned their phones away from themselves and toward Rose, filming. I looked back at Rose. Rain trickled down the windowpane behind her as the music dripped from her fingertips. She hit some of the chords so hard I felt them in my chest. A crowd had now formed near the piano. All were silent.
Aunt Willow whispered in my ear, “What the hell is that girl doing in Buffalo Falls?”
It was then that I knew. More completely than I’d ever known anything before. My aunt was right; Rose didn’t belong in Buffalo Falls. All this time, I’d known she was good, but I truly had no idea just how good she was. She’d made an entire room of people—hell, an entire wing of a mansion—go silent. She was that good. She was brilliant.
The last chord resonated throughout the room. For a moment, the only sound was the rain on the window. And then the room erupted into applause. Rose turned her head and blinked as if just remembering where she was.
Jake and his crew moved in with a barrage of compliments and questions.
“Dude, that was incredible!” said Jake.
“That was amazing!” said Pink Shorts.
“How did you do that without music?” asked Yellow Shorts.
“She’s only been playing for three years,” I said. Let them chew on that little piece of trivia, I thought.
“Three years? I’ve been playing since I was three years old and can’t play like that!” said Yellow Shorts.
“How are you not famous?” asked Jake.
“I’m totally putting that on YouTube,” said Blue Shorts.
Rose was a good sport and did a short request set for Jake & Company, who by now were completely enamored. I sat back in proud admiration. After a while, Sylvia approached Rose and whispered something in her ear. Moments later, Rose began Dean Martin’s “That’s Amore” as Sylvia—this time literally—waltzed through the room. Everyone else soon joined in, except for Jake & Co., who filmed themselves with Rose, urgently posting to their social media accounts.
When Rose finished the song, she looked around the room to find me, then flashed that perfect smile.
That’s amore, I thought to myself.
The next morning, my wake-up call came in the form of Mom yelling “Rise and shine!” at four thirty.
I groaned, remembering we had to make it back to Buffalo Falls in time to open the café. Getting up that early should have been illegal.
Rose and I watched the sunrise from the dock while drinking coffee. A blanket of fog drifted toward shore, running for its life from the sun’s searching rays. The only other person on the lake was a fisherman who motored by. He waved. We waved back.
“Last night was fun,” I said, my voice extra deep from lack of sleep.
“It was.” Rose paused to yawn. “But you know what? I wouldn’t even know what to do with a house that big. I think your aunt’s cottage is just right.”
“Maybe it’s who’s in the house that matters, not the size.”
Rose sipped her drink, then kissed me. “Exactly.” Her lips were extra warm from the coffee.
THIRTY
THE FOLLOWING SUNDAY I WHEELED FIVE HEAPING TRAYS OF TRIPLE chocolate brownies into Hilltop, careful not to get any crumbs on my clothes. Letty had insisted everyone dress up for the occasion, so I’d spent the morning at Goodwill with Dylan, Axl, and Novie searching for outfits. Axl chose a black derby hat, Novie bought a black cotton dress and four-inch platform heels, and Dylan found a dark denim button-down shirt he somehow made look cool. I’d picked out a shiny black pair of shoes, wore my best jeans, and a shirt-tie-vest combo with the sleeves rolled up.
I have to admit—we looked pretty damn spiffy.