by Lizzie Shane
Beside the bathroom door was the steeper-than-code staircase leading up to the loft. It wasn’t large, just enough room up there for her double bed, a dresser, and a clothes-rack, but the loft was open to the room below and shared the view out the giant windows of the snowy mountain.
“Be it ever so humble,” she murmured, automatically slipping the key ring onto the little quarter-note hook beside the door.
A fine layer of dust had settled over everything in her absence—more the impression of neglect than anything else. She hadn’t been gone long enough for actual dirt to accumulate. Two months.
Time had been distorted on the show. A “week” in show parlance referred to an episode and was rarely an actual week, since some episodes were filmed over three days and others could take as many as ten, depending how far they had to travel. Everything revolved around maintaining the illusion for the home audience, and it was like being in a sensory deprivation chamber—no watches, no cell phones, no real sense of how long anything was taking.
But now, she was back in the real world, where two months had passed. Two months that changed everything.
Would Daniel be so quick to tell her to pack up her life if he saw how charming her little chalet was? If he had met her students and heard the promise of their burgeoning talent? Admittedly, the apartment was too small for two—it barely fit her and her Steinway.
It didn’t matter what he might have thought if he’d seen the peaceful charm of Tuller Springs. Her “Meet the In-Laws” date—the one chance the show gave for him to see into her life—had been in Manhattan. Concert-for-one at Carnegie Hall, strolling hand-in-hand through Central Park, and a formal meal at her mother’s posh, glacial Upper East Side apartment. The producers had loved it, Daniel had been enchanted, and even her mother had been on her best behavior—only throwing out barbed comments about her absent father twice.
She should call her mother, let her know she was back safely. Touch base with her father for the first time since she left for the show—if she could figure out where he was this month. Call her best friend Mimi and let her know she was back in town.
Her cell phone sat on the charger in the kitchen, right where she’d left it. But as soon as she picked it up, she’d be officially opening the floodgates to let real life in and she was too tired to even consider it. Caitlyn walked over to flop on the couch facing the window. Its cushy depths instantly enfolded her and she groaned with pleasure, toeing off her shoes.
Her entire body felt achy and grimy from the airplane—a shower would be heaven itself, but that would involve getting vertical and that was not going to happen. Caitlyn gazed up at the mountain—cloaked in white though scrubby bushes still pushed through the snow at the base and there weren’t many skiers and snowboarders cutting tracks through the white. It had been surprisingly warm outside for December, she realized belatedly, which would be bad for the resorts and winter tourist revenues but would make the town quieter through the holidays. And it was still beautiful even with the patchy snow.
How many more times would she look up at this view?
She still had four more months left on her lease. Should she break it early? Or use the first two months of marriage as a transition time to pack up and move to L.A.
Marriage.
The word rang, huge and gong-like, in her head. She was engaged. Actually engaged. She raised her bare finger, trying to remember what it looked like with the Rock of Ages weighing it down.
It didn’t feel real. Maybe because it had all happened so fast. Or because it seemed too good to be true. Or because she couldn’t tell anyone.
Were you really engaged if you couldn’t gush to your girlfriends about how amazing your fiancé was? How was she supposed to pack up her life and get ready to move if she couldn’t tell anyone she was packing up and getting ready to move?
She could call Daniel. He would have landed in Los Angeles hours ago. The unregistered cell Miranda had given her was tucked in her carry-on, right next to the Rock of Ages. But the idea of digging for it was as unappealing as the thought of calling her mother.
Maybe in a few hours. After she was rested. She needed to build up some reserves for both calls.
Caitlyn closed her eyes, resolved to nap where she had fallen rather than making the trek up the steep loft steps, but as soon as her lids fell a restless energy began to push them up again.
Freaking jet-lag. Here she was, too tired to be of any use to anyone—including herself—but her body clock was too out of whack to allow sleep.
There were a thousand things she ought to be doing. Her students wouldn’t resume lessons until after the holidays, but she only had a couple days to get all of her Christmas shopping done, as well as any decorating she wanted to do.
A thousand things to do, but only one she wanted to do—the same thing that had gotten her through every other sleepless night in her life, when her restless thoughts chased her out of bed.
Caitlyn stood and stripped out of her plane clothes, tugging a random pair of yoga pants and a tank top out of the duffle next to the door. She swept her hair up into a pony tail while sliding the piano bench back with the practiced nudge of one foot. Seated, she slid back the cover over the keys and gently ran her fingertips over the smooth expanse of ivory, grateful she’d gotten bored on the first flight and filed her manicure down to a manageable length.
She mentally shuffled through her repertoire. Resting her hands lightly on the instrument that had been both her bane and her salvation over the years, she struck a single key. B above middle C. Letting the note resonate as the hammer hit the string. Listening for the sympathetic shivering of the strings beside it. Picking out the layers of sound in that one note until it faded into silence.
Chopin, I think.
She lifted her wrists, arching her fingers into position, and plunged into the Nocturne, starting with that same sweet B. And then she flew.
Chapter Four
Will woke up smiling as the music drifted down through the floor of the apartment above—something that hadn’t happened in far too long. Both the smiling and the music.
She was back.
In the six months he’d lived below the piano teacher he’d never actually laid eyes on her, which was practically sacrilegious in a town the size of Tuller Springs where it seemed like everyone had to know everyone. Their schedules simply didn’t match up—which wasn’t surprising. Will’s schedule didn’t match up with just about anyone’s.
As a volunteer firefighter-slash-ski-instructor-slash-river guide who worked nights at a bar a couple nights a week to pick up some extra cash in the slow season, he didn’t have what most people considered normal hours. So he’d never seen his upstairs neighbor, but he’d always enjoyed the serenades, even when they interrupted his bizarre sleep schedule.
He stretched his arms above his head, joints popping satisfyingly as he tuned in to the music. Chopin, if he had to guess. Not that he was an expert. He’d only started learning about composers and classical music in the last couple months when he realized how much he missed his daily serenades and looked to replace them with CDs from the library. His thrill-junkie ski-patrol buddies would never believe how relaxing he found Beethoven.
He wondered if he could send a request through the mail slot for a little Moonlight Sonata.
He pictured his upstairs neighbor—Ms. Gregg, according to her mailbox—as a bespectacled septuagenarian with long quick fingers and a semi-permanent bun. When he hadn’t heard her playing for a couple weeks, it had been easy to imagine she’d had a stroke or something and was trapped up there by herself. He’d become so concerned he’d knocked on her door a half dozen times and even called the landlord to find out if someone official needed to check on her.
Turned out, according to their landlord, Ms. Gregg was just on an extended vacation. Even knowing she was okay, it was surprisingly good to hear her again.
The Chopin segued smoothly into Moonlight Sonata and Will grinned to himself, stacki
ng his hands behind his head.
He should bring her a welcome home gift. Maybe some muffins or Christmas cookies or something. His mother was always trying to fob her baking off on Will—as if he’d never developed the ability to feed himself in the decade since he moved out. Maybe next time she handed him baked goods, he’d take them up to little old Ms. Gregg. Seemed neighborly and he really owed her for all the hours he’d spent listening to her. Other folks paid big bucks for stuff like that and he got it for free.
When the Moonlight Sonata faded into something flowy and rocking that he didn’t recognize, he rolled a glance at the clock and grimaced. After two already. He’d closed the bar last night, picking up an extra shift to compensate for the crappy weather they’d been having that had cut his usual ski lesson schedule in half. Today was his regular day off, but that didn’t mean he could laze around all day. He was due at his parents’ tonight for family dinner and caroling—which was always an adventure in a family as tone deaf as his.
He needed to do laundry, shower, and wash his car before heading over. If he didn’t exude normalcy and radiate I’ve-got-my-shit-together vibes, he was going to get another round of We’re Very Concerned About You from every member of the large and nosy Hamilton clan. As much as he loved them, he was sick of being the family project. Even if they were just trying to cheer him up.
The smooth, flowy piece ended and something bright and exuberant burst through the floorboards above.
Sure, he had terrible taste in women, which had led him to his current situation, living in a tomblike ground floor apartment, but at least the soundtrack was good.
Will grabbed his phone to Spotify the bright, flashy piece. Frederick Kuhlau. He scribbled the name on a receipt he found on the bedside table, deciding to check out the composer next time he went to the local library. It was small, as was pretty much everything in Tuller Springs, but had a fairly decent collection of classical CDs he was plowing his way through.
Suspending his musical education for the day, he rolled out of bed and wandered to the bathroom, flicking through text messages with his thumb as he walked. The family group chat had been active while he was sleeping. Somehow his sisters had gotten into an argument about which one of them got to bring a nice girl tonight to meet him. Will fired off a quick reply—informing all three of them that if he saw any non-family members tonight he had a feeling there would be a fire-fighting emergency that would call him away before they even said grace.
That nightmare handled, he checked his email, grimacing at the we’ll-call-you-if-we-need-you brush off from the ski-patrol guys in response to his request for extra shifts and deleting a half-dozen ads that his spam filter had missed. He was still holding his phone when it rang and his oldest sister’s face flashed on the screen—along with all three of her children and her husband who had all mashed their faces into the selfie.
He knew her too well to let the phone go to voicemail. She’d just keep calling. Stubborn didn’t begin to describe Claire Hamilton Lancaster, but Will hadn’t grown up with three older sisters without knowing how to get his way when he needed to.
“Non-negotiable, Claire,” he said by way of greeting.
“You’ve gotta get back on the horse, Willie. Otherwise Bitch Face wins.” At least she wasn’t using the We’re Very Concerned About You voice. Claire was more steamroller than tea and sympathy. Pity and poor-baby was more Julia’s style.
“I’ll remount, as you so elegantly put it, when I’m good and ready and when I do, I won’t need my big sisters to set me up.”
“I know, I know, you’re a sexy stud muffin—”
“It is so gross to hear you say that.”
“But you never know who is going to turn out to be your one and only. Don’t look a gift hook-up in the mouth.”
He strolled into the kitchen, the phone pressed to his ear and flicked on the coffee maker as Oh Holy Night began to play above him. “Do you realize that’s the second time you’ve compared the girl you want to set me up with to a horse? Is that some kind of subliminal commentary on her appearance?”
“Don’t be a jerk. I’ve found you some grade-A premium woman flesh and you can’t even say thank you, Claire. You’re the best sister ever, Claire. My most favoritest sister ever and I shall love you most always.”
“So you’re saying this is really about beating Julia and Laney to the punch and making sure neither of them are the one to set me up with my dream girl.”
There was a slight tell-tale pause. “Love isn’t a competition, Willie,” she said archly.
“Uh-huh. No dates. Just a quiet family dinner. At least as much as this family does quiet. Got it?”
“It’s been six months.”
And I was left at the altar when my fiancé ran away with my best man. I think I get a solid year on that one. The words burned on his tongue, but he didn’t say them. They would only launch another lecture about holding onto things and releasing his anger and learning to love again.
No matter how many times he told his family he had released and forgiven and all that bullshit, and that he just didn’t want another woman in his life right now, it never seemed to penetrate the haze of their concern. Every single one of them was married and revoltingly happy. Only Laney didn’t have kids yet. His family was one giant, mocking picture of domestic bliss.
And here he was, tied up in a legal battle to get back the down payment he’d put up on the house he’d bought with Tria before The Wedding That Wasn’t. Where she was currently living with his former best friend.
He was allowed to hang onto shit like that for six months.
“No one should be alone at Christmastime.”
He groaned. “I’m never alone. No matter how many times I wish I could be an only child, if only for a day, my fairy godmother never grants my freaking wish.”
“Willie…” Now the Very Concerned About You Voice was there. Shit.
“If I promise to start dating soon, will you all back off?” The constant pressure to prove to his family how happy and well-adjusted he was after his life had fallen apart wasn’t exactly helping.
“I still wish you’d let me key Bitch Face’s car. It isn’t too late.” Her voice lifted hopefully.
Will snorted. “I appreciate the thought. And if I ever decide vandalism is the way to go, I’ll give you a call. Tell me again, how does that fit in with the whole forgiveness and letting-it-go thing?”
“Shut up. I’m your big sister. I don’t have to ever forgive that bitch.”
“Love you too.”
“Uh huh. Let me know if you change your mind about the set up. She’s super cute. Even Don said so.”
“And then you punished your husband for agreeing with you that she’s cute, didn’t you?”
“He didn’t have to say it so enthusiastically,” she grumbled. “I’d like to see him pop out three kids and still look good in a cheerleader outfit. Though I can still work the pom-poms with the best of ‘em.” Her tone was cheerfully lecherous.
“Ew. Too much information, Claire.” He would need maximum strength brain bleach to get rid of that mental image.
“Julia wants you to babysit on Saturday, but tell her you’re already sitting for me, okay?”
“Have I agreed to take the kids for you?” he asked skeptically.
“No, but you will because I’m your favorite sister.”
“Is this about needing a day without the kids or pissing Julia off? Because you realize I can take your three and her two and put them all in a room together and they entertain each other.”
“She asked me to join Weight Watchers with her.”
Most men might not understand the affront with which the words were spoken, but Will had spent the entire thirty years of his life with three sisters. He cringed. “She might have just wanted moral support.”
“She’s a twig,” Claire snapped. “She says she wants to lose her baby weight, which means she’ll eat celery for a week and be perfect again and then I wil
l have to kill her. And roast her and eat her because if I go on Weight Watchers again I will be hungry all the time and cannibalism will start to seem like a viable option.”
Will bit back a laugh, not sure whether she was serious or not. “Unless it snows and I have to teach, I’ll take your kids, but if Julia asks I’m gonna take hers too. I’m not getting in the middle of whatever Weight Watchers vendetta you guys have going.”
Claire humphed. “You’re so annoying when you won’t take sides.”
“Whenever you tell me I’m annoying, I always feel like I’ve done something right and virtuous.”
“Be nice to me or I’ll start sending women to your door, telling them that you’re dying to take them out.”
“Be nice to me. I don’t have to babysit the monsters on Saturday.”
“Yes, you do. Don promised me afternoon sex if we get all the presents wrapped. Do you know how long it’s been since we’ve had sex on the kitchen table?”
“Jesus. TMI, Claire. I’ve eaten on that table.”
“Oh relax. We wash it.”
“I’m hanging up now.”
“Hugs and kisses!” She made annoying smoochy noises into the phone until he disconnected the call.
As much as he might want to be frustrated with her meddling and tendency to over share about her sex life, he was grinning as he tossed the phone on the counter and poured himself a cup of the coffee that had been brewing while they talked.
That was the beauty and tragedy of family. They loved you and pushed you to be happy even when you just wanted to have a nice long wallow in the shit-show your life had become. Dinner was likely to be more of the same—only with more players. He’d be smothered by pity and well wishes all night. Maybe he could turn it into a drinking game. A slug of eggnog every time someone told him it was a crime to be alone on the holidays.
The music above had stopped and he flipped on the CD player to fill the silence with Dvorak.
Maybe he wouldn’t take baked goods to Ms. Gregg after all. She probably had a cute little granddaughter she’d want to set him up with as soon as she realized there was a single male living below her. Much better to mind his own business and lick his wounds in peace and quiet. He had enough women in his life without adding one more. Even a septuagenarian music teacher.
