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They’ve got the flat to themselves for the afternoon; Gail and Kevin have gone to see some animated film. Lane is lying in the middle of Joan’s perfectly made bed, reading through the financial section of last week’s Times when – from the living room – the tuneless whoosh of an accordion being taken out of its case gets his attention.
He lowers the paper, waiting in quiet anticipation, and after a moment, familiar lilting chords catch his ear; it’s just as lovely as the last time he heard her play.
Joan hadn’t admitted she was musical until well after they’d begun seeing each other, and when she had told him, it was almost as if she’d expected him to taunt her. Oh, the accordion, dash it all. Why not the piano, or violin?
“It’s just a hobby,” she’d said across the dinner table, giving a careless little shrug as she spoke. Lane’s mouth had hung open at the declaration; he’d never known anyone who could play an instrument, let alone one so unusual. “Usually I practice at night, when everyone’s asleep.”
“Well—I’m sure—the baby must enjoy hearing it.” He’d struggled to contain his own curiosity. What sort of songs do you play? When did you learn? Was it very difficult?
In the end, this instinct had turned out to be correct. After he’d spoken, she had reached out to place a hand over his, and favored him with a small smile, her eyes going soft around the corners.
“I hope so.”
Joan had played for him only a few days later, while he was getting ready for a late lunch—it was on a weekend afternoon, just like this. She’d sat at the kitchen table, singing quietly but with practiced confidence, playing ballad after ballad until his eyes had welled over with pride.
Lane’s leaning against the bedroom doorway, arms crossed, as Joan begins the next song. Her left fingers fly over the little round buttons, while the fingers of her right hand tap out a steady tempo using the upright piano keys. It’s amazing, he thinks to himself, watching the practiced pump of the bellows, back and forth—the way her face is so relaxed as she plays, as if she’s thinking about everything and nothing at all. How could she memorize such a complex piece of music, he wonders, and yet make it sound so new each time—so melodic, so beautiful. It’s marvelous.
“You’re staring.”
He startles back to attention, having sense enough to flush at being caught.
“I thought you’d like La Bohème,” she tells him, and he can’t help smiling.
“I do.”
There’s a very strange thought floating through his head—the idea’s almost mad, if he’s being honest. He just keeps thinking how incredible a skill this is, how much time and dedication it’s taken for Joan to become musical, and wonders what must have drawn her to learn the instrument in the first place, and what continues to inspire her—all questions he’s dying to ask and can’t quite put into the proper words.
“Teach me how to play,” is all he manages.
The bellows make a little discordant jangle as Joan’s left hand presses into the keys. Lane’s eyes widen at her obvious surprise, and he sputters through the best explanation he can muster.
“—which is to say—oh, hell—I suppose I should like to, erm, learn more about your instrument. In—whatever way you might show me. Sorry. And I know you’re very private about it, only I just—want to—understand.”
He doesn’t know how else to say it, and when he glances up from staring at a fixed spot on the carpet, Joan’s studying him with clear, sharp eyes. At first, Lane’s afraid he’s offended her in some way, but after a moment, she reaches behind her to undo the clasp of the harness at the top of her shoulders.
“Come sit down,” is all she says.
He takes a seat beside her on the sofa, and within a minute, he’s holding the cherry-red instrument in two hands as she fastens the harness in back of him. Suddenly, Lane can feel how certain piano keys are supple and springy under his first two fingers, how some of the others are less pliable, and a little less slick—perhaps from wear—how even holding the instrument sends a peculiar feeling of nervousness into his stomach.
“Oh, it’s heavy.” His voice cracks a bit, and he could kick himself for saying something so idiotic, but Joan just lets out a gentle laugh, and arranges his left hand along the round keys, in a kind of awkward claw position.
“Sorry,” he mutters, as she has to lean into his left shoulder in order to guide his right hand into place on the keyboard, but he can’t bring himself to mind the proximity too much. It’s very different; it’s making his muscles jump with excitement. “Is this—all right?”
“Scoot forward a little.”
Joan waves her hand slightly in an accompanying gesture. Lane does not think much of this request until after he’s obeyed it, and Joan rises onto her knees on the cushions, moving behind him until the front of her body is pressed against his back and shoulders. Her outstretched arms mimic the position of his own, while her hands find his on the bellows, and gently urge them into motion.
A long, slow chord breaks the silence, as together they draw the bellows out into a single note. Lane feels as if he can barely breathe, hoping it doesn’t sound too awful, but honestly, he isn’t able to hear much at all above the sound of blood rushing through his ears.
Just beside the shell of his ear, Joan’s sigh is small, almost faint. “Hear that note?”
“What—” his voice is practically a squeak “—did we play?”
He feels the hair on the back of his neck and arms stand on end as she speaks; it’s about to drive him mad. “Middle C.”
She urges his hands up the keys to change positions, whispering instructions into his ear, and sliding her fingers between or under his to place them properly. His hands are shaking visibly now, but they play a few more notes just like this—Lane almost holding his breath to keep from mucking it up—until Joan lifts her chin from where it’s resting in the crook of his shoulder.
“Okay,” she sighs. “Put your hands over mine.”
It takes a bit of maneuvering for her to reach the keys—Lane can feel the vibrations of her body against him as she laughs, and closes his eyes at the sensation—but once they’re both in position—his palms splayed against the back of her hands, covering her knuckles and delicate fingers—she urges the instrument into motion again.
This time, he can feel muscles and tendons flex under her skin as she plays, very slowly—the way both their shoulders contract with the movement of the bellows, in and out—the tautness in her diaphragm and belly as she balances against him.
“Can you feel that?” she whispers.
Lane can’t speak. Joan’s breath tickles his ear and her heart’s racing against his spine and each new chord resonates through every part of his body—he can’t name the song they’re playing although he seems to know it intimately—hears note after familiar note vibrating on the air as Joan guides the instrument, and feels gooseflesh prickle over his skin—he can hardly keep time, now, but she doesn’t falter—all he can think is she’s showing me and amazing and don’t stop. All he can feel is the crackle of electricity between them—my god, my god, is this what it’s like, playing music—this awareness, this—palpable connection?
Beside him, Joan begins to sing: voice low and rich, still guiding their motions. Lane’s breath quickens and his pulse hammers in his throat and he feels alive, alive, alive.