With his permission to play anything, Emily moved her hands into a different position. She’d listened to the song so many times at this point that she knew it in her heart, in her bones, in her fingers. Plus it was so similar to the song she once played with him. The one he sang about her. His queen.

She closed her eyes and began to play—“Crystal Castle.” Her hands felt a little stiff, a little weak. The power she used to have in them, the strength, had lessened. Her fingers weren’t moving quickly, either. She slowed down the song’s pace, slid her foot onto the damper pedal, and then added harmony, the way she used to when she sang with him. Her right hand was playing both their vocal parts, or what she imagined her part would be in this new song. Her left was taking care of the guitar chords he strummed while he played.

With her eyes closed, Emily felt like she was inhabiting a world where music was all that existed. She became the music in a way she couldn’t explain. The sound was her and she was the sound, the rhythm, the vibrations. Everything she’d been feeling over the past few days came out through her fingers: the love, the despair, the guilt, the sorrow, the hope, the frustration, the pain. She got to the end of the song before she opened her eyes again, feeling as if the raging storm inside her had calmed.

When the world came back into focus, the pianist was standing next to the bench, a smile dancing across his lips, and there was a crowd around the piano—Ezra was there, and so were his parents, and a handful of his friends.

“I knew you could play,” the pianist said to her. “But I didn’t know you could play like that. Brava.”

As Emily smiled at him and thanked him for convincing her to give it a try, she heard Hala ask Ezra, “How long has Emily been playing?” And Popper Hopkins, the chief pediatric surgeon, was saying, “I thought she was a therapist—does your wife play professionally?” And then Ezra’s father was turning to him and saying, “Why have you been keeping Emily’s talent from us? She’s fantastic. Why haven’t you bought her a piano?”

Emily looked up and saw Ezra’s face turning red. “I’m going to take the woman of the hour to the bar for a drink,” he said to them all, not answering anyone’s questions.

“Do you want to keep playing?” the pianist asked.

Ezra was coming toward her; Emily shook her head.