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Charles met them at the airport. He smiled, shook Marco’s hand, started to shake Emily’s hand as well, but she laughed and kissed him.
A light, lovely snow was falling as they drove through the streets of Manhattan.
“I love the city when it’s like this,” Emily said softly as she sat within the curve of her husband’s arm. “It’s so beautiful.”
“Beautiful,” he said solemnly, and tilted her face to his for a kiss.
The doorman greeted them with a smile.
“Welcome home, Mrs. Santini, Mr. Santini. Congratulations.”
They rode up to the penthouse, their arms around each other, Emily’s head on Marco’s shoulder. When the elevator doors opened, Marco said, “Wait, cara.” He stepped out, hit the switch and the entire foyer and huge living room blazed with light.
Emily clapped her hands in delight.
There were flowers everywhere. Orchids. Roses. Mums. Lilies. But that wasn’t the reason for her gasp, or for the way her hands flew to her heart.
At the far end of the living room, framed by the floor-to-ceiling windows, a grand piano waited for its new owner.
“My wedding gift, cara,” Marco said. He hesitated. His wife had not moved. She had not spoken. Had he made a mistake?
“Emilia mia. What is it?”
She shook her head. She was weeping; how could she speak when her heart was so full?
“Emily. Please…”
She looked at her husband. “How did you know?” she whispered. “How did you guess? It’s—it’s like having a missing piece of me come back.”
Marco grinned. “You like it, huh?”
He looked arrogant as hell and so incredibly gorgeous that she had no choice but to fly into his arms.
“It’s the best gift in the world!”
He took her hand as they walked through the room. When they reached the piano, she reached out a hand and stroked her fingers over the beautiful black surface.
“Do you realize that I have never heard you play?”
She nodded. “I know.”
“Will you play for me now, sweetheart?”
She hesitated. Then she down on the piano bench, flexed her fingers, put her hands on the keys…
And played.
Not Sinatra. Not Billy Joel. Not any of the songs she’d played at the Tune-In.
She played Beethoven’s “Für Elise.” DeFalla’s “Ritual Fire Dance.” And then, because it was her favorite and she had not dared to attempt it in years, Chopin’s “Fantaisie Impromptu.”
When the last notes had died away, Marco was almost afraid to speak. Then he whispered his wife’s name and she rose from the bench and he gathered her into his arms and held her close.
“You are not a piano player,” he said, after a long, long time. “You are a pianist.”
Her could feel her lips curve in a smile against his throat, even as he felt the warmth of her tears.
“My father never thought so. When I was little and people would say, ‘What do you want to be when you grow up, Emily?’ I’d say that I wanted to be a pianist. And he’d laugh, but in a way I’m sure he thought was kind, and he’d say, ‘Emily’s always going to be our little piano player.’“
