I found myself alone in the Portsmouth house, which was rare. Rosalie and Emmett were off in Newfoundland, and Jasper was off hunting with Carlisle. Esme was drawing plans for a new house on the back porch.
Edward came home from the library early, sat down. Opened the piano and started to play.
Chopin Nocturnes.
I hadn’t heard them in months.
Taking the invitation, I tiptoed across the living room. Sat down on the bench.
He didn’t get up.
I listened to him play for the better part of two hours. Edward gets lost in his music. He closes his eyes, and he rocks back and forth as he plays, like his whole body is involved in the playing. Like pushing the pedal requires every muscle, and not just his right ankle.
As I listened, I found myself thinking of the photo that got thrown at me. The way the glass shattered and fell out of the frame. The way the woman looked-with her light eyes the same shape as Edward’s. The man, with his strong build and his wild hair.
Their little baby.
The music stopped. Edward pushed himself back on the bench and reached for the keyboard cover.
“Don’t,” I whispered. “It’s good that you remember them.”
The keyboard cover closed with a soft thud and Edward disappeared.