Page 35 of The Magical Bed & Breakfast

When they reached the end, they were both breathing hard, as if they had overexerted themselves at more than playing the piano.

Kate spoke first “That was…”

“…amazing.” He finished the thought.

“But far from perfect.”

Rory turned to face her. They were so close that he could feel her breath. She blinked at him, wide-eyed, then looked down at the keys.

He sought to console her. “We’ll get there.”

“And play it perfectly? I know it’s probably nonsense, but I really want to achieve the success I know it promises. Is that completely silly?”

“No, not silly. Hard work and effort are never silly. Look at what you have accomplished so far.”

“With the music?”

“With the music and the inn.”

“So I shouldn’t give up?” Kate bit her lip. She looked so unsure of herself in that moment. It was so unlike how she usually presented herself to the world that he wanted to pull her close, stroke her back, and reassure her. But that wasn’t his place. He was a guest—sort of—and only staying in Hazard for a short time. He cleared his throat. “Don’t give up. Not on the inn or the music.”

“So, music…”

Rory blinked at her. Her words had felt like she was leading somewhere.

“It’s your career.”

“Ah,” he swallowed. “What have you heard?”

Kate looked down at her lap, then back up and straight into his eyes like she’d come to a decision and would not be deterred. “I looked you up. You arenota concert pianist, not by any means.”

Her words were accusing. Rory felt the need to defend. “No, I’m not, but Iwasclassically trained to be one.”

She inched back suddenly and sat straighter. “Why?”

“Why was I trained as a classical pianist?” Unwelcome thoughts of his mother flooded his mind. She had been encouraging once and then a rigid taskmaster, foisting her discarded dreams onto him. And then when she found a real concert pianist on which to transfer her affections, she had run off and left her husband and son. Rory shook his head to clear it and focus on the conversation at hand.

“Why did you give it up?”

“Oh.” Rory wasn’t sure how to answer. No one had ever asked him that. And he didn’t want to get into the whole unpleasant situation with his mom and her lover and how he hated everything about who she became and who he was and…ugh,so he kept it simple, evasive, easy. “It’s not the life I wanted. It has such a limited appeal to the masses.”

“You wanted fame.” Kate spoke the words with resignation and sighed as if disappointed in him.

It put his back up. Who was this woman to judge him? He had the right to make his own choices. They barely knew each other. He washelpingher. So why, then, did her opinion matter so much to him? Why did he feel as if he had let her down personally and had somehow let himself down? He hated this feeling. In that instant, he blurted out a truth he had never really acknowledged as the reason for so many of his decisions.

“I wanted to write my own songs.”

“Oh?” When Kate looked up and blinked at him, he could have fallen right into those dark brown eyes and made a home there. The surprise on her face encouraged him to elaborate.

He began speaking from his heart, even as the words drew him closer to her. “Composing…I love it! The tunes, they dance through my head all the time. Well, usually, anyway. Lately they haven’t come so easily, but sometimes inspiration comes at the strangest moments, like…” He fell silent, unsure how to express what he was feeling.

“Like?” Kate prompted.

“Now,” he finished. “They come at the strangest times, like now.” He let out a shuddering breath. “Now likenow.” It was a litany frolicking through his brain. Rory turned to the piano and played the tune forming in his head from earlier. It flowed effortlessly, coming from his brain, down his arm, the fingers on his right hand picking out the melody on the keys, the harmony flowing down into his left hand. He knew when Kate slid away on the bench. He knew when she eased a black pen and blank paper in front of him. He kept playing, snatching up the pen to begin scribbling out the notes, first with his left hand as he worked out the melody and then with his right while he worked out the harmony.

It was dark when he came back to the room from the creative realm where he had lost himself for the last couple of hours. He’d been humming the song, making up words in his head. What he didn’t know was if it was any good. That knowledge came later. Some songs came easy. Others needed dedicated revision, and yet others he scraped altogether piecemeal over time, a snatch from here or there, bits that had been popping into his head over many months, sometimes years. But this song had come together all at once, clear and urgent and melodic. A ballad, inspired by the inn, but mostly by the innkeeper. Or as he had heard her murmur under his breath,The Innkeeper with a capitalI.

He wouldn’t know until the next day or the next week where this song would fall on a scale of one to ten, from lousy to fantastic. The songs always felt wonderful during those first moments of creation, but didn’t necessarily hold up in the light of scrutiny, when the details were so carefully listened to by the discriminating ear.

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