Unfinished Business

felt his throat tighten.
    When she finished, she opened her eyes and looked at him. Somehow she had known he would be there when the last note died away.
    “Hello.”
    He wasn’t sure he could speak. He crossed to her and lifted her hands. “There’s magic here. It astonishes me.”
    “Musician’s hands,” she said. “Yours are magic. They heal.”
    “There was a woman standing on the sidewalk with her little boy. I saw them when I drove up. She was listening to you play, and there were tears on her cheeks.”
    “There’s no higher compliment. Did you like it?”
    “Very much. What was it called?”
    “I don’t know. It’s something I’ve been working on for a while. It never seemed right until today.”
    “You wrote it?” He looked at the music on the piano and saw the neatly written notes on the staff paper. “I didn’t know you composed.”
    “I’m hoping to do more of it.” She drew him down to sit beside her. “Aren’t you going to kiss me hello?”
    “At least.” His lips were warm and firm on hers. “How long have you been writing?”
    “For several years—when I’ve managed to sneak the time. Between traveling, rehearsals, practice and performances, it hasn’t been much.”
    “But you’ve never recorded anything of your own.”
    “None of it’s really finished. I—” She stopped, tilted her head. “How do you know?”
    “I have everything you’ve ever recorded.” At her smug smile, he continued. “Not that I actually play any of them.” He gave an exaggerated yelp when her elbow connected with his ribs. “I suppose that’s the sign of a temperamental artist.”
    “That’s artiste to you, philistine.”
    “Why don’t you tell this philistine about your composing?”
    “What’s to tell?”
    “Do you like it?”
    “I love it. It’s what I like best.”
    He was playing with her fingers. “Then why haven’t you finished anything?” He felt the tension the moment it entered her.
    “I told you. There hasn’t been time. Touring isn’t all champagne and caviar, you know.”
    “Come on.” Keeping her hands in his, he pulled her to her feet.
    “Where are we going?”
    “In here, where there’s a comfortable couch. Sit.” He eased her down, then put his hands on her shoulders. His eyes were dark and searching on her face. “Talk to me.”
    “About what?”
    “I wanted to wait until you were recovered.” He felt her stiffen, and shook his head. “Don’t do that. As your friend, as a doctor, and as the man who loves you, I want to know what made you ill. I want to make sure it never happens again.”
    “You’ve already said I’ve recovered.”
    “Ulcers can reoccur.”
    “I didn’t have an ulcer.”
    “Can it. You can deny it all you want—it won’t change the facts. I want you to tell me what’s been going on the last few years.”
    “I’ve been touring. Performing.” Flustered, she shook her head. “How did we move from composing to all this?”
    “Because one leads to the other, Van. Ulcers are often caused by emotion. By frustrations, angers, resentments that are bottled up to fester instead of being aired out.”

    “I’m not frustrated.” She set her chin. “And you, of all people, should know I don’t bottle things up. Ask around, Brady. My temper is renowned on three continents.”
    He nodded, slowly. “I don’t doubt it. But I never once remember you arguing with your father.”
    She fell silent at that. It was nothing more than the truth.
    “Did you want to compose, or did you want to perform?”
    “It’s possible to do both. It’s simply a matter of discipline and priorities.”
    “And what was your priority?”
    Uncomfortable, she shifted. “I think it’s obvious it was performing.”
    “You said something to me before. You said you hated it.”
    “Hated what?”
    “You tell me.”
    She pulled away to rise and pace the room. It hardly mattered now, she told herself. But he was sitting here, watching her, waiting. Past experience told her he would dig and dig until he uncovered whatever feelings she wanted to hide.
    “All right. I was never happy performing.”
    “You didn’t want to play?”
    “No,” she corrected. “I didn’t want to perform. I have to play, just as I have to breathe, but…” She let her words trail off, feeling like an imbecile. “It’s stage fright,” she snapped. “It’s stupid, it’s childish, but I’ve never been able to overcome it.”
    “It’s not stupid or