Through the Fire

Rae spun toward the mirror, didn’t dare look too long, certain that she would find some flaw, some fault. She hauled in a breath, made a silent vow to play it cool, then stepped back into the front room, fully expecting her surprise guest to be hovering around anticipating her return.

Quinn was missing in action.

Then she heard sounds coming from the kitchen. She eased toward the door, a serious frown on her face, trying to imagine what in the world he was doing.

When she arrived at the threshold, she was taken aback to see Quinn moving comfortably around in her kitchen as if fixing breakfast in her space was something he always did.

He’d prepared a tray of toasted bagels and another with jelly, vegetable cream cheese, and butter. Somehow he’d found her glass carafe—a wedding gift she thought she’d lost—and filled it with orange juice. The scent of brewing coffee assaulted her senses, and her stomach shouted out in hunger. Rae wasn’t sure if she should be pissed off at his audacity in just taking over her kitchen, or totally charmed by his thoughtfulness.

She folded her arms, her braless breasts resting comfortably on them. “I see you found everything you needed.” She rested her right hip against the frame in the doorway.

Quinn glanced over his shoulder. “Hope you don’t mind. I figured after the late night—” he shrugged “—maybe you took your time about movin’ into your morning.” He smiled slow and lazy. “Hungry?”

Rae felt the grin spread helplessly across her mouth. “Starved.”

“Have a seat. Breakfast is served.”

Amusement danced in her eyes as she took a seat.

“Are you always this considerate, or is this a new millennium come-on?” Rae quizzed over bites of bagel lathered in cream cheese.

Quinn hooked his legs around the spindles of the kitchen stool as he leaned over the counter to refill his juice. He chuckled halfheartedly. “Tell ya the truth, I don’t know. I guess I’d like to think I am a considerate guy. No doubt. Isn’t that what you women want these days?” he taunted playfully. “Rugged on the outside with a soft center.”

“So this is just some fancy come-on,” she teased in return, reaching for a bagel and brushing the tips of Quinn’s retreating fingers.

Their gazes found each other for a hot instant.

“I guess it’s been a while since I did anything for anyone else, or since I cared enough to bother.” He lowered his gaze, shielding himself from her.

Understanding that kind of aloneness, the depths to which it could pull you, momentarily sealed Rae’s lips. She wanted, as always, for her words to matter. Not give him a pat response from the plethora of self-healing dictums.

“I was working on a new piece,” Rae said gently, steering them away from the dark waters. “Would you like to hear it?”

“Sure.”

They left the remains of their late breakfast and went into the living room. Lovingly Quinn’s eyes roamed across the smooth wood surface of the magnificent piano, the only piece of furniture in the cavernous room. His mouth nearly watered in appreciation for the beauty—knowing the kind of sound that could be drawn from it. To him, playing piano was so much like making love to a woman. You had to know and understand each and every key and what it was capable of doing if touched just right—the high and low notes, the trills that could be emitted with several well-placed finger strokes. It was too intimate, too personal, and he wanted to be neither.

Quinn noticed the pile of body-size pillows stacked in the corners. He walked over and made himself comfortable, half sitting, half reclining like a satisfied cat.

That did it, Rae realized. If there was anything to convince her that this was a man after her soul, Quinn’s behavior sealed it. Everyone who’d crossed her threshold always commented about her lack of furniture, the echo in the room, her lackadaisical attitude about “fixing the place up.” Not Quinn. He was just as at home as if it had been his. He looked as if he belonged there.

Rae stepped over to the baby grand and took a seat. She glanced over her shoulder. “This is still rough,” she said as a preamble.

“Hey, unless you’re Stevie Wonder or Prince, it takes a minute to write some music.”

Rae chuckled in agreement. “If only,” she uttered on a puff of laughter, her confidence boosted by his simple observation.

She flipped the sheets of music to the beginning, pulled in a breath, and exhaled a melody. Her fingers taunted the keys with sharp, sudden chords, played along its spine like a rock skimming water, barely touching but enough to make it ripple. Then her voice slid between jazz and hip-hop, blues and easy listening.

“…so afraid that time won’t erase what I feel for you.

Let me go, you need to know

It’s time to move on.

All those yesterdays, memories, and such,

Though they meant so much, they’re gone

And I’m all alone.

Let me go. You need to know

It’s time to move on.

But I’m so afraid

That time won’t erase what I feel for you

In my heart.

I will always remember your smile.

The touch of your hand,

The way you’d walk out a door.

But all that’s no more.

Let me go.

You need to know it’s time to move on.

But I’m so afraid that even time won’t erase

What I feel for you…”

It was as if she’d written every word for him, as if she’d seen inside his heart, his soul, and created the words that he dared not speak, Quinn thought, stunned by the effect the lyrics were having on him—stirring images, emotions, dreams long denied. His throat tightened, the warmth flowing through him as he allowed the rhythm of the words to grab hold of him, seep into his pores. He fully understood that they’d seen the same emotions, shared the same fears. And the realization shook him.

“…What I feel for you will never die.

What we had will always be.

But listen to me

And let me go.

I’ll keep you close to my heart