Page 34 of Townshipped
I grab for the picture. Trevor grabs more quickly.
“I just need one more look,” he says with a taunt in his voice.
“Sure,” I say. “Take your time while I rustle up your baby book. I think the preschool photos of you smearing mom’s lipstick on your face are still in there.”
Trevor sends me a warning look.
“Payback, Trev. And it won’t be pretty.”
“Pretty as your tux?” he goads.
Karina laughs into her napkin from across the table. Em starts laughing and covers her mouth with her hand. Pretty soon the whole table is laughing uncontrollably. I’m considering confiscating the photo to use as kindling for the next bonfire I host.
But, when I look around, I can’t help but smile, especially at the way Em seems to have this unforeseen connection with my family tonight.
When the laughter dies down, Trevor says, “You can’t pay me back anyway.” He beams at Lexi and his daughter. “I’ve got the approval of the only woman who matters to me. Your days of embarrassing me are history.”
“We’ll see,” I tease. “You know how I love a challenge. I did capture you in rare form the day of Poppy’s birth. Rare form, my brother.”
He shakes his head, smiling.
Lexi smiles over at Trevor. “Those birthing classes really kicked in when we needed them. Huh, Trev?”
He beams at her with unabashed adoration. His face says it all. She’s the mother of his child. She gets a free pass at giving him a little grief.
We finish off the apple crisp and I volunteer to help my mom with dishes while everyone hangs out in the living room and Lexi disappears into one of the bedrooms to change a diaper and nurse.
“Em is delightful,” Mom says.
“She is.”
“It’s a shame we don’t know more about her. You two seem so natural together.”
“Mom,” I warn her.
“What? I’m just stating the obvious. You act like a couple who have been dating for years, not strangers who met a week ago. Don’t you find that uncanny?”
That’s the same word Laura used.
“We’ve endured a trauma together and it forced us into close proximity. It’s natural we’d have a deeper connection after all that.”
I only partly believe my explanation, but I’m not admitting that to my mom.
The sound of the piano travels in from the living room.
“Who’s playing?” Mom asks. “It’s beautiful. Is that Em?”
She sets the last plate into the dishwasher.
“Must be.”
The melody has a tranquil elegance to it, like someone simultaneously longing for their deepest wishes and then finding the promised hope of that longing being fulfilled.
I wipe my hands on the towel hanging on the stove door and walk toward the living room where Em sits at the piano, her body lightly swaying and a faraway look in her eyes. Her hands cover the keys and move of their own accord as the song progresses from somewhere deep within her.
The whole room has gone still as we watch her play. It’s like she’s not even here anymore. The song has taken her somewhere else. She’s glorious, transcendent, the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on. If her spirited side made me weak in the knees, this ethereal, mesmerizing side has me captivated. I can’t take my eyes off her as she continues to play.
The song goes on for what must be five or six minutes, with a building crescendo and pace, resolving and then rising again. Em’s torso sways with each strain and descent. She’s one with the instrument. I feel like I’m a voyeur, stealing a glance into something private, glimpsing her soul.
