A Daughter's Story. Tara Quinn Taylor

      CHAPTER FIVE

      WITH HANDS USED to pulling in heavy lobster traps in rapid succession, Chris communed with the ivories. The music his playing sent out into the night was a byproduct—he felt melodies and harmonies and chords more than he heard them. He didn’t understand how it worked—the music and his inner self healing. He didn’t ask. He just presented himself to the keys and played until he knew he was done.

      Until he knew he could sleep.

      At least, that was how it had always worked before.

      So why wasn’t it working?

      When midnight passed and he was still driven to play, when the tunes he produced changed from popular ditties to intense renditions of classical masterpieces with a few of his own compositions mixed in, when his fingertips grew numb with pounding, he ordered a fourth drink to help the peace he was seeking find him more easily. To assist the piano in its work.

      “You’re here late tonight,” Cody said as he delivered the drink himself. Other than a waitress on the floor and the checker at the door, Cody was the only employee left for the night. The kitchen had been closed for a couple of hours.

      “So are you,” Chris said, tipping his glass to the friendly guy. “I’ll bet your wife has a bit to say about that.” About the long hours. The time away.

      “As long as I get home in time to crawl into bed with her, she doesn’t complain,” Cody said. “I’m home with her and the kids during the day and now that they’re in preschool we’ve got lots of time just the two of us. It’s nice.”

      Chris nodded, one hand on the keys, trying to imagine what it would be like to be home with a wife and kids even for an hour, and coming up blank.

      “Who’s the woman?” He’d noticed the woman in the tailored black suit and red silky-looking top over the past few hours and she was something he could converse about, though why he had a sudden urge to hang out with the bartender was a mystery.

      “Not sure,” Cody said. “I don’t know her and she hasn’t said much.”

      She’d had plenty of male admirers. Chris would guess just about every adult male in the place had given her the once-over. More than once.

      “Someone probably stood her up,” he said, taking another sip. The liquor was warm going down. Felt good. “Can’t imagine why, though. She’s a looker.” In a nontarty sort of way. Long legged, and even in the conservative black slacks and jacket her curves caught his attention.

      The woman didn’t need jewelry or makeup to call attention to herself. Hell, he’d bet she’d look good in an old robe and shower cap.

      But what a shame it would be to hide that head of hair. He couldn’t seem to push away the image of those long dark curls splayed across a rumpled white pillowcase. He sipped again, enjoying the mental image for another second.

      “She’s sure been looking at you, man,” Cody said, turning to eye the woman, who was holding her almost-empty wineglass by the stem with both hands.

      Chris had noticed. He’d made eye contact a time or two. Had nodded and received a nod in return.

      “She been talking to anybody?”

      “Nope.”

      “No one?”

      “Nope.”

      “Not even on a cell phone?”

      “Nope. No texting, either.”

      “An out-of-towner?”

      “Here on business? Knows no one? Most likely,” Cody said.

      She glanced their way. Held up her glass with a smile that was more shy than flirtatious.

      Chris tapped a chord. And taking one more sip of whiskey, he started to play again.

      * * *

      SHE WAS THE sixth-to-the-last patron in the bar. Two separate tables, a couple at each, were still occupied. And the leathery-skinned woman who still sat at the other end of the bar. The woman talked to pretty much anyone who sat near her, but so far she was alone.

      Maybe she wasn’t a working girl as she’d first assumed. Maybe she was the wife or girlfriend of the piano player? Used to sitting by herself all night while her man worked?

      Keeping watch over him?

      Like she should have kept watch over Rob?

      One o’clock in the morning and Emma still had no place to be. Or desire to go.

      She couldn’t drive anywhere. That decision had been made with her last glass of wine.

      One of the hotels on the block was going to be her accommodation. Didn’t matter which one. They were all nice. All clean. In a safe area. And, because it was fall and not summer, they’d be sure to have rooms available.

      Piano man glanced at her. Again. Emma should have looked away. Any other time she would have.

      His glance called to her. She heard him. Those eyes said he found her interesting. She told him his music moved her.

      He felt her pain. She was aware of his depths.

      They were two intense people meeting on a level that no one else could share.

      Or at least that’s how she translated their silent communications.

      She’d never been intense before. Never even gave herself a chance to see if she could be.

      She was different tonight. Allowing herself to just be. Watching, as if from afar, to see who might emerge. Maybe, just maybe, she was finding the person inside of her that she’d kept locked up tight since the day Claire went missing.

      And even if this woman was only allowed out of her cage for this one night, Emma was determined to give her life.

      So she sipped her wine. And she participated in nonverbal conversations.

      She’d go get her hotel room. As soon as piano man was done for the night. As long as he was going to play for her, she was going to stay and listen.

      * * *

      CODY WOULDN’T TELL him to leave. Don Carmine, Cody’s boss and owner of Citadel’s, would have his hide if the bartender in any way offended the provider of Citadel’s discounted lobster supply. One of the best deals Chris had ever made—his lobster in exchange for 24/7 use of the baby grand, accomodations across the street when he wanted them, and whatever he wanted to drink. Chris didn’t abuse those privileges.

      He didn’t usually stay late, either, but tonight he couldn’t bring himself to leave. Not while the long-legged woman still sat at the bar watching him.

      His mystery woman played him just right. She made no demands or requests. Nothing he’d have to reject. She was just there. And she was exquisite.

      Chris softened his touch on the keys, caressing them, telling the woman through his playing that she moved him.

      He found it curious that she didn’t seem to have much awareness of her effect on other people. He hadn’t seen her so much as make eye contact with a single one of the men who’d been buzzing around her that night.

      A woman alone keeping to herself wasn’t so unusual—what struck him was the way her shoulders pulled in slightly instead of squaring off, her air of hesitation, the fact that every time he caught her eye, she always glanced away first.

      A glass appeared on the cork-lined black tray sitting on top of the piano, within hands’ reach,