She was breathing hard, sucking in air that never seemed to fill her lungs. She shook so much, she couldn’t possibly play. Without wanting to, she remembered the looks of horror and disappointment as people had gathered around her. They’d issued a statement saying she’d collapsed from overwork. Not that she had been afraid. Not that she might be crazy.

Because she knew the panic was all in her head. That she was doing it to herself. If she couldn’t fix that, wasn’t she, by definition, insane?

“Play,” Amy said again.

Claire nodded slowly. Ignoring the fear and the way her chest seemed to be collapsing on itself, ignoring the trembling and the knowledge that she had lost this forever, she put her fingers on the keys.

Something simple, she told herself. Something for a child.

She began to play one of Bach’s lullabies. The melody flowed from her with an ease that astonished her. She remembered every note and never stumbled. Music filled the room, surrounding them. Amy stood, her eyes closed, her hands pressing hard on the piano.

Tears burned in Claire’s eyes. She’d missed this, she thought sadly. Had missed playing. Even when she hated it more than anything, the piano was a part of who she was.

She played and played, losing herself in the sound, safe with her audience of one—a child who could only feel the music and who couldn’t hear a single note.

CHAPTER EIGHT

CLAIRE HOVERED by the oven, practically dancing with impatience as the timer counted down the last few seconds. When it dinged, she opened the oven and pulled out the roasting pan.

At first glance, everything looked all right. The chicken was golden-brown without being burned. The rosemary she’d put in the cavity smelled great.She set the pan on the hot pads she’d already put in place, then pushed the meat thermometer into the breast. It read “done for poultry.” Next she used a knife to break the skin by the leg and stared at the juices pouring out. They were clear. At least they looked clear to her, but as this was her first chicken, she couldn’t be sure.

The last, and most important test involved actually cutting into the chicken. Claire braced herself for disappointment, then peeled back the skin and sliced into the breast.

It was cooked, but still juicy. She took a bite. Perfect!

“I did it,” she hummed to herself. “I did it. Yay me.”

Her first chicken ever. She’d managed to buy it and clean it and bake it and have it turn out. Amazing.

She opened the second oven and pulled out a casserole dish of scalloped potatoes. She wasn’t going to take as much credit for those because they’d come from a box. Still, they looked good. Last, she checked on the steaming green beans.

When everything was ready, she got out a plate for Nicole. But before she could fill it, she heard a noise in the hallway. She looked up and saw her sister slowly walking into the kitchen.

“I got tired of living in one room,” Nicole said as she pressed one hand to her midsection and made her way to the table. “I’m going to eat down here, if that’s all right.”

“Of course it is. How were the stairs?”

“Challenging. I’ll be very slow going back up. Dinner smells good.”

Claire was both proud and nervous. “I baked a chicken.”

“Impressive.”

Claire looked at her, not sure if the comment was really a compliment or something else. Nicole gave her a brief smile.

“I mean it. You said you didn’t know how to cook. Now you’re making dinner every night. You didn’t have to do that. So thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

She hurried to set the table, then put the food out. Nicole sat in one of the chairs and continued to press her hand against her stomach.

“Do you want a painkiller?” Claire asked.

“No, I’m cutting back. I’ll be fine. It’ll get better in a minute.”

Claire served both of them, then took her seat.

She’d gotten used to taking Nicole her dinner, sometimes eating with her, sometimes not. But this was different—being in the kitchen like regular people. She wasn’t sure what to say.

“I brought home a couple of slices of chocolate cake,” she said. “I’m not ready to try baking.”

“One of the advantages of owning a bakery,” Nicole told her. “You never have to worry about that kind of thing.”

Claire nodded and cut into her chicken. Silence stretched between them. She wished they had wine with the dinner. Getting buzzed might help with the tension she felt. Not that she was a big drinker. One glass and she was happy—two and she was on the road to loopy. She struggled frantically to find a topic of conversation.

“It’s been nice being in one place,” she said. “I really like Seattle. Do you enjoy living here?”

Nicole stared at her for a second. “It’s my home. I’ve never lived anywhere else. I don’t have much to compare it to.”

“Oh. Right. I guess New York is my home, although I don’t spend a lot of time there. I have an apartment. It was difficult to find one that would accommodate a piano and still leave room to walk around. Moving day was a nightmare. The piano barely fit in the service elevator, so that took hours. I don’t think I can ever move. It would be too much trauma.”

Nicole speared a couple of green beans. “I was in New York a few years ago. I went with Drew. We saw a couple of plays and went shopping. I don’t know if I would want to live in a city that big.”

Claire kept chewing because it would be rude to spit out the chicken, but the flavor was gone and when she finally swallowed, she was afraid it was going to get stuck in her throat and choke her.

Nicole had come to New York and never called? Claire supposed she shouldn’t be surprised, but she was. Surprised and hurt and feeling more alone than ever.

“Was, um, this before or after you got married?”

“Before. Sort of a prewedding trip.”

“Sounds nice.”

“It was before I figured out what a jerk he was, so we had a good time. All men are idiots.”

Claire nodded in sympathy, when in truth she didn’t have a whole lot of experience with men. Certainly not enough to make that judgment. Wyatt didn’t seem like an idiot. Besides, she was still caught up in the fact that her sister had come to New York and not contacted her. Of course, Nicole hadn’t invited her to the wedding, either.

“A lot of the men on tour sleep around,” Claire said. “It’s kind of their thing. They find a new woman in every city. I was lucky—I grew up on tour, so I watched it all while I was too young for them to be interested in me. When I was older, I’d already learned my lesson. Of course a lot of the women sleep around, too. There’s plenty of sex in orchestras.”

Not for her, she thought glumly. Sex was something she seemed to avoid, or it avoided her. She’d never quite figured out which.

“How nice for you,” Nicole murmured.

“Most people think orchestral musicians are nerdy or boring, but that’s not true. They love to party.”

“Was that how it was for you?” Nicole asked. “Sleep all day, party all night?”

“No. I had practice and lessons and meetings and interviews. I never got into the party circuit. I did get to go to some celebrity events, though. I met George Clooney a couple of times. He was nice. And Richard Gere, who really plays piano. We played together one night.”

“How thrilling,” Nicole said, glaring at her. “This may come as a surprise, but I don’t need you reminding me how much more exciting your life is than mine. I’m totally clear on that.”

“What? That’s not what I meant.”

“Isn’t it? You certainly take every opportunity to talk about how wonderful things are with you. A New York apartment big enough for a piano. Hanging out with George Clooney and Richard Gere. Fabulous you.”

Claire didn’t know what to say. She’d only been trying to fill awkward conversation space. “You seem to really enjoy thinking the worst about me,” she said at last. “I was trying to figure out something for us to talk about. Something we wouldn’t fight about. I guess I picked wrong.”

“You did. Do you think this is working? You pretending to be a real person? It’s not.”

Claire put down her fork. “I am a real person.”

“You can’t even do laundry.”

“Is that the definition of a real person?”

She didn’t bother pointing out that, thanks to Amy and the instruction book, she could now wash clothes, just like everyone else.

This was so unfair, she thought. She felt trapped. It wasn’t as if she could lash out at her sister. Well, she could, but pointing out that Nicole couldn’t bring an entire concert hall to its feet in screaming applause wasn’t going to draw them closer.

“We live different lives,” she said instead. “That doesn’t have to be a bad thing.”

“So speaks the woman with the perfect life.”

Claire thought of all the time she’d spent alone. All the nights she went to bed so lonely, she ached. “It wasn’t perfect.”

“Oh, poor little rich girl. Was the fame too much for you?” Nicole dropped her fork onto her plate. “At least you weren’t stuck here, with a baby sister to raise and parents who only wanted to talk about their famous daughter. I hated you for taking Mom away, but I hated her more, because she wanted to go.”

Nicole paused and swallowed, before continuing. “When Grandma came home, saying it was too much work and she couldn’t travel with you anymore, Mom jumped at the chance to take her place. She wanted to go and see all those other cities. She wanted to be with you.”

Claire didn’t know what to say. She’d been grateful to have her mother with her. A piece of home was always welcome. She’d never thought about the family left behind.

“I didn’t know.”

“You didn’t bother to know. While you were off running around with other rich, famous people, I was stuck here. I started looking after Jesse the day she was born. When Mom left, she became my primary responsibility. I was twelve. Grandma was in a nursing home and Dad never knew what to do with us kids. As I got older, I went to work in the bakery, as well. I never had time to do the stuff I wanted to because there was always Jesse to worry about, or my shift at the bakery. I was an adult by the time I was fourteen. Everything I wanted was stolen from me by you.”

Claire had taken more than enough. She pushed back the chair and stood. “Poor Nicole, stuck home with her family. While you were going to school and making friends, I was alone. Alone with a tutor, alone in a practice room, alone in a hotel room. I never met anyone my age. I lived out of suitcases. I never saw the cities we visited. I was either studying or practicing or getting ready for a concert or sleeping. That was my life.”

“At least you had Mom with you. Until you killed her.”

“Stop saying that,” Claire yelled. “I lost her, too, you know. She was my only link to my family. I was trapped in the car with her and I couldn’t do anything while she died. Do you know what that’s like? You had Dad and Jesse and I had no one. She died and the hospital sent me back to the hotel. Do you know what my manager said? That I had to play anyway, because the event was sold out and people would be disappointed. What did I know? I played. The night my mother died, I played onstage because there wasn’t anyone around to say it was okay to grieve.”

She shoved in the chair. “Apparently our father had a long talk with my manager and together they decided I was mature enough to continue on my own, without a chaperone or guardian. That’s right. I was sixteen and I’d just lost my mother and they cut me loose. My job was to follow the rules and I did because the rules were all I had. I don’t expect you to get any of this. God forbid you should see anyone’s side but your own. Being famous which, by the way, I’m not, is a lot less interesting than you think. I’m going to guess being a professional victim also gets really tiring, as well.”

With that, she turned and walked out of the kitchen. She was pleased that she made it all the way to her bedroom before giving in to tears and collapsing on the floor in a puddle of pain and grief. She pulled her knees to her chest, trying to comfort herself, as she always did. Coming home hadn’t mattered at all. She was still very much alone.

Her pity party continued for about ten minutes. Then she stood and went into the bathroom to wash her face.

“You knew this wouldn’t be easy,” she told her reflection. “Are you just going to give up?”

She reminded herself she’d never been a quitter, and that there were a lot worse things in life than fighting with her sister. So what if she’d had the fantasy of returning to Seattle and finding her family excited to welcome her back? It was going to take a little more work—that was all. She was good at working hard.

She crossed to the dresser where she’d unpacked her clothes and opened the top drawer. Under her bras and panties was a slim journal. She wasn’t the diary type, but she did keep lists of goals and read them every day. That helped her stay focused. Her current list included—connect with family, start dating, have sex, fall in love, be normal.

The last one was going to be the hardest. Or maybe they all were. Have sex? Who was she kidding? She’d managed to go twenty-eight years without finding a single man interested in seeing her na**d.

She sank onto the bed. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to have sex. She did. She’d had boyfriends, but time and distance had always been a problem. She’d never been anywhere long enough to form a really close bond. She knew better than to hook up with any of the guys in the orchestra. They were either married, total dogs or gay. She’d wanted her first time to be with someone special. The thing was, if she’d known how long it was going to take to find that certain guy, she might have been a whole lot less picky.