She blinked and looked away. "Sorry. I was thinking about something. I'm fine. Go meet with your client. I'll take care of Amy."

"Thanks."

He touched her arm. It was nothing-a light brush of his fingers. But she felt the contact all the way down to her toes. It made her want to lean in to him and...And...

Then he was gone. Before she could even figure out what she wanted. A kiss? What would a kiss with him be like? He was probably the kind of guy who liked to be in charge, which was okay with her. It wasn't as if she had a ton of experience and someone needed to know what he or she was doing. Better him than her.

She heard running footsteps on the hardwood, turned and saw Amy racing toward her.

"Hi!" she said, then braced for impact as Amy threw herself into her arms.

"You're here," Amy said, looking up at her and smiling. "I'm glad."

"Me, too. Your dad left instructions."

Amy wrinkled her nose.

Claire laughed. "Hey, they're not bad. You can watch TV until you have to get ready for bed. Then we'll read a story together. I think that sounds like fun."

Amy signed, "Okay," then asked, "Do you want to see my room?"

"Sure."

The eight-year-old took her hand and led her through the house.

Claire had a first impression of large rooms filled with light. Hardwood floors stretched throughout the house. She saw a big dining room, a study that she would guess Wyatt used for working at home, a huge kitchen, a downstairs bath and a media room that had more equipment than she'd ever seen at a theater.

A wide curving staircase led to the second story. Amy's room was the first bedroom on the left-a bright, open space with a window seat, a bed covered with pillows and stuffed animals, a child-size desk and a big bookshelf.

The walls were pale lavender, the comforter a floral fabric of various shades of purple. A big dark purple rug covered most of the hardwood floor.

Claire turned in a slow circle. "Hmm. I wonder what your favorite color is."

Amy laughed, then took her hand and pulled her onto the window seat.

Claire was shown favorite dolls and stuffed bears, several board games and a dozen or so books that all looked well-read. Then Amy opened her nightstand drawer and pulled out a framed picture.

"My mom," she said, handing it to Claire.

Claire wasn't all that excited about seeing the former Mrs. Wyatt, but didn't know how to politely decline. So she took the picture and braced herself for someone extraordinary.

Shanna Knight was beautiful. A stunning blond with short, layered hair and a smile that could sell toothpaste. She had pretty features, a perfect mouth and a gleam of mischief in her eyes. No wonder Wyatt had fallen for her. But why had he let her go?

"She's very pretty," Claire said.

Amy took back the picture. "She's in Thailand."

Claire couldn't have heard that right. "Where?"

Amy finger spelled the word. It was Thailand.

"What is she doing there?"

Amy shrugged. "I don't know. She left when I was a baby. Daddy says it's not because I'm deaf, but maybe it is."

Amy both spoke and signed, so Claire wasn't sure she understood everything the girl said, but she caught most of it.

What was she supposed to say? That it was all right? It wasn't. She couldn't imagine someone simply abandoning her husband and newborn daughter, yet that is what had happened. Even if Shanna and Wyatt had come to hate each other, wouldn't the other woman still want to be closer to her child?

It was a sad situation. Families shouldn't be torn apart. She knew that from firsthand experience.

"Nicole said her mom died," Amy said. "Your mom, too?"

Claire nodded. "Nicole and I are twins."

Amy's eyes widened. She signed, "For real?"

"Uh-huh. Fraternal." Claire spelled the word slowly. "We don't look alike, but we were born on the same day."

"I want to be a twin," Amy said with a grin. Her smile faded. "Or have a brother or sister."

Claire wondered if Wyatt was seeing anyone. At the thought of another woman, she felt instantly edgy. "Your dad could get married again."

Amy frowned as if she didn't understand the word, then clasped her hands together in front of her. "Married?"

"Sure. People marry," Claire made the sign, "again."

Amy wrinkled her nose. "Daddy does not have girlfriends."

Wyatt didn't date? Why was that? Had he been so crushed by losing his wife? Claire didn't want that to be the reason. Not that there was any really great reason for a man to stay single for all these years. Of course it was possible he saw women that Amy didn't know about. He could be seeing a dozen right now.

Something else she didn't want to think about.

"You could date him," Amy said.

Claire opened her mouth, then closed it.

"Do you like Daddy?"

"He's, um, very nice."

Claire was grateful when that seemed to be the right answer. Amy put the picture of the beautiful Shanna back in her drawer, then took Claire's hand.

"Come on," she signed.

Claire followed her back downstairs, into a big living room with floor-to-ceiling windows. But what got her attention wasn't the view or the well-decorated space or the fact that this was obviously one of those rooms people had but never used except when special company came over. What had her heart thudding faster and faster and her chest tightening was the black upright piano in the corner.

Amy signed something that was probably a version of "play it" or "can you play it." Claire didn't respond. Instead she moved closer to the piano, staring at it with a combination of fear and longing.

She hadn't played in nearly four weeks. Not since that disastrous performance where she'd panicked and had been unable to breathe. Where the world had been reduced to her fear and the certain knowledge that whatever talent she had was lost forever.

She touched the smooth surface, then pulled back her hand. Even without sitting at the keys, she could imagine the music. The sound would fill the living room and spill out into the rest of the house. It would grow and bend and surround until it was inside of her, causing her blood to pump and her heart to beat.

She ached to hear the sound, to breathe in the music. She didn't need sheet music, she knew so much by heart.

There were symphonies inside of her. Movements and choral pieces, light opera, show tunes, concertos. Millions of notes. She could look at a page and know how it was going to sound. She could hear everything without even playing, but she missed the feel of the keys, the music that was able to flow through her.

Blessed and cursed, she thought, trembling as she placed her hand on the shiny black surface. This was her life and without it, she was nothing. At least that's what she'd always been taught. She was here to find out differently.

She thought of the dozen or so messages from her manager. Lisa was nothing if not persistent. But Claire had ignored every one of them. She didn't want to get sucked back into that world. Oh, but she missed the music.

Amy gave her a little shove toward the bench, then walked over and stood with her hands on top of the piano.

"Play," she said.

Claire took another step toward the bench. Immediately she found it difficult to breathe. Her chest tightened until she was sure she was going to have a heart attack. She would die right here, in Wyatt's living room, scarring his child for life. She couldn't do that. She should just walk away.

Instead she forced herself to take that last step, to sit on the bench, to open the cover and stare down at the keys.

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."