"Yeah, Annie. It'd be nice," Amy says.

"But I don't have anything prepared."

"Do you know Greensleeves?" asks Wendy. "I've always liked that song, and since it's the holidays and alla"

"Too somber," Max says. "Play something Oscar would play."

"I don'ta""

"Come on. If you've been playing in a jazz band, you have to know a ton of standards."

"Of course I do."

"Great. So play one." Max says, as if he had decided for her.

"I really didn't plan on playing anything. And I feel like whenever I play in a setting like this it always ends up coming off as needy, like I'm performing for validation or something, like I'm intentionally pushing myself into the center of attention."

"No one thinks you're needy," Max says. "Besides, I asked you to play. It's not as if you just decided to start playing on your own."

"But you will, no doubt, be the center of attention," Michael says.

Amy elbows him again.

"See," Annie says. "And, besides, I've had a few too many gla.s.ses of wine."

"I've seen you play at The Wayfarer after a lot more than some wine," Holly says.

"Okay. Since you're all conspiring against me, I'll play," she says and rises from the table. She moves toward the piano, tries to avoid looking at Max, but does glance over for a second, and sees a small smile etched on his face. She hadn't really seen him smile tonight, and now, suddenly, she feels every ounce of that wine swishing in her knees.

Eric takes out his smartphone and pauses the music on the home stereo system.

"How'd you do that?" Max asks.

"What?"

"Stop the music."

"I have an app on my phone that controls the music on the computer."

"But I thought you said it was an LP."

"Yeah, but I transferred all of my LP's to the computer long ago. How do you think we've been listening to so many different artists tonight. I can't put LP's on shuffle."

"Vinyl as MP3's? What would Dad say?"

"I did the same thing for him. It's called moving forward, Max. You should look into it."

"Are you guys done?" Annie asks, standing by the piano, a hand on her hip.

"Yeah, sorry," Eric says.

The piano is behind Max, on the wall beside the entryway to the hall. Annie slides the bench out, careful not to b.u.mp Max or his chair. She can feel every set of eyes on her as she sits to play. She stretches her fingers out over the keys, takes a second to caress the coolness of the keys, and takes a slow breath.

She didn't really have to think too hard about what she would play. She's had the same song going through her head since Eric told her that Max was coming. And, as she starts to play the notes, the song feels remarkably fluid flowing from her fingers. So, she just closes her eyes and let's the wave roll over her.

Both Eric and Max immediately recognize the song as "You Turned the Tables On Me." It's one of the tracks from Peterson's great Pastel Moods, and one of their dad's personal favorites. It's one of the songs that their dad always maintained was never played better than Peterson played it on that record.

And before today Max would have agreed. But, tonight, listening to Annie play, watching her body move to the music, the soft swaying of her shoulders, there's something sultry breathing beneath the notes. Now, he feels sure he's never heard it played better, or at least no one's ever played it with as much s.e.x beneath the song.

Eric, surprisingly, who listens to her play all the time, can't remember ever hearing her play this one, and there is something in her playing that makes him lean into the table. He's not sure if it's because he's reacting to the earnestness of her playing, or if there is something fearful rising up in hima"a reaction to the obvious pa.s.sion in her playing. There's something soft about her performance, and yet something frantic as well. He can't help but think she's trying to communicate something, even if unconsciously. And he can feel it.

You turned the tables on me.

And now I've fallen for you.

Though Annie is not singing the lyrics, Eric and Max both know the words. And Eric tries not to read too much into it.

Max also tries not to read anything into it, but he can't help but hear what he wants to hear.

In this song, all those emotional undercurrents are there if you want to hear them. All those hopes, regrets, and desires are moving through the air. Every note feels charged with meaning. And, though the tension has been high all eveninga"something writhing under the surface, seethinga"the music has made it more present. The song has exposed the nerve, and for those three or four minutes that she plays, Annie, Eric, and Max might as well have been the only ones in the room. And meanings, and hurt feelings, and emotions too long suppressed were rising up in every direction.

Annie, for her part, felt every note intensely. She felt as if she were connected to that piano, as if the song were playing her, and she just wanted to crawl inside the comfort it gave her. For the first time all evening, she felt in control, as if she were finally able to have the upper hand, and she used it.

And as she came to the end, she realized that she had been humming along with the song, like Gould's humming, and she knew she had touched something pure in the music. It had been too long since she'd felt that way. And, as she moved her fingers, ever so reluctantly, off the keys, she could feel Max's eyes caressing her, like fingers near her shoulder, and when she turned and everyone at the table softly clapped, she saw him looking, felt the soft touch of those eyes, and an old loveliness pa.s.sed between them.

The music had opened a door between them, and she didn't know if it could be closed again. Or even if she wanted it to be closed.

"That was great, Annie," Eric says. "I don't remember ever hearing you play that before."

"I'm full of surprises," she says.

"I'll bet you are," Max says, but only loud enough for Annie to understand.

"What was that?" Eric asks.

"I said it was very nice," Max says.

"Yes. Very good, Annie," Amy says.

"Very impressive," Tim says.

"Thank you," Annie says, shyly smiling. "Now, anybody want some coffee?" she asks, standing up from the piano, trying to turn the attention away from herself. But as she bends to push the bench under the piano, she catches a glimpse of pure whiteness in the s.p.a.ce between the curtain and the dining room window.

Snow.

III. Storms.

"Eric, didn't you say the storm was going to miss us?" Annie asks, moving to the window.

"Yeah, it was supposed to miss us to the north. Why?" He asks, standing from the table.

"It didn't," Annie says, pulling the cord to open the curtains over the dining room's picture window.

"Wow," Tim says.

"Oh my," Amy says.

"Well, that's definitely the storm they've been talking about," Wendy says.

The snow is coming down so hard that visibility outside is low to nonexistent. It's hard for Annie to see the street across their front yard, which is only about thirty feet away. The snow flakes are clinging together in large drops and are ever flowing. Great clumps of the stuff fall like a lace curtain over the street lamp by their driveway. It couldn't have been snowing any longer than an hour, but the cars in the driveway are already covered.

"Who said it was going to miss us?" Michael asks.

"Every weather report I saw said it would miss, and I checked the radar at Mom and Dad's just a couple hours ago. The front was supposed to pa.s.s right by us to the northeast."

"That's what I heard too," said Wendy.

"It's supposed to be a bad storm too," Tim says. "I heard over six inches, and it's going to go well into the night. So, it won't be stopping any time soon."

Amy looks at Wendy. Wendy nods.

"Annie, we hate to eat and run, but that looks bad," Amy says.

"No, I understand," Annie says, but doesn't move. She's still staring out into the snow.

"Your coats are in the bedroom," Eric says. Let mea"

"I'll get them," Annie says, and turns around, but Max is standing right behind her. She almost b.u.mped into him.

"No, it's alright," Eric says. "I'll go."

"I wonder if this means my flight will be cancelled," Max says, hardly acknowledging he and Annie's sudden closeness.

"When's your flight?" Annie asks, turning again toward the window, trying to get her bearings.

"Tomorrow morning."

"Probably depends on when it stops."

"I'm going to have to get back too," Tim says, standing up from the table.

Holly stands.

Michael stands with her.

"I'll get our coats," Holly says.

"You're leaving?" Michael asks. "Buta"

"Michael, look at it out there. You think it's going to get better?" Holly asks and turns and leaves the dining room without waiting for Michael to say anything.

Tim looks at Michael, sees the despair written on his face.

"Holly," Tim says, calling after her, and moves to the hall.

Holly stops at the end of the hallway, and turns toward Tim.

"You don't have to come with me. You could stay."

"Don't be silly, Tim. How would I get home?"

"Well, Michael seems to wanta""

"No, we should get back into town as soon as possible," she says, and turns toward Eric and Annie's bedroom, running into Eric as she gets to the door.

"Oh, you need your coats too?" Eric asks.

"Yeah, if you don't mind."

"Let me justa," Eric says, and grabs their coats off the bed. "You know, Holly, you're welcome to stay. The guest rooma""

"No, I need to get home," she says and grabs her coat from Eric. She moves down the hall toward Tim. Eric follows behind her, and pa.s.ses out everyone's coat.

"Michael, did you want your coat?" Eric asks.

"No, not yet," Michael says. He's standing in the doorway of the kitchen, staring at Holly, who is desperately trying not to acknowledge him. She's afraid that if she looks at him, sees the want in his eyes, she'll stay. And, if she stays, she knows there will be no turning back, and she's not entirely sure she's ready to not turn back.

"You're parked behind us," Wendy says to Tim. Her and Amy are waiting by the front door.

"Oh, right. Sorry," Tim says, and starts to move toward the front door. He looks back at Holly, but she freezes for a second, staring off into the living room, out the bay window, out into the swirl of snow.

Michael moves toward her, touches her arm, and guides her into the living room.

"Don't go," Michael says. "Stay with me."

"No. I have to go."

"No, you don't."

"Michael, please."

"I don't want to be without you tonight."

"How would I get home?"