The piano came very easily to me for some reason. Unlike most kids, who you can’t get near the piano to practice, I practiced like a fiend. I just liked playing. I had a connection with the music. It was, and still is, a very emotional experience—in more than just an aural way. The way I explain it to people who don’t play music is it’s like a daydream, when you get lost in thought and allow your mind to drift and experience the entire world as womblike.

Even the feel of the ivory keys is distinctive. They become so familiar that the gentle touch of my fingertips against the keys feels like old friends having a conversation. Then there’s the rejuvenating sensation that occurs when you’ve been playing for awhile and the piano keys actually start to warm and the music flows from your fingers like another force has taken over and you’re no longer in control.

It’s all so beautiful.

Once I was good enough, I came to the realization that I was in control of the sound. So the more I played, the better the music sounded.

That was then, this is now, and the music since Ben died hasn’t been the same. Doesn’t sound the same, doesn’t feel the same. Probably just another in a long list of excuses though—like this gig. It bites, but it’s my own fault. Max is a friend, and I’ve got nothing else to do.

14

“Mr. Seligman and the illusive piano man, Mr. Sam Greene.” Kate seemed much more chipper than she had in our two previous encounters. Possibly the white wine in her left hand had something to do with it.

Kate bent forward, exposing more cleavage than I was prepared to behold at that moment, and kissed Max on the cheek before extending her hand toward me. I took her hand and pulled her forward to whisper in her ear. She leaned into me so closely that I got goose bumps as wisps of her long auburn hair rubbed against my cheek. I breathed in deeply and the sweet redolence of fresh springtime blossoms filled my lungs.

“Let’s agree not to talk about Ben Webster tonight,” I whispered.