By the third day, the weather had turned frigid, and Laura said we had a chance at some snow that night or the next day. It was Christmas Eve. I’d been up and around a few times, the pain in my feet subsiding and my bruises maturing into light yellow hues.
I sketched some more, this time a man’s face. I roughed in the first few harsh lines and kept going. More strokes, and lines, and shading, until a familiar, square jaw emerged, and then full lips, and the sharp line of a nose. His eyes were difficult. They could be so emotive at times, so impassive at others. In the end, his look was something warm. The way he’d looked at me after the lightning strike, or when he cradled me in his lap on the way back from the woods. He’d worn the look enough for me to picture it, to capture it in charcoal.
The day grew late, the sun setting through a bevy of high, billowing clouds. Music began drifting through the halls. I halted my drawing and listened. At first it was just the rumble of drums, the whine of a guitar, and the tinkling of piano keys—all of it a discordant mosh. Then, a song took shape, the drums setting the rhythm and the guitar playing the melody while the piano filled out the sound. Was there a party?
I set the drawing aside and swung my legs out of bed. The muscle soreness had thankfully diminished, but my feet were still tender. I snugged them into the fluffy slippers Laura had brought me and stood. I could stand the twinges of pain, so I slowly maneuvered around the room, slinging on a bath robe to cover my pajamas before creeping into the hallway.
The sound came from downstairs. The music room off the foyer. It took me a while, and the song seemed to be almost finished by the time I reached the bottom step, but I relished the feel of finally moving. By the time I turned the corner, the song was over and a new drum beat began. Lucius sat at the drums and counted off before Teddy began riffing on the guitar. Vinemont sat at the piano, his back straight, and his fingers at the ready.
I smiled. It was a genuine grin that I couldn’t contain. It grew even bigger as the piano joined in, Vinemont picking up and playing to Teddy’s notes. I eased into a high-backed chair and Vinemont looked up, his fingers still working the keys. He didn’t miss a note, and his answering smile made my chest warm. Shots were lined up across the top of the piano, three sets of five glasses, though one of each had already been drained.
Teddy’s nimble fingers ran back and forth on the frets and strings like he was in an eighties hairband. They played well together, following the squeals and improvisation of the guitar, but staying within the parameters of Lucius’ beat. We all laughed when Teddy went even more over the top, started a run toward me, hit his knees and slid up to my chair, still wailing on the guitar.
“Big finish!” He hopped to his feet from his knees and bopped his head along to the beat before letting his fingers fly so fast over so many notes that Vinemont threw his hands up and leaned back, grinning at his brother.
With the piano out, Lucius kept the beat going until Teddy ended on a screechingly high pitch that made me want to cover my ears. Then he tossed his pick at me. I was more surprised than anyone when I actually caught it.
I applauded and heard more clapping; Laura and Farns stood in the doorway at my back.
“Another,” I demanded.
“What would the lady like to hear?” Teddy swiped his hair off his forehead.
I glanced over my shoulder at Laura. “Requests?”
“Well, seeing how it’s Christmas Eve, can we do a carol or something Christmasy?”
“Sin? You feeling it this year?” Teddy asked.
Vinemont looked at me, then quickly back down at the piano. “No, not that one.”
Teddy grinned even bigger. “‘Last Christmas’ it is.”
“Shots!” Lucius leaned over to pluck one from the piano.
Vinemont and Teddy grabbed their respective glasses, clinked with each other, and then drained them.
Teddy’s face twisted up and he rubbed the back of his sleeve across his mouth. “Damn.” He walked back over to me. “Um, I’m going to need that pick back.”
I laughed and handed it to him. He shed the electric guitar and picked up an acoustic, slinging the strap over his shoulder.
He winked at Laura. “You’ll love it. It’s my fave.” He backed up. “All right, Lucius. Hit it.”
Lucius tapped the cymbal and then started a beat on the snare punctuated with the bass on the downbeats.
Vinemont smirked as he began playing lightly in the background. I knew the song. It was an eighties staple from some long-defunct boy band that played on the radio every year at the holidays.