Meg clapped her hands together to ward off the chill as they walked, and Sam put his arm around her. “Are you cold? Shall I make a fire?”
Just his arm around her had warmed her up a bit, but she smiled up at him. “Thank you, that would be nice. Are you chilly, Mrs. Allen?”
She pulled her wrap around her, up around her ears. “It’s not as cold as New York, but it is a bit chilly. A fire would be nice, Sam.”
Meg made tea when they got home and brought it into the parlor. Handing Mrs. Allen a mug, she said, “Those are the kinds of shows you frequented before?”
Sam and his mother exchanged a glance, and she thought she saw Sam shake his head slightly as his mother raised her eyebrows at him, her head cocked to one side.
“Sometimes,” Mrs. Allen said, turning to Meg. “Sam, one song, maybe, before bed? I would love that.”
Meg nodded at Sam, hoping that he would play. She still hadn’t forgotten how she’d felt when she’d heard him for the first time the night before. She felt as though she could listen to him forever and never tire of it.
Sam slowly uncovered the piano and gently placed the sheet on the settee. He pulled the bench back and opened the wooden cover, exposing the ivory keys. Stretching his arms a bit, he asked, “What would you like to hear, Mother?”
“We should ask Meg, don’t you think? What is your favorite song that Sam plays?”
“Oh, I’ve only heard one—I mean, one that is my favorite.” She cringed—she’d done it again.
“I know this is one of your favorites, Meg,” Sam said with a smile, and he played the most lively tune that Meg believed she’d ever heard, rivaling those they’d just listened to in the vaudeville show.
She found herself tapping her toe in time, and when he finished, she couldn’t help but clap. Mrs. Allen clapped, too, and said, “Isn’t that one of the songs you used to play at the theater?”
“Yes, it is. I don’t play much anymore, but those are still the songs I like to play best. The one I played last night was more for Father, his memory.” He turned back to the piano, and started into another lilting, classical piece, similar to the one he’d played the night before. Meg felt herself sink into the melancholy notes, and noticed that by the end, Mrs. Allen was dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.
“Thank you for that, Sam. That was one of your father’s favorites. I haven’t heard it since—”
“I know, Mother. Neither have I.”
Mrs. Allen sighed and stood, setting her teacup on the tray. “Would you two mind greatly if I retired? I’m suddenly feeling quite sleepy.”
Meg stood and picked up the tray. “No, not at all, Mrs. Allen. It’s been a long day. And thank you for the lovely evening.”
Mrs. Allen patted Meg’s hand and smiled. “It was a lovely day, dear. Thank you for sharing your life with me.”
“Shall I escort you?” Sam lit a lantern to take upstairs, but his mother held out her hand for it.
“I can manage. You two could probably use some time alone. Having a houseguest can be a challenge. I’ll see you in the morning, and Meg, I promise I won’t try to cook.” She smiled at Meg as she turned and headed up the stairs.
Meg took the tray into the kitchen and returned to the parlor, ready to say good night to Sam and retire herself, but she stopped as she entered and he sat on the piano bench, staring at the keys.
“What is it, Sam?” she asked, sitting on the settee. She hoped he’d open up to her, tell her why he had left New York and his wonderful mother. She couldn’t even imagine a reason, and her curiosity grew by the hour.
Sam sighed and spun around on the bench, his elbows falling forward onto his knees.
“I believe it’s likely time that I tell you some things. If you’re interested.”
“Indeed, I am. I’ve been wondering when you might tell me, as it seems there’s a large portion of your life that you missed in outlining your history.”
He looked up at her and smiled. “You don’t miss a thing, do you?”
“Something of that magnitude is hard to miss, don’t you think?”
“I suppose so.”
He stood and moved to the chair near the fire. Meg’s heart tugged, sorry that he hadn’t chosen to sit by her.
Sam rubbed his eyes, his legs crossed. “I spent my youth almost entirely playing the piano. It was my love, my passion, my fun. I played almost to the exclusion of everything else. My parents had to practically drag me to school.”
“Oh, goodness. We have that in common. I wasn’t much interested in school, either. I’d rather read on my own or be out on the ranch.”