Nora Roberts - Unfinished Business - the classic story from the queen of romance that you won’t be able to put down

“Maybe someday,” Vanessa said, because it was easier. She sat down as her mother served the colorful salad. “What did you do with the piano?”

“I sold it.” Loretta reached for the pitcher of tea. “Years ago. It seemed foolish to keep it when there was no one to play it. And I’d always hated it.” She caught herself again, set the pitcher down. “I’m sorry.”

“No need. I understand.”

“No, I don’t think you do.” Loretta gave her a long, searching look. “I don’t think you can.”

Vanessa wasn’t ready to dig too deep. She picked up her fork and said nothing.

“I hope the spinet is all right. I don’t know very much about instruments.”

“It’s a beautiful instrument.”

“The man who sold it to me told me it was top-of-the-line. I know you need to practice, so I thought… In any case, if it doesn’t suit, you’ve only to—”

“It’s fine.” They ate in silence until Vanessa fell back on manners. “The town looks very much the same,” she began, in a light, polite voice. “Does Mrs. Gaynor still live on the corner?”

“Oh yes.” Relieved, Loretta began to chatter. “She’s nearly eighty now, and still walks every day, rain or shine, to the post office to get her mail. The Breckenridges moved away, oh, about five years ago. Went south. A nice family bought their house. Three children. The youngest just started school this year. He’s a pistol. And the Hawbaker boy, Rick, you remember? You used to baby-sit for him.”

“I remember being paid a dollar an hour to be driven crazy by a little monster with buckteeth and a slingshot.”

“That’s the one.” Loretta laughed. It was a sound, Vanessa realized, that she’d remembered all through the years. “He’s in college now, on a scholarship.”

“Hard to believe.”

“He came to see me when he was home last Christmas. Asked about you.” She fumbled again, cleared her throat. “Joanie’s still here.”

“Joanie Tucker?”

“It’s Joanie Knight now,” Loretta told her. “She married young Jack Knight three years ago. They have a beautiful baby.”

“Joanie,” Vanessa murmured. Joanie Tucker, who had been her best friend since her earliest memory, her confidante, wailing wall and partner in crime. “She has a child.”

“A little girl. Lara. They have a farm outside of town. I know she’d want to see you.”

“Yes.” For the first time all day, Vanessa felt something click. “Yes, I want to see her. Her parents, are they well?”

“Emily died almost eight years ago.”

“Oh.” Vanessa reached out instinctively to touch her mother’s hand. As Joanie had been her closest friend, so had Emily Tucker been her mother’s. “I’m so sorry.”

Loretta looked down at their joined hands, and her eyes filled. “I still miss her.”

“She was the kindest woman I’ve ever known. I wish I had—” But it was too late for regrets. “Dr. Tucker, is he all right?”

“Ham is fine.” Loretta blinked back tears, and tried not to be hurt when Vanessa removed her hand. “He grieved hard, but his family and his work got him through. He’ll be so pleased to see you, Van.”

No one had called Vanessa by her nickname in more years than she could count. Hearing it now touched her.

“Does he still have his office in his house?”

“Of course. You’re not eating. Would you like something else?”

“No, this is fine.” Dutifully she ate a forkful of salad.

“Don’t you want to know about Brady?”

“No.” Vanessa took another bite. “Not particularly.”

There was something of the daughter she remembered in that look. The slight pout, the faint line between the brows. It warmed Loretta’s heart, as the polite stranger had not. “Brady Tucker followed in his father’s footsteps.”

Vanessa almost choked. “He’s a doctor?”

“That’s right. Had himself a fine, important position with some hospital in New York. Chief resident, I think Ham told me.”

“I always thought Brady would end up pitching for the Orioles or going to jail.”

Loretta laughed again, warmly. “So did most of us. But he turned into quite a respectable young man. Of course, he was always too handsome for his own good.”

“Or anyone else’s,” Vanessa muttered, and her mother smiled again.

“It’s always hard for a woman to resist the tall, dark and handsome kind, especially if he’s a rogue, as well.”

“I think hood was the word.”

“He never did anything really bad,” Loretta pointed out. “Not that he didn’t give Emily and Ham a few headaches. Well, a lot of headaches.” She laughed. “But the boy always looked out for his sister. I liked him for that. And he was taken with you.”

Vanessa sniffed. “Brady Tucker was taken with anything in skirts.”

“He was young.” They had all been young once, Loretta thought, looking at the lovely, composed stranger who was her daughter. “Emily told me he mooned around the house for weeks after you…after you and your father went to Europe.”

“It was a long time ago.” Vanessa rose, dismissing the subject.

“I’ll get the dishes.” Loretta began stacking them quickly. “It’s your first day back. I thought maybe you’d like to try out the piano. I’d like to hear you play in this house again.”

“All right.” She turned toward the door.

“Van?”

“Yes?”

Would she ever call her “Mom” again? “I want you to know how proud I am of all you’ve accomplished.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.” Loretta studied her daughter, wishing she had the courage to open her arms for an embrace. “I just wish you looked happier.”

“I’m happy enough.”

“Would you tell me if you weren’t?”

“I don’t know. We don’t really know each other anymore.”

At least that was honest, Loretta thought. Painful, but honest. “I hope you’ll stay until we do.”

“I’m here because I need answers. But I’m not ready to ask the questions yet.”

“Give it time, Van. Give yourself time. And believe me when I say all I ever wanted was what was best for you.”

“My father always said the same thing,” she said quietly. “Funny, isn’t it, that now that I’m a grown woman I have no idea what that is.”

She walked down the hall to the music room. There was a gnawing, aching pain just under her breastbone. Out of habit, she popped a pill out of the roll in her skirt pocket before she sat at the piano.

She started with Beethoven’s “Moonlight” sonata, playing from memory and from the heart, letting the music soothe her. She could remember playing this piece, and countless others, in this same room. Hour after hour, day after day. For the love of it, yes, but often—too often—because it was expected, even demanded.

Her feelings for music had always been mixed. There was her strong, passionate love for it, the driving need to create it with the skill she’d been given. But there had always also been the equally desperate need to please her father, to reach that point of perfection he had expected. That unattainable point, she thought now.

He had never understood that music was a love for her, not a vocation. It had been a comfort, a means of expression, but never an ambition. On the few occasions she had tried to explain it, he had become so enraged or impatient that she had silenced herself. She, who was known for her passion and temper, had been a cringing child around one man. In all her life, she had never been able to defy him.

She switched to Bach, closed her eyes and let herself drift. For more than an hour she played, lost in the beauty, the gentleness and the genius, of the compositions. This was what her father had never understood. That she could play for her own pleasure and be content, and that she had hated, always hated, sitting on a stage ringed by a spotlight and playing for thousands.