Roz looked down at Greg's hand in both of hers. "I heard the car," she said. "You—you left."

"I came home. You were crying." He made it sound like an accusation, but his fingers tightened on hers gently.

"I thought . . ." She hesitated. "It doesn't matter."

Greg took a deep breath. "Tell me."

"You don't really want me to," she said. He made a noise somewhere between a groan and a sigh.

"Just do it. I'm listening. That might not be true five seconds from now."

Roz nodded. "Okay. That's fair." She stared at their linked hands. "When . . . when I was a kid, people were always . . . disappearing. I never knew who would be there in the morning when I woke up. There was usually a big loud fight first, a lot of yelling. And then either Mom or her current man would be gone. Sometimes . . ." She felt a distant echo of old fear. "Sometimes it was both."

"You think I'd do that?" The pain in Greg's voice hurt her. "You believe I'd just go?"

"I wouldn't blame you if you did," she said, unable to be anything but honest. "I know I'm being stupid-"

"Stop it. If I ever decide to leave, I'll tell you first. I'm not one of your idiot mother's sleazy one-night stands, I'm your sleazy husband." That startled a shaky laugh out of her. "Hah. See, I know what you're thinking."

"You're not sleazy," Roz said, and couldn't help but smile a bit. "Cheesy at times, yeah. But I kinda like that."

They sat in silence for a few moments. At last Greg spoke. "What about you? Would you just-" He fell silent.

"I wouldn't just disappear. I'd come to you, talk, try to work things out. Even if we couldn't, I'd still stay if you'd let me." Roz gave his hand a squeeze. "It hasn't gotten to that point though, and it won't if I have anything to say about it."

"You have a lot of say." His grip tightened. "Everyone I've ever . . . ever lived with has walked, sooner or later. You wouldn't want to be just another woman in a long line, would you?"

Roz swallowed on a lump in her throat. The hidden anguish in his words wounded her deeply. "No," she said. "No, I wouldn't. And I won't be."

"Good." He didn't look at her, but she felt him give a little shudder.

"Amante," she said softly, "we won't break up, no matter what happens. We'll work through this together. I don't want to be anywhere but here, with you. Even when things are tough, I love you." He nodded, though he wouldn't look at her. They sat there, at peace for the moment. "Would you do something for me?" she asked when the silence lengthened. "Would you play? Anything is fine. I just . . . I'd like that."

"It won't solve the problem," Greg said. Still, he got to his feet and brought her with him. Together they went over to the piano, but when she would have moved away to sit in the easy chair he patted the bench. It was a signal honor, she knew that now. She claimed the spot next to him, watched as he opened the cover and stroked the keys, a gesture he never failed to make, then began to play. It took him a little time but soon enough he was immersed in the music, head bowed over the keyboard, eyes closed. She watched those long, clever fingers find the notes without hesitation, their touch respectful, took in the peace and reverence in his expression; while she knew she held a place in his heart, this was his first great and abiding love. She didn't mind because he was willing to share it, in fact he now often invited her to sit at his side when he played. She suspected he hadn't done that with many other people, perhaps not at all until she came along.

So she let herself fall under the spell the music created. It was the piece he'd written for her: sweet, pensive, simple and yet complex, he'd said it was how he saw her, an admission that still held the power to send her into speechless astonishment. She figured if anything she was the musical equivalent of 'Chopsticks', yet he made her sound like she was someone worth knowing. And he always played with effortless ease, his restless, brilliant mind present in all the turns of phrase and progression of chords. Most important however was the love that shone from every note. She took the knowledge to her heart, to ponder and hold close over the undoubtedly difficult days to come. Whatever happened, they at least had this between them, a bond neither wanted to break.

At last the piece ended. Greg let his hands rest on the keys for a moment, then withdrew. "Does it have a name?" Roz asked.

"Yes," he said finally. There was a reticence in his manner that told her how much the title meant to him, if he'd keep it secret even from her. She felt her heart swell. It was rare for him to show his vulnerable side, but when he did she couldn't help but love him all the more.

"It's beautiful," she said as she always did when he played it for her, only now there was a catch in her words. "Thank you, amante."

He said nothing. Instead he took her hand in his and raised it to his lips, placed a kiss on the palm. When he leaned in and claimed her lips she lifted her right hand to touch his face. After the kiss ended she stroked his forehead with her fingers, traced the thick brows, the deep lines between them, the straight nose and long upper lip below it, the outline of his mouth, the soft dent under his bottom lip. He watched her, his face close to hers. He trembled; his eyes were very blue, fear and tenderness there in equal measure.

"I didn't mean to scare you," he whispered. Roz brushed her lips over his, slow and light.

"I understand that now," she said, and offered him a slight smile. He took another kiss, lengthy and lingering. She understood the question in it. When it was done she nodded, and felt his lips curve just a bit.

They walked to the bedroom hand in hand, shy as new lovers. In the soft darkness they undressed each other, touched, explored. Roz closed her eyes and shivered when Greg cupped her breasts in his hands. She slipped her arms around him, and took delight as always in his lean strength. Too lean, she realized; he'd lost weight. Her hands caressed his hips, felt the bones press against his skin. "Greg," she said, dismayed.

"Stop worrying." His voice was a soft growl. "I'm skinny anyway, you know that."

"I'm sorry," she said, distressed by her discovery. "I'm so sorry."

He gave an impatient sigh. "You talk too much." She couldn't stop a little snort of amusement. "That's better." He kissed her, a salute that made her tingle all the way to her toes.

The next thing she knew they lay together on their big bed, and his callused fingers slid through the curls at the join of her thighs. She gave a little gasp and held on as he began to work her, his mouth warm on the pulse point just below the hinge of her jaw. By degrees he brought her to the edge, slow and sure. When he eased her open and moved to enter her she lifted her hips; he filled her with a gentleness that made tears come to her eyes.

"You're crying again," he said in exasperation, but his gaze was searching, worried. She smiled up at him.

"It's all right," she said, and clasped her hands around his neck, to move with him.

It was the closest they'd ever come to making music together; she would never tell him, she'd call down a mockery he wouldn't be able to resist, but for all that it was still true. Afterward they lay side by side, and held each other close. Roz put her cheek to Greg's chest, felt the steady thump of his heart. He made a contented noise, a sort of rumble, and covered her abdomen with his hand.

"Why?" he asked after a time. Roz sighed softly.

"I don't know," she said, determined to be honest. "I know this is not a baby . . . it's probably barely big enough to be seen."

"You're in clinical week eight, most likely. There's a lot going on now," he said, almost to himself. "Heart and lungs descend into the thorax . . . first parasympathetic ganglia are identifiable. Nerves are entering the limb buds." He nuzzled her temple. "If you know . . ."

"I can't shake the knowledge that it's something we created, whether we meant to or not," she said, and hesitated. "This is gonna sound so stupid . . ."

"I'll be the judge of that," he said. "Continue."

"Okay." She bit her lip, then went on. "Every . . . every atom of you is dear to me . . ." She stopped when he groaned. "I told you it was stupid," she said. "You want to let me finish?" He didn't say anything, but his arms tightened around her a little. She took that as some kind of encouragement. "I can't help but love that part of you that's growing inside me. I've tried not to, I've done my best to force myself to be objective and s-see things—" She stopped, then went on. "I'm sorry, amante. I'm so sorry—"

"Stop apologizing," he said harshly. His fingers stroked her hair. "How can . . . you can't mean everything," he said, and the scorn mixed with utter bewilderment in his words broke her heart.

"But I do," she said simply, because it was the truth. He didn't reply. "Yeah, you make me angry and sometimes you hurt me, but that doesn't mean I stop loving you." She traced a slow circle on his breast. "You're the best friend I've ever had."

"Doesn't say much for your taste in companionship," he said after a moment. Roz sat up a little.

"Stop putting yourself down," she said. Her voice shook with the force of her feelings. Greg looked surprised.

"I just—"

"No!" She put her hand to his face, made him look at her. "You're my best friend as well as my lover. Accept it or walk away."

He stared at her. After a moment his lips twitched. "Don't do things by halves, do you."

She lay back down and slipped her arm around his waist. "That's right, so don't make me tell you again, buffone." She felt him shake with silent amusement and gave him a light smack. "I mean it!"

"Spousal abuse, nice. So much for friendship," he said on a chuckle. She silenced him with a kiss. By the time it ended they were relaxed once more.

"You know this won't change my mind," he said after a time. Roz nodded.

"Yes, I know."

"What will you do?"

"Stay with you. I love you," she said. He sighed, a long slow release of breath.

"That all you got, electrician chick?"

"For right now," she said. Greg touched his lips to her hair.

"Yeah, well," he said at last. "If that's what you can manage for right now . . . okay." He kissed her. "Gonna make dinner?" Roz couldn't help but smile.

"Always thinking of your stomach," she said, but she was glad he was hungry. If she couldn't do anything else, she could get him to eat a good meal. Her neglect shamed her; whether he thought it was important or not, to some extent he was in her care and she'd let him down.

She reheated some meatloaf and mashed potatoes in the oven to warm the kitchen, and steamed the last of the fresh green beans with basil and garlic while the gravy heated through; they ate at the harvest table, and when she claimed Greg's hand he didn't object, though of course he rolled his eyes and teased her about her insufferable sentimentality until she threatened to stuff the beans up his nose. Dessert was cheesecake marbled with chocolate, a treat Greg had brought home for her because she'd started to crave dairy. They went back for seconds and ended up on the couch in front of the tv, pleasantly stuffed.

"Trying to fatten me up," Greg said after a while. Roz nodded. "Good luck. All you'll do is put love handles on my hips."

"Fine by me," she said. "I like having something to hang onto," and delighted in his soft laugh as he brought her close.

They went to bed early, and Hellboy joined them. He was happy to curl up atop Roz's bathrobe, his tail tucked neatly over his nose. When Roz climbed in Greg eased the covers over them, then put his arm around her and drew her back against him. "Go to sleep. I'll be here in the morning," he said, so softly she barely heard him.

She reached up to touch his cheek. "Me too," she murmured, and drifted off in his embrace, her worry settled for the time being.

She woke in the early hours to find herself alone. Fear gripped her, but only for a moment. From the living room came the sound of the piano, soft but unmistakable. Roz lay in the dark, reassured. After a few moments she recognized the melody. It was the piece he'd composed for her, but now it sounded different. Of course she was no musician, but to her untrained ears there was a melancholy in the notes now, a hint of sadness, all the more powerful for its subtlety. A lump rose in her throat. Here was what he couldn't bring himself to say to her, what lay under the harsh adherence to the promise they'd made before their marriage. How much pain did he hide? The very idea of him unable to say anything stabbed at her. What are we going to do? she thought, and closed her eyes on tears. This can't go on . . . something has to change, or we'll never make it. Despite her brave words earlier, she knew whatever the decision finally turned out to be, it would change everything forever between them, and either he or she would end up leaving. Don't let it be me, she thought. I don't want to be another woman who walks away . . . please, not me. But don't let it be him who leaves first, either. She fell asleep with the hopeless plea in her head, pitiless and inescapable.

[H]

When Greg comes in during the small hours he finds his wife asleep. In the soft light of the little nightstand lamp she's left on for him, the tracks of tears are plain on her cheeks. Slowly he sits beside her, puts his fingers to her face, touches his thumb gently to her bottom lip, where she's worried it until the skin's chapped and broken. We can't go on like this, he thinks, and understands by acknowledgment of that truth, now they must choose a path with all the attendant consequences, whatever they may be.

On a sigh he turns off the light, brings his legs up and gets under the covers, slips in next to Roz, puts his arm around her and settles in. He lets his hand drift to her belly; his fingers play the melody of her ballade with tender care on the soft skin of her abdomen, where new life grows and changes. For one moment he allows himself to imagine a child—a little girl, all big green eyes and dark hair like her mother, with her sweet, brilliant smile, seated at a piano while he teaches her to find middle C—

He pushes the image away because it's wrong, it's a dangerous indulgence; he knows how things have to be. But he continues to play the song until the music in his head carries him away into a troubled, uneasy sleep.

'Love Ballade', Oscar Peterson