In the silence of the room, Steve heard Jonah’s breathing begin to slow. He knew his son had already fallen asleep; the sun and endless fresh air seemed to exhaust him in ways that Manhattan never could. As for Ronnie, he was relieved that sleep had erased the tension of the last few days. Her face was serene, almost angelic, and somehow reminded him of the way Pastor Harris looked after his walks on the beach. He watched her in the utter stillness of that room, longing again for a sign of God’s presence. Tomorrow Ronnie might be leaving, and at the thought, he took a hesitant step toward her. Moonlight drifted through the window, and he heard the steady drone of ocean waves beyond the glass. The tender fire of distant stars flickered a heavenly affirmation, as if God were announcing His presence somewhere else. Suddenly he felt tired. He was alone, he thought; he would always be alone. He bent and kissed Ronnie gently on the cheek, feeling again the undertow of his love for her, a joy as intense as pain.

Just before dawn, his waking thought-more of a sensation, really-was that he missed playing the piano. As he winced at the predictable flash of pain in his stomach, he felt the urge to rush to the living room and lose himself in his music.

He wondered when he would have an opportunity to play again. He now regretted not making the acquaintance of others in town; there had been moments since he’d boarded up the piano when he fantasized about approaching a friend with the request to play the seldom used piano in his living room, the one his imaginary friend regarded as decoration. He could see himself taking a seat on the dusty bench as his friend watched from the kitchen or the foyer-he wasn’t quite clear on this-and all at once, he would begin to play something that would move his friend to tears, something he’d been unable to accomplish during all those long months on tour.

He knew it was a ridiculous fantasy, but without music he felt aimless and adrift. Rising from the bed, he forced those dark thoughts away. Pastor Harris had told him that a new piano had been ordered for the church, a gift from one of its members, and that Steve was welcome to play it as soon as it arrived. But that wouldn’t be until sometime in late July, and he wasn’t sure he could make it until then.

Instead, he took a seat at the kitchen table and placed his hands on the top. With enough concentration, he should be able to hear the music in his mind. Beethoven composed the Eroica when he was mostly deaf, hadn’t he? Perhaps he could hear it all in his head, the way Beethoven had. He chose the concerto that Ronnie had played at her performance at Carnegie Hall, and closing his eyes, he concentrated. The strains were faint at first as he began to move his fingers. Gradually, the notes and chords became clearer and more distinct, and though it wasn’t as satisfying as actually playing the piano, he knew it would have to do.

With the final phrases of the concerto reverberating in his mind, he slowly opened his eyes again and found himself sitting in the semidark kitchen. The sun would be poking over the horizon in just a few minutes, and for some reason, he heard the sound of a single note, a B flat, hanging long and low, beckoning him. He knew he’d only imagined it, but the sound of the note lingered, and he found himself scrambling for pen and paper.

He quickly sketched out some rough musical bars and jotted down the notes before pressing his finger to the table once more. Again it sounded, but this time it was followed by a few more notes, and he scribbled those down as well.

He’d written music throughout much of his life, but even he regarded the melodies as figurines compared with the statues he generally preferred to play. This might not amount to much, either, but he felt himself warming to the challenge. What if he was able to compose something… inspired? Something that would be remembered long after he was forgotten?

The fantasy didn’t last long. He’d tried and failed in the past, and he had no doubt he would fail again. But even so, he felt good about what he’d done. There was something transporting about the act of creating something from nothing. Though he hadn’t gotten very far on the melody-after much work, he’d reverted to the first few notes he’d written and had decided to start over-he somehow felt satisfied.

As the sun crested the dunes, Steve reflected on his thoughts of the night before and decided to go for a walk on the beach. More than anything, he wanted to return to the house with the same look of peace that he’d seen on Pastor Harris’s face, but as he trudged through the sand, he couldn’t help feeling like an amateur, someone who searched for God’s truths like a child searching for seashells.

It would have been nice if he’d been able to spot an obvious sign of His presence-a burning bush, perhaps-but he tried instead to focus on the world around him: the sun risen out of the sea, the trill of morning birdsong, the lingering mist atop the water. He strove to absorb the beauty without conscious thought, trying to feel the sand beneath his feet and the breeze as it caressed his cheek. Despite his efforts, he didn’t know if he was getting any closer to his answer than when he’d started.

What was it, he wondered for the hundredth time, that enabled Pastor Harris to hear the answers in his heart? What did he mean when he said he felt God’s presence? Steve supposed he could ask Pastor Harris directly, but he doubted that would do any good. How could anyone explain such a thing? It would be like describing colors to someone blind from birth: The words might be understood, but the concept would remain mysterious and private.

It was odd for him to think such thoughts. Until recently, he’d never been plagued by such questions, but he figured his daily responsibilities had always kept him busy enough to avoid thinking about them, at least until he’d returned to Wrightsville Beach. Here, time had slowed with the pace of his life. As he continued to walk the beach, he reflected again on the fateful decision he’d made to try his luck as a concert pianist. It’s true that he’d always wondered whether he could succeed, and yes, he had felt that time was running out. But how had those thoughts acquired such urgency at the time? Why had he been so willing to leave his family for months at a time? How, he wondered, could he have been so selfish? In retrospect, it hadn’t proved to be a wise decision for any of them. He’d once thought that his passion for music had forced the decision, but he now suspected that he’d really been searching for ways to fill the emptiness he sometimes felt inside him.

And as he walked, he began to wonder whether it was in this realization that he would eventually find his answer.