Keeping the Peace by Linda Cunningham

“That’s okay. Everybody asks. I don’t have a serious girlfriend right now. Being on the road all the time, it’s really hard to sustain a relationship. Sometimes I take some time off, when we get breaks in the concert series, but I just go back to California. Then I lock myself in my room and write songs. I gotta keep this momentum going for a little while longer. I need to take care of the family I have before I add to it, I guess.” He looked at Melanie, then quickly down at his plate.
    Melanie said, “I think that’s admirable. And from what I read, when you do decide to have a relationship, there’ll be no lack of volunteers.”
    Strand gave an ironic laugh. “Ha! I’ve got to be careful of that, too.”
    It was then that the lights went out. All the little sounds that reverberate in the background of an active household ceased. The refrigerator quit humming. The furnace ground to a halt. The water circulating in the pipes gurgled to a stop. Everyone sat stock still around the table for a minute. The only sound was the crackling of the fires in the wood stove and the fireplaces.
    “There it is,” John grumbled. “Well, break out the candles, and we’ll finish dinner.”
    Melanie was already up, moving more candles to the dining room table. John followed right behind her, lighting them. In the kitchen, they lit two kerosene lamps. Soon, both rooms were bathed in a warm yellow light.
    “This is amazing,” said the musician, smiling. “This is really cool.”
    John snorted as he returned to the table. “As long as it doesn’t last too long. You get to miss your shower after a while, and it really gets old when you have to start hauling water from the pond for the animals.”
    “Dad, we really need a generator,” Peter said.
    Melanie ruminated over Peter’s remark. The elusive generator came up every time there was a power outage. John always promised to install one before the next winter, and somehow, it never got done. She brought the apple pie in from the kitchen and cut pieces for everyone. At the end of the meal, she said, “I put aside some water in the dishpan in the sink. We can scrape our dishes, and I’ll wash them. Everyone can help dry and put them away. Try not to open the refrigerator door.”
    Clean-up was done in half an hour.
    “Now what?” Mia pouted, forgetting the important guest she had to impress. “This is just great.”
    “I’m sure your iPod is fully charged,” her father said dryly.
    “Read a book,” said Melanie, “or we can have scintillating conversation! Actually talk to each other.”
    “I’ve got The Thirteenth Warrior downloaded,” Peter said.
    “Well, there you have it,” said John, putting the last pan away. “No end of opportunity.”
    Gabriel spoke up. “I saw a piano in the other room. I can play. That I can do. Can I play and sing for you?” Above all, Strand was a performer.
    “Oh, wow!” whooped Emmie, sounding just like her mother. “Wow!”
    “I’m sure it needs tuning,” said Melanie apologetically, “but we would love to hear you sing.”
    The family filed into the little-used sitting room off the dining room, carrying the kerosene lamps and several candles. It was a sedate room, more formal than the front room, where people usually congregated. In this room, Melanie had hung some of the old family paintings and photographs. The piano was in this room, as well as two tall bookcases full of books. The walls were painted a calm butter color, and contrary to the rest of the house, where the curtains were either absent or sheer, the drapes in this room were heavy embroidered crewel work, pulled shut against the storm and the cold of winter.
    Melanie set one of the kerosene lamps on the piano and turned up the wick to illuminate the keys. Then she sat down beside the girls on the comfortable old sofa. Peter and his father sat in the big wing chairs. Michael leaned gracefully in the doorway. Strand settled himself on the piano bench and