Sam has been around the block, but she's still there moving forward, moving forward. She's no angel, yet she keeps things together, gets the bills paid, and what else can you hope for?

She plays piano late at night when the kids are sound asleep, out in the front room, where the moonlight streams through. And she knows that, at this very moment, Hamilton from across the valley is staring in at her with his binoculars--at least she hopes he is. And she prepares for him. She fixes herself up.

Tonight she'll play Mozart and think of days when she was much younger and there wasn't so much chaos in her life, when things were just beach and watermelon and lemonade, not everything that comes with growing older and having your dreams flattened by broken relationships and other failures.

Ham is there, in fact, standing at the window right now, staring at her, not with binoculars but with his camcorder, on super zoom. And the way she's fixed herself, well, he'd never expected this, what he sees in the display window: the woman playing piano in the moonlight, through that giant pane-glass window, drapes fully open. And naked, completely naked.

There is an elegance to the scene. It's nothing sexual, or at least not crudely sexual. It's more poetic. And then the rain begins to fall in the valley.