Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 89645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
She’s quiet. I don’t think she’s said more than a handful of words to me in the months I’ve been here, but still, I know she likes me. She smiles when I come in and nods for me to continue talking if I get carried away with a story. I tell her about the toddler I sat next to on the bus as I help lead her down the hall toward the rec room.
In the doorway, she nods toward the back corner, to the chair that sits beside a fading grand piano. It’s her favorite spot, and I don’t mind what it implies. She wants me to play for her.
“I can’t right now. I have to get back to work, but I go on break in thirty minutes. I can come back then?”
She smiles and pats my hand. “I would like that very much.”
I glance up to the clock on the wall to make sure I don’t leave her waiting for one minute longer than I have to.
I’m not surprised to find her right where I left her when I return. Except, she’s not alone. Her friend sits beside her.
Mrs. Archer has more visitors than other residents. Her grandchildren and friends come to Holly Home often, but this particular visitor is my favorite. In my head, I refer to her as the queen because she reminds me so much of the old monarchs I’ve read about in novels. Stately and beautiful, but sharp too, like a finely cut gem. She wears her white hair in a short pixie cut that frames a pair of glacier blue eyes, which hold me captive any time she aims a question my way.
She looks almost frigid sitting there in a simple, perfectly starched button-down tunic with the cuffs rolled to her elbows. It’s layered over navy pants and paired with cream flats. Her collar stands up around a heavy beaded necklace, and her wrists are covered in thin bracelets. Her emerald wedding band glitters in the light.
With her perfect posture and watchful gaze, she looks like she’s holding court. Hence why I call her the queen even though I know her name is Cornelia. She introduced herself to me a few weeks ago, and I fumbled in shaking her hand because she held it out to me as if expecting me to kiss it.
“Ah, there’s the child now,” she says when she sees me walk in.
At twenty-three, I wouldn’t say I’m a child, but I don’t dare correct her. She intimidates me into near silence, something not so easily done anymore.
“Come and play for us, won’t you? Annette said you could take a few minutes off, and I’ve traveled a long way to visit my friend,” she says, patting Mrs. Archer’s hand. “Though I’ll admit, I had another selfish motive for visiting Holly Home today, and it was so I could hear you play.”
I blush and nod. “Of course. Yes, I can play for a few minutes.”
There’s no sheet music for me to reference. When I first started working here and inquired about the piano, Mrs. Buchanan told me no one ever bothered to play it. She wanted to get rid of it to make room for more seating, but it was too heavy and too expensive to deal with, so here it sits, slightly out of tune, collecting dust, and completely untouched except by my hands. Mrs. Archer was the person who first encouraged me to play it. We were out in the hall on a short walk, and she was leaning on my arm, asking me about myself. I mentioned that I could play piano—or at least used to be able to—and she demanded we turn and head toward the rec room. That day, I sat down on the wobbly bench with its one leg slightly shorter than the rest so that I’m perpetually rocking back and forth, and I played for the first time in years.
No sheet music means I’m forced to play everything by memory. Even with the practice I’ve had over the last few months, there are only a few songs to draw from, the old melodies that live in my bones.
I choose a piece my dad used to play for me when I was young, something I would never play for near strangers unless I truly believed they would feel it like I do.
Rêverie.
The piece resonates so quickly with a familiar audience that Cornelia sighs.
“Ah, Debussy. What wonderful taste you have.”
I smile as I continue to play, concentrating on the succeeding notes so intently that Mrs. Buchanan has to walk over to the piano and wave her hand in front of my face before I realize she’s been trying to get my attention for the last few moments.
I immediately stop playing.
“I’ve been standing at the door calling your name,” she chides.