Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 157450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
“I know, I know,” I say, and wonder if his scent is still on the sweater.
I miss him, too. And actually, it’s thirteen days since his burial. Twenty-two days since he died.
I swallow the harsh, hard knot that forms in my throat.
* * *
I missed my workout this morning, so I vault up the stairs to my flat. Breakfast has taken longer than I intended, and I’m expecting Oliver at any minute. Part of me also hopes that Alessia will still be there. As I approach my front door, I hear music coming from the flat.
Music? What’s going on?
I slide my key into the lock and cautiously open the door. It’s Bach, one of his preludes in G Major. Perhaps Alessia is playing music through my computer. But how can she? She doesn’t know the password. Does she? Maybe she’s playing her phone through the sound system, though from the look of her tatty anorak she doesn’t strike me as someone who has a smartphone. I’ve never seen her with one. The music rings through my flat, lighting up its darkest corners.
Who knew that my daily likes classical?
This is a tiny piece of the Alessia Demachi puzzle. Quietly I close the door, but as I stand in the hallway, it becomes apparent that the music is not coming from the sound system. It’s from my piano. Bach. Fluid and light, played with a deftness and understanding I’ve only heard from concert-standard performers.
Alessia?
I’ve never managed to make my piano sing like this. Taking off my shoes, I creep down the hallway and peer around the door into the drawing room.
She is seated at the piano in her housecoat and scarf, swaying a little, completely lost in the music, her eyes closed in concentration as her hands move with graceful dexterity across the keys. The music flows through her, echoing off the walls and ceiling in a flawless performance worthy of any concert pianist. I watch her in awe as she plays, her head bowed.
She is brilliant.
In every way.
And I’m completely spellbound.
She finishes the prelude, and I step back into the hall, flattening myself against the wall in case she looks up, not daring to breathe. However, without missing a beat she goes straight into the fugue. I lean against the wall and close my eyes, marveling at her artistry and the feeling that she puts into each phrase. I’m carried away by the music, and as I listen, I realize that she wasn’t reading the music. She’s playing from memory.
Good God. She’s a fucking virtuoso.
And I remember her intense focus when she examined my score while she was dusting the piano. Clearly she was reading the music.
Shit. She plays at this standard and she was reading my composition?
The fugue ends, and seamlessly she launches into another piece. Again Bach, Prelude in C-sharp Major, I think.
What the fuck is she doing cleaning when she plays like this?
The front doorbell sounds, and suddenly the music ceases.
Shit.
I hear the loud scrape of the piano stool on the floor and, not wanting to be caught eavesdropping, I barrel down the hallway in my socks and open the door.
“Good afternoon, sir.” It’s Oliver.
“Come in,” I say, a little breathless.
“I let myself in downstairs. I hope you don’t mind. Are you okay?” Oliver asks as he enters. He stops and stares at Alessia, who is now standing in the hall silhouetted against the light from the drawing-room doorway. As I open my mouth to say something to her, she scoots into the kitchen.
“Yes. I’m fine. Go on through. I just need a word with my daily.”
Oliver frowns in confusion but makes his way to the drawing room.
I take a deep breath and run both my hands through my hair, trying to contain my…wonder.
What the hell?
I stride into the kitchen, where I find a panicked Alessia struggling into her anorak.
“So sorry. So sorry. I am so sorry,” she mumbles, unable to look at me. Her face is pale and strained, as if she’s fighting back tears.
Shit.
“Hey, it’s okay. Here, let me help you with that.” My tone is gentle as I take hold of her coat. It’s every bit as cheap, thin, and nasty as it looks. The name MICHAL JANECZEK is sewn into the collar. Michal Janeczek? Her boyfriend? My scalp prickles as all the little hairs on the back of my neck rise. Maybe this is why she doesn’t want to talk to me. She has a boyfriend.
Fuck. The disappointment is real.
I slip her jacket over her arms and shoulders.
Or maybe she simply doesn’t like me.
Pulling the anorak more tightly around her body, she steps out of my reach while she fumbles with her housecoat and stuffs it into a plastic shopping bag.
“I am sorry, Mister,” she says once more. “I will not do it again. I will not.” And her voice cracks.