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)
Because it’s the right thing to do?
Because I want to spend more time with her.
* * *
Alessia watches him pad out of the room in his bare feet. She’s stunned. He’s going to drive her home? She will be alone in a car with him.
Is this okay?
What would her mother say?
A vision of her mother with her arms crossed and her face etched in meek disapproval comes to her mind.
And her father?
Instinctively she cups her cheek.
No. Her father would not approve.
Her father had approved of only one man.
A cruel man.
No. Do not think of him.
The Mister is taking her home. She’s glad she’s memorized the address to Magda’s house. She can still see her mother’s untidy handwriting scrawled on the scrap of paper that had been her lifeline. She shivers and glances outside once more. It will be cold, but if she’s quick, she can leave while the Mister is changing and not inconvenience him. Yet the thought of walking all that distance does not appeal. She has done it before from much farther away. Then it had taken her six or seven days with a stolen map. She shivers once more. A week she’d like to forget. Besides, he said she could play his piano. She gives the Steinway a fervent look, claps her hands with excitement, and dashes to the laundry room, where she changes in seconds. Grabbing her coat, scarf, and hat, she hurries back to the piano.
Leaving her coat on a chair, she sits down on the stool and takes a steadying breath. She places her hands on the keys, enjoying the cool, familiar feel of the ivory. For her the piano is grounding. It’s home. Her safe place. Glancing once more out the window, she begins “Les jeux d’eaux à la Villa d’Este,” her favorite piece by Liszt, the music swirling up and around the piano, dancing in brilliant shades of white like the snowflakes outside. Her memories of her father, her six days of homelessness, and her mother’s disapproval are lost in the whirling, icy colors of the music.
* * *
I lean against the doorframe and watch her, mesmerized. Her performance is phenomenal, each note measured and played with such precision and emotion. The music flows effortlessly through her…from her. Each and every nuance is there on her beautiful face and in the music as she feels her way through the piece. A piece I don’t know.
She’s taken off the headscarf. I’ve been wondering if she wears it for religious reasons, but maybe it’s just for when she’s cleaning. Her hair is thick and dark, almost black. As she plays, a strand comes loose from her plait and curls around her cheek. What would her hair look like loose and cascading over her bare shoulders? I close my eyes, imagining her naked as I do in my dreams, letting the music wash over me.
Would this ever get old? Listening to her?
I open my eyes.
Watching her. Her beauty. Her talent.
Playing such a complex piece from memory. The girl is a genius.
While I was away, I’d thought that I’d embellished her performance in my imagination. But no. Her technique is flawless.
She’s flawless.
In every way.
She finishes the piece, her head lowered, eyes closed, and I applaud. “That was breathtaking. Where did you learn to play so well?”
Her cheeks flush as she opens her dark eyes, but a shy smile lights up her face, and she shrugs. “At home,” she answers.
“You can tell me more about it in the car. Are you ready?”
She stands, and it’s the first time I’ve seen her out of that hideous nylon housecoat. My mouth dries. She’s slimmer than I’d thought, but her delicate curves are all woman. She’s wearing a tight green V-neck sweater; the soft swell of her breasts strains against the wool and emphasizes her narrow waist, and her skintight jeans showcase the gentle flare of slender hips.
Fuck.
She’s gorgeous.
She quickly slips out of her trainers, drops them into her plastic shopping bag, and tugs on her battered brown boots.
“Don’t you wear socks?” I ask.
She shakes her head as she bends and laces each boot, but her cheeks pink once more.
Maybe no socks is an Albanian thing?
I glance out the window, glad to be taking her home. Not only will I get to spend more time with her, but I’ll find out where she lives and stop her from catching frostbite in her feet.
I hold out my hand. “Give me your coat,” I say, and she offers me a hesitant smile when I help her into it.
This rag will never keep her warm.
When she turns to face me, I notice a little gold cross around her neck and a badge on her sweater—for a school?
Shit.
“How old are you?” I ask in a sudden panic.
“I have twenty-three years.”
Old enough. Good.