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)
Back in his room, she opens the curtains and glances through the floor-to-ceiling windows at the Thames. It’s stopped raining, but the day is gray; the street, the river, the trees in the park beyond are all muted grays, so unlike her home.
No. Home is here now. She ignores the sadness that rises like a tide within her and places the items that she retrieved from his pockets into a dish on the nightstand. She then begins to clean and tidy his room.
The last job in the bedroom is emptying the wastebasket. She tries to avoid looking at the used condoms as she dumps the contents into a black plastic trash bag. It was a shock the first time she did this, and it’s still a shock now. How can one man use so many?
Ugh!
Alessia moves through the rest of the apartment, cleaning, dusting, and polishing, but avoiding the one room she’s not allowed to enter. Fleetingly she wonders what’s behind the closed door, but she doesn’t try to open it. Krystyna was very clear that the room is off-limits.
* * *
She finishes mopping the floors with half an hour to spare. She puts the cleaning caddy away in the laundry room and transfers the washed clothes into the dryer. She removes her housecoat and undoes her blue scarf, stuffing it into the back pocket of her jeans.
Carrying the black bag full of trash, she deposits it by the front door. She’ll take it to the dumpsters in the designated area in the alley beside the apartment block when she leaves. Anxiously, she opens the front door and checks up and down the hallway. There’s no sign of him. She can do this. She wasn’t brave enough the first time she cleaned here alone. She was afraid he might return. But since he left and said good-bye, she’ll take the risk.
She rushes down the hallway into the living room and sits at the piano, pausing to enjoy the moment. Black and shiny, it’s lit up by the impressive chandelier that hangs above it. Her fingers trace the golden lyre logo and the words beneath.
STEINWAY & SONS
On the rest there’s a pencil and the same half-finished composition that has been sitting there since the first day she came to the apartment with Krystyna. As she studies the pages, the notes sound through her head, a sad lament, lonely and full of melancholy, unresolved and unfinished in hues of pale blue and gray. She tries to connect the profound and reflective tune to the indolent but handsome naked man she saw that morning. Perhaps he’s a composer. She glances across the wide room to the antique desk in the corner cluttered with his computer, a synthesizer, and what might be a couple of sound mixers. Yes, they look like they belong to a composer. And then there’s the wall of old records that she has to dust; he’s certainly an avid music collector.
She pushes these thoughts aside as she stares down at the keys. How long has it been since she last played? Weeks? Months? A sudden, acute feeling of anguish steals the air from her lungs, making her gasp, and tears form in her eyes.
No. Not here. She will not break down here. She clutches the piano in an effort to fight off her heartache and her homesickness, realizing it’s been more than a month since she last played. So much has happened since then.
She shudders and takes a deep breath, forcing a feeling of calm. She stretches her fingers and strokes the keys.
White. Black.
The mere touch soothes her. She wants to savor this precious moment and lose herself in her music. Gently, she pushes down the keys, sounding an E-minor chord. The sound rings clear and strong, a bold and verdant green, the color of the Mister’s eyes, and Alessia’s heart fills with hope. The Steinway is tuned to perfection. She launches into her warm-up piece, “Le Coucou”; the keys move with ease and a smooth, fluid action. Her fingers fly across the keyboard vivace, and the stress, fear, and sorrow of the last few weeks fade and finally mute as she loses herself in the colors of the music.
* * *
One of the Trevelyan London homes is on Cheyne Walk, a brisk stroll from my flat. Built in 1771 by Robert Adam, Trevelyan House had been Kit’s home since our father died. For me it holds many childhood memories—some happy, some less so—and now it’s mine to do with as I wish. Well, it’s held in trust for me. Faced once more with my new reality, I shake my head and pull the collar of my coat up to fight the biting cold, cold that seems to emanate not from outside but from within me.
What the hell am I supposed to do with this house?