into the refrigerator uncovered. She dumped her dirty dish and silverware in the sink unwashed. Then, to spite him, she grabbed the dish towels from the oven door handle and dropped them in a heap on the floor.
Still seething, she returned to the great room, where she found the fire in the hearth had burned down to nothing but Nice , she thought sarcastically. He can’t even be bothered to keep the fire going for me. With wood and kindling from the bin she built a new fire, watching as the flames slowly spread, until they leaped like a golden crown around the logs and gave off a comforting heat. Rubbing her hands together before the fire, Nicole glanced about, her entire body tight with tension and frustration.
So, Michael wanted her to keep to herself, did he? You stay in your corner of the house, and I’ll stay in mine. Fine. It was a big house. She could find things to do on her own. He could stay in his study all day and night and starve to death for all she cared.
Her gaze fell on the grand piano at the front of the room, by the picture windows overlooking the forest beyond. Nicole couldn’t resist crossing to it and running a hand along its polished black surface. It was a beautiful instrument. She’d sold her own piano when she left Seattle three years ago, and had only played a handful of times since.
Music had always offered her a wonderful escape from the outside world, a means of releasing her anxiety and emotions. She hadn’t realized until that moment how much she’d missed it. What better method was there to release her pent-up frustration than to play the piano?
Nicole hesitated. Given Michael’s foul mood and his proclivity for being alone, he might not appreciate someone else touching his piano. He was a far superior musician, and she felt a little intimidated at the thought of playing when he could hear. The music might disturb him.
Screw him , she told herself, mentally squashing all thoughts of awkwardness or consideration. If he doesn’t like it, he can come out and tell me to stop.
The late afternoon light was dim and gray. Nicole switched on the brass lamp atop the piano and opened the bench. It was stuffed with piano music, some of which looked very old. She shuffled through it until she came to something familiar—Chopin’s Prelude no. 24—a thrilling piece she’d once known by heart, and had played often with great enjoyment. Setting the sheet music on the stand, she sat down on the bench, lifted the lid over the keyboard, arranged her hands in position, and began to play.
Nicole warmed up with a few scales, then plunged into the piece itself. It was complex and required great concentration. From the first bold stanza, an unanticipated surge of pleasure raced through her. As she followed the score, it was as if her brain was siphoning off all her excess energy into the task of getting her fingers into the right place at the right time.
The longer strings of the grand piano produced a larger, richer sound than the instrument she was used to, with truer overtones and lower inharmonicity. With every vibration of the instrument, she could feel the music as well as hear it. The song was glorious and beautiful. A smile built deep down within her soul, and all her tension and frustration began melting away.
Nicole was halfway through the piece when, from the corner of her eye, she caught sight of movement as she played. She glanced up, startled, to find Michael standing by the hearth, arms casually folded across his chest, watching her intently.
Ignoring him, Nicole played on, the room filling with the extraordinary beauty of the music.
“You didn’t say that you played,” he said quietly.
“You never asked,” she retorted bluntly.
She gave her full attention to the music, feeling a little self-conscious now because he was still staring at her. She made a few mistakes, which had more to do with being out of practice than it did with him watching. When she came to the end of the
Still seething, she returned to the great room, where she found the fire in the hearth had burned down to nothing but Nice , she thought sarcastically. He can’t even be bothered to keep the fire going for me. With wood and kindling from the bin she built a new fire, watching as the flames slowly spread, until they leaped like a golden crown around the logs and gave off a comforting heat. Rubbing her hands together before the fire, Nicole glanced about, her entire body tight with tension and frustration.
So, Michael wanted her to keep to herself, did he? You stay in your corner of the house, and I’ll stay in mine. Fine. It was a big house. She could find things to do on her own. He could stay in his study all day and night and starve to death for all she cared.
Her gaze fell on the grand piano at the front of the room, by the picture windows overlooking the forest beyond. Nicole couldn’t resist crossing to it and running a hand along its polished black surface. It was a beautiful instrument. She’d sold her own piano when she left Seattle three years ago, and had only played a handful of times since.
Music had always offered her a wonderful escape from the outside world, a means of releasing her anxiety and emotions. She hadn’t realized until that moment how much she’d missed it. What better method was there to release her pent-up frustration than to play the piano?
Nicole hesitated. Given Michael’s foul mood and his proclivity for being alone, he might not appreciate someone else touching his piano. He was a far superior musician, and she felt a little intimidated at the thought of playing when he could hear. The music might disturb him.
Screw him , she told herself, mentally squashing all thoughts of awkwardness or consideration. If he doesn’t like it, he can come out and tell me to stop.
The late afternoon light was dim and gray. Nicole switched on the brass lamp atop the piano and opened the bench. It was stuffed with piano music, some of which looked very old. She shuffled through it until she came to something familiar—Chopin’s Prelude no. 24—a thrilling piece she’d once known by heart, and had played often with great enjoyment. Setting the sheet music on the stand, she sat down on the bench, lifted the lid over the keyboard, arranged her hands in position, and began to play.
Nicole warmed up with a few scales, then plunged into the piece itself. It was complex and required great concentration. From the first bold stanza, an unanticipated surge of pleasure raced through her. As she followed the score, it was as if her brain was siphoning off all her excess energy into the task of getting her fingers into the right place at the right time.
The longer strings of the grand piano produced a larger, richer sound than the instrument she was used to, with truer overtones and lower inharmonicity. With every vibration of the instrument, she could feel the music as well as hear it. The song was glorious and beautiful. A smile built deep down within her soul, and all her tension and frustration began melting away.
Nicole was halfway through the piece when, from the corner of her eye, she caught sight of movement as she played. She glanced up, startled, to find Michael standing by the hearth, arms casually folded across his chest, watching her intently.
Ignoring him, Nicole played on, the room filling with the extraordinary beauty of the music.
“You didn’t say that you played,” he said quietly.
“You never asked,” she retorted bluntly.
She gave her full attention to the music, feeling a little self-conscious now because he was still staring at her. She made a few mistakes, which had more to do with being out of practice than it did with him watching. When she came to the end of the
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