Sleeping Arrangements (Silhouette Desire) by Amy Jo Cousins Page A

inside the door caught her eye. The image was of a young woman in a long, dark skirt and a pale blouse, cradling a violin in her arms. She wondered if the violin was the same as the one she’d seen in the hall earlier.
    Then she wondered if the woman in the photograph was her great-aunt.
    “My grandfather saw her play once.” Spencer spoke fromthe doorway. Not startled because she’d somehow known the moment he entered the room, Addy stared at the photo.
    “Great-Aunt Adeline?” It felt embarrassing to admit that she didn’t recognize her. She tried willing some sort of recognition beyond that of similar bone structure. If this woman was a part of her family, shouldn’t she feel more of a connection with her image?
    “Yes, with the CSO. The Chicago Symphony Orchestra.” At least Spencer didn’t seem to think it too odd, her not knowing what her own great-aunt looked like.
    “I’m not an idiot, you know. I know what the CSO is.” Though, truth be told, she would probably have had to think about it for a bit. Highbrow culture wasn’t exactly her thing.
    “He said she was absolutely luminous. That he couldn’t take his eyes off her, onstage.”
    “So why did she quit playing?” She turned away from the photo and leaned against the wall, watching him. He’d unrolled his sleeves but had not rebuttoned the cuffs.
    Spencer shrugged. “I don’t know. Grandfather said that years later, he and his wife would invite her to join them in their box at the symphony and that she always turned them down. Every time. As far as he knew, after she stopped playing, she never attended another performance in her life.”
    “Strange.”
    “Sad.”
    They stood in companionable silence for a bit. For no good reason, Addy found herself sighing a little, so she straightened and looked around the room again. Spencer blinked and seemed to shake off an invisible net of distraction. They walked together to the piano.
    “Do you play?” she asked, tilting her head to look at him. She could see the curve of his cheek rise as he smiled.
    “Ten years of lessons as a kid,” he said and laughed. “You would think that I could.”
    “Twins, separated at birth,” she intoned with an emcee’s exaggerated voice. She ran her palm along the sleek wood ofthe propped piano lid. Catching his confused look, she continued, “I don’t think I made it through ten years, but it was a lot. And all I can play today is the first page of the theme to The Pink Panther. ”
    “Isn’t that just the same four chords over and over again? Da-dunh, da-dah. Da-dunh, da-dah. And so on?” he teased from the opposite side of the baby grand.
    “Hey, put up or shut up,” she said, laughing. “What can you play?”
    “Aside from ‘Chopsticks’?” He slid onto the piano bench, stared at the keyboard for a moment and then started playing a ragtime melody with one hand, fumbling occasionally for a note. Thirty seconds later, he stopped and she applauded the effort with enthusiasm. He scooted off the end of the bench near her, took a quick bow and grinned. “‘The Entertainer,’ Scott Joplin. First page, right hand only.”
    “Congratulations. You’ve got me beat.” She waved a hand at the rest of the room. “Got any other masterpieces in you?”
    He shook his head. “Are you kidding? The harp is for girls—mind you, this is how I thought at ten years old—and only old people listen to the harpsichord.” She guessed that was the odd-looking piano at the other end, glad she hadn’t embarrassed herself by not knowing what it was. “The piano wasn’t the trumpet or the sax, but it was still vaguely cool.”
    “My dad was a sax player,” she said. She felt the words settle like a blanket over the room, muffling the brief burst of good humor between the two of them. She regretted it, but couldn’t resist the urge to talk about her dad in this house. This house, into which he’d never once been welcomed. She stared at her hands. Her fingers had