Somewhere, deep down inside, it was still living.
One hand tentatively reached out to caress the keyboard with a
reverent, loving finger. She loved it so. She would never, ever
sacrifice her own desires to play what others wanted to hear. She
would make music only for her own fulfilment, and offer that to the
public. She would play now, only for herself. Both hands came to
rest on the keys, and she flexed her fingers, once, twice. Then a
resounding crash filled the room as she played a half-forgotten
melody that she had written years ago. It had never gone beyond the
stage of pure sound and personal satisfaction, and she was suddenly
very glad for it. It was her own song, nobody else's. She had not sold
it for money; it belonged only to her.
She faltered through the execution of the melody, stopping several
times to go back over certain parts of it again, refreshing her memory
and reviving the song. She had written it in a furious burst of anger
when she was barely twenty. Her mother had just died, and all Sara's
pain, grief, and anguish had spilled into the song. Playing it now was
like some kind of purge to her soul. It cleaned her out and filled her
up again with something new.
Afterwards, feeling hungry for the first time that day, she went to the
kitchen and ate a hearty meal. The afternoon was fast disappearing,
and she turned on a table lamp in the living room and prepared to
settle down with a good book.
She had just barely begun to read when a knocking sounded again at
her door. Should she answer? She didn't particularly want to see
anyone. Greg's voice sounded through the door, and she detected a
note of anxiety. 'Sara? I hoped to see you on the beach today. Are
you not feeling well? Can I help you in any way? Do you need a
doctor?'
As she listened, strangely touched by his concern, slow tears filled
her eyes, but she wouldn't let them overflow. She had to blink rapidly
to make her vision clear. Why should he care? Was this just a ruse to
get her to open the door?
Footsteps sounded on the front porch like they had this morning
when Greg had gone away, but she began to hear funny noises, things
being pounded against the outside wall just back from the porch. It
sounded as if he was hitting something in between the back door and
the stone fireplace, to the left of the house. Eventually overcome by
curiosity, Sara slipped into the kitchen and tried to peep out of the
curtained window, but she couldn't see anything. The footsteps were
making regular, short trips back and forth, and it sounded as if there
was something metal outside.
She slowly slid back the bolt and turned the lock in the doorknob,
still listening intently. Grasping the handle and turning it, she pulled
the door open quietly to peer outside, her half wet hair hanging
around her in a tumbled mess and her large eyes uncertain, wary. She
saw Greg approaching her way from a pick-up truck, his powerful
arms filled with neatly cut firewood. He already had a nice amount
carefully stacked against the house. He in turn saw her head and one
shoulder peek around the half-opened door, and he took in the large,
startled look in her eyes, the pale skin, and the slight circles
underneath those huge questioning orbs. She looked like a small,
puzzled child.
Setting down the firewood in a careful movement, he made no
immediate attempt to come nearer to her, for she looked as if she
might bolt and slam the door shut at any sudden action. 'Hello,' he
said calmly, as if talking to an unsettled horse. 'I remembered that
you said you needed firewood, and I had a few trees I've been
planning to get rid of for some time. Is it all right stacked here, or do
you want it someplace else?
'What?' she asked, feeling stupid. She felt stunned at this uncalled-for
gesture of goodwill, and edged a little further from behind the door.
Greg saw that she was in a quilted dressing gown that fell nearly to
the floor. Bare toes
One hand tentatively reached out to caress the keyboard with a
reverent, loving finger. She loved it so. She would never, ever
sacrifice her own desires to play what others wanted to hear. She
would make music only for her own fulfilment, and offer that to the
public. She would play now, only for herself. Both hands came to
rest on the keys, and she flexed her fingers, once, twice. Then a
resounding crash filled the room as she played a half-forgotten
melody that she had written years ago. It had never gone beyond the
stage of pure sound and personal satisfaction, and she was suddenly
very glad for it. It was her own song, nobody else's. She had not sold
it for money; it belonged only to her.
She faltered through the execution of the melody, stopping several
times to go back over certain parts of it again, refreshing her memory
and reviving the song. She had written it in a furious burst of anger
when she was barely twenty. Her mother had just died, and all Sara's
pain, grief, and anguish had spilled into the song. Playing it now was
like some kind of purge to her soul. It cleaned her out and filled her
up again with something new.
Afterwards, feeling hungry for the first time that day, she went to the
kitchen and ate a hearty meal. The afternoon was fast disappearing,
and she turned on a table lamp in the living room and prepared to
settle down with a good book.
She had just barely begun to read when a knocking sounded again at
her door. Should she answer? She didn't particularly want to see
anyone. Greg's voice sounded through the door, and she detected a
note of anxiety. 'Sara? I hoped to see you on the beach today. Are
you not feeling well? Can I help you in any way? Do you need a
doctor?'
As she listened, strangely touched by his concern, slow tears filled
her eyes, but she wouldn't let them overflow. She had to blink rapidly
to make her vision clear. Why should he care? Was this just a ruse to
get her to open the door?
Footsteps sounded on the front porch like they had this morning
when Greg had gone away, but she began to hear funny noises, things
being pounded against the outside wall just back from the porch. It
sounded as if he was hitting something in between the back door and
the stone fireplace, to the left of the house. Eventually overcome by
curiosity, Sara slipped into the kitchen and tried to peep out of the
curtained window, but she couldn't see anything. The footsteps were
making regular, short trips back and forth, and it sounded as if there
was something metal outside.
She slowly slid back the bolt and turned the lock in the doorknob,
still listening intently. Grasping the handle and turning it, she pulled
the door open quietly to peer outside, her half wet hair hanging
around her in a tumbled mess and her large eyes uncertain, wary. She
saw Greg approaching her way from a pick-up truck, his powerful
arms filled with neatly cut firewood. He already had a nice amount
carefully stacked against the house. He in turn saw her head and one
shoulder peek around the half-opened door, and he took in the large,
startled look in her eyes, the pale skin, and the slight circles
underneath those huge questioning orbs. She looked like a small,
puzzled child.
Setting down the firewood in a careful movement, he made no
immediate attempt to come nearer to her, for she looked as if she
might bolt and slam the door shut at any sudden action. 'Hello,' he
said calmly, as if talking to an unsettled horse. 'I remembered that
you said you needed firewood, and I had a few trees I've been
planning to get rid of for some time. Is it all right stacked here, or do
you want it someplace else?
'What?' she asked, feeling stupid. She felt stunned at this uncalled-for
gesture of goodwill, and edged a little further from behind the door.
Greg saw that she was in a quilted dressing gown that fell nearly to
the floor. Bare toes
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