“No. She had it playing in the background, while I was doing my homework. She read somewhere that playing classical music makes you smarter, or something.”
Her eyes narrow on me while she taps her finger on a book sitting on her lap. “You heard it once. And you memorized it.”
“Yes. I um ...” I gesture toward my head, trying to think of the word my counselor used to describe it. “Have a gift, of sorts. More of a curse. I can’t listen to a song without my fingers moving.” The thought of how that must look to someone else makes me chuckle, but she clearly isn’t amused, judging by the stern expression still claiming her face.
This woman is going to be impossible to crack.
“So, why are you working here, if you have such an amazing gift.” She says this as if it’s not a gift, at all.
“You don’t believe me, even after I just played it for you?”
“That piece could’ve taken you months, years to learn. You claim you heard it once. I taught piano for many years. I know what’s possible and impossible.”
“Would you like me to play another?”
“I insist.”
“Okay, then.” Twisting back around to the piano, I set my fingers to the first note of Vivaldi’s Summer. I wish I knew the difference between easy and difficult pieces, but for me, they’re all the same. It’s only the music my fingers tend to stumble through that distinguishes them from one another. The first time I heard this one, I closed my eyes, imagining my every stroke at a spasmic speed, and I could picture every sound from every key I pressed. I’ve no idea what standard note I was playing, or whether sharp, or flat. I only knew sound, and when my ears heard it, my fingers longed to find it.
My music teacher would toy with me at times, speeding the song up to see if it affected my ability to copy. Not to be jealous, or angry of my talent, but to test my capabilities. No matter what speed, or tempo, I caught onto the keystrokes every time.
On the last note, I keep my fingers to the keys and smile. Not for Mrs. Blackthorne, but for how quickly I recalled a piece I hadn’t heard in years. One my music teacher played in broken segments, to see if I could assemble it as one fluid song in my head.
“Vivaldi. One of the more difficult compositions.”
For a woman whose mind isn’t always reliable, she certainly has some surprising intuitive moments when it comes to music and dolls.
“My Lucian liked to play for me. He was very good.” As she stares off, the corner of her lips lift with a smile. “He knew the notes, of course.” Pausing, she tips her head, her expression hardening with a frown. “His father hated it. Thought it as a weakness in our son.” With a scoff, she shakes her head. “Can you imagine? The level of concentration and focus of the mind that goes into playing these complex pieces, and he thought it weak.”
“That’s a shame. I’ve always wanted to learn notes.”
“Did you not have someone in school to show you?”
“My music teacher, but the idea of staying alone with him after school gave me the creeps.”
A slight smile curves her lips. “Isn’t it funny, the way we deny ourselves based on our fears?”
Absorbing her words, I sit quietly for a moment. “You taught piano. Could you teach me?”
“God, no. My piano teaching days are long gone. I’ve no interest anymore.” Frail fingers lift, and she scratches her chin. “Lucian still remembers, I’m sure. He could teach you.”
Seems she’s lost her mind again, if she thinks I’d ask her son for piano lessons.
“Never mind. It’s not important.”
“You’re afraid of Lucian, as well?”
“No, I just … I know he’s a busy man. I’m sure he doesn’t have time for piano lessons.”
“He has time to fuck the help. I’m sure he can squeeze an hour, or two, to show you some notes on the piano.”
A flare of discomfort snakes beneath my skin with her comment, until I’m left wondering which of the help he’s fucking. Giulia? Or one of the other maids I’ve seen bustling about over the last two days?
“Even with half his face ruined, he still manages to charm the ladies.”
Maybe the ones he’s attracted to.
The image I found the night before comes to mind, and as much as I want to ask her what happened to him, I believe I have to be careful around Laura, and treat every question as a possible trigger. “He’s always had a way with the ladies, then?”
“My God.” Rolling her eyes, she shifts on the chair. “In school, they literally wouldn’t leave him alone. He attended an all-boys school but there was a sister campus, as well, and those girls …” She shakes her head. “No shame, at all. Sending him notes of what they fantasized doing with him. I found one in his schoolbag at the start of his sophomore year. A girl who claimed she’d adored him since elementary. Respectable daughter of a bank CEO. Yet, she described an addiction she’d developed to … doing things, while thinking of him. Disgusting.”
A part of me wants to chuckle, while another part of me feels as if her words are directed at me, somehow, though I have nothing to do with her son. “Sometimes … a person just wants to be noticed.”
“For the wrong reasons.”
“Of course.”
“Some, he did ignore. Others, I’m sure he indulged. Boys will be boys, and all that. He was handsome, athletic, and it didn’t matter what age they were, women just gravitated to him.”
“Did he ever love?” I don’t know why I’m asking these questions. I shouldn’t be asking, but I slept with the image of his face, his sad, morose face, and I can’t stop thinking about it.
“Lucian loves, in as much as he’s capable. Whether it’s for an hour, a day, or a week. But I don’t think any woman will ever have his heart completely. The closest was his only son.”
Studying her for a moment, to be sure she doesn’t slip into another hallucination at the mention of Roark, I nod and rise up from the piano bench. “Would you like to go for a walk, or something?”
Following a light knock, Giulia stands in the doorway, straightening her posture when Laura twists to face her.
“Pardon the interruption, ladies. Miss Amy is here for wardrobe.”
“Ah, fantastic!” Laura turns around, her eyes as lit with just as earlier, when the doctor stood flirting at her side. “Time to find you some proper clothing.”
Oh, Christ.
“I don’t know …” With her finger pressed against her cheek, Laura tips her head in the reflection of all three mirrors that are set before a fitting platform, where I stand on display in her bedroom. “Looks too garish, if you ask me.”
I’m guessing Amy is in her thirties, considering the youthful, wrinkle-free glow of her face. Her style reminds me of something more bohemian, in patterned pants and an airy, off-the-shoulder top. Strings of necklaces dangle from her neck, different sized beads that match the colors of her pants.
I stare down at the outfit she’s chosen for me: a white, flowy peasant top and jeans, with a thin braided leather necklace. A little too hippy for my taste, but better than the tweed suits I imagined she’d show up with.