Page 30 of The One
How will my brother salvage his relationship when he and Ella are so different?
But if there’s one thing I know about my brother, it’s that he’s relentless. When he sets his mind on something, there’s no turning back. And he won’t ever accept a life without her. He’ll find a way, no matter what.
My mind is swimming with everything that happened today and the endless list of things waiting for me tomorrow. Any relaxation I might have felt earlier soaking in the hot tub, has vanished into thin air, leaving me restless again.
I let out a dejected breath and turn to switch off the lights on the terrace when I hear the soft sound of a familiar tune drifting on the air.
Who is playing the guitar at this hour?
It seems to come from far in the garden. Curious, I follow the soft strumming, weaving through the trees, the melody growing clearer with each step until I catch a glimpse of someone sitting under the old oak, bathed in moonlight.
It’s unmistakably a girl, her delicate features highlighted in the moonbeams. They cast shadows that make her seem almost ethereal. Her back is turned to me, keeping her face a mystery, but something about her is familiar.
There are a few maids working under Giulia, but I doubt any of them would venture into the garden this late at night. Which would only leave…
It’s in this moment the mystery girl moves her head to the side. Her eyes are closed and a gentle smile graces her lips as she gets lost in the music.
Mariella Accardi.
What is she doing out here alone? Perhaps she couldn’t sleep.
Who could blame her? The events of the day undoubtedly are still playing on her mind.
I step soundlessly into the shadow of a tree, not wanting to disturb her. Leaning against the trunk, I watch her.
Her fingers move confidently over the strings of the guitar. She hums to herself, occasionally softly singing the lyrics to the Beatles’ “Let It Be.”
Her voice…
Like earlier today, it catches me by surprise.
And her singing? It’s so sweet. Like nectar from the gods. It seeps into me, warm and honeyed, drawing me closer.
Somehow, it has the power to calm the storm inside me.
I stand there, mesmerized.
Captivated.
The bark is rough against my back, but I don’t dare move. If she notices me, she’ll stop, and I don’t want that to happen.
Her fingers dance effortlessly over the guitar strings. Some notes are a little off, slightly out of tune, but that doesn’t seem to bother her. Mariella didn’t travel with a guitar. Where did she even find this one?
There’s only one guitar in this house, and it’s in the guestroom.
My old guitar.
I rack my brain, trying to remember the last time I played it. Maybe when I was in my late teens?
That’s over a decade ago. I’m surprised it still sounds half decent after all that time. Mariella must have spent some time tuning it.
The thought of her sitting down with it, gently adjusting the pegs, makes my chest tighten a little. She’s playing a part of my past, bringing something I’d forgotten back to life.
Enthralled, I stare at her.
The song she was playing fades into the night, the last chord lingering for a moment before she adjusts the pegs again.
She strums the old strings a few times, listening closely, and when she seems satisfied with the sound, her fingers begin softly plucking another classic. This time, it’s the Rolling Stones’ “Wild Horses.”
