Page 21 of Steal My Heart
Positioned in the center of the impressive space is a covered grand piano. Hurrying over, I fling off the cover, my eyes going wide. Not just a grand piano, but a concert grand.
Seating myself on the bench, I give my hands a stretch before tentatively playing a C diminished 7th chord; the rich, booming sound fills the room. “Really wow.”
My fingers begin moving, and before my mind catches up, I find myself playing one of MawMaw’s favorite jazz songs. It’s been a while since I’ve found myself behind the keys, but like riding a bicycle, it comes back to me easily enough.
“Can’t believe he let you in here.”
My finger slips, landing on the wrong note. I turn around to find the blue-eyed girl from Angelo’s photo. All grown up, she’s dressed in black from head to toe.
I smile sheepishly. “He didn’t exactly let me in here; I sort of helped myself.”
She examines me from the doorway, her eyes far less intense than Angelo’s. “So you’re the lady with the bobcat. I would’ve never pictured you as my brother’s girlfriend.”
“Nola isn’t a bobcat, and I’m not sure if that’s an insult or a compliment.” The last part of her statement registers, making me feel so much better; she’s Angelo’s sister, not his daughter.
“Compliment.” She crosses the room and sits on the bench next to me.
“In that case, thank you.” I smile. “But I’m not Angelo’s girlfriend. We’re…” I pause, not knowing how to finish that sentence. “I’m sorry, what is your name?” I deflect.
“I’m Alessandra.”
“Beautiful name,” I tell her.
“Thanks. My family calls me Al. Once you get a nickname, it’s hard to shake.”
“Very true.”
“What’s yours?” she wonders.
“My mawmaw used to call mepapillon.”
“What does that mean?”
“Cajun for butterfly. Do you know how to play?” I nod to the piano.
“Only chopsticks.”
My fingers move, playing the main melody, and Al furrows her brow as she places her index fingers on center F and center G for her alternate pattern.
I smile as she hits the keys in time, the sound reminding me of my childhood at MawMaw’s house. The second time I’ve thought of her today, my eyes become a little blurry, but I fight back the tears.
We finish the duet, and Alessandra claps excitedly.
“Why does no one use this room?” I wonder.
Her smile fades. “Too many memories, I guess. This was Mama’s piano,” Alessandra explains. “She passed away almost nine years ago.”
“Oh my God, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have?—”
“Yes, you should’ve. It was left to Angelo in her will, but he never plays it. She’d be thrilled someone was putting it to good use. Mama was a classically trained pianist. Could’ve made a career out of it, but she chose this life.”
“What life do you mean?” I ask.
“The family life,” she says, as if that answers everything.
“‘Family above all else,’” I repeat the watch engraving. “But what does that mean?”
“You don’t know my family’s profession?” She eyes me inquisitively.
