Page 56 of Play of Love
Chapter 13
Amy
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The melodious tune of violin music filled the house as I stepped in. I recognized it as Bach’sPartita No. 2. I’d gotten into classical music a lot when I was in college. My roommate played the cello and always dragged me along to her concerts. The music always calmed me and filled me with inspiration. I actually liked listening to it as I created my designs.
I never expected to hear it playing in Josh’s house, and he had it on just loud enough for it to create that ambient relaxation you’d feel when you went to watch the opera, ballet, or listen to an orchestra.
Josh was in the living room sitting in the armchair with a low fire going in the antique fireplace. It was just like the vision I had when I first saw this room. Josh was reading a book. He looked tired but a hundred times better than on Sunday.
His lips slid up into an easy smile when he saw me enter. I walked over and stood a few paces away from him.
“Hi.” He gave me a warm smile.
“Hey.” I returned the smile and gazed into the openness of his enchanting eyes. “Are you okay?”
He nodded. “I think so.”
“I love the music.”
“It’s my sister’s compilation. It’s all the pieces she performed to.”
He’d told me all about his mother and sister on Sunday. It was difficult for him to talk at first but then he did. I was intrigued to hear all that they’d done, and truly impressed. More than anything I was thoroughly captivated by the way he spoke about them. His eyes brightened and his face lit up with pride. Just like it did now. That must have meant that yesterday’s visit to the cemetery had helped him in some way.
“It’s beautiful.”
He looked me over from head to toe and said, “Yeah, you are.”
“Thank you.” My cheeks warmed as he continued to stare. “What are you reading?” The book looked very old.
“Poetry.”
I started to laugh. I’d probably have the same reaction if I came in and found him reading the bible.
“What?”
“Are you serious? It’s actual poetry?” I didn’t know if I could believe that.
“Yes. Look, see.” He held it out to me and I took it. It was a collection of post-romantic poetry and I could see that my favorite poet was listed in there: Alfred Tennyson. “Believe me now?”
I leaned my head to the side and handed the book back to him. “Josh, I feel like I just walked into theTwilight Zone. But the good part. I think.”
He chuckled. “You don’t believe I like poetry?”
“It’s hard to get my head round.” I looked at him and observed his overly masculine presence and stature. There was no way that I would guess that he had a softer side, one that would appreciate classical music and poetry. But here he was. “What’s your favorite from the book?”
“In Memoriam’ by Tennyson.” He said it without thinking.
I loved that poem, and anything by Tennyson.
“That’s a really long poem.”
“Doesn’t bother me, princess.” He straightened up and smiled, setting the book down on the coffee table, then recited, “Be near me when my light is low, when the blood creeps, and the nerves prick. And tingle; and the heart is sick. And all the wheels of being slow.”
My eyes widened in surprise. He was actually quoting the poem.
He smiled when he saw my reaction and continued, “Be near me when the sensuous frame is rack'd with pangs that conquer trust. And time, a maniac scattering dust. And life, a fury slinging flame.”
