It feels good to connect with family. At least they are safe.
I walk on and think of Dad. The man I never got to know or didn’t want to know. He’d left us all when we were young. He had vanished and never kept in contact. Mom, my brother, and I are enough, and we are a tightlittle team.
After returning to the chateau,I whip up a fancy open sandwich for Grumpy. I then make another dish, like a Spanish omelet. I add capers, pesto, and olives, plus a parmesan sauce with truffles on the side. I then leave them where I’d been asked to.
The navy-clad grump will soon realize I have real skills, even if he doesn’t like it. I walk around the inside of the chateau with the same idea.
That if I am respectful, there is no harm in exploring.
I find an indoor pool, a small cinema, a large ballroom, and an amazing art gallery-type hall.
I think it’s what some call a grand hall, but I also find a great sunroom with hanging ferns.
After pushing on, I find a grand piano in another room. It is down the side of the chateau, overlooking the rose garden.
The room has arched windows, and it is gorgeous, with old landscape paintings covering an oak wall.
Since the age of seven, Mom had taught me piano.
I’m not bad, so I sit. I know Grumpy is three stories above, and I know the house is as strong as they come. There is no way in heck he will ever hear me.
After trying out keys and realizing the piano is perfectly kept and in good shape, I center myself. I then start to play.
I was good as a young teen, but I did not want to continue all the way. I had won some competitions, but I did not think I would be the best. That was when I gave up.
After playing a few pieces I’ve always enjoyed, including Bach and some Vivaldi, I hear footsteps.
My fingers miss some of the keys, and I spin to find Grumpy.
“Oh, shit! Sorry, I…”
“No, it’s fine,” Grumpy says while watching, intrigued. He crosses his arms and watches me from the distance. “Please, continue.”
I do, even if it feels strange.
Grumpy walks around the room from afar, and he listens and observes. Although I’ve been caught out, there is nothing I can do now. I may as well enjoy it.
I also know I’m wearing more rough clothes, including a black singlet, my black jeans, and my casual white Converse. Screw it, I can play, and in the day, I played well.
Deciding to let loose, I finish the piece.
I then calm my energy and close my eyes. I undo my slightly untamed hair and shake it out. I then get into it and start the old complex classic.
As Vivaldi flies from my fingers, I start to find flow. I play with precision on the perfectly tuned piano.
I then crank it and start to really find my rhythm. I have not played in such a large room and with such a well-tuned classy piano. If not now, then when?
And if the smug bastard fires me over this, and if this is the last time we ever share space, it would be me—and only me—in control.
With my wild hair flying like a mad woman and with fingers speeding over the ebony and ivory, I work precisely through the classic.
For some reason, I am in the zone, and my hands whip up and down the keyboards, overlapping and moving with precision.
I then start on the complex finale. As I push through the final and complicated section, putting the piece to bed, I drop out of breath.
My God, I feel alive.
Really fucking alive.
