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A movement distracts me from the music, and when I look up Ana’s standing by the piano. Wrapped in a comforter, her hair wild and curling down her back, eyes luminous, she looks stunning.
“Sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
Why is she apologizing? “Surely, I should be saying that to you.” I play the last notes and stand. “You should be in bed,” I chide.
“That was a beautiful piece. Bach?”
“Transcription by Bach, but it’s originally an oboe concerto by Alessandro Marcello.”
“It was exquisite, but very sad, such a melancholy melody.”
Melancholy? It wouldn’t be the first time someone has used that word to describe me.
“May I speak freely? Sir.” Leila is kneeling beside me while I work.
“You may.”
“Sir, you are most melancholy today.”
“Am I?”
“Yes, Sir. Is there something that you would like me to do…?”
I shake off the memory. Ana should be in bed. I tell her so again.
“I woke and you weren’t there.”
“I find it difficult to sleep, and I’m not used to sleeping with anyone.” I’ve told her this—and why am I justifying myself? I wrap my arm around her naked shoulders, enjoying the feel of her skin, and guide her back to the bedroom.
“How long have you been playing? You play beautifully.”
“Since I was six.” I’m abrupt.
“Oh,” she says. I think she’s taken the hint—I don’t want to talk about my childhood.
“How are you feeling?” I ask as I switch on the bedside light.
“I’m good.”
There’s blood on my sheets. Her blood. Evidence of her now-absent virginity. Her eyes dart from the stains to me and she looks away, embarrassed.
“Well, that’s going to give Mrs. Jones something to think about.”
She looks mortified.
It’s just your body, sweetheart. I grasp her chin and tip her head back so I can see her expression. I’m about to give her a short lecture on how not to be ashamed of her body, when she reaches out to touch my chest.
Fuck.
I step out of her reach as the darkness surfaces.
No. Don’t touch me.
“Get into bed,” I order, rather more sharply than I’d intended, but I hope she doesn’t detect my fear. Her eyes widen with confusion and maybe hurt.
Damn.
“I’ll come and lie down with you,” I add, as a peace offering, and from the chest of drawers I pull out a T-shirt and quickly slip it on, for protection.
She’s still standing, staring at me. “Bed,” I command more forcefully. She scrambles into my bed and lies down and I climb in behind her, folding her in my arms. I bury my face in her hair and inhale her sweet scent: autumn and apple trees. Facing away, she can’t touch me, and while I lie there I resolve to spoon with her until she’s asleep. Then I’ll get up and do some work.
“Sleep, sweet Anastasia.” I kiss her hair and close my eyes. Her scent fills my nostrils, reminding me of a happy time and leaving me replete…content, even…
Mommy is happy today. She is singing.
Singing about what love has to do with it.
And cooking. And singing.
My tummy gurgles. She is cooking bacon and waffles.
They smell good. My tummy likes bacon and waffles.
They smell so good.
Opening my eyes, light is flooding through the windows and there’s a mouthwatering aroma coming from the kitchen. Bacon. Momentarily I’m confused. Is Gail back from her sister’s?
Then I remember.
Ana.
A look at the clock tells me it’s late. I bounce out of bed and follow my nose to the kitchen.
There’s Ana. She’s wearing my shirt, her hair in braids, dancing around to some music. Only I can’t hear it. She’s wearing earbuds. Unobserved, I take a seat at the kitchen counter and watch the show. She’s whisking eggs, making breakfast, her braids bouncing as she jiggles from foot to foot, and I realize she’s not wearing underwear.
Good girl.
She has to be one of the most uncoordinated females I’ve ever seen. It’s amusing, charming, and strangely arousing at the same time; I think of all the ways I can improve her coordination. When she turns and spots me, she freezes.
“Good morning, Miss Steele. You’re very…energetic this morning.” She looks even younger in her braids.
“I-I slept well,” she stammers.
“I can’t imagine why,” I quip, admitting to myself that I did, too. It’s after nine. When did I last sleep past 6:30?
Yesterday.
After I’d slept with her.
“Are you hungry?” she asks.
“Very.” And I’m not sure if it’s for breakfast or for her.
“Pancakes, bacon, and eggs?” she says.
“Sounds great.”
“I don’t know where you keep your placemats,” she says, seeming at a loss, and I think she’s embarrassed, because I caught her dancing. Taking pity on her, I offer to set places for breakfast and add, “Would you like me to put some music on so you can continue your…er…dancing?”
Her cheeks pink and she looks down at the floor.
Damn. I’ve upset her. “Please, don’t stop on my account. It’s very entertaining.”
With a pout she turns her back on me and continues to whisk the eggs with gusto. I wonder if she has any idea how disrespectful this is to someone like me…but of course she doesn’t, and for some unfathomable reason it makes me smile. Sidling up to her, I gently tug one of her braids. “I love these. They won’t protect you.”