Page 31

She must keep some clothes here.

Perhaps their relationship was more serious than I thought.

“I’ll see you out.” Dylan sounded sullen as he stood.

“Bye, Emily.” Lulu’s singsong voice rang through the empty room. “Oh, and congratulations again on your results.”

“Thanks, bye,” I replied as she gave me a brief, tight smile.

Dylan stalked out of the room after her.

When he returned, he seemed happier.

“Okay, I am going to crack this,” he muttered to himself, and while I continued to paint gold leaves around the window frames, the white noise humming gently in my head, Dylan tried once more to assemble the bed.

He’d finished by lunchtime. All the furniture was made and installed in its correct place, and Dylan had moved on to putting up the blinds. I stopped painting. The leaves would take time, and I wanted to vary the colors by using the darker pink on the pale rose too. I decided to make the bed with the duvet and pillows we’d bought.

The bed faced the windows where Dylan was working, and I couldn’t resist watching him. He was back to his meticulous, careful, calm self, his earlier frustration forgotten. Wearing his cut-offs and sleeveless T-shirt, I noticed for the first time how broad his shoulders were and how clearly each of the muscles on his arms and back were defined. I’d never seen him work out, but he must.

Dylan turned as if I’d called him. “What?” he asked, his voice terse.

“I was admiring the room,” I mumbled and, for some inexplicable reason, felt the heat rise in my cheeks.

He raised his eyebrows and glanced around at the room. It looked lovely; it had come together so well. The wall behind me was a deep, deep pink and the other walls glowed a subtle rose in the midday sun. I would hang the black-and-white prints above the bed and other prints strategically over the fireplace and above my dressing table. All I needed was a bedside light, a desk lamp, and maybe a rug or two.

Yes, this is beginning to look like home.

Home!

Pain rippled around the abyss in my chest, reminding me what the word used to mean to me and what it meant now.

Loss.

No. Stop.

“It looks good, Emily. You have a real eye for this sort of thing,” Dylan observed, pulling me out of my sad trance. He turned to continue working on the blinds while I basked briefly in the warmth of his praise.

This was what I missed—quiet encouragement. My parents had always been great at that, for Billy and for me.

Disconcerted, but pleased with his kind words, I wandered back into the undecorated room where all my belongings languished in packing crates. Beside the crate, my cello lay in her battered but solid case. I hadn’t played since before the accident.

I knelt down beside it, unfastened the locks, and slowly lifted the lid. I ran my fingers over the smooth, wooden surface of my beautiful cello. In my head, I called her Cecilia, but I’d never told my mother that. Cecilia had been my mother’s and now she was mine. Idly, I wondered if my mother had ever named this cello and hadn’t told me, but I didn’t think so. Mum was not overly sentimental, like her daughter.

I got that from Dad.

I plucked each string, and the vibrations coursed through my fingers and up my arms.

Yes. I can do this.

Gently, I lifted her out of the case, along with the bow. She smelled good, familiar—of old and well-loved spruce. It had been too long since I’d played. Sitting on the edge of one of the packing cases, I tugged out the end pin and started to tune her, adjusting each fine tuner minutely while each string sang. To my surprise, it didn’t take long.

Cecilia had been patiently waiting for me.

Taking a deep breath, I bowed a D on the A string and she sang. I tried the harmonic and it was perfect. Yes. I tried the G on the D string and Cecilia knew what I wanted to hear. The harmonic was good too.

Yes. Yes. Yes.

Taking another deep breath, I began my warm-up piece, my favorite, the Prelude from Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1. Closing my eyes, I let the music flow through me, and soon I was lost as the notes carried me slowly away to my safe space, where only the music existed. The white noise disappeared, and my chest filled and reverberated to the notes, soothing me, easing the pain, and making me forget.