“This is us.”
I gasped in surprise, cricking my neck up to the sky to view the old brick house towering up and above the rusted, ornate gates. I never knew much about architecture or how to tell what period a house was from, but I could tell that in its day, this house would have been very swanky. Even now in its overgrown, dark setting it was clearly very regal. Although the house was partially hidden from prying eyes, the rusted gates did a pitiful job obscuring its magnificence.
The porch lights illuminated deep red bricks and massive oak doors. Green ivy crept up the front of the house and detoured around white-framed windows, its tendrils sneaking off into the shadows.
“You’re kidding,” I whispered, still awe-struck that a guy who travelled by train would live in such affluence.
His sparkling eyes melted as he smiled. “That’s one thing I can tell you for certain, Estelle, I never kid.”
With a groan and a prolonged creak, the gates opened before us, and hand in hand we stepped over the dew-covered gravel, and up the concrete steps dusted with tinges of moss that led to the front doors.
My mouth dropped open in wonderment as we reached the top of the steps. “It’s magnificent, David—I don’t know what to say.”
He fished in his coat pocket, searching for his keys, and once found, unlocked one of the oversized, carved doors that stood before us. There was an intricate golden knocker secured on the front of the door, molded into the shape of a hand. I had never seen anything quite like it, and even though it was just a doorknocker, its beauty fascinated me.
Pushing open the door, he stepped aside, indicating with his hand that I should enter first. I was used to that ploy, and made sure I gave in to his desires with a hint of a bum wiggle in acknowledgment to his wily tactics.
“Oh my,” I whispered to myself. This is unbelievable.
He sniffed the air again, unfazed by my shock. “I don’t know what to tell you that doesn’t make me sound like I’m stuck up my own ass.”
I giggled, turning back to look at him. “Tell me whatever you like—it’s okay. I’ve heard in passing that this area is one of the best.”
He laughed, closing the door behind him. “If that’s what they say, then Christ, it must be true.”
I poked his chest playfully, knowing it probably wasn’t appropriate, but not caring. I had done a lot more to him in my dreams, and he had never complained then. “So?” I gazed up into his eyes seductively, hoping we would skip the chitchat and re-enact one of the dreams. “Tell me about it.”
He shrugged. “What can I say? It’s old money. Generations of it. My father is South African; my mother is English. I grew up in Jozi.”
“Jozi?”
He laughed at my expression. “Johannesburg, South Africa—Sandton to be exact. My parents have many investment properties around the world, and this was one of them. I purchased this house from them when I left South Africa, many years ago. I spent a few Christmases here with my brother, growing up, and I didn’t want to let go of the memories, not when they are so precious to me.”
I wrinkled my nose in thought. “That must be nice, coming from money.”
He snorted at my presumption. “It’s not.”
I gave his hand a quick squeeze, trying to lighten the mood. “Now I understand why you’ve got such a sexy accent. It’s so hot; I love it! Do you speak Afrikaans?”
His lips curled down in thought. “I haven’t ever thought of my accent as ‘sexy’. It is what it is. I hardly speak Afrikaans anymore; it doesn’t tend to come up in day to day conversation.”
Taking my hand, he led me down a long, dark, carpeted hall. Through one room after another, I followed him, trying to look around without seeming like that was exactly what I was doing. My mother had always said it was rude to stare, and even though I didn’t want to—I tried my best to follow her advice.
Finally, we arrived in the living room, or formal room, or whatever one calls such a grand space. There was an open fireplace, deep navy plush carpets, and thick matching curtains that reached from the ceiling all the way to the ground. From the grandeur of the embellished plaster ceiling hung a massive crystal-cut chandelier and in the center of the room sat an oversized piano covered in dust.
“This is just too much!” I blurted out in excitement the moment I saw it. “You even have a piano—wow, it’s so amazing! Can I touch it?”
He chuckled and nodded, clearly entertained by my excited bouncing. “Amazing? I’d never thought of it like that. It’s just a very old Steinway—nothing more, nothing less.”
I walked over to it and ran my hand over the dusty, carved wood. “A what?”
He smiled, “That’s the make of the piano. It doesn’t mean that much really—it’s just an exceedingly expensive block of wood.” He took off his coat, tossing it over the antique rolled couch. “It was a gift from my parents.”
“Really? Wow, that’s generous of them; do you play?”
“No it wasn’t, and not anymore.”
I turned back to look at his scrumptious, sculpted body and tried to read his face. “I’m confused. What do you mean?”
My naiveté must have stood out to him so much at that point, and yet in his grace he just smiled at me. “I don’t expect you to understand—not many people do.” Shaking his head he walked out of the room.
“What happened?” I called after him.
“You know how most people have baggage?” he called from down the hall.
“Mmm.” I sat down on the edge of the couch, worried I would somehow mess it up.
He came back into the room and sat down on the piano stool in front of me. “I’ve got so much of it, they don’t even let me in the airport anymore.”
I looked at him blankly. “What? Have you been banned from the airport?”
He sniggered, reaching his fingers behind him as he lifted the lid of the piano. “No, I’m just being a smartass. Don’t mind me, I’m rambling. I do that when I’m nervous.”
I giggled, putting my head to one side. “You? Nervous? Why?”
He smirked, his eyes dropping to his knees. “A beautiful woman is watching me. I prefer to watch others than to be watched.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Oh, so you’re a silent observer?”
He nodded. “I like to think of myself that way. You can learn a lot about the world, if you just shut up and listen.”
Turning his back on me without another word, he swiveled his body around on the stool, clicked out his knuckles, and then placed his fingers on the ivory keys.
Without any music in front of him, he closed his eyes and began to play.
The emotion and unadulterated, sublime beauty that flowed out of his brain, ran through his fingertips, and flowed into the keys was almost too much for me to bear. Tears of disbelief began to flood my eyes and run down my cheeks. He was simply beautiful. More than that, he was astonishing. I was in awe. Open-mouthed and literally glued to my seat, I watched him and the pure grace he released into the music.
He made that “expensive block of wood” come to life, and right then and there, in that exact moment—I was hypnotized.
After ten minutes or so, he opened his eyes, and looked around at me, just in time to see me wipe away another tear. He stopped playing and rested his hands in his lap.
I sat there on the couch, barely able to breathe. “Oh my god—you’re amazing, I can’t believe it! You’re so…”
“Gifted?” He smiled, shaking his head in thought. “I think that’s the word you’re looking for.”
I nodded, wiping away another tear. “Yes —you’re so amazingly gifted. When did you learn to play like that?”
He sneered as he shut the heavy wooden lid, covering the ivory keys from view. Then he swiveled back around on his stool to face me. His fingers ran up and over his forehead like he had a migraine.
“I’ve been playing since I was three years old. They told me I was gifted, a real-live prodigy. I was rolled out at every single even
t, made to practice for hours a day until my hands cramped and my wrists ached. I have a master’s degree, an honoree doctorate, and I’ve played in many of the best concert halls all around the world—all before I was twenty-four.”
I blinked, hanging on every word that fell from his lips; it was like I was staring at some sort of modern Beethoven.
“And then what happened…?”
He smiled, leaning backwards as he rested his elbows on the curved lid. “And then I lost everything and grew up in the process. I told them to get fucked.”
I leaned forward, not understanding any of it. “Who?”
He closed his eyes, rubbing his brow again as if the aching had re-appeared. “I couldn’t take the constant pressure, Estelle. The constant burden that I had to be this amazing pianist. They didn’t even care whether I liked it or not. I was never even given a choice—it was just what I had to be.”
I blinked, watching the sadness pour out of his heart. I didn’t know what to say; I had never been talented—not even close.
“Every child should be able to choose what they want to do in life, and love what they do, or at least be given a chance to love and explore different things. I never was. I was just told that I had to be a pianist, and if I wasn’t, I would be letting down the family, letting down society, letting down God.”
I nodded, instantly drawn to his pain.
“Do you know what it’s like to live with the constant pressure of being something you don’t want to be?” He dropped his head, staring at the fingers that rested in his lap. “I wish I couldn’t play.”
I stood up in silence, and slowly walked towards him. I wasn’t thinking, and I didn’t want to think. I didn’t want my brain to try and over-complicate things—I just wanted to treasure him, love him, and comfort him. Taking his face in both my hands, I whispered, “But you can—and you’re amazing.”
His dark, pained eyes met mine “Do you know how many people have told me that? How amazing I am, how talented I am, how many people I am making happy? Thousands of fucking people.”
I sat down next to him on the piano stool and continued listening.
“Do you know what no one has ever said?”
I shook my head. “Tell me.”
“No one has ever said how much passion I have for the art, or how happy I look when I play. Not one person has ever said that to me.”
I rested my hand on his shoulder, trying to comfort him, but knowing it probably wouldn’t make a scrap of difference. He stood up and walked away, turning to face me at the last minute just before he reached the door.
“Do you know why?”
I shook my head.
“Because I have none. No happiness, no passion… nothing.”
My heart really ached for him. Prior to that moment, I had never really understood the term “heartache,” but in those seconds, I knew what it meant because my heart almost cried out in sadness for him. How could one person be so talented and yet so sad?
I stood up and walked towards him. I wrapped my arms around him and hugged him as hard as I could. His voice cracked with emotion as he buried his face in my hair.
“I hate the piano. I hate everything about it. It ruined my life. I want nothing to do with it.”
I nuzzled my nose into his ear. “I can’t even begin to understand your pain, David. Nothing I say can probably comfort you, but I’m here to listen, if that’s what you want.”
His voice cracked again, and he kissed my cheek softly. “Thank you. I’m sorry for losing it. I haven’t cried in years; I don’t know what came over me. I always refuse to let emotion get the better of me. I find it easier to not feel anything at all.”
I kissed his worried forehead, softly running my fingers across it as I tried to smooth away his stress. “I’m sure that can’t be healthy.”
He shrugged, exhaling in defeat.
I whispered in his ear, “How about you play for me again?”
I kissed his neck slowly as I pulled his long fingers up to my lips and kissed them. “Please play—something you enjoy.”
His raw sadness turned to almost crazed anger in the blink of an eye. He laughed, unapologetic. “You’ll be waiting an eternity, Estelle.”
I bit my lip in a state of nervous silence. Mr. Unknown was intense.
“My whole damn life I’ve felt like a puppet on a fucking string—everyone telling me what to do, where to go, what to play. Someone get me the scissors, because I want to cut the stings forever! Cut every part of the shit out of my life. The day I left, I warned them to leave me alone. One can only take so much before they snap. All I wanted was to live life on my terms, and make decisions for myself. Everyone should have that right in their life, shouldn’t they?”
I nodded, firmly agreeing. “Yes, of course. I left my original life too, I couldn’t stand it either.”
He stepped forward and hugged me again, kissing me on my cheek, almost grateful for my simple words. “So you do understand?”
“Yes,” I whispered, only inches away from his lips, “but surely, there is something you love?”
His dark beautiful eyes subtly changed shades of color. Like a chunk of dark chocolate just beginning to soften in the sunlight, it was like a piece of his hardness melted in front of me.
“I started writing music when someone very close to me passed away. I didn’t know how else to express how I was feeling, other than to write it down. I could play you one of the first pieces I ever composed? It’s called, ‘Solitude’.”
I smiled gently, trying to deflect his pain. “I would love that, but only if you want to.”
As he began to play, I sat with him on the piano seat for the first few minutes, and then, for some reason or another, was inspired to climb up on top of the piano, where I sat in silence in front of him—listening and watching his tortured, beautiful face.
He never looked up. He was totally immersed in the music, his companionless state. His strong hands softly caressed the piano keys as they moved slower and then faster, up and down the keyboard through several different emotions.
The nuances in expression he extracted from the sterile instrument baffled me. It was like he brought it to life, like it was almost speaking, crying out, under his demanding fingers. There were moments where he pushed the keys down with such force that the loudness in volume shook through the entire piano. Next, it was as if an angel treaded through the wispy clouds above us; his delicate, softness of touch made me almost giggle in delight.
Just watching his hands aroused my senses—how I wanted those hands on me. Touching me, like he touched those keys, knowing instinctively the burning heat between my legs would melt his icy exterior in milliseconds, dissolving the void I, too, had lodged deep in my heart.
As he played the last exquisite note, he lifted his fingertips off the ivory. Like a light switch had been turned off, his cold eyes broke their intense concentration from the piano, and he looked up to meet mine.
There I sat, almost completely naked on the hard, wooden piano, ready—waiting for him to play me.
My body ached in anticipation of his touch… his body, his everything. I smiled, spreading my legs in front of him.
“Touch me, David,” I whispered. “I want every part of you within me.”
16
“Within you?” he whispered, his eyes suddenly burning through me like they had so often at the station. “Well… I wasn’t expecting that. No one has ever taken off their clothes in the middle of a performance.”
I nodded, beckoning him to my body. “Do you like what you see?”
He looked down at the keys in thought, almost shy. “Estelle, you’re a goddess. You’re giving a whole new meaning to my piano. I might even start to like the thing once we’re done.”
“Done? Isn’t that just a little presumptuous?” I playfully mocked, flicking my hair behind my shoulders so his eyes were privy to every inch of my seductive curves.
The side of his lip curled up as he shook his he
ad. “No, not at all. I’m pretty sure we want the same thing… in fact, I’m almost certain.”
I rolled onto my stomach, leaning over the piano as his eyes dropped to my breasts. “So you came into my gentleman’s club to de-stress, Mr.–?”
He smirked, his eyes still fixated on my décolletage. “So you wanna play a game do you, Estelle?” his deep voice growled.
I nodded, “Talk to me. I want you to express that mind of yours—let it out.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out some money. “Okay then, let’s play. I have a fascination with beautiful women. How about you give me a private show?”
Departed (Unbearably Gifted Book 1) Page 7