please feel free to tell me what you think about this book...
Jumping up, I went to the fence, peering over. "Hey! Nice song."
"Thanks."
"Would you like to come over? Have a drink? Some food? A swim? A million dollars?" I asked.
She laughed brightly, her eyes sparkling. "I'll ask," she said, turning and heading to her house. I watched her, feeling pleasantly excited at seeing her. My world felt right, balanced, and full of possibilities.
At the sound of the front door bell ringing, I glanced at Amelia's back door and headed inside.
Beautiful smoky eyes looked at me when I opened the door. Her head tilted slightly. A soft breeze blew away all thoughts in my brain and I stared at her like a moron.
"So can I come in?" Amelia asked, bringing her hand up and shaking a bag. "I brought a swim suit."
Five minutes later, we were sitting at the patio table, Amelia studying the yard while sipping the Orangina I'd bought with her in mind. She never changed into her swimsuit. I'd asked her about music, what she liked, and how she started singing, and that was it.
For an hour and a half Amelia talked, her hands moving as if directing the melody of her voice. She was completely absorbed, her face animated, beautiful eyes sparkling with excitement.
When she listened to me, her hands would settle. However, the restless fingers of her right hand continued to move as if conducting a phantom orchestra to music only heard in her head.
At one point she asked, "How long have you played the piano?"
When informed I'd been at it for seven years, she insisted we go in so she could hear me play.
"Sing, too," she encouraged, perching her butt on the armrest of an armchair, her foot swinging.
Making myself comfortable as I sat at the piano, I flexed my fingers and, with aplomb, started playing. My voice joined the piano in an harmonious baritone. I thought I was doing quite well until Amelia burst into laughter.
"No, really, sing properly," she insisted, much to my annoyance. "Quit being silly."
I stopped and frowned, not impressed. "I am singing," I insisted. Raising my hands theatrically, I plunged into the song again, this time with vigor and enthusiasm, determined to gain her approval.
Amelia proceeded to fall off the arm of the chair in a fit of giggles, her amusement forcing me to smile despite the fact that she was laughing at me. I stopped playing suddenly. Try as hard as I might, I couldn't frown, her amusement was too charming. I grinned instead.
Amelia lifted her glasses and wiped her eyes. "You're really funny," she insisted.
"Can you play the piano?" I asked, expecting her to say no.
Still laughing, she nodded and eventually said, "Uh-huh."
With easy familiarity, Amelia sat next to me on the piano bench. I shuffled down to give her room. She studied the ivory keys, touching them reverently, tenderly, almost a caress.
The first simple notes sounded, singular notes, clean. Both hands began to move and another layer of notes joined in, slow bass notes in counterpoint to the dancing treble notes creating pleasing harmony. Tempo changed, a rolling wave of harmony filling the living room, faster, slower, faster, slower, the music alive and vibrant, and suddenly, Amelia's playing became soft, quiet and soulful, making my hair stand on end.
The tempo slowed, harmony ended, and notes became separate, simple notes played gently, singular notes full of feeling, almost mournful. Bass notes faded away leaving clean, crisp treble notes echoing a final lament. Her hands stilled. The last of the music hung in the air and faded away like a wisp of smoke.
Silence.
I was stunned. If I hadn't just heard it I'd never have believed someone could put Samuel Barber's brilliant, powerful, Adagio for Strings to piano.
It wasn't fair! It was unjust for one so young to have so many talents. Mesmerizing gray eyes turned up to look at me.
"That was Adagio for Strings. Did you like it?" she asked brightly.
I nodded, still not settled enough to trust my voice.
Amelia continued, "I like it. I like playing music that wasn't written for the piano. It's fun trying to make it sound good." Her fingertips caressed the keys. "When you get it right the piano sings, too."
"Do you play music written for the piano?" I asked when I found my voice.
"Uh-huh." She tilted her head in thought. A smile broke out that just about stopped my heart. "This is one of my favorites," she announced and, with the same motion, her fingers touched the keys in a caress as if introducing herself to them. Her hands stilled. She began.
The piece was immediately recognizable. It was one of my absolute favorite piano pieces. She took me away with the delicate tinkle of high notes, the rhythmic bass notes, the ebb and flow of pure, beautiful music.
And then I noticed. Amelia had her eyes closed. She was playing blind, perfectly, full of emotion, a haunting piece. She scared me to my core. No one could have such talent. It wasn't human.
As the final notes of Evgeni's Waltz faded into nothingness, it left me empty and drained, hair raised on my arms.