Read Online Dreams of Fire (Maple Hill Chronicles Book 1) by Elizabeth Alix - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elizabeth Alix
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knew, he didn’t know where to find her. Those emails were only fishing for her, and she wasn’t going to rise to the bait like a trout. She took a deep breath and put her anxious thoughts aside.
Maple Hill’s Main Street was really about six blocks long if you included the historic stone building at one end. It had a plaque declaring it an historic structure and now housed part of the town library. She looked forward to checking it out next week, maybe as a break from painting. The post office was across the street in an early twentieth century brick and wood building.
There was one other old brick and wood building with an antique marquee on the front declaring the name of a recent movie. “Avery Theater” was spelled out in decorative plaster above it. The painted parts were weathered and chipping. Many of the marquee bulbs were broken or missing. The whole building had an air of grandeur gone to seed, like a movie star showing her age badly. Marianne couldn’t remember seeing any movies there when she was little, but she thought it would be fun to see a movie there sometime.
The side streets off Main had shops and businesses for about a block to either side, segueing into residences after that. She even found Hair Magic, the beauty salon, down a side street, closed for business on alternate Saturdays.
Marianne returned to the house sweaty but happier. The clutter of boxes in the band-aid pink living room was a depressing sight. She had just gotten most of her stuff out of boxes after the divorce when she’d had to pack everything hastily and move again. This would be the next room to paint after the bedrooms, she vowed. Then she’d be able to unpack.
Across the room the old upright piano sat half hidden by boxes. She was glad to have hauled it all the way here. Her mother had played beautifully, and Marianne loved to listen. She’d wanted to play the saxophone, but her mother had insisted on the piano for starters. Needless to say she never did learn to play the saxophone. She recalled practicing grudgingly for what seemed like hours. Now, it would be fun to see how much she remembered. Exercise books, some easy Bach and Schumann, as well as some Disney books were soon piled up on the top of the upright.
Well, Geoffrey was not here to make her feel guilty or awkward about playing, so she sat down and opened a plain yellow covered book full of Bach pieces. She vaguely remembered playing the first one with all the pencil notes dated April 1986 (she’d been eleven) that Mrs. Yates had written.
After some minutes of struggling to play with both hands together and remembering how to read music at the same time, she gave up and put one of the simple exercise books on top of it and tried again. She surprised herself by spending more than an hour pleasantly absorbed in working her way through the first bit of the exercise book and dredging up her rusty memories. Finally, she tried the Bach again and managed to read the melody line well enough to raise the tune off the page and into her ear.
She stretched, pleased with herself and went off to the kitchen for dinner. After eating she sat with her laptop and surfed the Internet for a while, visiting some of her favorite websites both for history and for fun. At last she turned out the light and lay down on the mattress in the living room to sleep.
Please, no nightmares tonight, she thought. I really want to sleep. Oscar hopped up and lay on the bed with her, and she stroked his side till she dozed off.
Some hours later she dreamt of her mother, and when she emerged, she heard faint, familiar music playing. For a few moments she thought she was still dreaming about her mother playing, and then she realized the piano music was the Pachelbel Canon. The sound was ethereal and ghostly in the dark as if the pianist didn’t want to disturb her but couldn’t help playing. Her scalp prickled as she pictured someone sitting on the bench, playing only a
Maple Hill’s Main Street was really about six blocks long if you included the historic stone building at one end. It had a plaque declaring it an historic structure and now housed part of the town library. She looked forward to checking it out next week, maybe as a break from painting. The post office was across the street in an early twentieth century brick and wood building.
There was one other old brick and wood building with an antique marquee on the front declaring the name of a recent movie. “Avery Theater” was spelled out in decorative plaster above it. The painted parts were weathered and chipping. Many of the marquee bulbs were broken or missing. The whole building had an air of grandeur gone to seed, like a movie star showing her age badly. Marianne couldn’t remember seeing any movies there when she was little, but she thought it would be fun to see a movie there sometime.
The side streets off Main had shops and businesses for about a block to either side, segueing into residences after that. She even found Hair Magic, the beauty salon, down a side street, closed for business on alternate Saturdays.
Marianne returned to the house sweaty but happier. The clutter of boxes in the band-aid pink living room was a depressing sight. She had just gotten most of her stuff out of boxes after the divorce when she’d had to pack everything hastily and move again. This would be the next room to paint after the bedrooms, she vowed. Then she’d be able to unpack.
Across the room the old upright piano sat half hidden by boxes. She was glad to have hauled it all the way here. Her mother had played beautifully, and Marianne loved to listen. She’d wanted to play the saxophone, but her mother had insisted on the piano for starters. Needless to say she never did learn to play the saxophone. She recalled practicing grudgingly for what seemed like hours. Now, it would be fun to see how much she remembered. Exercise books, some easy Bach and Schumann, as well as some Disney books were soon piled up on the top of the upright.
Well, Geoffrey was not here to make her feel guilty or awkward about playing, so she sat down and opened a plain yellow covered book full of Bach pieces. She vaguely remembered playing the first one with all the pencil notes dated April 1986 (she’d been eleven) that Mrs. Yates had written.
After some minutes of struggling to play with both hands together and remembering how to read music at the same time, she gave up and put one of the simple exercise books on top of it and tried again. She surprised herself by spending more than an hour pleasantly absorbed in working her way through the first bit of the exercise book and dredging up her rusty memories. Finally, she tried the Bach again and managed to read the melody line well enough to raise the tune off the page and into her ear.
She stretched, pleased with herself and went off to the kitchen for dinner. After eating she sat with her laptop and surfed the Internet for a while, visiting some of her favorite websites both for history and for fun. At last she turned out the light and lay down on the mattress in the living room to sleep.
Please, no nightmares tonight, she thought. I really want to sleep. Oscar hopped up and lay on the bed with her, and she stroked his side till she dozed off.
Some hours later she dreamt of her mother, and when she emerged, she heard faint, familiar music playing. For a few moments she thought she was still dreaming about her mother playing, and then she realized the piano music was the Pachelbel Canon. The sound was ethereal and ghostly in the dark as if the pianist didn’t want to disturb her but couldn’t help playing. Her scalp prickled as she pictured someone sitting on the bench, playing only a
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