Barbara Dunlop - A Secret Life

“Then they think Samuel knows something, too. The break-ins have focused on his place, not mine.” She was silent a moment. “What could he possibly know that would-”

“Stop doing this, Joan.”

“Is there something in the transcripts? Was Samuel a witness?”

“I thought you were taking an emotional break?”

“Break’s over. The margaritas wore off.”

Well, Anthony sure wasn’t ready for the break to be over. But he wasn’t about to start another argument tonight.

He leaned forward and kissed her on the mouth, reaching for another condom. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

He nodded. “But surely you’re not planning to leave tonight.”

“Of course not.”

“Good. Then we’ve got at least six hours of our break left.” He kissed her again.

This time, she kissed him back. “Why are you being so agreeable?”

He put his arms around her and settled her flush against his body. “It’s the new me.”

“There’s no new you.”

“Then it’s the old me.” He slid his palm over the small of her back and down her rear end, kneading into her taut muscles. “Or maybe it’s the aroused me.”

“ That I can believe.”

“Good.” He kissed her deeply, drawing out her tongue, savoring the sweetness of her mouth. “Because even the agreeable me isn’t letting you out of this bed before morning.”

She slid her arms around his neck. “Guess I could be agreeable on that point, too.”

“Finally. Something.”

She giggled, then quickly sobered, peppering his mouth with little kisses while her legs twined sensuously with his.

HEATHER SATcross-legged on the floor of Samuel’s trashed bedroom, separating shorts from T-shirts from slacks and boxers while the hot sun set far over Bayou Teche. They’d spent the entire day in the kitchen and living room, and the cottage was finally starting to look livable.

“What happened to all your underwear?” she asked, gauging the relative size of the piles in front of her.

Samuel glanced up from where he was gluing one of the dresser drawers back together. “What underwear?”

She pointed to two pairs of black silk boxers. “Maybe we finally figured out what he stole.”

“I sleep in those,” said Samuel.

Heather glanced around. “So, where’s… Oh. ”

He laughed and went back to work. “Guess they don’t do that in Boston either, huh?”

She stood, carrying the T-shirt pile to one of the empty drawers that hadn’t been broken. “It’s a lot colder up in Boston.”

“And the men are a lot more upright.”

“They wear suits. Some of them are wool.”

“Poor babies.”

“There’s nothing wimpy about wearing underwear. I wear underwear.”

“Sometimes.”

“Don’t start with me.”

“Start what?”

“You’re still wearing your sling, bucko.”

“I can take it off anytime.”

She layered the shirts by color order in the bottom of the drawer. “The doctor told you to wait until tomorrow.”

“What does he know?”

“You mean just because he took the trouble to attend medical school?”

“It’s my arm.”

She returned for a pile of western shirts. “And if you want to keep it, you’ll do what he says.”

“Are you threatening me?”

She turned to give him an incredulous stare. “No.”

“You’re not threatening to take off my arm if I don’t obey orders?”

“I’m suggesting you’ll get an infection if you don’t listen to your medical professional.”

“Oh.”

She headed toward the dresser. “You’re weird.”

“Don’t put those in the dresser.”

She turned.

“They go in the closet.”

She gave him a snappy salute. “Yes, sir.”

He grinned. “Gotcha.”

“Oh, get over yourself.” She tried unsuccessfully to fight the shimmer of awareness caused by his smoldering gaze. Angling her path, she opened the door to his closet. The thief had dragged most of the contents from the closet, and now nothing remained but a few stray hangers on the bar and a black…

She peered into a darkened corner shelf.

Hello.

She set down the shirts and slid the old leather case into her hands. “What’s this?” She turned to Samuel, holding it out.

“Dad’s fiddle.”

“May I?” she asked.

“That’s right. You play, don’t you?”

“I play the violin.”

“ Excuse me.”

She felt a twinge of guilt. She hadn’t meant to insult his father. “You mind if I take a look?”

“Go ahead.”

Heather set the old case on Samuel’s bed and flicked open the catches. When she raised the lid, her breath caught in her throat.

She looked closer, running her fingertips along the satiny varnish and the exquisite arching of maple and spruce. The grain was tight and well defined. But it was the scroll that caught her eye and made her catch her breath. She carefully lifted the instrument from the case and looked for the telltale stylized A.

Her heart rate tripled. “Samuel?” It was impossible to keep her voice from shaking.

“What’s wrong?”

“This is an Ambrogino.”

“No, it’s a fiddle.”

She shook her head. “This is no fiddle. Ambrogino was second only to Stradivarius as a master violin craftsman.”

She pivoted to face Samuel. “Do you know where your father got this?”

Samuel’s brow furrowed. “Are you insinuating he stole it?”

“Of course not. Quit being paranoid. Does your family have money or something?”

“Only what I make.”

“Because this is museum quality.”

“I think he got it from his dad.” There was a faraway look in Samuel’s eyes. “It was just what he played on the porch after supper.”

Heather looked back down at the magnificent instrument, her fingertips itching. She’d give anything to play it on somebody’s porch after supper. “May I?”

Samuel shrugged.

She drew the bow out of the case, found the rosin and tightened the strings. Then she plucked the strings, bringing them into tune. When the violin was ready, she took a very deep breath.

She started with Vivaldi, the rich tones flowing through her like melted honey. Then she moved to Chopin and finally to a Bach sonata.

When the last note died away, Samuel frowned. “It didn’t sound like that when Dad played it.”

She couldn’t help but smile. “He actually played Cajun music on an Ambrogino.”

“Well, that sure made you sound like an insufferable snob,” said Samuel.

Heather’s conscience twigged again. But Cajun music was repetitious, full of simple double-stops and open string drones. It seemed sacrilegious to own an Ambrogino and not play around with intricate shifting and vibrato.

He crossed to the closet, going to the same shelf where she’d found the violin, and pulled out an old, leather-bound book.

He dropped it on the bed in front of her, staring defiantly into her eyes. “Here’s what my dad played. I loved his music. Didn’t like yours much.”

Heather bit guiltily down on her lip. She’d insulted a man’s dead father.

Samuel went back to gluing, and she gingerly opened the leather-bound book. It was full of random sheets of paper, some twenty years old, some maybe a hundred years old. It looked to be original music.

She stared at the beats and run-ups on the first pages-fascinating, intriguing and not nearly as simple as she’d imagined.

She went over the top tune in her mind, mentally feeling out the notes, nodding her head to the rhythm and ghosting the fingering until she was sure she had it right. Then she brought the violin to her shoulder, drew her bow and worked her way through the tune.