Goldilocks Forever

Chapter 19

Santa Monica, California

March 2006

Anna fell into the chair with a breath of—relief? Disappointment? She sat for several moments, letting her normal breath calm her, and listening to the sounds of the house. Silence. Too quiet. Ignoring George's instructions, she went downstairs and drifted cautiously, steering clear of the hallway behind the kitchen.

Everyone was occupied, hidden in secret rooms, hashing out whatever great emergency Ricardo perceived. She was alone. She ran back up the stairs and returned to the study. Sabian's chair was spun in a half circle from the desk; he'd risen from it in such a hurry. She looked around with curiosity, but opening the drawers of the desk was beyond what she could allow herself to do.

The volumes on the bookshelves were earth-colored volumes like artifacts he'd dug up from some ancient library. She read their titles and swept her fingers along the spines, feeling the texture of leather and old parchment. On the bookcase nearest to the desk, all the titles were in French, on the next, Italian. Only on the shelves at the rear of the room were modern titles and authors displayed.

Two doors in the room were the only wall spaces not covered by books: the entrance and the smaller doorway at the back of the room, partially hidden by the shelves at which Anna now stood and stared.

The second door was ajar. She couldn't resist. She couldn't prevent her hand from touching the doorknob and pushing it enough so she could squeeze through. Some magnet from the other side pulled her in and sucked her into the hidden room. George referred to this room as "Sabian's gallery". He'd forbidden her from entering it.

But George isn't around. To hell with him anyway.

She slid into the room alongside two broad windows that spanned the back. Sunlight streamed in, and if light could have a mood, the sun rays here joyously fell upon the room, blessing it.

Like the study, Sabian had similarly crammed this room full. From floor to ceiling hung paintings framed in a variety of styles and materials in a mish-mash of artwork. Degas—his ballerinas made her think begrudgingly of Casey--next to Dali, Waterhouse next to Pollock. Despite her first chaotic impression, as she walked through the room and took in the paintings, she understood Sabian's intent. Each work contrasted with freshness when viewed next to the one before it.

Anna made a slow study of the room, and then turned and faced the shadows, a corner the sunlight didn't reach. Her eyes, like spotlights highlighting a singer on a stage, found the violin.

"Ohhhhh..." She gasped in delight and gravitated to the glass cabinet in which the violin hung like luscious fruit. She reached out for it, her fingers extended. What if there was an alarm? What would Sabian do to her if he caught her there? What would George do?

She searched the cabinet for any sign of security. The doors weren't locked, and there didn't appear to be any wires that might signify an alarm. With each passing second, she grew more and more desperate to touch the violin, to feel it in her hands, and to have its body resting under her chin. That old familiar feeling--she hadn't felt in so long.

She unlatched the cabinet doors and pried them apart. When no glass or wood separated her from the instrument, she sighed wistfully and stroked the curves on the violin. Its bow hung on a peg nearby. Tears formed in her eyes. She'd never seen anything more beautiful. She took the instrument off its pegs and curled her fingers around its neck. Carefully, she balanced the violin between her chin and shoulder and reached for the bow.

Anna's heart raced with anticipation. She held her breath until she brought the bow to the strings and evoked a long peal of music from the dormant form. The violin squawked in protest. She adjusted the tuning pegs and tried again and again until the sound was perfect, an auditory miracle. The tears rolled down her cheeks freely.