Excerpts
|
Author, Denise Elam Dauw, reads the following excerpts from "If Music Be the Food of Love" (2nd Ed):
1. Preface 2. Mae, Chapter 1: Natural 3. Elizabeth, Chapter 3: Energy www.denise-elam-dauw.com Copyright 2020 Denise Elam Dauw/ Stellar Press |
|
PREFACE
It is happening. She can feel it. Every day she inches closer toward the inevitable feeling, like a raindrop falling into an abyss of water, lost forever. She is her mother’s daughter, at least in this way, and it looms like a dark cloud. Waiting. Down in the fabric of her bones and gene deep...
MAE
CHAPTER 1: NATURAL
CHAPTER 1: NATURAL
Knock! Knock!
She faintly hears two taps on the oversized solid oak door to her room from the main hallway. Raising her head slowly to peer at the man crossing the threshold, she attempts to recall his face. Like usual, her mind turns blank, but she smiles and waits. The tall man gracefully approaches to touch the back of her wheelchair. He grins before leaning down to steal a quick kiss from her wrinkled cheek accompanied by a small hug, then sits on the cushioned chair at her side. Her head follows his figure, gradually finding his face and eyes.
“Good morning, Mae. I haven’t heard one of your great stories in a while. Would you do me the honor today?” The man speaks in a tender voice reminiscent of another era.
Mae glances over his features, trying to decipher present attributes. That he is handsome is an understatement. The man is dressed in a deep-brown suit over an ivory button-up shirt. His brown shoes are worn and need polishing, though one would never notice as his face is unequivocally breathtaking. With piercing blue eyes gleaming underneath thick brows, to the sharp downward angle of his nose balancing a full set of perfectly sculpted lips, it is difficult to notice anything else about his clothing.
“You look like my husband. He has the same hair color.”
“Really?” The man displays a set of straight white teeth.
Slightly delirious from the flawless face, she takes a moment to regain her thoughts and pans down to hide a subtle blush.
With meticulous dedication to personal hygiene, Mae visits a salon regularly in the assisted-living facility to freshen the large soft curls in her hair. The pigment previously held a golden hue and now resembles a silvery gray with deep sapphire eyes behind plastic glasses. The staff helps Mae find a small portion of her jewelry, allowing for the half-inch gold necklace and matching bracelet to be worn daily. She fidgets with the zipper of her red sweat suit jacket before looking up.
“My Henry and I were so in love.” She takes in winded shallow bits of air and gazes out the window, descending into her reflection of another time. “He was always trying to speak with me, but I was busy taking care of other patients.”
“Other patients?”
“I was seventeen years old when I graduated from high school. My parents knew I was bound for nursing school before I did.” Mae pauses to catch her breath while admiring the pale-pink roses outside the window. “The day after graduation, my father drove me directly to Boonville. He convinced the nuns to accept me straight away into their program. I was top of my class in the US Cadet Corps.” She glances toward him with a crooked smile.
He reciprocates a surprised expression, raising one eyebrow with a soft grin. Mae’s frail heart flutters with palpitations, attempting to assimilate whether she is imagining his presence in the room. She feels a connection with him in a way she cannot describe; however, the various medications forced down her throat daily leads to second-guessing.
Turning back to the window, Mae lets her words drift to an inaudible whisper as she focuses on the memory she struggles to see clearly.
Certain days, thoughts are just flickers and flashes of time. On occasion, she can make a few recollections come into perspective long enough to recount pieces of her story. A margin of error is inevitable with conjured details and probable mistakes, but this particular memory is quite lucid, picturing the beatific and radiant spirit in the chair as her Henry.
She faintly hears two taps on the oversized solid oak door to her room from the main hallway. Raising her head slowly to peer at the man crossing the threshold, she attempts to recall his face. Like usual, her mind turns blank, but she smiles and waits. The tall man gracefully approaches to touch the back of her wheelchair. He grins before leaning down to steal a quick kiss from her wrinkled cheek accompanied by a small hug, then sits on the cushioned chair at her side. Her head follows his figure, gradually finding his face and eyes.
“Good morning, Mae. I haven’t heard one of your great stories in a while. Would you do me the honor today?” The man speaks in a tender voice reminiscent of another era.
Mae glances over his features, trying to decipher present attributes. That he is handsome is an understatement. The man is dressed in a deep-brown suit over an ivory button-up shirt. His brown shoes are worn and need polishing, though one would never notice as his face is unequivocally breathtaking. With piercing blue eyes gleaming underneath thick brows, to the sharp downward angle of his nose balancing a full set of perfectly sculpted lips, it is difficult to notice anything else about his clothing.
“You look like my husband. He has the same hair color.”
“Really?” The man displays a set of straight white teeth.
Slightly delirious from the flawless face, she takes a moment to regain her thoughts and pans down to hide a subtle blush.
With meticulous dedication to personal hygiene, Mae visits a salon regularly in the assisted-living facility to freshen the large soft curls in her hair. The pigment previously held a golden hue and now resembles a silvery gray with deep sapphire eyes behind plastic glasses. The staff helps Mae find a small portion of her jewelry, allowing for the half-inch gold necklace and matching bracelet to be worn daily. She fidgets with the zipper of her red sweat suit jacket before looking up.
“My Henry and I were so in love.” She takes in winded shallow bits of air and gazes out the window, descending into her reflection of another time. “He was always trying to speak with me, but I was busy taking care of other patients.”
“Other patients?”
“I was seventeen years old when I graduated from high school. My parents knew I was bound for nursing school before I did.” Mae pauses to catch her breath while admiring the pale-pink roses outside the window. “The day after graduation, my father drove me directly to Boonville. He convinced the nuns to accept me straight away into their program. I was top of my class in the US Cadet Corps.” She glances toward him with a crooked smile.
He reciprocates a surprised expression, raising one eyebrow with a soft grin. Mae’s frail heart flutters with palpitations, attempting to assimilate whether she is imagining his presence in the room. She feels a connection with him in a way she cannot describe; however, the various medications forced down her throat daily leads to second-guessing.
Turning back to the window, Mae lets her words drift to an inaudible whisper as she focuses on the memory she struggles to see clearly.
Certain days, thoughts are just flickers and flashes of time. On occasion, she can make a few recollections come into perspective long enough to recount pieces of her story. A margin of error is inevitable with conjured details and probable mistakes, but this particular memory is quite lucid, picturing the beatific and radiant spirit in the chair as her Henry.
Just before sunset on Christmas Eve, Mae is one of nearly twenty nurses gathering in the foyer of the Mount St. Rose Sanatorium in St. Louis where she is carrying out a portion of her hospital residency. Dressed in standard-issue United States Cadet Corps uniforms, the nurses are a sea of formal white button-down dresses with red satin-lined navy capes. White caps are pinned to the women’s wavy, rolled hair.
The entire hospital is decorated for Christmas. A ten-foot Fraser Fir, laced with colored lights, popcorn garland, metallic tinsel, and handcrafted ornaments sends a warm greeting to visitors in the drab front lobby. The hospitality counter is overflowing with pine trimming accompanied by red bows. Christmas cards crafted with care by parish family children close to the sanatorium cover the hallways.
“We need to make two lines, ladies,” the head nurse states while passing out single sheets of manuscript paper. “Mae, Josephine, and Beth, you need to switch with someone taller and stand in the front row, please. I cannot see you. Ladies, let us practice quickly before make our way into the first room. Begin at the top of the page with ‘Joy to the World,’ then down to ‘It Came upon a Midnight Clear,’ and end with ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.’ Lucy, would you sing a C for us, please?”
Reflexively and in perfect recall, Lucy sings the reference pitch before the head nurse counts off at an allegro tempo, “One, two, ready, and.”
A mixture of timbres resonates in the foyer, descending down the C major scale for ‘Joy to the World.’ The practice session continues until the head nurse waves the lines forward down the hallway to the first patient’s room. Each time the nurses rotate through all three songs, the harmony expands. By the second floor, only a handful of the nurses keep a tight grip on their manuscript.
The entire hospital is decorated for Christmas. A ten-foot Fraser Fir, laced with colored lights, popcorn garland, metallic tinsel, and handcrafted ornaments sends a warm greeting to visitors in the drab front lobby. The hospitality counter is overflowing with pine trimming accompanied by red bows. Christmas cards crafted with care by parish family children close to the sanatorium cover the hallways.
“We need to make two lines, ladies,” the head nurse states while passing out single sheets of manuscript paper. “Mae, Josephine, and Beth, you need to switch with someone taller and stand in the front row, please. I cannot see you. Ladies, let us practice quickly before make our way into the first room. Begin at the top of the page with ‘Joy to the World,’ then down to ‘It Came upon a Midnight Clear,’ and end with ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.’ Lucy, would you sing a C for us, please?”
Reflexively and in perfect recall, Lucy sings the reference pitch before the head nurse counts off at an allegro tempo, “One, two, ready, and.”
A mixture of timbres resonates in the foyer, descending down the C major scale for ‘Joy to the World.’ The practice session continues until the head nurse waves the lines forward down the hallway to the first patient’s room. Each time the nurses rotate through all three songs, the harmony expands. By the second floor, only a handful of the nurses keep a tight grip on their manuscript.
JEAN
CHAPTER 2: GLORIA
CHAPTER 2: GLORIA
“Hello, Jean.” The slender man bends down to swiftly kiss her on the cheek. She looks up to find his face, smiles, and lifts her arms with an invitation for a hug. The man, still nicely dressed in his brown suit and ivory shirt, leans over to give Jean a warm embrace. “How are you today?” He pulls back to view her face.
Jean quickly draws her eyes, squinting from the brightness of the sun, to the yellow tea roses lined up across the courtyard. “It’s just lovely outside today, and the smell coming from the flowers is wonderful.” Her bright blue eyes hold all the genuine excitement of a five-year-old child, though she is sixty-two. With monthly salon visits, her naturally dark hair is well kept. She chills easily with the breeze as older adults do, but the warmth of the spring midmorning daylight creates happiness.
“My husband used to plant all kinds of flowers in our garden,” she continues. The polite man offers Jean his arm and gently escorts her closer to the tea roses and a nearby bench in the soft shimmer of sun-spotted shade. He assists her soft landing then sits next to her on the seat.
“I love to be in the garden as well, Jean,” he smiles angelically.
“You remind me of my husband, so tall and skinny, just like you. I always tell people he looks like Harrison Ford, but everyone thinks I’m crazy.” She chuckles. “You’re even more handsome than him, I think. What’s your name again?”
“Jean, I come to see you most days. We like to share stories,” the man replies with tender charm.
Jean lights up in response. “You know, I thought you looked familiar. This place makes me feel a little crazy sometimes, but I knew you were special. Thank you so much for coming to see me.”
“You’re quite welcome.”
While staring at this man’s eloquent face, she feels her connection too deep to be true. Is he really here with me? His presence seems surreal. Jean drifts in thought while the chill of the shade creates goose bumps over her skin. Flickers of a distant memory come to the forefront of her mind, which she welcomes. She reflects back on a cool fall evening surrounded by new friends.
“That little breeze just reminded me of one of the best nights of my life. It’s nice to know I can think back that far, even if I miss a few details.” She turns to view the man’s expectant blue eyes, giving her heart a subtle palpitation. “My family just moved to Decatur, Illinois. I was so upset to leave my high school friends back home, but as long as I had my guitar, I knew I would be okay.”
Thrilled to have some source of entertainment to cling to today, Jean is beaming about her oncoming reverie. As it shapes itself into a dreamlike quality, the faces of the people she pictures begins to blur. While this flawless man’s face next to her is fresh, Jean feels the significance of his presence take over the flashback. Is this my James?
“I was nearly seventeen and elated to be invited to a party as the new girl. Warrensburg-Latham High School wasn’t exactly the center of all things trendy in 1966, but we managed to get by with the farmer’s kids and others mixed in from the soybean, tractor, or tire factories in town.” Jean speaks fluidly, turning away to lock eyes on the bush of roses. “Of course, I brought my guitar that night. I don’t remember leaving home without it much back then.” She slows her words and drifts deeper into the memory.
Jean quickly draws her eyes, squinting from the brightness of the sun, to the yellow tea roses lined up across the courtyard. “It’s just lovely outside today, and the smell coming from the flowers is wonderful.” Her bright blue eyes hold all the genuine excitement of a five-year-old child, though she is sixty-two. With monthly salon visits, her naturally dark hair is well kept. She chills easily with the breeze as older adults do, but the warmth of the spring midmorning daylight creates happiness.
“My husband used to plant all kinds of flowers in our garden,” she continues. The polite man offers Jean his arm and gently escorts her closer to the tea roses and a nearby bench in the soft shimmer of sun-spotted shade. He assists her soft landing then sits next to her on the seat.
“I love to be in the garden as well, Jean,” he smiles angelically.
“You remind me of my husband, so tall and skinny, just like you. I always tell people he looks like Harrison Ford, but everyone thinks I’m crazy.” She chuckles. “You’re even more handsome than him, I think. What’s your name again?”
“Jean, I come to see you most days. We like to share stories,” the man replies with tender charm.
Jean lights up in response. “You know, I thought you looked familiar. This place makes me feel a little crazy sometimes, but I knew you were special. Thank you so much for coming to see me.”
“You’re quite welcome.”
While staring at this man’s eloquent face, she feels her connection too deep to be true. Is he really here with me? His presence seems surreal. Jean drifts in thought while the chill of the shade creates goose bumps over her skin. Flickers of a distant memory come to the forefront of her mind, which she welcomes. She reflects back on a cool fall evening surrounded by new friends.
“That little breeze just reminded me of one of the best nights of my life. It’s nice to know I can think back that far, even if I miss a few details.” She turns to view the man’s expectant blue eyes, giving her heart a subtle palpitation. “My family just moved to Decatur, Illinois. I was so upset to leave my high school friends back home, but as long as I had my guitar, I knew I would be okay.”
Thrilled to have some source of entertainment to cling to today, Jean is beaming about her oncoming reverie. As it shapes itself into a dreamlike quality, the faces of the people she pictures begins to blur. While this flawless man’s face next to her is fresh, Jean feels the significance of his presence take over the flashback. Is this my James?
“I was nearly seventeen and elated to be invited to a party as the new girl. Warrensburg-Latham High School wasn’t exactly the center of all things trendy in 1966, but we managed to get by with the farmer’s kids and others mixed in from the soybean, tractor, or tire factories in town.” Jean speaks fluidly, turning away to lock eyes on the bush of roses. “Of course, I brought my guitar that night. I don’t remember leaving home without it much back then.” She slows her words and drifts deeper into the memory.
It is Friday night. Jean sits alongside a circle of people around a bonfire in Lisa Maxwell’s backyard. Lisa is in the popular crowd at school, and Jean is grateful to be at an invitation-only event as a junior new to the area. She chats with the girl next to her about their social studies project due on Monday. Clear on expectations at home, her parents never let her out of the house to attend any event without completing homework. Jean feels relief knowing her perseverance pays off tonight.
Jean is mature, which is partly why people respond to her quickly. She exudes a presence that is eager and yearning to start life. Extremely comfortable making music, Jean hopes a career path in music or entertainment will be in her future. She feels a sense of freedom being a performer, but does not throw herself into opportunities. With an impressive relative ear, she is able to decipher chords without reference but never grasped note reading concepts; therefore, she naturally leans toward the entertainment route.
“Hey Jean, you brought your guitar. Why don’t you play us a song?” Lisa suggests enthusiastically from the other side of the fire.
“Oh, sure. What would you like to hear?”
“Hmm. How about…‘House of the Rising Sun’? Can you play that?”
“Yeah! It’s one of my favorites right now, and I just learned it.” Jean bends down to pull the guitar out of her black hard case. After the football team’s win tonight, she feels sharing music will make people even happier.
With the chill in the air, she figures her guitar needs a tuning check. When possible, Jean prefers not to use a pick, gently plucking the low E string with her thumb to check the pitch. The low E rings correctly in her relative ear from her practice session earlier in the evening, then she presses the low E at the fifth fret to cross-check the A string. Pressing down the fifth fret of the A to check the D, she adjusts the peg slightly. After the D is tuned, Jean moves onto G. The G is precisely synced to the reference string, so she shifts down a fret to test the B and slides back to the fifth-fret B string to check the high E string. The entire process takes her seven seconds.
Jean forms her A minor shape and starts the first of the arpeggiated chords to the popular tune. She sings after the seven-and-a-half-measure introduction. “There is… a house…in New Orleans…” While she continues with the rest of the song, people begin singing along during the refrains. She plays louder and nods her head to help keep time. Others near the house decide to walk up around the fire to listen. When the song finishes, Jean opens her eyes to a crowd of clapping and cheering people.
Jean is mature, which is partly why people respond to her quickly. She exudes a presence that is eager and yearning to start life. Extremely comfortable making music, Jean hopes a career path in music or entertainment will be in her future. She feels a sense of freedom being a performer, but does not throw herself into opportunities. With an impressive relative ear, she is able to decipher chords without reference but never grasped note reading concepts; therefore, she naturally leans toward the entertainment route.
“Hey Jean, you brought your guitar. Why don’t you play us a song?” Lisa suggests enthusiastically from the other side of the fire.
“Oh, sure. What would you like to hear?”
“Hmm. How about…‘House of the Rising Sun’? Can you play that?”
“Yeah! It’s one of my favorites right now, and I just learned it.” Jean bends down to pull the guitar out of her black hard case. After the football team’s win tonight, she feels sharing music will make people even happier.
With the chill in the air, she figures her guitar needs a tuning check. When possible, Jean prefers not to use a pick, gently plucking the low E string with her thumb to check the pitch. The low E rings correctly in her relative ear from her practice session earlier in the evening, then she presses the low E at the fifth fret to cross-check the A string. Pressing down the fifth fret of the A to check the D, she adjusts the peg slightly. After the D is tuned, Jean moves onto G. The G is precisely synced to the reference string, so she shifts down a fret to test the B and slides back to the fifth-fret B string to check the high E string. The entire process takes her seven seconds.
Jean forms her A minor shape and starts the first of the arpeggiated chords to the popular tune. She sings after the seven-and-a-half-measure introduction. “There is… a house…in New Orleans…” While she continues with the rest of the song, people begin singing along during the refrains. She plays louder and nods her head to help keep time. Others near the house decide to walk up around the fire to listen. When the song finishes, Jean opens her eyes to a crowd of clapping and cheering people.
ELIZABETH
CHAPTER 3: ENERGY
CHAPTER 3: ENERGY
Elizabeth sits on the sofa facing a black Steinway & Sons baby grand piano in the vast and beautifully decorated lobby. She stares at the instrument, running her eyes up and down the ivory keys, hearing notes in her head as if playing a masterpiece. Afraid to embarrass herself, she never ventures over to it, even if she is alone this late morning. Growing up without a piano disabled her chances of becoming a virtuoso.
“I could have been a great many things,” she speaks in a soft tone. As a child and into adulthood, she loved to draw. With a sense of spatial logic came the joy of working with her hands in painting, chalking, or imitating images captured. She may have pursued an interior design career, using obsessive-compulsive tendencies in space, linear judgment, and precision. Inherent from both parents’ overt display of passion, life as a politician would enable fighting intense battles for justice. An analytical eye also drove exploration of diverse rocks, the stars, the moon, always studying details intensely to read further into the origin of each mineral or vast landscape of the star set.
What she truly desired was to be a pianist, capable of simply running her fingers across the keys, anticipating what would flow next. Elizabeth dreamt of creating great works and compositions encompassing the beauty of Chopin or Beethoven, but with the hands of Rachmaninoff or Liszt.
“Yes, but you are also beautiful just as you are,” the unknown man claims. Still wearing his brown suit, he crosses the room to the piano. He sits on the glossy bench facing her and expresses a breathtaking smile and wink before turning to play. Elizabeth looks at him in shock, recognizing his talent and the piece within the first notes. It is significant, yet she cannot recall why. Her heart races in her chest while gazing at this man. Who is he? She is frustrated by the questions.
As the music continues on, Elizabeth relaxes and drifts with it, seeing vague scenes flash in her mind. Peering down at her soft, smooth hands, she notices a wedding ring and closes her eyes.
“I could have been a great many things,” she speaks in a soft tone. As a child and into adulthood, she loved to draw. With a sense of spatial logic came the joy of working with her hands in painting, chalking, or imitating images captured. She may have pursued an interior design career, using obsessive-compulsive tendencies in space, linear judgment, and precision. Inherent from both parents’ overt display of passion, life as a politician would enable fighting intense battles for justice. An analytical eye also drove exploration of diverse rocks, the stars, the moon, always studying details intensely to read further into the origin of each mineral or vast landscape of the star set.
What she truly desired was to be a pianist, capable of simply running her fingers across the keys, anticipating what would flow next. Elizabeth dreamt of creating great works and compositions encompassing the beauty of Chopin or Beethoven, but with the hands of Rachmaninoff or Liszt.
“Yes, but you are also beautiful just as you are,” the unknown man claims. Still wearing his brown suit, he crosses the room to the piano. He sits on the glossy bench facing her and expresses a breathtaking smile and wink before turning to play. Elizabeth looks at him in shock, recognizing his talent and the piece within the first notes. It is significant, yet she cannot recall why. Her heart races in her chest while gazing at this man. Who is he? She is frustrated by the questions.
As the music continues on, Elizabeth relaxes and drifts with it, seeing vague scenes flash in her mind. Peering down at her soft, smooth hands, she notices a wedding ring and closes her eyes.
Elizabeth is in the first week of school as a freshman music education major just two hours from home.
“Ellie, are you coming to lunch?” Her new friends wait down the hall near the music building exit while she fumbles to get items placed in her locker. After only two days on campus, she was required to audition for placement in one of two concert bands that morning by the director of bands, Dr. Shore. Nervous to perform for anyone, Ellie is still trembling from the ordeal.
“Yes, I’ll be right there!” She takes the flute her father scraped money to purchase out of her bag, then loses grip on the soft case. “Oh, shoot!” Ellie briskly bends down to retrieve it, then freezes. At the other end of her instrument, she sees a man’s hand and traces his arm up to meet a pair of piercing blue eyes. Her breath catches seeing his face.
He stares back and speaks softly. “Please, allow me,” he offers in a soothing voice.
“Thank you.” She slowly stands, never losing eye contact. The two exchange a tender smile and glance away. The tall gentleman hands her flute over to place in the locker.
“I’m Robert.” He tucks both hands in the pockets of his beige wide-leg dress pants. The button-down sky-blue shirt enhances his eye color extraordinarily further. His straight teeth are a brilliant white, which contrasts the brown, softly gelled hairstyle. Robert’s profile is stunning.
“I’m Elizabeth, but everyone calls me Ellie.” She fidgets with a strand of her golden hair. A silver barrette holds back long bangs as thick hair flows into large curls down the middle of her torso.
“It’s wonderful to meet you, Ellie,” Robert replies with a grin, looking into her blue eyes.
“Likewise, Robert.” Ellie’s ivory cheeks flush a vibrant shade of pink to match her blouse.
“Ellie, we’re waiting for you!” her friends call from outside.
“Oh, I’ve got to be going.” She concentrates on the task of keeping her instrument safe and clamps down on the lock.
“I hope we meet again soon, Ellie,” Robert offers kindly. Ellie tries to put one foot in front of the other as she exits the building, but both glance back while walking away.
“Ellie, are you coming to lunch?” Her new friends wait down the hall near the music building exit while she fumbles to get items placed in her locker. After only two days on campus, she was required to audition for placement in one of two concert bands that morning by the director of bands, Dr. Shore. Nervous to perform for anyone, Ellie is still trembling from the ordeal.
“Yes, I’ll be right there!” She takes the flute her father scraped money to purchase out of her bag, then loses grip on the soft case. “Oh, shoot!” Ellie briskly bends down to retrieve it, then freezes. At the other end of her instrument, she sees a man’s hand and traces his arm up to meet a pair of piercing blue eyes. Her breath catches seeing his face.
He stares back and speaks softly. “Please, allow me,” he offers in a soothing voice.
“Thank you.” She slowly stands, never losing eye contact. The two exchange a tender smile and glance away. The tall gentleman hands her flute over to place in the locker.
“I’m Robert.” He tucks both hands in the pockets of his beige wide-leg dress pants. The button-down sky-blue shirt enhances his eye color extraordinarily further. His straight teeth are a brilliant white, which contrasts the brown, softly gelled hairstyle. Robert’s profile is stunning.
“I’m Elizabeth, but everyone calls me Ellie.” She fidgets with a strand of her golden hair. A silver barrette holds back long bangs as thick hair flows into large curls down the middle of her torso.
“It’s wonderful to meet you, Ellie,” Robert replies with a grin, looking into her blue eyes.
“Likewise, Robert.” Ellie’s ivory cheeks flush a vibrant shade of pink to match her blouse.
“Ellie, we’re waiting for you!” her friends call from outside.
“Oh, I’ve got to be going.” She concentrates on the task of keeping her instrument safe and clamps down on the lock.
“I hope we meet again soon, Ellie,” Robert offers kindly. Ellie tries to put one foot in front of the other as she exits the building, but both glance back while walking away.