those years that she had dedicated to Wagner and Verdi and Puccini. Fingers flying across the keys. Eyes closed, voice uplifted. Fatally burned. He played the first three bars of âEvergreenâ because he could never play opera: love, soft as an easy chair . . . then stopped, and closed the lid over the keyboard, turning the key. From now on, it was going to stay silent, unplayed. Nobody else was going to touch it.
On top of the piano, meticulously arranged, was Celiaâs collection of scrimshawâwhale-ivory carvings from Nantucket and Salem and the Barbary Coast. Some of them dated as far back as 1720, but her favourite had always been the fragment of twenty-thousand-year-old fossilized mammoth tusk, exquisitely carved by Bonnie Schulte, one of the most accomplished scrimshanders in America.
Lloyd had promised Celia another Bonnie Schulte piece for her birthday. But the only carving she needed now was her headstone.
It was so difficult for Lloyd to believe that their life together was all over, when it had scarcely started. Even worse, there was nobody that he could call. Celiaâs parents were both dead, and although she had mentioned an older sister in Denver, Colorado, Lloyd had no idea of where her sister lived, or what her married name was, or how to get in touch with her.
He poured himself a glassful of Wild Turkey from the heavy crystal decanter on the black-enamelled Spanish linen-chest which they had brought back from Baja. His hand was shaking, and the decanter clattered against the rim of the glass. He walked through to the bedroom with his drink in his hand and stared at the big oak bed. On the wall behind the headboard was a stylized painting of two California quail, touching beaks, and Celia had said that it was a painting of them, kissing, in another incarnation.
âYou want to come back as a quail?â he had asked her.
She had smiled. âBetter to come back as a quail than not to come back at all.â
On impulse, he called the Miyako Hotel, in San Francisco.
âI want to speak to Ms Williams, please?â
A pause, and then politely, âNo Ms Williams registered here, sir.â
âMaybe she checked out. Was she there yesterday, or the day before?â
âNo, sir. Nobody by the name of Williams.â
âHow about Denman? Anybody by the name of Denman?â
âNo, sir. Denbigh, but no Denman.â
Lloyd hung up, frowning. Celia had told him on the phone last night that she was calling from the Miyako, he was quite sure of it. She had even mentioned the Japanese meal she had ordered from room service, the teriyaki shrimp. But unless she had registered under a totally different name altogether, she hadnât been there at all.
Plainly, she had been deceiving him. But why?
He swallowed whisky, and thought to himself: maybe the grand piano hadnât been enough to hold her back, after all. Maybe she had found herself a new lover.
He paced around the living-room, his mind helter-skeltering. A lover? It didnât make any sense. Celia had always told him the truth, even when it hurt. She wouldnât have fallen for another man without telling him. She couldnât. Besides, she had seemed to be deliriously happy. Come September, they were going to be married: they had even talked about how many children they wanted, and what they were going to call them. Joseph for a boy, Tershia for a girl.
And, if she had fallen in love with another manâreally fallen in loveâwhy had she set herself alight?
He leafed through the telephone book, and found the number of Sylvia Cuddy, Celiaâs best friend from the San Diego Opera (designer glasses, sensual pink lips, wildly tangled hair). He jabbed the phone-buttons with his middle finger, then tucked the receiver under his chin and waited for Sylvia to answer.
âSylvia? Itâs Lloyd.â
âWell, hello! This is a surprise! How can I help you?â
Lloyd found himself swallowing
On top of the piano, meticulously arranged, was Celiaâs collection of scrimshawâwhale-ivory carvings from Nantucket and Salem and the Barbary Coast. Some of them dated as far back as 1720, but her favourite had always been the fragment of twenty-thousand-year-old fossilized mammoth tusk, exquisitely carved by Bonnie Schulte, one of the most accomplished scrimshanders in America.
Lloyd had promised Celia another Bonnie Schulte piece for her birthday. But the only carving she needed now was her headstone.
It was so difficult for Lloyd to believe that their life together was all over, when it had scarcely started. Even worse, there was nobody that he could call. Celiaâs parents were both dead, and although she had mentioned an older sister in Denver, Colorado, Lloyd had no idea of where her sister lived, or what her married name was, or how to get in touch with her.
He poured himself a glassful of Wild Turkey from the heavy crystal decanter on the black-enamelled Spanish linen-chest which they had brought back from Baja. His hand was shaking, and the decanter clattered against the rim of the glass. He walked through to the bedroom with his drink in his hand and stared at the big oak bed. On the wall behind the headboard was a stylized painting of two California quail, touching beaks, and Celia had said that it was a painting of them, kissing, in another incarnation.
âYou want to come back as a quail?â he had asked her.
She had smiled. âBetter to come back as a quail than not to come back at all.â
On impulse, he called the Miyako Hotel, in San Francisco.
âI want to speak to Ms Williams, please?â
A pause, and then politely, âNo Ms Williams registered here, sir.â
âMaybe she checked out. Was she there yesterday, or the day before?â
âNo, sir. Nobody by the name of Williams.â
âHow about Denman? Anybody by the name of Denman?â
âNo, sir. Denbigh, but no Denman.â
Lloyd hung up, frowning. Celia had told him on the phone last night that she was calling from the Miyako, he was quite sure of it. She had even mentioned the Japanese meal she had ordered from room service, the teriyaki shrimp. But unless she had registered under a totally different name altogether, she hadnât been there at all.
Plainly, she had been deceiving him. But why?
He swallowed whisky, and thought to himself: maybe the grand piano hadnât been enough to hold her back, after all. Maybe she had found herself a new lover.
He paced around the living-room, his mind helter-skeltering. A lover? It didnât make any sense. Celia had always told him the truth, even when it hurt. She wouldnât have fallen for another man without telling him. She couldnât. Besides, she had seemed to be deliriously happy. Come September, they were going to be married: they had even talked about how many children they wanted, and what they were going to call them. Joseph for a boy, Tershia for a girl.
And, if she had fallen in love with another manâreally fallen in loveâwhy had she set herself alight?
He leafed through the telephone book, and found the number of Sylvia Cuddy, Celiaâs best friend from the San Diego Opera (designer glasses, sensual pink lips, wildly tangled hair). He jabbed the phone-buttons with his middle finger, then tucked the receiver under his chin and waited for Sylvia to answer.
âSylvia? Itâs Lloyd.â
âWell, hello! This is a surprise! How can I help you?â
Lloyd found himself swallowing
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