A voice calls out from the entryway, distracting me from my thoughts.
“Mrs. Karas? We have a delivery for you at the request of Mr. Karas.”
Mrs. Karas? It sounds so foreign that it takes a moment before I realize whoever is here is looking for me. I look down at my gray long-sleeved thermal and black leggings, and wonder if I should run back into the bathroom and lock the door.
Screw it. I am what I am, and that’s all I’m going to be.
I leave the bedroom and head into the living room. Whoever it is didn’t come in and make himself at home, so I continue into the entryway. A uniformed doorman stands just inside the door, looking slightly uncomfortable as he holds a large rectangular box.
“Oh, excellent, I was afraid I might have entered at an inopportune time,” he says, holding out the box in my direction. “Mr. Karas specifically requested that I bring this inside when it arrived. Where would you like me to put it?”
What in the world?
“What is it?” The question pops out before I have a chance to think.
He smiles kindly, but with a lopsided tilt that you’d give a clumsy puppy or small child. “I don’t know, ma’am. You’ll have to open it and see. Where would you like me to put it?”
Duh. Of course he doesn’t know.
“On the . . . coffee table is fine.” I point to the living room as I stammer over my words. I almost said dining room table, but even the thought of it reminds me of what we did on that table last night, and it seems obscene.
I realize too late that maybe I should have tipped the doorman, but he’s already out the door and I’m left alone with the box.
Cautiously, I study it like it might contain human body parts, because that’s how I think in terms of measurement.
Trunks of cars? How many bodies can you fit in there?
Chest freezers? Same thing.
Creepy, right? Maybe I was a serial killer in another life, but I’m hoping not. Hopefully it’s just a country thing.
I use my fingernails to peel back the tape and tear the cardboard flaps open. When I see the black guitar case, I freeze, and my mouth goes dry.
He didn’t. Oh, but he did.
Like I’m opening a jewelry box containing diamonds the size of my fist, I flip the latches and lift the lid. My chest tightens as the breath I was holding whooshes out.
I reach down, almost afraid to trail my fingers along the pearlescent turquoise surface of the most beautiful guitar I’ve ever seen. With one fingertip, I trace the edge until I run up to the word Gibson. It’s similar to the one I played at Rudy’s the other night, but instead of black and bottom of the line, it’s the top-of-the-line model and my favorite color, which Creighton couldn’t have known.
As the iridescent flecks of paint glitter in the light, I can only picture how amazing it’s going to look onstage.
I have to hear how she sounds, and instantly names start spinning in my head, because she has to have a name. Something feminine and kick-ass all at the same time. Eliza Belle. Okay, it’s got a little country twang to it, but since that’s what I’m going to be rocking out with on her, I think it’s perfect.
I lift Eliza Belle out of her deep purple velvet-lined case and hold her out in front of me. Perfection. Absolute perfection. How did he know?
My surprise rockets up a dozen more notches when I pull out the strap tucked in the case and take in the hand-tooled leather. My name is part of an intricate design of stars, guitars, and flowers. It’s . . . I’m speechless.
Holy shit. I’m in trouble.
But I push that thought away to hook the strap on and carry Eliza Belle to the living room where my notebook rests on a side table. It’s time to perfect some tunes.
All the while I’m strumming the chords, I’m thinking about Creighton and how I’m going to find the words to thank him for this gift.
I open the door to my penthouse at six forty-five that night, and have the strangest urge to yell out something like Honey, I’m home. Although after yesterday, I now know there’s no guarantee that Holly will actually be here, despite my threats.
She seems inclined to do whatever she likes, and that’s something I’m going to have a hell of a time getting used to. When I give orders, I expect for them to be followed without question. But considering how much I enjoy punishing her for her lack of compliance, I suppose my complaints are not quite as intense as before.
But when it’s her safety at issue, all bets are off. The idea of her walking around Manhattan by herself bothers me more than I would have ever imagined. She doesn’t understand that she could easily be a target because of me.
Before I can say anything, though, the sound of Holly strumming the guitar and humming starts and then stops moments later.
I walk farther into the penthouse and see her sitting cross-legged in the middle of the couch, hunched over the guitar as she jots down something on the notebook in front of her. Her hair hangs loose over her shoulders, and she’s wearing leggings and a gray long-sleeved shirt. Her feet are bare, and I think as long as I stay silent, she’ll never realize I’m here.
I decide to watch her for a few minutes to test my theory.
My choice is rewarded when she starts again, closing her eyes as she plays a unique and unusually addictive tune. She doesn’t sing, but her lips move, forming words that only she’s aware of. In that moment, I want to see her in her element—onstage. My suspicion is that the confidence I see flashes of when she speaks so passionately about her career will shine even brighter when she’s onstage. She’s a unique creature, my wife.