Hearts Unfold Read Free Page B

oil tank, she was satisfied that she could safely raise
the thermostat above the fifty-degree chill that had greeted her last
night.   With the furnace humming along,
her next chore would be getting water to the house.   The pipes had been drained for winter two
years ago.   She would have to forego the
luxury of running water.   Her only hope,
short of crawling into the root cellar and locating the proper valve in the
maze of plumbing, would be to haul water from the pump by the barn.   Bucket in hand, she approached the rusted
relic braced for a fight.   After several
minutes of slowly forcing the handle, screwing up her face at the screeching
protest, she was rewarded with a gasp of air, followed by a gurgle of dirty
sludge spewing into the trough below.   A
few more strokes and she let out a triumphant howl as clear water began to
flow.   Filling the bucket, she carried it
with careful steps to the house, repeating the procedure a half-dozen times,
until satisfied the supply would last the day.
    Pleased with
her accomplishments so far, she turned her attention to digging for any
cleaning supplies that might have been left behind.   Crawling under the kitchen sink, she pulled
out a plastic bucket filled with carefully organized brushes, sponges and rags.   A box of baking soda, a jug of bleach and a
somewhat cloudy bottle of pine-scented cleaner completed the kit she had always
carried from room to room.   Digging
deeper, she located a can of lemon oil, the only acceptable substance for
polishing her mother's prized antiques.   In the pantry she found the mop and broom, propped in their usual corner
beside the ancient vacuum cleaner.
    For the next
two hours, Emily cleaned her house.   It
was an amazingly celebratory experience.   As she worked her way across the long front room, she was convinced that
with every pass of the vacuum wand, with every stroke of her dust cloth, the
colors in the room came to life.   The
warm brick red of the drapes, the mossy green of the velvet couch, even the
cabbage roses on the wing chairs glowed, once relieved of the layer of dust
that had settled on every surface.   Each
small treasure she held in her hand to polish was returned to its place with a
renewed presence, as if in response to her touch.   By the time she stopped for lunch, the
mustiness of neglect was banished, replaced by the warm scent of burning wood
and the faintest hint of lavender and lemon.
    From the
hearth, flanked by glass-fronted bookshelves, to the west end of the room that
was home to her mother's piano, the room seemed restored.   As in her dream, the wood floors gleamed and
the tabletops shone from a fresh coat of oil.   Going to the piano, she carefully removed the dust cover.   The ebony surface, smooth and cold, reflected
the sunlight from the nearby window.   Hesitantly, she opened the cover and touched a key with one finger.   It might well have suffered from the cold and
damp of the closed house, but she would contact the tuner who had come
regularly when her mother was alive.   Emily
herself could play only the most elementary of tunes, but the beloved instrument
deserved to be maintained.   With one more
timid note, she closed the cover over the keyboard, passing her hand across the
satiny wood in a tender caress.
    Lined on the
shelves along one wall, the extensive collection of recordings and the stereo
purchased not long before her mother's death caught her attention.   Hesitating for only an instant, she
approached and after running her finger along the rows of jackets, drew one
from its slot.   Vivaldi's Four Seasons
was precisely the sound she wanted to fill the house with today.   Soon the chiming strings shattered the
silence, invading every corner with glorious music.   Collecting her rags and broom, she marched
off to the kitchen to prepare her lunch.

 

 
    After a quick
sandwich and the promise of something hot for supper, Emily stood in the center
of the room,