Free Home Before Sundown by Barbara Hannay Page A

checked that her daughter’s hands were super-clean, had invited her to sit on an embroidered stool at the piano. Here Liz had touched the magical keys for the very first time, had played her first note, her first little song. And it was here she’d gradually been seduced by the mystery and power of music, falling under its spell as she discovered the heart-lifting exhilaration and the surprising solace it could bring.
    So long ago . . .
    Now Liz looked down at her hands and flexed her fingers, and she counted how many days it had been since she’d last played. Only four. But very soon, she would probably begin to feel twitchy. It always happened when she took a break.
    She supposed that some people would think she’d developed an unhealthy dependence on her piano, but she wasn’t about to give it up. She wondered what her chances were that this instrument would still be in tune. Virginia didn’t play and Peter rarely touched the keys, although their mother had taught him, too, and he had a good ear. She’d gained the impression from chance comments he’d made over the years that he’d been conscientious about keeping their mother’s precious piano in good repair.
    Unable to resist, Liz crossed the room, brushed her fingertips over the shiny black lacquer, remembering the many hours she’d sat here practising. She’d been lucky. Her mother was an excellent teacher, able to help her to achieve a very high standard, even before she left for boarding school.
    Tentatively she lifted the lid. The keys were a little yellowed, but at least they were clean and dust-free. She tested a few notes and was pleasantly surprised. She played chords, major and minor and then an arpeggio or two.
    The elderly piano wasn’t too out of tune, after all. Liz supposed this was one advantage of a prolonged drought. Piano strings hated humidity.
    But I shouldn’t start playing now .
    There was plenty of housework waiting to be done and outside there were hens to be fed and eggs to collect, a dying garden to be watered.
    Maybe just one piece – a little Chopin nocturne to properly test the old girl while I have the place to myself .
    Liz sat, placed her hands on the keys and the lush notes rippled forth, billowing until the music filled the sunlit room and satisfied a needy little corner of her soul.
    The familiar, beautiful piece was short, but when it was finished she sat there, stirred by surprisingly happy memories of her love affair with the piano . . . all the years of practice . . . here, and at school, and at the Conservatorium . . . then London . . .
    She remembered the growing determination that had built into a burning, fierce ambition . . .
    She’d sacrificed everything to feed that ambition. It had taken ferocious will for a girl from an isolated outback cattle property to make it to the concert stages of Europe. But by God it had been worth it.
    It had most definitely been worth it.
    Liz had loved the fame and adulation, loved the house in Chelsea she’d been able to buy, loved her friendships with brilliant musicians.
    If she’d stayed here in Australia she’d probably have married, sidelining her career and burying herself beneath a fair-to-middling husband and children. No doubt, she would have ended up teaching or doing something equally unsatisfying. It could, quite easily, have been a disaster.
    She’d decided long ago she wasn’t cut out for that life.
    She’d been right, hadn’t she?
    When a painful memory speared her contented mood, Liz jumped on it quickly as she always did. She’d been doing so well since she’d arrived here. She didn’t want to succumb to angst from her past.
    The phone rang in the kitchen and she hurried to answer it, grateful for the distraction.
    â€˜Hello? Liz Fairburn speaking.’
    â€˜Liz, it’s Zoe.’
    â€˜Zoe, darling, how are you?