Disregarded in her flurry of frantic activity, Vidar made them both a hot chocolate, shoved another log onto the almost-dead fire as he passed it, hoping enough heat remained to rekindle a flame, sat at the piano, and looked at his own face reflected in the black window.  What had he done wrong?  In the cold of the night time lane, she’d melted.  In the warmth of the cosy kitchen, she’d turned to ice.  Vidar ran his fingers over the keys, and settled to a little Rachmaninov, trying unsuccessfully to expend his pent-up passion on the powerful pieces.

Maybe it wasn’t meant to be, no matter how convinced he was of the rightness of their union?  Perhaps she simply didn’t feel the same?  The first woman ever to refuse him, and the only one he truly wanted!  Merely because he craved her didn’t mean he had an automatic right to possess her.  She hadn’t asked him to arrive and impose himself upon her solitude.  This house-share might be Grace’s attempt to make the best of yet another bad situation involving an intimidating man.  Perhaps the kindest thing for them both would be to leave…but he didn’t want to.  Even imprisonment in this torturous limbo was better than being without her.

He jumped as a soft hand touched his shoulder, “Taking out your aggression on that?”

He looked up at her, tried to smile, couldn’t, “It’s Rachmaninov.  You’re meant to go for it.”

“It’s phenomenal.”

“He was a genius.”

“I’m going to bed.”

“Ok.”

“See you in the morning.”

He nodded, starting to play again.

Grace, nervous, ventured, “’Night, then.”

“Søde drømme.”  His fingers continued to travel powerfully up and down the octaves.

“What does that mean?”

He stopped playing abruptly, but didn’t turn to look at her, “Sweet dreams.”

“Thank you…you too…” said Grace meekly, but he’d begun to play again, and she wasn’t sure he’d heard her. 

She left him at the piano, and went to bed with sudden tears brimming in her eyes.

Grace awoke slowly, opening bleary, swollen eyes to the beamed ceiling.  Rolling onto her side, she stared at the closed blind, sunshine already bright around its edges. 

She’d cried for a long time last night as Vidar had continued to play, forceful fingers driving across the keys with more power than she’d have thought the instrument could withstand.  His anger at her had been palpable…and unsurprisingly so – talk about send the poor man mixed messages!  I will, I won’t.  I do, I don’t.  I could, but now I can’t.  I might, but now I shan’t.

And on Christmas Eve, of all occasions, after they’d had one of their characteristically companionable, relaxed days, and an evening full of pleasant surprises for Grace; understanding more about her fascinatingly-complex new friend in a couple of hours than she’d managed in the preceding fortnight.  She’d observed the affability that entranced his audience, and contrasted it with the intensity bestowed upon her alone. 

Desperate to urinate, Grace squirmed, sensing the cold in the air.  The warming radiator under the window ticked and clicked as it fought to chase away the night time chill.  Reaching for her watch, she saw it was only just past seven.  Lying still for a moment more, Grace decided she couldn’t hold on – she’d have to go.  Wriggling out from under the covers without disturbing them too much, Grace hoped to preserve some vestige of body heat for her return, whipping speedily to the toilet, shivering despite her thermal pyjamas.  On the way back to bed, the lure of the sunrise proved too tempting. She opened the blind and stood in front of the window, pressing her thighs against the radiator to keep them warm.  Ice crystals of hoar frost glinted from each blade of grass, stone, and clod of mud, caking everything in crisp whiteness as comprehensively as any snowfall.  The low angle of the rising winter sun glanced sharply off the glittering driveway, making Grace’s heavy eyes squint in surprise at the brilliance of an Orcadian Christmas morning.

Notwithstanding the pale, cloudless blue of the sky – still run through with dawn’s blush-pink brush strokes like a watercolour canvas – it looked bitterly cold.  Grace’s upper body felt the draught as the air of her bedroom hit the glass and tumbled down the pane to the sill, tipping itself like an overflowing bathtub onto the warmed currents rising from the radiator, beginning the circulating journey upward once more.  The volume of colder air was winning the battle, and Grace was driven from the stark beauty of her view back under the blankets where it still felt warm.  Wiggling down the bed into a comfortable position, Grace lay on her side, generous covers bunched around her, and enjoyed the feel of the sun shining through the window onto her face, closing her eyes against its intensity.  Settled, warm, a residue of Bob Turner’s whisky still in her system, it didn’t take long for sleep to reclaim her.

www.annieholder.com/Against-All-Odds/