Chapter 17: The Loft

Joanna's loft sat on the top floor of an old brick cotton warehouse.

It was the emptiest place I had ever seen a rich person live.

There was a long wall of windows over the city, a kitchen with one clean pan, and a bed with white sheets.

There was nothing on the walls.

There was a gray couch that had never had a pillow thrown on it.

And in the corner, under a gray cloth, there was a shape I knew from the outline alone.

"You cook?" I asked, putting my guitar case down.

"I have one dish."

"Which is?"

"Eggs," Joanna said, with dignity. "Scrambled, with cheese. My father taught me."

She made them while I sat on a stool and watched her stir with the serious face she used in board meetings.

They were very good eggs.

We ate at the counter, off the only two plates she owned.

She told me she had bought the second plate that morning, then felt silly and hidden the receipt.

I loved her so much in that moment that I had to look at the windows.

"You brought me to see the piano," I said.

"I brought you to see the loft."

"Joanna."

"Both," she said.

She took me across the floor and pulled the cloth off with one hand.

It was an old black upright with chipped keys and a brass pedal worn pale by somebody's foot.

"It was my father's," she said. "He kept it in his office and played it when a deal went wrong.

After he died I had the movers bring it here, and I covered it up."

"Can you play?"

"He taught me three chords when I was seven. I used to sit beside him on this bench."

"Show me."

She shook her head.

"Not tonight. Tonight I just want you to sit with me."

She sat down on the bench and I sat beside her, hip to hip.

Joanna lifted the lid and rested her fingers on the keys without pressing them.

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