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“Everything.”
“You’re not making any sense.” Dimitrios had some of his own scotch, then sat down behind the piano. He lifted his fingers to the keys and began to play, the ‘moonlight’ sonata a fitting piece given his brother’s mood.
Anastasios took two long strides, bringing him to the edge of the piano, where he watched, a transfixed expression on his face. “You’re so musical.”
Dimitrios’ expression was one of wry agreement, but then, how could he not be? Given that he’d exiled himself to the attic for much of his childhood, teaching himself to play the old piano up there.
“Do you think that sort of thing runs in families?”
Dimitrios pulled a face. “You’ve heard yourself sing, haven’t you?”
Anastasios didn’t smile. He was lost in thought.
Dimitrios sighed, stilling his hands atop the keys. “You’re not yourself.”
“No.” Anastasios blinked as if to clear his mind. “You’re right. I’m not.” He finished his scotch and placed the glass down heavily. “I don’t know if I ever will be again.”
Dimitrios stayed where he was, watching his brother.
“Dad came to London often, before he died.” The words were slightly slurred, weighted by something Dimitrios didn’t understand. “Did you see him?”
“Sometimes. Why?”
“He came every week.”
Dimitrios regarded his brother. “Does it matter?”
“I’m trying to work it out. To understand him.”
“We saw each other, yes.”
“Why?”
Dimitrios began to play once more, heavier now, the somber tone of the song flooding the modern apartment.
“Is there a problem?”
Anastasios peered at Dimitrios. “No,” he admitted, eventually. Then, with a groan. “Did he ever tell you about her?”
Dimitrios frowned. “Who?”
“A woman.”
“A woman?” Dimitrios repeated. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“A friend.” The word was filled with emotions that Dimitrios couldn’t understand. “A woman that dad became friends with, here in London. He saw her often, too. Did he mention her to you?”
“You can’t seriously think he was having an affair? He was in his eighties and he was devoted to Maggie.”
Anastasios’ face paled. “It wasn’t romantic between them,” he said with an angry shake of his head. “Only a fool would think that.” He refilled his scotch glass and threw it back. “Only a goddamned fool.”
“He mentioned no one to me,” Dimitrios said after a moment. “But he seemed happier than I’d seen him for a while.” He shook his head, because that wasn’t quite right. “No, he seemed at peace. As though something that had been bothering him for a long time had started to make sense. There was a general air of contentment I hadn’t seen in Konstantinos. Not for a long time.”
Not since Valentina, he added mentally, unable to reference that awful tragedy, for the guilt that was always festering in his gut, the secret guilt; he’d never told his family how he’d contributed to her drowning.
“She helped him,” Anastasios muttered. “And he helped her.”
“Who? What the hell are you talking about?”
