When Alice King sat at the piano in this subdued light her soft auburn hair carried just the suggestion of a gentle halo. Her playing, too, had a radiant, ethereal quality, and her cat, Midnight, curled up on the chair next to the piano, seemed mesmerized by the music, like a creature privileged to share life in a magic circle. Everything in that little apartment, where Alice had moved while her divorce from John was being attended to, bespoke harmony, a world comfortably under control. But, she was pleased to think, here freedom reigned as well, the freedom of a peasant blouse or sweater, of ranging barefoot across her own deep carpet, the freedom to go out, to a concert or play, on her own single impulse, and, best of all, the delicious freedom of privacy, of uninterrupted hours for reading, or for improvising on a favorite piano piece this way. She wondered why she had married John in the first place. Midnight was her proper companion. She looked at the cat and smiled. Continue reading
