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Lady Nuala,
It was certainly a pleasant surprise to find your letter waiting amongst my more pedestrian mail. I must apologize for the lack of communication on my part; I too have been rather preoccupied with my own pursuits to the exclusion of all else. Tunnel vision, an artist’s drive, a relentless muse—whatever you wish to call it, I’ve fallen victim to the pull. Your missive has been a gentle reminder that a world does exist outside of my glassmaker’s studio. Thank you.
How is it that women, the so-called weaker sex, seem to be the planners and maintainers and the men find themselves in a position to indulge in other means of occupying their hands if not their minds? They might not all take to being the warriors you know but I’ve yet to meet a man who doesn’t, in some way or another, have interests outside of maintaining the status quo. It’s almost as if many of them think tasks will keep after themselves.
If I sound cynical it’s likely due to the fact that I, too, am surrounded mostly by men. Being a gaffer has long been the province of those more masculine, which makes my activity here in Venice all the more trying. Now, of course, they have taken to treating me like ‘one of the boys’ and there are days when I am not sure if that’s the better alternative. On the other hand, my glasswork is coming along nicely. I think I have sufficiently impressed the inspiration for one of my pieces.
As you can see, I am quite willing (eager even!) to write to you. I’ll be even more glad to see you in person once time permits. Until then, I hope that all remains well with you.
Yours, in the name of feminine confidentiality,
Pippa Kerr
It was certainly a pleasant surprise to find your letter waiting amongst my more pedestrian mail. I must apologize for the lack of communication on my part; I too have been rather preoccupied with my own pursuits to the exclusion of all else. Tunnel vision, an artist’s drive, a relentless muse—whatever you wish to call it, I’ve fallen victim to the pull. Your missive has been a gentle reminder that a world does exist outside of my glassmaker’s studio. Thank you.
How is it that women, the so-called weaker sex, seem to be the planners and maintainers and the men find themselves in a position to indulge in other means of occupying their hands if not their minds? They might not all take to being the warriors you know but I’ve yet to meet a man who doesn’t, in some way or another, have interests outside of maintaining the status quo. It’s almost as if many of them think tasks will keep after themselves.
If I sound cynical it’s likely due to the fact that I, too, am surrounded mostly by men. Being a gaffer has long been the province of those more masculine, which makes my activity here in Venice all the more trying. Now, of course, they have taken to treating me like ‘one of the boys’ and there are days when I am not sure if that’s the better alternative. On the other hand, my glasswork is coming along nicely. I think I have sufficiently impressed the inspiration for one of my pieces.
As you can see, I am quite willing (eager even!) to write to you. I’ll be even more glad to see you in person once time permits. Until then, I hope that all remains well with you.
Yours, in the name of feminine confidentiality,
Pippa Kerr
Meta Secrets
Sep. 2nd, 2009 08:58 pm
If Pippa were to ever submit something to Post Secrets, this would be it.
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
The friendship came first.
Two
He asked her to dance in the middle of an empty bar, the band packing up their instruments and the jukebox unplugged. Still, he asked and took her in his arms. The tune he hummed under his breath became the foundation of the song he wrote for her.
Three
He wanted her to make a present for his sister, trusting her talent and skill without even seeing any of her work.
Four
Their first date ended with smiles and a promise of more. Even if he didn’t try to so much as kiss her good night.
Five
She drunk-dialed him and made a complete fool of herself, or so she thought. He didn’t mind her middle of the night confession in the least.
Six
That first kiss made her feel weak in the knees. So did every one thereafter.
Seven
He told her his secrets and left it up to her if she wanted to take the chance of seeing where things could go.
Eight
She told him her secrets and he refused to judge her for them.
Nine
He adored her puppy.
Ten
When they made love, where and how and why, it was always about trust and honesty and not a little fun.
Lie awake all night wondering...
Aug. 22nd, 2009 05:22 pmAnd then I'm in your arms I'll try to relax
Don't want to lie awake all night wondering where we're at
Oh this tossing and turning won't clear these blues away
When I am longing just to hear you say
'No Turning Back' - Sarah Blasko
Six months ago she walked out of his life, or tried to at any rate. Pippa couldn’t sever all ties with this man no matter how often she told herself it would be better, easier, safer. No, there were phone calls and letters, emails and now he was here with her in Venice. Here because she had asked him to come.
What was she doing?
Lying in his arms and pretending things were fine, acting as though there weren’t problems and issues to be settled and discussed. She was savoring the feel of his skin, hot and still damp with sweat, against hers. She was listening to him breath deep and even as he slept. Studying the lines and curves of his face, the delicate cheekbones and the wide, generous mouth—she could still taste his kisses when she swallowed involuntarily. Shifting, she stifled a groan as sore muscles protested, strained and aching from vigorous lovemaking. She sighed.
Pippa was not sleeping.
It would be morning soon and he would wake, she would have to find some way to either continue this charade (oh, the cowardice that taunted her) or face their relationship (lack thereof) head-on and the consequences of her actions. Would he want to discuss what happened? Could he find a way to forgive her? Should she forgive him? Did he realize that she still loved him? Too many questions and no easy answers no matter how hard she searched.
Keep trying.
Don't want to lie awake all night wondering where we're at
Oh this tossing and turning won't clear these blues away
When I am longing just to hear you say
'No Turning Back' - Sarah Blasko
Six months ago she walked out of his life, or tried to at any rate. Pippa couldn’t sever all ties with this man no matter how often she told herself it would be better, easier, safer. No, there were phone calls and letters, emails and now he was here with her in Venice. Here because she had asked him to come.
What was she doing?
Lying in his arms and pretending things were fine, acting as though there weren’t problems and issues to be settled and discussed. She was savoring the feel of his skin, hot and still damp with sweat, against hers. She was listening to him breath deep and even as he slept. Studying the lines and curves of his face, the delicate cheekbones and the wide, generous mouth—she could still taste his kisses when she swallowed involuntarily. Shifting, she stifled a groan as sore muscles protested, strained and aching from vigorous lovemaking. She sighed.
Pippa was not sleeping.
It would be morning soon and he would wake, she would have to find some way to either continue this charade (oh, the cowardice that taunted her) or face their relationship (lack thereof) head-on and the consequences of her actions. Would he want to discuss what happened? Could he find a way to forgive her? Should she forgive him? Did he realize that she still loved him? Too many questions and no easy answers no matter how hard she searched.
Keep trying.
Childish Art
Aug. 6th, 2009 08:41 pm
Spring, 1990
Eight years old and deeply serious about the task at hand, Phillipa Kerr has settled herself behind the building her mother insists is ‘The Carriage House’ but all of the grounds people refer to as ‘the garage’. After all, it is where the cars are parked. This has assured her a certain amount of freedom from strict supervision. Her mother won’t bother to look for her here; it’s filthy and smells of motor oil and other unpleasantness. It’s perfect.
Not that she cares for the dirt or the scents herself; the prissy child has brought amongst her needed supplies an old linen tablecloth to sit upon. She will not dirty her play clothes, not that she can really ‘play’ at anything in a lace-collared blouse or penny loafers whose soles have no traction. But she can create. This is why the rest of her things are so very necessary. The candles she took from the piano room, the book of matches she lifted from the butler’s pantry and the sheets of card stock that came from an artists’ kit she’d received at Christmas.
The little redheaded girl has no use for charcoal pencils and palettes of watercolor paints. Pastels weren’t very interesting either since no one would permit her to scribble the walkways with them. The paper and canvases had potential but really, it is the packing materials that are the most useful. It is what she will use as a foundation, a place to work her magic.
And to little Pippa, it certainly is magic while she melts down the candles, pours the colored wax and shapes it with her nimble fingers. She tests what happens when trying to control the flow of the hot liquid, dribble it and make it splatter. Her observations lead to decisions and new ideas, plans to make her visions concrete. The seemingly free-form little sculptures are exactly as she intends them to be.
It’s a shame she can’t keep any of them, her mother would have fits if she found out that the girl was playing with fire and garbage. Pippa keeps her artwork for as long as she dares (this is roughly as long as it takes for one of the maids to come looking for her, calling her name from across the lawn) and then she carefully folds them inside of the cardstock along with the burnt matches and candle-stubs. There’s a large green waste bin behind the garage—she likes the word better, and this is where she places everything save for the tablecloth.
The linen is left on the ground, a small act of defiance. Undeniable proof that something was here.
She doesn’t relax anymore. Hasn’t in nearly a year. She can’t relax and let down her guard without becoming vulnerable. Nor can she keep up the break-neck drive of creative frenzy to take in the calm of the day surrounding her. If that happens, she starts to think. To feel. Remember.
Pippa’d much rather forget the pain and the fear, the insecurity and the suffocating feel of her life closing in on her.
So when the evening comes and she returns home, she fills a glass with dark red wine then drinks from the bottle. She doesn’t relax. She drowns.
Pippa’d much rather forget the pain and the fear, the insecurity and the suffocating feel of her life closing in on her.
So when the evening comes and she returns home, she fills a glass with dark red wine then drinks from the bottle. She doesn’t relax. She drowns.
Truthiness Meme
Jul. 1st, 2009 03:04 am{ ooc } this is a good idea :D
I've given my characters a healthy dose of Veritaserum and now they have to tell the truth. What does this mean for you? Ask my characters questions about anything and everything and they will truthfully answer it. So, go ahead and ask what you want. He can't beat around the bush with half-truths.
I've given my characters a healthy dose of Veritaserum and now they have to tell the truth. What does this mean for you? Ask my characters questions about anything and everything and they will truthfully answer it. So, go ahead and ask what you want. He can't beat around the bush with half-truths.
(no subject)
May. 21st, 2009 08:38 pmJournal:
![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif){kind=small}
sand_andwaterRPG: Doing Her Own Thing
| .happy. | .sad. | .angry. | .scared. |
| .disgusted. | .surprised. | .flirty. | .sexual. |
| .confused. | .shy. | .playful. | .rage. |
| .hurt. | .guilty. | .bored. | .laughing. |
| .sarcastic. | .tired. | .wtf. | .pride. |
| .sympathy. | .evil. | .innocent. | .in love. |
| YOUR | FOUR | FAVORITE | ICONS |
Snag yourself the coding here.
OOC RP Meme
May. 9th, 2009 10:25 amBecause some of these are inapplicable / lame, just answer the ones you feel like answering.
1. Who are you?
2. Yay! How long have we been RPing together?
3. What was your first impression about our Rps? (i.e., were you nervous, intimidated, disappointed, impressed, amused, annoyed?)
4. First characters we played together?
5. Most amusing scene from one of our Rps?
6. Most depressing?
7. Sappiest/most romantic?
8. Cutest couple from our Rps?
9. Cutest friends?
10. What's your favorite character that I play? Why?
11. Least favorite? Why?
12. Something you'd like to RP/see happen in an RP with me at some point (no matter how random!)?
13. Name a song that reminds you of one of our couples/one of my characters and why you chose it.
14. Anything in particular that makes my style of RPing stand out from others'?
15. Anything I could improve on?
16. Character of mine you'd like to see more of?
1. Who are you?
2. Yay! How long have we been RPing together?
3. What was your first impression about our Rps? (i.e., were you nervous, intimidated, disappointed, impressed, amused, annoyed?)
4. First characters we played together?
5. Most amusing scene from one of our Rps?
6. Most depressing?
7. Sappiest/most romantic?
8. Cutest couple from our Rps?
9. Cutest friends?
10. What's your favorite character that I play? Why?
11. Least favorite? Why?
12. Something you'd like to RP/see happen in an RP with me at some point (no matter how random!)?
13. Name a song that reminds you of one of our couples/one of my characters and why you chose it.
14. Anything in particular that makes my style of RPing stand out from others'?
15. Anything I could improve on?
16. Character of mine you'd like to see more of?
What I Wear
May. 1st, 2009 09:51 am
This is a fairly typical representation of what I wear while working in the studio. It's very hot, hazardous and does not lend itself at all to looking glamorous. I pull my hair back and then hide it under a scarf to prevent it from being singed, but also because I do perspire quite a lot and the scarf at least keeps it from mostly running into my eyes. I don't wear any jewelery or anything loose and hanging, and while not pictured here, I typically have what amounts to a men's gym sock pulled up and over the length of my left arm as it is the one that I use closest to the glory hole for gathering flux. I will also usually wear sunglasses or tinted safety goggles, depending on what it is in particular that I am working on during a given day.
Contact an old friend
Apr. 29th, 2009 02:40 amSummer 2009
She didn’t scream this time. The tightness squeezing her chest made it impossible to draw the breath needed and the swollen lump of her heart was lodged (or so it felt) so far into her throat that she wouldn’t be able to cry out in any case. She didn’t cry either. Her eyes were wide with shock and fear, but dry as she shifted her panicked gaze from one focal point to another.
Meaningful movement of limbs tangled in sweat-soaked sheets took a bit longer. By the time she was able to untangle herself from the damp cotton and sit up, Pippa had found the ability to breathe again. Breathe and shake, trembling as she recalled the too-vivid, too-real sights and sounds of the nightmare.
The nightmare. It was always the same. Never ending, never changing, always filled with the same terror and helplessness and always, always his voice. A sick, twisted narration for her suffering punctuated by the laughter of a monster. She’d been trapped, strapped to the table in his dirty, dank, filth-filled apartment. Tied down and screaming, begging for no more. An end, only he never listened. No, he continued on with his little project. His stack of presents for an Irish singer: first it was her hair and that was humiliating but painless, then her finger and oh, how she screamed. It never stopped there, the events of reality and sick fantasy twisting until Larch had managed to use those rusted-dull garden sheers to cut away every last digit, right hand and left.
On the good nights, that was when she’d wake up.
Tonight hadn’t been a good night. Pippa retched and gagged as she shut her eyes against another onslaught of images she’d woken up from. Things worse than being slowly dismembered, Larch hadn’t managed to do what he wanted to the redhead, no, but he made sure to share with her the grizzly fate of all the women before her. In sleep, her tortured thoughts turned on themselves and rewrote his narrative, applied it to her and let her feel what her fate could have been. Should have been, but wasn’t.
Because of Rory. She was alive because of the relentless way he’d refused to accept her disappearance. Because he’d urged his brother to search for her by means inhuman and incomprehensible to her. Because he and his brothers…she was sitting in her moonlit room in Venice because three very brave, bold and self-sacrificing men came to her rescue. Men she repaid by rejecting, avoiding and leaving. That realization was even more painful to bear than anything the madman had inflicted.
The dry heaving stopped and the tears began, hot and silent they coursed down her face, wetting her cheeks and chin, newly dampening her nightgown. She pushed them away; all of them, anyone who wanted to help her. Rory, most of all, most importantly of all. The only one who could help at times like these. Comfort and reassure her. Make her feel safe and whole. She ran away from him, from that, because she was scared. She was still scared and now, here, without anyone to protect her.
When she moved next, it was almost instinctive. Her hand reached for the phone on the bedside table, pressed the buttons in the dark. She didn’t need to see in order to call up something so deeply ingrained in memory. If she’d been awake and calm, she likely would have ignored the impulse to call him, or would have at least hung up before the call had connected. But tonight, tonight she sniffed back fresh tears and as soon as she heard the line pick up, be it voicemail or Rory himself, she let out the heartfelt truth:
“Oh, Ro…I wish you were here.”
Pippa Kerr//Last Call//630 words
She didn’t scream this time. The tightness squeezing her chest made it impossible to draw the breath needed and the swollen lump of her heart was lodged (or so it felt) so far into her throat that she wouldn’t be able to cry out in any case. She didn’t cry either. Her eyes were wide with shock and fear, but dry as she shifted her panicked gaze from one focal point to another.
Meaningful movement of limbs tangled in sweat-soaked sheets took a bit longer. By the time she was able to untangle herself from the damp cotton and sit up, Pippa had found the ability to breathe again. Breathe and shake, trembling as she recalled the too-vivid, too-real sights and sounds of the nightmare.
The nightmare. It was always the same. Never ending, never changing, always filled with the same terror and helplessness and always, always his voice. A sick, twisted narration for her suffering punctuated by the laughter of a monster. She’d been trapped, strapped to the table in his dirty, dank, filth-filled apartment. Tied down and screaming, begging for no more. An end, only he never listened. No, he continued on with his little project. His stack of presents for an Irish singer: first it was her hair and that was humiliating but painless, then her finger and oh, how she screamed. It never stopped there, the events of reality and sick fantasy twisting until Larch had managed to use those rusted-dull garden sheers to cut away every last digit, right hand and left.
On the good nights, that was when she’d wake up.
Tonight hadn’t been a good night. Pippa retched and gagged as she shut her eyes against another onslaught of images she’d woken up from. Things worse than being slowly dismembered, Larch hadn’t managed to do what he wanted to the redhead, no, but he made sure to share with her the grizzly fate of all the women before her. In sleep, her tortured thoughts turned on themselves and rewrote his narrative, applied it to her and let her feel what her fate could have been. Should have been, but wasn’t.
Because of Rory. She was alive because of the relentless way he’d refused to accept her disappearance. Because he’d urged his brother to search for her by means inhuman and incomprehensible to her. Because he and his brothers…she was sitting in her moonlit room in Venice because three very brave, bold and self-sacrificing men came to her rescue. Men she repaid by rejecting, avoiding and leaving. That realization was even more painful to bear than anything the madman had inflicted.
The dry heaving stopped and the tears began, hot and silent they coursed down her face, wetting her cheeks and chin, newly dampening her nightgown. She pushed them away; all of them, anyone who wanted to help her. Rory, most of all, most importantly of all. The only one who could help at times like these. Comfort and reassure her. Make her feel safe and whole. She ran away from him, from that, because she was scared. She was still scared and now, here, without anyone to protect her.
When she moved next, it was almost instinctive. Her hand reached for the phone on the bedside table, pressed the buttons in the dark. She didn’t need to see in order to call up something so deeply ingrained in memory. If she’d been awake and calm, she likely would have ignored the impulse to call him, or would have at least hung up before the call had connected. But tonight, tonight she sniffed back fresh tears and as soon as she heard the line pick up, be it voicemail or Rory himself, she let out the heartfelt truth:
“Oh, Ro…I wish you were here.”
Pippa Kerr//Last Call//630 words
(no subject)
Apr. 21st, 2009 08:00 pmYou Are Chopsticks |
 People see you as exotic, unusual, and even a bit intimidating. You are a difficult person to figure out. In truth, you try to live a very simple life. But most people are too frenzied to recognize the beauty of your simplicity. |
To sleep, perchance to dream...
Apr. 8th, 2009 10:21 pm
The nights are lost to dreams of The Red King.
Her days consist of forging and sculpting with flame and from memory, pulling his face out of molten glass and refining the delicate planes and beautiful curves of his features. Large eyes stare back at her, following every move she makes, no detail escaping his sight or her vision. Care bordering on obsession goes into etching regal cheekbones and generous lips. The dizzying swirl of crimson and gold boldly declare his power and passion—or is it her desire and adoration being put on display?
Rory MacEibhir is simply everywhere.
How Am I Doing?
Apr. 3rd, 2009 01:20 amUsually, I say in a very loud voice that I only RP for myself and for fun. Of course, this isn't true. I also RP for the joy of interacting with others and entertaining those who read this journal. And, therefore, here is your place to tell me what I'm doing right and what I'm doing wrong. Please be constructive.
So, I don't know anyone who doesn't feel like they aren't getting enough feedback. So... let's give some. What do you like about my pup? What do you think could be improved? What things about them do you not understand that you'd like elaborated on?
Comments screened.
Verbiage shamelessly stolen fromrude_not_ginger
So, I don't know anyone who doesn't feel like they aren't getting enough feedback. So... let's give some. What do you like about my pup? What do you think could be improved? What things about them do you not understand that you'd like elaborated on?
Comments screened.
Verbiage shamelessly stolen from
rude_not_gingerFive Favorite Movies:
Mar. 29th, 2009 02:42 pmThese aren't listed in any particular order and really, they are simply a few movies I enjoy watching over and over. I by no means wish to imply that they are the five best or most influential films I have viewed.
The Muppets Take Manhattan: I'm a native New Yorker and I love the Muppets. They are a phenomenon that I didn't discover until well into adulthood, and that may not be such a bad thing as I've realized most of their humor is in fact quite adult in nature and not truly intended for children even if they are bits of felt and feathers. Putting the Muppets in the city I know so well and watching the surreal and the real mesh...who wouldn't like that?
Venezia, la luna e tu: (Venice, the Moon and You) It's a silly comedy about a gondolier and romance. Bepi is so much the fool and a well-meaning one at that, that you can't help but cheer him on in his many levels of idiocy involving women.
Roman Holiday: Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck. I like to think of this one as the romantic comedy. The cinematography is lovely, the costumes are divine and Audrey Hepburn is the epitome of class, grace and beauty. I so wanted to be Anne when I was growing up and not simply because she was a princess either. Her life didn't seem so unusual to me, the grand trips to Europe and the feeling of being confined and restrained, needing to rebel--I identified with her and envied her the success she achieved.
Little Women: The 1933 version with Katherine Hepburn, of course. I enjoyed the novel and it always seems to me that movie adaptations have become worse and more watered down over the years. The older films never seems to concern themselves with that ninety minute time constraint and focused on telling the author's story.
Sabrina: Another Audrey Hepburn movie, I'm afraid. I do love old black and white films. A love triangle with politics that could be painfully familiar to me at times even though this was supposed to be taken as more of a lighthearted affair. The world the Larrabees dwell in makes me shake my head in recognition but it's Sabrina that enchants and demurs her way through the story. Who can resist watching someone fall in love for the first time? I can't.
The Muppets Take Manhattan: I'm a native New Yorker and I love the Muppets. They are a phenomenon that I didn't discover until well into adulthood, and that may not be such a bad thing as I've realized most of their humor is in fact quite adult in nature and not truly intended for children even if they are bits of felt and feathers. Putting the Muppets in the city I know so well and watching the surreal and the real mesh...who wouldn't like that?
Venezia, la luna e tu: (Venice, the Moon and You) It's a silly comedy about a gondolier and romance. Bepi is so much the fool and a well-meaning one at that, that you can't help but cheer him on in his many levels of idiocy involving women.
Roman Holiday: Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck. I like to think of this one as the romantic comedy. The cinematography is lovely, the costumes are divine and Audrey Hepburn is the epitome of class, grace and beauty. I so wanted to be Anne when I was growing up and not simply because she was a princess either. Her life didn't seem so unusual to me, the grand trips to Europe and the feeling of being confined and restrained, needing to rebel--I identified with her and envied her the success she achieved.
Little Women: The 1933 version with Katherine Hepburn, of course. I enjoyed the novel and it always seems to me that movie adaptations have become worse and more watered down over the years. The older films never seems to concern themselves with that ninety minute time constraint and focused on telling the author's story.
Sabrina: Another Audrey Hepburn movie, I'm afraid. I do love old black and white films. A love triangle with politics that could be painfully familiar to me at times even though this was supposed to be taken as more of a lighthearted affair. The world the Larrabees dwell in makes me shake my head in recognition but it's Sabrina that enchants and demurs her way through the story. Who can resist watching someone fall in love for the first time? I can't.
(no subject)
Mar. 11th, 2009 02:49 am
This is why I do not watch horror movies. In fact, the last one I saw involved vampires and it gave me nightmares.
(no subject)
Mar. 1st, 2009 11:15 pmHow did we get here?
Well, I used to know you so well, yeah.
But how did we get here?
Well, I think I know
[‘Decode’ – Paramore]
She wasn’t the same woman who left Venice at twenty-two. There were similarities, certainly and familiarities—the things that Alessandro recognized as Phillipa Kerr despite this new broken aura that surrounded the gaffer. But this wasn’t his brilliant star, this wasn’t the woman he had loved so fiercely and given so much of himself to; she was a pale imitation. A ghost. A shadow. It broke his heart.
He accepted that she hadn’t wanted to marry him and that she had wanted to return to New York. Love was that way at times, burned fast and bright and then was over. The memories would last and there would still be a student for him to mentor. There was no regret or animosity there; he only wanted her to be happy—happy and fulfilled. It was painfully clear to him that Pippa was neither of these things.
Pippa spent her days working like a thing possessed, not an artist enjoying her craft but a soul tortured and engulfed in a painful penance for sins imagined and transgressions he couldn’t begin to fathom. They had argued about this, the way she worked. He wanted her to slow down, rest more. Drink. Eat. Live and not merely exist. She steadfastly refused and on the days that he would voice his concerns, Pippa would only work harder and longer. At what, he didn’t know. She would not discuss it after his one derisive comment regarding molds and forms. This had been his error and her silence the price he would pay.
Alessandro accepted that as well. He insulted her unwittingly and the red-haired beauty would hold a grudge. Recognizably Pippa, such behavior was. It would have made him smile if the sheer stubbornness hadn’t turned into something far more disconcerting of late. The anger, he could deal with it was the sadness in her voice and the hollow look in her eyes that he didn’t like. Something was missing, a vital part of the young woman. Determination wasn’t security, working to near exhaustion wasn’t confidence and aloofness didn’t disguise fear. Whatever happened to change his former lover had been profound.
The maestro had the disheartening suspicion that that something had a name and that name was Rory Stone.
Well, I used to know you so well, yeah.
But how did we get here?
Well, I think I know
[‘Decode’ – Paramore]
She wasn’t the same woman who left Venice at twenty-two. There were similarities, certainly and familiarities—the things that Alessandro recognized as Phillipa Kerr despite this new broken aura that surrounded the gaffer. But this wasn’t his brilliant star, this wasn’t the woman he had loved so fiercely and given so much of himself to; she was a pale imitation. A ghost. A shadow. It broke his heart.
He accepted that she hadn’t wanted to marry him and that she had wanted to return to New York. Love was that way at times, burned fast and bright and then was over. The memories would last and there would still be a student for him to mentor. There was no regret or animosity there; he only wanted her to be happy—happy and fulfilled. It was painfully clear to him that Pippa was neither of these things.
Pippa spent her days working like a thing possessed, not an artist enjoying her craft but a soul tortured and engulfed in a painful penance for sins imagined and transgressions he couldn’t begin to fathom. They had argued about this, the way she worked. He wanted her to slow down, rest more. Drink. Eat. Live and not merely exist. She steadfastly refused and on the days that he would voice his concerns, Pippa would only work harder and longer. At what, he didn’t know. She would not discuss it after his one derisive comment regarding molds and forms. This had been his error and her silence the price he would pay.
Alessandro accepted that as well. He insulted her unwittingly and the red-haired beauty would hold a grudge. Recognizably Pippa, such behavior was. It would have made him smile if the sheer stubbornness hadn’t turned into something far more disconcerting of late. The anger, he could deal with it was the sadness in her voice and the hollow look in her eyes that he didn’t like. Something was missing, a vital part of the young woman. Determination wasn’t security, working to near exhaustion wasn’t confidence and aloofness didn’t disguise fear. Whatever happened to change his former lover had been profound.
The maestro had the disheartening suspicion that that something had a name and that name was Rory Stone.
