Seaside Vacation

April 16th

Come to think of it, I knew surprisingly little about Lily Hoover.

The thought bugged me as I drove almost all the way down to the end of the road, tapering off into the Lone sea. A small muddy lane cut east into an empty stretch of land save for the modest establishment owned by Willowby’s claim to fame, Sam Miller. Pianist extraordinaire. The person I had probably spent the most time with other than my parents.

I parked the car by the entrance and carefully took a step into the rather marshy land. The hiking boots that I always wore on my visits here were comforting under the overcast skies and the rather chilly breeze of the seaside. There was a salty tang to it. It smelled like home.

The thick, carefully crafted timber supports of the pier house we had lovingly dubbed ‘the workshop’, ached ever so slightly as I ascended the wooden stairs that led to the main entrance. I dusted my boots on the mattress as I rang the calling bell. Pasted-shaded loafers greeted my downward gaze. They didn’t look in the best of shape, what with all the muddy spots. I could only guess who the owner was.

“Coming!” A voice shouted from the inside. In another moment, I heard the door lock click as Lily Hoover slowly opened the door, a frown on her face. “You are late.”

“It’s not like we agreed on a time.” I said as I took a step inside. The reception area looked as sparse as it always did, scantily decorated with a few chairs and vases adorned with exotic flowers. The latter of which were gifts from producers, record label execs but most of all the journalists. Industry insiders took flattery quite seriously. Financially speaking of course.

“Uh, we did though? I specifically told you I would be here by 2 PM. I even sent you a fancy 2 gif.” I froze in my step and looked her way. Lily had closed the door and was now leaning against it. An annoyed look on her face.

“Could you say that again?”

“I specifically told you-”

“No, the other part.”

“I sent you a fancy 2 gif.” Unimaginable horror. I staggered and took a seat on one of the rickety chairs.

“Oh no, you are one of those weirdos.” She tilted her head, her face just as oblivious as others like her.

“You are pronouncing it like how you would pronounce the g in giraffe.”

“Huh? Isn’t that how everyone does it?” An innocent look on her face.

“No…”

“Okay, how do you pronounce it?”

“Like the gif in gift.”

“Why?” Lily looked disappointed. “It’s not like anyone gives a shit.”

“Sorry, but I can’t be associated with someone committing murder in plain sight.”

“I am?!” She looked mortified. In a very exaggerated way.

“Butchered and defiled thrice in this very conversation!”

“Fuck you, the Oxford dictionary accepts both pronunciations!”

“Oh yeah? Then why did Barack fucking Obama choose the strong g of gif?”

“The inventor of the file format pronounced it with a soft g on national television!”

“Can’t expect everyone to be based, can we?”

“Are you seriously calling Barack Obama based? That’s a new low even for you.”

“I don’t mean-” I paused, unsure of how to respond without making a fool of myself. She smirked. “Ugh… Fine, I will let it rest.”

“It took a while to find that gif, you know? Like a giant foraging through a small forest.” In long, heavy steps she came up to where I sat and leaned forward, her loose hair like a cloak around her face. “Like a giraffe reaching for leaves it can’t possibly reach.”

That smell of hers was intoxicating. It was as if I would drown in it if I wasn’t careful. It almost made me gloss over her ridiculous way of pronouncing the soft g in those words. Almost. But even still, I couldn’t bring myself to respond.

In another moment, she twirled in her steps as she walked away.

“I didn’t think you would come after the shit I pulled last time.” She said, her back turned towards me. “So I am glad.”

I slapped myself. Twice. To her credit, she didn’t even turn to look at me.

“I can’t exactly turn down a request from such a pretty girl.” I said with my best aloof voice.

There was an uncomfortable pause before Lily spoke again.

“...Is that so?” She said finally. A rather boring reaction.

“To the hall, then?” I said as I got up from my seat. Lily nodded as she started walking.

The reception area gave way to what was essentially the rest of the workshop. I followed her into the open floor space. Meant for almost any kind of activity, open for anyone who wanted to seriously practise and hone their craft. Acoustic panels dotted the walls and ceiling, the beautiful maple floor under my feet alongside the heavy curtains placed near every window came together to create an almost concert hall level of acoustic response.

My gaze was immediately drawn to the far right corner of the hall, the Steinway D Concert Grand looked as magnificent as it always did. It’s polished ebony glistening in the gloomy ray of the Sun leaking in from the window. The last time I played it was almost a decade ago. I had been given a taste that day, a sample of its rich and resonant sound. The delicate nuances or the powerful fortissimo passages it let me take.

“Work hard. Harder than you ever have. You don’t deserve this piano, not yet. But one day, when I think you are capable…”

It hadn’t been enough. I sighed to myself. Of course, it hadn’t. I had given up after all.

I pulled myself out of my thoughts and looked around the rest of the hall. It had been a while since I had been here, yet it looked mostly how I remembered it. The stacks of chairs, stands and vast array of percussion instruments on the far left corner alongside my Yamaha Arius YDP-145. The raised stage area covered with cheap red carpets, a mic stand standing naked at the centre. The storage room behind it, probably still more of a cardboard and styrofoam disposal room than anything else. The halogen lights on the ceiling casting a rather depressing gloom and the air conditioning droning in a way that melded into the ambience itself.

But there was something new. Or rather, a whole bunch of it.

Beside the window facing the sea rested a wooden doohickey hoisting the canvas with the blank sheet of paper on top. It looked wet. Around it was a plethoric mess of tools, buckets, colour tubes and stationary devices resting on a glass panelled table. It was, to put it simply, completely alien to me. Behind all of it, in an incline chair, she sat with an inquisitive look on her face. Her face resting on her hands, looking my way, as if she was examining a curious lifeform. I coughed.

“Done reminiscing?” She asked bluntly. “Didn’t want to interrupt your little trip through memory lane.”

“It’s not really a trip. Not much has changed honestly.” I paused. “Other than this part of the hall of course.”

“Like it?” She had a flushed look on her face. I recognized that look. I used to feel that same sense of belonging when I sat on that cushioned stool, the keys of the piano in front of me. A place where I could just be myself.

“Is that a rhetorical question?”

“No. But it’s okay, I wasn't really expecting you to get any of this.”

“Harsh. I know a few things!”

“If you really did, you would have been fucking livid with the fact that I had a wet paper set on the canvas even though I wasn’t painting.”

You know what? Yeah, that did sound pretty wack when she put it that way. I raised my hands in a sign of surrender. She had a smug look on her face.

“So, why am I here again?” I couldn’t imagine she had brought me here just to flex her quasi-studio nook.

She pointed her fingers to a spot right behind the- actually, what was it called again?

“Hey, what do you call this wooden stand thingy? Looks pretty complex.”

“An easel.”

“Ani Zel? Like the singer?”

“Are you fucking with me?”

“Just a bit.” She hurled a brush at mach speed at me. I ducked, narrowly dodging the metaphorical spear of Longinus. I stuck out my tongue, taunting her.

“You are so dead.” I took cover as she primed a few more missiles to lob at my forehead. I looked at the direction in which she had pointed her finger to find a lonely bar stool laying on the ground. Wait did that mean…

“You want me to model for you?!” I said aloud as soon as it hit me. I slowly peeked over the table to find her staring daggers at me. I raised my hands again as I backed away and quietly took a seat on the bar stool.

“Good boy.” She said and got out of her seat. She manoeuvred carefully out of her artist ‘room’ and walked towards me. She stopped a foot or so away and stared, biting her nails as if deep in thought. “Don’t move.”

She moved around, ducked and observed me from a multitude of angles. Was this really part of the process?

“Tuck your legs below the stool, stick your gaze somewhere and try not to look away from it.” She moved back to her seat and stuck out her thumb over my face, brush in hand. “You can talk by the way.”

“Oh thank god.” The thought of sitting still for god knows how long was going to drive me crazy. “How long is this gonna take?”

“About an hour tops.” She said, picking tools and colours from all around her.

Now, where to look. Hmm, I wonder.

“Are you sure about this?” Lily met my gaze as I stared right at her. “Are you sure you wanna be staring at ‘such a pretty girl’ for that long?”

I stayed silent.

On that drowsy afternoon of 16th April, as the tracks by British Sea Power filled my ears. I couldn’t help but slip away in that quiet melancholy. Lily’s head nodded side to side as she sang quietly to the beat of the song. Her cheeks, a shade of pink. Her green eyes alight with the passion of her craft.

Ah, she wasn’t just pretty. She was beautiful.