An excerpt from The Piano Lady, a historical fiction/romance novelette-now available on Kindle/ Amazon.
The Piano Lady
by Michelle Marie McNiff
Paris , 1958
The bells of Notre Dame tolled the death of a holy diplomat. The somber tone
echoed throughout Paris. Rain soaked the pavement, as though tears had fallen
from the frown of a hazy moon that hung in a starless sky.
A tall woman in a hooded cloak rounded a dim main street corner at a fast pace, passing
storefronts and cafes. A sudden gust of wind snapped her umbrella, and lifted her dress
underneath the grey cape. The hem of the chiffon gown twirled like red ribbons on Rue de Rivoli.
Clarissa slowed her stride as she approached a newsstand with a steel dome roof. Inside
the tiny shack, a street vendor cut strings of hay tied on the evening editions of Le Monde.
A lamppost beamed a yellow shaft of light on the front page headline: PAPE EN PAIX.
Pope in Peace.
Raindrops pricked her cheeks as she lifted her right thumb to her forehead, making the sign
of a cross in the clanging bongs of Notre Dame. She fondly remembered Pope Pius XII, his
gentle voice, his high brow, and intense eyes stamped forever in her memory. She had
performed for him at his summer home, south of Rome.
The Pope was a friend of France in war and peace. The pious leader never lost power, even
when the evil dictator ravaged Europe. Behind the doors of the Vatican, Pope Pius ordered
churches, convents, and monasteries to provide refuge for Jews targeted by the Nazis.
She had read the daily telegrams at Saint Gervais, a house of worship, where she served on
the piano and organ. The sounds of music comforted the orphans against the backdrop of war.
Pope Pius aided citizens who fought like soldiers, spilling on the streets in front of Hotel de Ville, tearing down sandbag barricades, swastika flags, and German street signs, returning the City to
France. A day Clarissa would never forget.
A neon sign flashed ahead like fire burning in the windowpane. Hotel Paris Rivoli glowed flame red, welcoming patrons to a popular hot spot for cocktails and live music. A doorman with a black top hat dressed in an evening tailcoat, waved customers away with a white-gloved hand when the lobby
reached capacity.
Under a red and white striped canopy, Clarissa peeked through a foggy window. Locals and tourists blended together as they mingled inside the hotel. A group of men in black, tailored suits puffed on
cigars, and lounged beside a mirror-paneled wall. The reflection cast an optical illusion as though more people filled the room. A woman in a slinky cocktail dress claimed her seat next to a Steinway grand piano. She placed a martini glass on the table, and stared at a clock on the wall. Her date was late. Her glass was empty.
Outside the hotel, Clarissa pulled the hood of her cape over the brow of her eyes, and continued walking down rue de Rivoli. A white dove flew past her, as she slipped through the dark shadows on a cobbled alleyway.
####
The Piano Lady
by Michelle Marie McNiff
Paris , 1958
The bells of Notre Dame tolled the death of a holy diplomat. The somber tone
echoed throughout Paris. Rain soaked the pavement, as though tears had fallen
from the frown of a hazy moon that hung in a starless sky.
A tall woman in a hooded cloak rounded a dim main street corner at a fast pace, passing
storefronts and cafes. A sudden gust of wind snapped her umbrella, and lifted her dress
underneath the grey cape. The hem of the chiffon gown twirled like red ribbons on Rue de Rivoli.
Clarissa slowed her stride as she approached a newsstand with a steel dome roof. Inside
the tiny shack, a street vendor cut strings of hay tied on the evening editions of Le Monde.
A lamppost beamed a yellow shaft of light on the front page headline: PAPE EN PAIX.
Pope in Peace.
Raindrops pricked her cheeks as she lifted her right thumb to her forehead, making the sign
of a cross in the clanging bongs of Notre Dame. She fondly remembered Pope Pius XII, his
gentle voice, his high brow, and intense eyes stamped forever in her memory. She had
performed for him at his summer home, south of Rome.
The Pope was a friend of France in war and peace. The pious leader never lost power, even
when the evil dictator ravaged Europe. Behind the doors of the Vatican, Pope Pius ordered
churches, convents, and monasteries to provide refuge for Jews targeted by the Nazis.
She had read the daily telegrams at Saint Gervais, a house of worship, where she served on
the piano and organ. The sounds of music comforted the orphans against the backdrop of war.
Pope Pius aided citizens who fought like soldiers, spilling on the streets in front of Hotel de Ville, tearing down sandbag barricades, swastika flags, and German street signs, returning the City to
France. A day Clarissa would never forget.
A neon sign flashed ahead like fire burning in the windowpane. Hotel Paris Rivoli glowed flame red, welcoming patrons to a popular hot spot for cocktails and live music. A doorman with a black top hat dressed in an evening tailcoat, waved customers away with a white-gloved hand when the lobby
reached capacity.
Under a red and white striped canopy, Clarissa peeked through a foggy window. Locals and tourists blended together as they mingled inside the hotel. A group of men in black, tailored suits puffed on
cigars, and lounged beside a mirror-paneled wall. The reflection cast an optical illusion as though more people filled the room. A woman in a slinky cocktail dress claimed her seat next to a Steinway grand piano. She placed a martini glass on the table, and stared at a clock on the wall. Her date was late. Her glass was empty.
Outside the hotel, Clarissa pulled the hood of her cape over the brow of her eyes, and continued walking down rue de Rivoli. A white dove flew past her, as she slipped through the dark shadows on a cobbled alleyway.
####
