The house was empty, in a strange almost lived-in way. Anne remembered when she was a child there was a family that lived on the same street that was killed in a car accident. After their funeral, the family came and took the things they wanted, and the house was left unattended. One day after school, she went inside on a dare, with her sister. The house didn’t feel vacant but it was also obviously not occupied. It was like a house waiting for someone to come home. But the people never returned. That is what this house felt like. It was as if the family left for a vacation, and then, for some reason, never came back.

 Jarred had moved over to the drawing room and Anne followed him, her footsteps leaving an imprint in the dust, which had accumulated to the point that it almost looked like a layer of frost on the wood floors. The floors were solid and didn’t creak ,and Anne noticed that the wood paneling was in almost perfect condition.

 She entered the study and could picture John and Michael having their argument inside the doorway. She could see where Anne could have stood unseen by both of them, right outside the door but well within earshot. From the entry to the study she looked back, and the staircase loomed off the main floor, then disappeared from that vantage point like stairs to heaven. Anne must have been half way down when she had observed John lying on the couch that morning. The study had many more bookshelves than she had pictured. The entire room was lined with them, starting at about four feet off the floor. Most of the shelves were empty now, but Anne could picture the rows and rows of volumes, which had lined the bookcases for who knows how long. At the far end of the room was a huge mahogany desk. Anne joined Jarred by it and looked at the top, which was unprotected.

 There were cuts and abrasions where writing utensils had penetrated the wood, and there were scars from unkindly patrons or errant drops of heavy objects. She moved to the backside of the desk and looked out the windows, which showed a clear partial view of the courtyard, as well as the road that departed the property to the rear. The desk had two rows of drawers in it, and Anne pulled on several of them, but they were all empty. As she walked out of the room she could see light colored spots on the wood floor where the legs of chairs or sofa’s must have stayed for a very long time.

 “Do you want to go upstairs?” Jarred spoke quietly and pointed at the staircase, and Anne nodded her head. It was almost as if words would disturb the waiting house, that if they spoke too loudly, they would force it to recognize that it was no longer the stately manor it had been, but rather, that it was merely an empty vessel, standing in another time, awaiting an undeserved end.

 The stairs were substantial and felt as if made of the trunks of ancient timbers. There was no creaking, no emptiness to the sounds of their footsteps as they made their way upstairs.

 At the top of the stairs there was a door off to the left, and Anne could see the outline of a name or word on it. She rubbed the spot and could make out the name ‘Elizabeth’ on it. She hesitated for a second. It felt as if she should knock, that if she listened hard enough she could hear a little girl playing with her toys inside. Anne grabbed the crystal knob and turned it. The door opened easily.

 It was a smaller room, about fifteen feet by fifteen feet square.There was some kind of wall paper with horse prints that had started to fray but was still in remarkable condition—Mustangs, Gray Mares, Clydesdales, Arabians. Anne walked around the room and found a name written in childish writing. It said ‘Oddfellow’. Anne seemed to remember reading about that horse somewhere.

 The room still had a single bed in it, and a nightstand. The bed cover was still on it. Anne was sure it used to be a pretty yellow, but now it was more faded chiffon.

 They left the room and continued to the next door. Anne already knew whose room it was, and her name appeared on it, painted in white. There was a rose at the end of the name. Anne paused to gather her thoughts and Jarred almost ran into her. She felt the bump and heard his apology but took her time and traced the name with her finger, as she had done with the inscription in the book so many times. It was, without a doubt, the same handwriting.

 Anne grasped the knob and slowly turned it. As it swung open she half expected to see a young girl in her nightgown sitting in her bed, writing in her diary. She gasped as the door swung open and, with a small tap, hit the wall. The room was in almost perfect condition. It eerily reminded Anne of those TV shows where a son or daughter goes missing, and the parents don’t touch a thing in their child’s room so that they can come back to it exactly they way they had left it. But this room hadn’t been lived in for what had to be over fifty years. And though everything was covered in dust, it was perfectly preserved. Even down to the pictures on the walls. Jarred had made his way over to one of them.

 “Anne, come here. This must have been her.” He pointed to a picture of a girl about seventeen. It was taken without her knowledge, as the girl was half turned away from the camera, looking at something in the distance. There was an inscription on the bottom of the page. “To my lovely Anne, forever hopeful. Love, Mother.” Another picture of Anne, several years later, was next to it. She was holding what had to be her sister’s hand as they walked down an aisle. Anne couldn’t tell if it was a wedding or a funeral. The younger sister was crying. The last picture Anne recognized immediately. It was of a beautiful young girl at the piano, with a room full of people. There was a young man sitting beside her with the most enamored look on his face. It could only have been John.

 Jarred peered at the picture for the longest time. She couldn’t tell if he was looking at the girl or someone else but it obviously captured his attention.

 Anne whispered in his ear. “Do you recognize someone Jarred?” He was a little surprised, and pulled back.

 “What? I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.” He looked at her questioningly.

 “Never mind. I was just kidding. It is a beautiful picture, isn’t it? Do you see that young man there?” Anne pointed to the young man in the tuxedo.

 “Yes,” said Jarred.

 “That is John… John Harrision,” she said.

 “The book I have was a gift from her.” She pointed to the young girl. “To him.” She pointed to John. “What an amazing shot. I can’t believe this is here. It is like looking at a window into someone’s heart.” Anne left his side and went over to the fully made-up bed, and sat down. There was a small, yellow nightstand by its side, and she traced her fingers on the top of it through the dust. The motion left three small snake-like tracks behind. There was a single drawer that was closed and she tugged it open. Inside, there was an eraser, a pencil that was still sharp, a couple of scraps of paper and a hair ribbon. Anne picked up the pencil and the hair ribbon, and held it in her hands as she absorbed the surroundings.

 “I’m going to go downstairs. Take your time.” He left the room, and she heard him walk softly down the stairs. She got up, still holding the ribbon and pencil, and walked over to the window to pull open the sheer curtains. She could see below to the main driveway as Jarred walked out the front door and pulled out his cell phone to make a call. It must have been a similar scene that Anne had watched in 1939 as John came in from the trip with Michael. The thought made her shiver, and she rubbed her arms.

 She looked down at the objects she held and went over to the nightstand and put them away, closing the drawer. She exited the room with one final look, shut the door, and made sure it latched. Then she walked down to the main floor. Jarred stood at the bottom of the staircase.

  “Just one more minute.” Anne held up a single finger and pointed to the piano. Jarred walked over and joined her, and they lifted up the cloth cover from the front of it. Under the cover, and on top of the soundboard, there was a metronome that had been laid on its side, and Anne set it upright to let the arm loose. It swung back and forth with the familiar tick, tock, tick, tock. The piano was beautiful and ornate. It was made of a dark wood, and was heavily stained for a deep ember appearance. It looked in remarkable condition. Anne uncovered the keys and ran her fingers over them without making a sound. They felt like silk petals under her fingertips. The ivory was yellowed but there were no keys missing. She saw something inside the lid of the piano, between the music stand and the strings, and she reached in and removed it. It was a copy of sheet music for Beethoven’s Two Part inventions. Anne knew the particular piece well, as it was also written for cello.

 They put back the music, and replaced the cover on the piano as if someone might want to play it someday, then walked out the back door into the sun of the courtyard. Anne turned around and looked at the old house. Jarred could see her eyes were moist and watched as a single tear fell. He grabbed her by the hand and led her back to the car, where he opened the door for her and then got in the other side. Without saying a word, he drove out the driveway and down Fleming road back to London.

The head maid discovered the blue shoe as she emptied out the morning dishwater. One of the dogs had been chewing on it and she shooed him away to pick it up. It was a woman’s shoe, suitable for a servant girl, and it was badly torn and covered in mud....

I'm Sorry Love Anne by Andrea Peters. I'm Sorry Love Anne (Book Excerpt)