Shutting up the studio was hard, opening it was even harder, but Amy was right, she was only doing what Thomas had done, all those years ago. She had no idea why she had opened up to her niece, perhaps the extra glass of whisky had loosened her tongue.
Still, she had opened the door and cleaned like a demon, every surface, nook, cranny and rug had been given the 'Jean' treatment.
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She sat there, alone. Matthew was out, with Alice she assumed, so she was alone. The silence was crushing. Her eyes drifted over to his record player and her thoughts drifted to the times he played records too loud in the middle of the night - usually Beethoven.
She sighed and put her glass down, really she drank far too much whisky these days.
Leafing through the discs she came across one they had danced too, one night and put it on. She closed her eyes and focussed on the memory of his arms around her and his lips on her neck.
The music wafted over her until she realised that the soprano was joined by a lyrical tenor:
"Cosi l'effluvio del desio tutta m'aggira,
felice mi fa, felice me fa!"
Tears ran down her cheeks as his voice slipped into the English translation for the next two lines:
"And you who know, who remember and yearn
Do you shrink from me?"
"Oh Lucien," she sniffed, "where are you, my love?"
"Right here, Jean," he touched her shoulder, gently, "right here."
And he was, he was wrapping his arms around her, breathing in her clean scent as she breathed in his, and kissing her head, her eyelids, her nose and finally her mouth.
He was home and so was she.