Had Samantha Sunday not been in the front hallway, the gentle knock on her door may have gone unnoticed. Latching her sinewy fingers around the handle, she tugged at the door, which caught on the Polynesian area rug beneath it. She would have moved the rug a long time ago, if not for the fragile and heavy monk's chair that anchored it in place. She despised the chair. It was the one piece of furniture she wished Richard had taken with him. But its high value kept her from moving it, which risked breaking an arm or a leg. No, that would be blamed on the movers when she would eventually sell it, and so the rug remained at the mercy of the chair.

"Good evening. Are you Samantha?" asked the slight man on the other side of the door; his voice emerged from deep within his throat, thick and determined.

"Yes. You must be Paul. Please come in." Samantha stepped aside while he reached down with his right hand, picked up his guitar case, and maneuvered his way through the door.

"Lovely home you have, Ms. Sunday." Paul tipped his head toward Samantha, who watched with intrigue as dark curls tumbled to his forehead when he removed his black wool beret.

"Thank you, and please call me Samantha. We'll use the study. It's this way." Samantha turned and led him through the living room, pacing herself to not appear too anxious.

The bookshelves along the wall displayed several classics by Faulkner, Hemingway, and Browning on the top shelves, and a number of Frank Lloyd Wright style architecture books that Richard had also left behind on the bottom shelves. Next month the librarian at the university was to sort through them and pull the ones she wanted. They were taking up valuable shelf space. The rest of the shelves were lined with Samantha's collection of romance novels. She hadn't displayed them while married and they were now meant as an inspiration for her to return to writing after a fifteen-year hiatus. Several of her manuscripts, dating back to the seventies, rested in a box in the attic. At the time, publishers were showing interest, but Richard showed more interest and she was swept away by the illusion of the perfect life he presented. The manuscripts, along with her guitar, blue jean cut-offs, and tapestries, were boxed up and stored in the attic of their new house when they moved to Arizona. The tide of the Pacific coastline ripped her abandoned dreams out to sea, leaving Samantha as a housewife dressed in Chanel and entertaining Richard's business associates with delightful hors d'oeuvres and saucy baked salmon dishes that he never knew were prepared by the local market.

When they first moved in, and Richard was away on business, Samantha would sneak up into the attic and pour through the boxes to reconnect with the girl who had retreated deep inside her. On the rare occasion that she talked to Richard about revisiting the manuscripts, her words were met with chuckles and reminders that she wasn't a gypsy-dream-chaser anymore. And, oh, don't forget Mr. McCormick and the missus were coming to dinner on Friday. As the years became decades, she visited the memories less often and eventually forgot that they sat in a box ten feet above her head.

After reaching the end of the narrow hallway, she turned into the second door on the left, the study. The other doors were closed, had been for several years. Some of them had been empty and dark since the day they moved in, while others had contained hobby items of Richard's. The movers loaded those items in their truck, closing the doors behind them when they left. But the study door was left ajar on most days.

"You can put your case down anywhere you'd like," Samantha instructed as she turned on a Tiffany lamp that was given as an anniversary gift. Their fifth, she thought. The lamp sat on an end table by the lightly worn brown leather couch. Ample light filled the room considering the drawn curtains that filtered in a sparse amount of sunlight. Opening and closing blinds each morning and evening became a tiresome effort that she had given up on long ago.

"This will do," Paul gestured toward the couch. There was only one other chair in the corner, a wooden desk chair that rocked back and forth as effortlessly as it swiveled.

"Fine. Can I get you something to drink?"

"Water would be good. Wet my whistle, so to speak," Paul said as he made himself comfortable on the couch.

Samantha watched his hands deftly open the guitar case and retrieve his Taylor 712 six-string guitar. She admired its Indian rosewood back and sides before leaving the room to fetch her own guitar, a classic 1965 Martin 21 acoustic, and his glass of water.

Reentering the study and anxious to begin, Samantha said, "I heard you playing while I was in the kitchen. Pleasant sound." She smiled at him as she placed his glass of water on a ceramic coaster next to the Tiffany lamp.

"Don't worry. We'll have you playing your favorite songs in no time." Paul eased over, making room for her on the couch. "I usually make my students sit in straight-backed chairs, but this will work."

Samantha looked at the printed sheet of note and chord samples on the music stand in front of her. "Is that what I'm learning today?" she asked. The note and chord dots on the grid resembled a partially played game of checkers.

"Yes, some of it. How much do you remember from when you used to play?"

"That was so long ago. Another lifetime, really. I don't remember much of the chords and notes, but I guess they'll come back to me as we go."

Paul reached across and placed his finger on the bars that lay across the neck of her guitar. "As a reminder, these are the frets. They're numbered one, two, three, four, and so on," he explained as he ran his fingers along the neck and downward, slipping over each fret as he counted. "And this is the soundhole." His finger had made its way down the neck to the opening of the body.

"Yes, I remember," Samantha said, eying his hands. They weren't just strong; they seemed to create pleasure in what they touched, each movement made with intention.

Paul swept his hand back up to the top of her guitar and took one of the six pegs between his fingers, "These are the tuning pegs. They're for adjusting the strings, which tune the guitar."

"Okay," Samantha said, refocusing on the guitar. "Frets, soundhole, and tuning pegs. Yup, it's all coming back to me now. Well, the parts anyway," Samantha said, impatient for the awkward re-acquaintance of her favorite instrument to pass.

Paul gripped his guitar and began strumming. His pick sat loosely between his fingers, flowing across the strings with purpose. "Each string plays an integral part of creating a song," he began to explain, breathing his words with the same fluid motion. "We'll go over notes and chords later. Right now, I just want you to strum your guitar. Don't worry about how it sounds. Just play so you can get used to the feel of the strings, the weight in your hands, and the pick. Like this." Soft sounds emanated from his guitar. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. Samantha followed suit.

"You're getting it," he smiled warmly. "Are you sure you haven't played more recently?"

"Yes, I'm quite sure," Samantha laughed. "Haven't played since the days of my blue jean cut-offs."

"Ah, that long ago? I used to love my old jean cut-offs. Levi's, of course."

"Mine were so worn out. I'd pull each frayed string one by one around the edge until it caught on the seam and I'd have to yank it off."

"Where'd you play?"

"On the beaches overlooking the Pacific. Southern California. I'd play with friends." Samantha ran her hands along the body of her guitar, remembering a time when a day didn't go by that she didn't hold it. "We all thought we were so good, but it didn't really matter if we were or not. We were having fun."

The next hour of listening to and watching Paul play and talk consumed her attention like a child at a puppet show. Absorbed with creating music, she fell into his rhythm and relearned the simple notes and chords she hadn't experienced in a long while. Her house had been so empty, so quiet, for so long. She was taken aback by the blatant change and by the kindness of the wholesome man who sat on her couch, drawing her in like fall's equatorial undercurrent.

"I'd forgotten how much this means to me," she told him when the hour was up. She looked at his eyes, his face, his hands--her own hands wrapped tenderly around the peak of the neck and the body of the instrument embraced between her long legs.

"You did great. Next time it'll be even easier. You'll see." Paul leaned over and collapsed his music stand. His hands trembled as he placed it on the floor next to the guitar case. The curls atop his forehead flopped to the other side, blocking his eyes from Samantha's view until the backside of his hand brushed them away. "By then your calluses will have developed too," he added before taking a final sip of water.

"Oh, great," she said, looking down at her soft fingers. She somehow knew it'd be worth it though.

Paul packed his Taylor 712 away in its case, clutched the music stand in his hand, and stood to leave. "Practice, practice, practice and I'll see you next Monday."

"Fifty dollars for today, right?" Samantha removed her wallet from her purse.

"Yes, that'll do." Paul took the cash from her hand and placed it in his shirt's left pocket. He stopped at the front door to retrieve his beret, under which he tucked his curls, and walked out the door without looking back. Samantha watched as he walked down the driveway, wondering if he'd turn. When all he did was pause for a brief moment before continuing, she stepped inside, and contemplated moving the area rug once again, but it was useless.

Simple tunes devoured Samantha's practice time over the next several days, usually in the study during the evening hours. Her days filled with volunteering at the library, another avenue to reinvigorate her writing. Except for a few telemarketers, she didn't receive phone calls, nor did she spend much time on her computer, a laptop her sister, Amanda, had given her as a birthday present years ago. An occasional e-mail from Amanda was all that filled her inbox. Samantha's so-called friends while she was married kept their allegiances to Richard after the divorce given that their husbands were friends and business associates of his. Most of the wives couldn't pick their own brand of mouthwash, let alone their own friends. Samantha was different though. Always had been, and when Richard left her, not one of the wives called. They'd signed on for their perfect life and were determined to keep it so. Occasionally, she'd see one of them in the grocery store with their kids hanging onto the cart begging for candy or Lucky Charms. The wife of the day would act distracted when Samantha passed by. Kids were terrific camouflage.

Three years after the divorce, Samantha remained in the house they'd bought when they wed in the late seventies. She'd thought about selling it, but didn't know where else to live. Thanks to her attorney, the settlement she received from the divorce allotted her the freedom of not having to work, and there was always an antique to sell to a collector if she did need some cash. Other than her sister, she had no family left and she sure as hell didn't want to move to Wyoming. No, Arizona worked just fine. The climate was agreeable, and her meditation group on Wednesday nights broke up the monotony of her week. The group of seven ladies was eclectic. It was after a meditation that led to a discussion about music when Joan had recommended Paul to Samantha.

"He's terrific!" Joan whispered as though the other ladies were not privy. "He and the guitar are like the earth and the sky – they complete each other." Samantha contacted Paul the next week and set up the first lesson.

Samantha had heard about the meditation group from a regular at the library, and after a few weeks of thought, decided to join. "Therapeutic" was what she told her sister in an e-mail. Through the weekly mediations, Samantha began to establish a new sense of her spirituality; her awakening cleansed her soul in ways she never experienced while married. But Amanda wasn't receptive to hearing about souls, meditation, and past lives, so Samantha learned to use expressions that her sister would accept; "therapeutic" being one of them.

Wednesday night's mediation began promptly at seven. Samantha arrived early and was greeted by Joan. "So, how'd it go?" Joan gripped Samantha's arm as though the answers would come faster that way.

"How'd what go?" Samantha teased.

"Your lesson? Paul."

"Oh that. You're right. He's amazing. I hope my fingers are ready for next week."

The rest of the women showed up in clusters and joined the circle Joan and Samantha started. Sasha, who owned the yurt, rang a small bell and their meditation began after each of them lit a candle. Samantha sank deep into her mediation, sitting on a square silk pillow she kept tucked away under a bench. Although she hadn't planned on meditating on anything in particular, her higher self was quick to guide. ""It's time you give yourself permission to be happy,”" whispered her higher self. Many of her messages came through as quiet whispers in her mind, and she had become quite adept at determining which ones were conscious versus subconscious. Tonight's subconscious message was simple, yet she chose not to share it with the group, but to let it seep in and see what transpired over the coming weeks.

Several hours of guitar practice passed in anticipation of Paul's knock on her door the next Monday. Each evening leading up to her next lesson, other than Wednesday, Samantha strummed the steel strings of her Martin, thinking about Paul's hands, the way he balanced his leg on the ball of his foot while he played, and the way his fingers stroked the strings, creating music that left her wanting to hear more.

"Good evening," Samantha said as Paul made his way through her front door once again. He removed his beret, unveiling the glossy locks that made Samantha's knees turn to milk. This time she thought she spotted a twinkle in the green eyes beneath them.

The couch in the study felt smaller than it had the week before. Her Martin lay on the floor, strings exposed as it sat in its open case the same way the frayed strings of her jean cut-offs had exposed her California tanned legs, luring men on the beach to sit on her tapestry.

"Let's spend the first few minutes tuning your guitar. I'm assuming you practiced quite a bit, which can loosen your strings," Paul said. He fished out a small battery operated tuning device and turned it on. Green and yellow lights lit up like an airport's landing strip. "Okay, strum your sixth string," he said, holding the gauge close to her strings. Samantha gripped her pick and stroked it across the bottom string. The lights all turned green.

"Perfect. Next string." And so on up, each string created a flash of green lights. "Are you sure you practiced?" he asked. "Each string is still in tune." Now the twinkle amongst the green backdrop of his eyes was evident.

Samantha grinned. "Yes, I'm sure. It must be my touch," she replied. "Maybe I'm not doing it right."

"No, I doubt that's the problem. All right. Let's get to work then." Paul placed the sheet of notes and chords on the music stand and pointed to the G note. "We're going to start with this one today," he said. Samantha emulated Paul's positioning on his guitar and stroked the string that created the G note.

"Perfect," Paul said. "Let's go on to some of the other notes so you can start putting them together into a song." He turned the page on the music stand. "Sorry I don't have a beach for you."

Samantha started to speak, but Paul winked at her, leaving her words on her lips. Her worries of fumbling along were assuaged by Paul's presence, however. He masterfully generated a harmony from his instrument that wrapped the room like a warm blanket. Years of accumulated loneliness within her dissipated with each strike of a chord, each glance at his hands, each tune created.

"How 'bout 'Anticipation,' and 'Brown Eyed Girl'?" Samantha begged when Paul asked her what songs she wanted to learn.

"That's certainly enthusiastic!" was all he said, but the next week he brought songbooks from the 70's. They sang along, laughing when out of tune, smiling when they'd hit a note correctly. These two songs were the first two that left Samantha practicing for hours each night. The finger positioning grew more complicated, yet Paul consistently managed to teach her to adapt by showing her tricks of the trade he had learned from different styles of playing.

The following week, Samantha returned home from her Wednesday night meditation where she had focused on her previous message from her spirit guides. A strong feeling had come over her - a lightening of her spirit. The sensation was surreal and engulfed her body inside out. An inner knowing of peace had arrived, but she was still not ready to share it - as though doing so would risk losing it. She went to bed that night knowing she had transformed, and for the first time since she left California, she felt excitement toward the days that lay ahead.

The only recent drop of the attic's ladder was when Samantha retrieved her guitar. The box she climbed the ladder to recover on Thursday morning sat in the far corner where it was placed over twenty years ago and was simply marked, "Manuscripts. 1972 – 1974." Next to it, a smaller box was marked, "Tapestries." Both boxes were brought down to the study.

Clearing the antique secretary next to the window, Samantha piled the manuscripts in order by date after having contemplated ordering them alphabetically. The first one, Heart Strings, spanned over two hundred pages. Much of that manuscript was penned late at night in her studio apartment. Built over a garage near Venice Beach, the apartment was her first place as an adult. Slanted ceilings created ambiance, she convinced herself when she moved in after her parents' death, never returning to the home she had grown up in. That house was later sold and the funds were split between her and Amanda. The money paid Samantha's way through UCLA. Amanda used her share to move to Wyoming and didn't look back.

Yellow stained paper didn't deter Samantha as she began typing the text before her onto her laptop, starting with the cover page: Heart Strings, by Samantha Sunday. The agreement she made with herself was to type and not edit, as difficult as that would be. There were five manuscripts in all, each originally typed on a manual typewriter. She'd start with the first and see where it led her. Without a thought, Samantha leaned over and drew the curtains open, allowing a thick ray of sun to stream across the tattered papers.

The following Monday, a warm spring day for early May, Paul's beret came off as it had every other week. The same dark curls relaxed against the forehead beneath them. And the same couch welcomed the musicians.

"Is there anything in particular you'd like to work on today?" Paul asked her as he sat in his spot on the couch.

"Yeah, will you teach me a love song?" Samantha asked as she tugged at the strings of her faded cut-off jeans.

Heather Hummel is a celebrity ghostwriter and an award-winning, best-selling author. Her books have appeared in newspapers such as: Publishers Weekly, USA Today and the Washington Post; and in magazines that include: Health, Body & Soul, First, and Spry Living, a combined circulation of nearly 15 million. A graduate with High Distinction from the University of Virginia, Heather holds a Bachelor of Interdisciplinary Studies degree with concentrations in English and Secondary Education. She is currently earning a Ph.D. in Metaphysical Sciences.
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