Housesitting

It was a lovely September evening and I was going to be house sitting for a rather affluent couple. I walked up their long paved driveway and rang the doorbell. A horrible sound came from in the house, such a dreadful cacophony of noises that it almost sounded like someone had thrown a pipe bomb into a broadway orchestra pit. The door burst open so quickly I almost thought it would fly off the hinges, something I hadn't considered since the door was about 16 feet tall and made of solid oak. A man I assumed was the owner of the house stood on the other side of the doorway, looking rather contrite. He apologized for the noise, and I feigned ignorance to be polite.

 As I stepped inside, I noticed a rather well dressed woman. I imagined she was with the man who had opened the door, but she seemed far too aloof to be with anyone. The man told me that something had come up and they would be gone longer than expected. He tried to seem rueful, but I got the impression that he couldn't possibly care less. I didn't bother calling him out, though, because he was the one paying me and it was always best to be congenital where a paycheck was involved. Of course I didn't grovel, but it was always wise to be a bit ingratiate where money was involved.

 They left the house shortly after, and I wandered around. I saw a piano and decided to play. I was never any sort of prodigy, but I wasn't half bad where that sort of thing was concerned. I played some sheet music by a composer I assumed only rich people had ever heard of. I stopped for a moment of breast when I heard a door be unlocked, then ever so slowly opened. I had thought it was one of the owners but then I remembered the women had been vehemently against stopping at the drive through on the way to the airport for fear of being late. Who had opened the door, and who was walking towards me now?