“I’m back at my desk now. I’ll handle this call,” Liz said.
“That’s quite all right, Liz. Just carry on. I’m speaking with Miss Carlyle.”
“But I can handle—”
“I’m sure you have other things to do, Liz.”
A pause as Caroline held her breath. Then another click.
“And you were saying, Caroline?”
Interesting interchange. “I’m not sure what I was saying. But I did call to accept your invitation.”
“Oh, that is splendid. Do you have a date in mind?”
“Yes, I do, and hopefully it will fit with your July schedule. My June schedule is so hectic, and then I start teaching again in August.”
“I certainly hope you build in some time for fun and maybe something quite frivolous on occasion.”
“Yes, I’ve scheduled some time to play in early August. What would the summer be without a vacation?” She wished her plans included some exotic beach, but Ferngrove was it.
“So, it’s playtime in August. Now, about July?”
“I wasn’t certain if you preferred a weekend afternoon recital or a weekday evening, but Thursday evening July twenty-first is best for me, as long as I get back Saturday evening to be here for Sunday morning church services.”
“Wonderful timing. You’ll fly up on Monday, the eighteenth. That’ll give you a couple of days of rest and rehearsal. We’ll plan the event for Thursday evening and your return flight for Saturday in time for your Sunday responsibilities. How does that sound?”
She was taken aback. Roderick Adair had taken complete control, and her two-day trip had turned into almost a week. “Let’s see, that’s almost a week I’ll be gone. I had only planned on a couple of days.”
“Are there commitments that would keep you from being away during that week?”
She looked at her calendar. “Nothing here, only some writing I need to do to meet a journal deadline.”
“Well, then, it’s settled. I’ll set you up in a suite here where you can work and rehearse, and maybe the Kentucky bluegrass won’t tempt you to look away from your computer screen too often. You might even take time for a few long walks. Do you like to fish?”
“Do I like to fish?” Caroline had grown up fishing with her brothers and missed it.
“There’s a great little trout stream here on the property, and the trout fishing is better than average. Lilah will prepare what we catch.”
“My goodness! Trout fishing, Kentucky bluegrass, and the piano. Doesn’t sound much like work.”
“Good, we’ll make it a pleasurable time. I’ll have Liz send the details of when and where the plane will be.”
“Do you mean the plane ticket?”
“No ticket’s necessary. I’ll be sending my plane for you.”
Caroline’s jaw dropped. He was sending a private plane for her?
“Oh, would it be agreeable with you if I made a couple of requests for your program?”
She struggled to pull herself together. “That . . . that would be fine, as long as it’s not Rachmaninoff. Remember?”
“I remember well—big heart, little hands. You’ll know these pieces. They’re standard repertoire. I’ll call you in a few days.”
“That’s good. I’ll look forward to that.”
“Till then, ‘Plaisir d’mour.’ ”
“Yes, joy and . . . Goodbye, Mr. Adair.”
“Goodbye, Miss Carlyle.”
Roderick put down the phone, walked to his window, and stared into a blue sky. After a second or two of contemplation, he huffed out a laugh. He was actually going to see Caroline Carlyle.
He had surprised himself. Ever since their phone call and his subsequent checking into her background, he’d found himself just a tiny bit enthralled with her. He’d received video recordings of two of her recitals and had found himself watching them repeatedly and thinking of her throughout the day. She was strikingly lovely, and her music reached him in places that had been untouched for years. She was so much like his mother . . .
He’d found himself pretty much determined he would get Caroline here and playing the piano. Her piano. What he thought he’d accomplish by that, he had no idea. But something had drawn him to her like a moth to a flame.
He shook his head. I need to get a grip on reality. I don’t know all I’d like to know about this woman, and I’d better be cautious. Well, July is coming, and you, Miss Caroline Carlyle, will be visiting Rockwater. I’ll see if you’re real or some made-up image I’ve concocted.
And “Plaisir d’mour”? Another song about the pain of love. Pain or not, at least your music will be beautiful.
With a deep breath and a nod to himself, he turned his thoughts away from Caroline and back to work.
When Words Aren’t Enough
Caroline had only a couple of hours to work down her list before the entourage from Ferngrove arrived. She grabbed her purse and sailed out the studio door for Pollyana’s Florist. The smell of carnations slapped her in the face as she opened the door to the business.
Why can’t florist shops smell like roses? These carnations reek of funerals. “Good morning, Polly. I’m here to place the order.”
“Must be recital time again.” Polly stopped arranging the funeral spray, wiped her hands on her apron, and picked up pad and pencil.
“You’re right. Don’t know where the year went. But here I am again. I need a bundle of yellow daisies, two bundles of pink snapdragons, white irises, and one bundle of baby’s breath. Could I pick those up in the morning around ten o’clock?”
“Sure. I’ll have them ready for you by nine. You sure you don’t want me to arrange them for you? Or is your mama coming again?”
Caroline knew Polly would turn as green as the leather-leaf fern thinking of what Delia Mullins would write in the Moss Point Messenger about Martha Carlyle’s flowers and tea table. “Mama wouldn’t miss the recital. She’s convinced I couldn’t pull it off without her. But we’ll surprise her one of these years, won’t we, Polly?”
Caroline quickly wrote a check, handed it to Polly, and bounced out the door for her next stop. She picked up Angel’s laundry and stopped at the printers for the recital programs. Last stop: the Emporium for film. Then home.
She and the Pendergrass twins entered her driveway at the same time. They had the borrowed folding chairs from the Methodist church.
“Good morning, gentlemen. I didn’t get back any too soon, did I?”
“No matter when you get here, Miss Caroline, you’d just be right on time. We got the chairs. We’ll get ’em set up and then get outta your hair.”
Caroline unlocked the studio door and put her purse on the desk as Ned and Fred trudged to the terrace with a double armload of chairs and stacked them against the wall. She followed them back to Ned’s truck and reached for a folding chair on the truck bed.
Ned, standing behind her, took off his cap and scratched his head. “I don’t mean to be nosy, but what’n the world you think you’re doing?”
“I’m helping unload the chairs.”
Fred took the folding chair from her and nodded to Ned.
“Now, Miss Caroline, that just ain’t gonna happen today or no other day when me and Fred are around. Why, we cain’t take no chances on mashing one of them pretty little fingers. You just go on inside and do your job. This job’s for Fred and me. We’ll have this done afore you can say ‘scat.’ ”
She obliged them and headed to the studio. Before she reached the door, however, a blaring car horn announced the arrival of her mother, Betsy, and Josefina. Hugs and kisses were followed by a parade of coolers carrying homemade bread and Martha’s pimiento cheese, carefully packed boxes of serving trays, and the punch bowl that had floated half a ton of ice rings and hundreds of gallons of Martha’s punch over the last thirty-five years.
When the last box was unpacked and the food refrigerated, Caroline called the Café on the Square and ordered hamburgers for takeout. All d
ay she had looked forward to a brown, greasy bag of Mabel’s cheeseburgers and onion rings. Onion rings were one of several items not on the menu because Mabel cooked them only when she was in the mood.
“Hi, Mabel, it’s Caroline, and I have company from Ferngrove. We’re dying for your hamburgers and onion rings. Are you making onion rings tonight?”
“You say they’re just dying for them?”
“Surely are. Sam and Angel are too.”
“Well, I wasn’t planning on frying onion rings tonight, but since you did so good playing for my cousin’s funeral last month, I guess I’ll fry some. How many hamburgers?”
But Caroline’s thoughts had betrayed her and flashed back to Betsy’s wedding—the day she had met David. After the late afternoon reception, he had asked her to join him for hamburgers at Chester’s, a local hamburger shack down by the town lake. She’d known him only hours, but she didn’t hesitate a moment in accepting his offer. They’d eaten hamburgers, greasy onion rings, and chocolate malts.
She had never met anyone else who shared her passion for chocolate malts.
Hours later, they’d accepted coffee from the manager and his invitation for them to continue their evening at the picnic tables down by the lake because it was well past closing time. They’d talked until two o’clock in the morning.
They had not known then that the evening would change their lives. Down by the lake, with hamburgers and greasy onion rings, had become their Ferngrove place.
Mabel was repeating herself. “Caroline? How many hamburgers? Or do you just want a bagful?”
Caroline jolted back to reality. Taking a slightly shaky breath, she counted silently. “I—I think about eight ought to do it?”
“That’s a bagful. Eight it is, and two bags of onion rings. Guess since you got company, I’ll just send my grandson over there when I get things ready.”
“That’s not necessary. I’ll be glad to pick them up.” Caroline had planned to take Betsy with her for the cultural experience. Athletic shoes, black spandex bike shorts stretched over narrow hips and muscular thighs, and an XX-Large orange T-shirt for her broad shoulders and overgrown bosom were Mabel’s standard uniform, whether it was Friday night or Sunday lunch.
“Nope, I insist. He’ll be there in about thirty minutes.”
“Thanks, Mabel. You’re the best.”
Hamburgers delivered and eaten, the women held Sam to his promise of entertaining Josefina while the ladies played a game of cards—an annual event Angel and Martha had won for the last five years. Caroline waited for a while before breaking the news about her July trip to Kentucky. She hoped her mother’s game concentration might squelch the inquisition.
She discarded the queen of spades. “Oh, Mama, did I tell you that I’ve been in touch with the man who owns my old piano?”
“No, you didn’t, and why would you discard that queen when you could play it?”
“Oops, guess I missed that one,” Caroline said, thinking her plan was working until she looked at Betsy.
Betsy lowered her reading glasses and looked at Caroline. “What’s with you? We’re never going to beat this duo if your mind’s not on the game.”
“Sorry, Betsy, I’ll try to do better.”
“Good. I’d really like to win.”
Caroline continued. “Yes, this gentleman lives near Lexington. He purchased the piano from the dealer in Atlanta for forty-two thousand dollars. Slightly more than you and Dad paid, right, Mama?”
“Slightly.” Martha never moved her eyes from her cards.
Caroline dropped the bomb. “I’m planning to go there in July.”
Betsy’s eyes flared. “You mean to Kentucky?”
“That would seem reasonable since that’s where the piano is.”
“So he’s invited you to come and play?” Betsy inquired further.
“You might say that.” Caroline gave Betsy the raised right eyebrow.
“Oh, that’s quite nice. I know how much you want to play your piano again,” Martha said, still studying the card game while Angel sat noticeably quiet during the whole interchange.
The plan worked. This kind of news needed to be delivered in stages.
“Hey, Angel, you want to go out?” Martha asked.
“Yeah, now’s the time to go out. Caroline just picked up her foot, and Betsy’s still playing her hand. That’ll gig ’em.” Angel didn’t bother to count her cards.
“That’s it! I’m done! You two have something shady going on here. What are the odds you’d win this game every time?” Caroline cared nothing for the game but enjoyed seeing Martha and Angel so happy.
“So, are we ready for the second part of the Friday-night-before-the-recital ritual?” Angel headed to the freezer. “Caroline, get out the bowls and get out the good stuff.”
“You mean the stuff in the decanter that will make us sleep like Josefina?”
“Yeah, that stuff.”
“I’m for it. Hey, Mama, you like peach brandy, don’t you?”
“Sounds good to me.”
“I’m not sure about you, Betsy. This stuff is potent and not what your doctor ordered.” Caroline brought the bowls and decanter to the table.
“Well, let’s see . . . If I can’t have the good stuff, then I get double ice cream, right?”
“Any way you want it, little mama.” Angel dipped the last scoop and held the decanter high before dousing the ice cream.
Saturday morning was a whirlwind with three generations of women involved in the recital bustle. Even Josefina helped by placing the printed programs on the chairs. At one o’clock, the preparations were done. All but Caroline went to the big house to dress for the three o’clock recital. She wanted a few minutes of quiet before the guests arrived.
On their way out the door, Betsy stopped. “Caroline, what are you wearing?”
“My navy suit and white blouse.”
“Oh, how absolutely charming.” Betsy rolled her eyes and motioned for Martha and Angel to follow her to Caroline’s bedroom. “Would you ladies vote ‘No’ with me on the navy-blue suit?”
They raised their right hands and agreed.
Betsy opened the closet door and walked in. “You’ve got to be kidding. Everything in this closet is either navy or black.”
After looking through her closet, they changed their votes. At least navy was brighter than black.
“Would you ladies join me in another vote? I think we should award Caroline the prize for having the neatest and most boring closet in the county, maybe even the state.”
Again they raised hands in agreement.
Betsy thoughtfully rubbed her pregnant stomach. “Caroline, what size do you wear?”
“Six petite. Why?” Caroline was perplexed by all of this attention to her clothes.
“Six petite? Do you ladies think your closet would look like this if you were a six petite?”
“Not on your life.” Angel twirled in her hibiscus-covered muumuu.
Martha said, “That’s it. Angel, you’re in charge. Next week, you are to take Caroline shopping. She needs some new summer clothes, something more colorful and more feminine.”
“Yeah, something that a man would take a second look at.” Betsy elbowed Caroline.
“Who wants a man who’s only attracted to colorful clothes?” Caroline closed the closet door.
“It’s packaging, Caroline . . . packaging.”
“Why don’t you package yourself and get out of here so that I can shower?” Caroline shooed them out the door and locked it.
Caroline entered the great room in a navy suit with her long dark hair pulled up and pinned loosely on top of her head. To calm and center herself, she went to the piano. It was another twenty or thirty minutes before her guests would start arriving. She had reached the middle section of Debussy’s Arabesque no. 1, an old favorite, when the phone rang. She answered to a familiar voice.
“Caroline, this is Roderick Adair. I hope I’m not calling at a bad time.”
“Oh, hello, Roderick. I was just playing the piano.”
“It must be such a joy to just sit down and play.”
“It is for me.”
“Would you play if no one ever listened?”
What an odd question. “Why, yes, I would. I mean . . . I do. Most of my playing is done when no one is listening, when all of Moss Point is asleep.”
“Oh, what a waste.”
“It’s not a waste if I enjoy what I’m doing or if it calms my nerves. That’s why I was playing when you called. My spring recital starts in about twenty minutes, and I’m a bit uneasy until it’s all over.”
“I understand that, and I also understand that I’ve reached you at a rather inconvenient time. I called to make only two requests for your program here. Would you please play Debussy’s Arabesque no. 1? It has always been a favorite of mine.”
“I’d be pleased to honor your request, sir,” Caroline responded without telling him it was one of her favorites and that she’d been playing it before she answered his call. “I’ve made note of that, but what about your second request?”
“Yes, I’d like you to sing ‘Plaisir d’amour.’ ”
“Oh, I must think about that. Playing and singing? I either play well or I sing well, and if I try to do both, both will suffer.”
“I hardly think that anyone would suffer listening to you, Caroline.”
Not knowing how to respond, she bluffed. “Oh, I’m so sorry, but my doorbell is ringing. I’ll think about your request.”
“Good, that will give me another reason to call you.”
“Goodbye, Roderick.”
Well, that should help him peg me as an emotionally clumsy schoolgirl, she thought with a sigh. I should have told him straight up I won’t play and sing.
She unplugged the phone and went back to the piano and finished the arabesque. This time the doorbell really did ring, and hand-wringing students and parents started trickling in. Guests took their seats, and students took their usual places in a section of chairs at the end of the room. Her mother, Betsy and Josefina, and Sam and Angel had their own little gallery on the opposite end of the room near the entrance to the kitchen.
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