Reflection

by Diane Chamberlain

  "Uh-uh." Ian glanced toward the rear door. "There's Michael," he said.

  Lily turned to see the minister in the doorway, but it was the young man standing next to him that made her hand fly to her mouth.

  "Oh, my God, Ian." She gripped the sleeve of her husband's shirt.

  "What?"

  She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her cheek to his shoulder. "It's Luke Pierce."

  "Where? That guy with Michael?"

  "Yes." She kept her eyes tightly closed.

  "He's a teenager, Lily. Not to mention that Luke Pierce is dead."

  She looked at the man again. Ian was right, of course. Luke Pierce would be in his forties by now, but his youthful image had been kept alive over the years in photographs seen occasionally on TV or in the paper. Closing her eyes again, she saw the inside of her second-grade classroom, turned upside down. Glass everywhere, shreds of camouflage cloth, a small hand jutting out from underneath an overturned desk. She moaned. The air in the meeting room was too thick, too fetid to breathe.

  Without a word, she stepped past her husband and through the side door of the room into the hallway. Pushing open the exit doors, she walked out onto the sidewalk.

  And then she was fine. She sat down on the curb and let her heartbeat settle back to normal.

  She didn't turn around when she heard the door open and shut behind her. "Hey, Lily, girl." Ian sat down next to her, his arm around her shoulders. "What's this all about?"

  "Sorry," she said. "It was just too hot in there. And that guy." She shuddered. "He must be Rachel Huber's son. I remember her saying he was coming for a visit. But he's the spitting image." She shook her head. "No kidding, Ian. That's exactly what Luke Pierce looked like."

  "Must feel kinda freaky."

  "That's an understatement. Whew." She put her head down on her knees. "I think I can go back in now. I just wish it weren't so stifling in there."

  "You sure you want to go in? Why don't you go get a Coke or something down at the Brahms and cool off?"

  "Nah." She shook her head and stood up. "He's not Luke. I can deal with it."

  But much of the meeting was lost on her. Luke Pierce's son stood against the opposite wall of the room, directly across from her and Ian, and she couldn’t steal her eyes from him for more than a second or two no matter how hard she tried to concentrate on the dour-faced board sitting up front. Someone at the end of the table was standing, reading from a fat sheath of papers bound in a blue cover. He was a sewage expert, and she listened only long enough to hear him say that the development would pose no problem for the town before she found herself staring at Luke's son again.

  She turned her attention to the slides someone was showing on a screen at the front of the room. They were artist's renderings of the proposed development. The office buildings were actually quite attractive, but they simply swallowed up Spring Willow Pond. They'd look great someplace other than Reflection. The houses, though. Ticky-tacky. Only a handful of models, and they all looked basically alike to her. They lined the curved, treeless streets of the Hostetter development, bumping right up against the Amish-Mennonite cemetery and Jenny's grave. The audience buzzed, and she knew what they were saying and thinking. The beautiful forest was about to be transformed into a plastic, sterile landscape.

  Luke Pierce's son stood with his arms folded. He looked as if he were listening intently. He turned his head once, and she could see the long wisp of hair at the nape of his neck. What would old Luke have made of that? she wondered.

  Another expert read from a soil study, and Lily realized she was not the only person in the audience with her eye on the stranger. Otto Derwich sat a few seats away from her, his head turned in the young man's direction, and Lily guessed that he was absorbing no more of the technical information on erosion than she was. Otto whispered something to his wife, who batted his words away with a jerk of her hand.

  Sammi Carruthers, one of the two women on the board, began talking about the importance of controlled growth. Ian sighed loudly, then whispered in her ear, "The Hostetters have the board in their back pocket, wouldn't you say?"

  "All right," Sammi said, resting her notes on the table in front of her. "The board will now open the floor to anyone who wishes to express their opinions on the project."

  Michael, who'd been standing near the front of the room, raised a sheath of papers in his hand. "I have several petitions opposing the Hostetter development that I would like to present to the board," he said. "They represent not only the general citizenry and the business community, but the Amish and other plain sect groups as well."

  "Who don't vote, so who cares?" Ian whispered to her. She knew the sentiment was not his own but rather what he guessed was going through the minds of the board members.

  Michael handed the petitions to Sammi Carruthers and took his place at the side of the room again. Lily watched his face for a moment, wondering if Rachel had told him about Katy's pregnancy.

  Will Gretch stood up and talked about the increased load the development would mean for the fire department. It would lead to higher taxes, he said, and the audience stomped its feet in protest.

  "I have a question," Ian said loudly when the din had died down. "I'd like to know what connections the members of the board of supervisors have to the building industry."

  Lily held her breath while the board sat in stunned silence, and several people in the audience laughed. Then one of the men on the board spoke up.

  "That's irrelevant to the task of this hearing," he said.

  "Right," Ian said with a grin. He leaned back against the wall again, arms folded. He'd made his point. Probably every member on the board stood to benefit economically from the Hostetter development, and probably every member of the audience knew it. Everyone knew that Sammi Carruthers's husband, for instance, was a roofer.

  There were a few more comments and questions from the increasingly antagonistic audience. Then Michael raised both his arms to get everyone's attention.

  "Will all those who are opposed to the Hostetter project please stand?" he asked.

  Only the Amish were hesitant about getting to their feet, but after a few awkward seconds, even they rose to join the vast majority of the audience. Not everyone stood, true, but it was hard to see those who were still seated, so dwarfed were they by the forest of unhappy citizens.

  "Thank you," Michael said. "You may sit down now."

  It wasn't until everyone started to take their seats again that Lily saw Jacob Holt near the rear of the room. And that's when the old principal saw Luke Pierce's double. Holt stopped halfway into his seat, his hand gripping the back of the chair in front of him. He lowered himself slowly, then turned his head to look at Lily, and she knew he was not finished with September 10, 1973, any more than she was. She held his gaze until the old man turned his head away, and in that instant she made a decision. She couldn’t wait for Jacob Holt to do something about the past. She would have to do it herself. Find a way to end the suffering. That's what Michael had said in yesterday's impassioned sermon.

  "Well," Sammi Carruthers said, obviously wrapping things up, "we appreciate your input here tonight, and we'll certainly be taking all your concerns under consideration as we think about the proposal this week. We will be voting on it Tuesday night, September sixth. Whatever the outcome, I can assure all of you that the board has Reflection's future at heart."

  People rose from their seats, and Ian leaned his head toward her. "Want to mill around? Talk to some people?"

  Lily shook her head. "No. It's too hot. And I want to talk to you, alone," she said.

  Something in her voice made him raise his eyebrows and she averted her eyes. She was going to tell Ian everything. She was going to ask him what he thought she should do, and as they made their way from the room, it was more than the heat that made her perspire.

  –37–

  The air-conditioning didn’t quite reach the attic, and Rachel's shirt stuck to her back as she dug into t
he box. Downstairs, Gram was at the piano playing a piece Rachel had never heard before. "An obscure Huber creation," Gram had told her when she'd asked. She'd waited until her grandmother was deep into the music before slipping up the stairs.

  Her hands tightened around the old Beatles albums. Yes, this was the right box. She closed it up again and set it at the top of the stairs to take down for Chris. Then she walked over to the other side of the attic, ducking under the slant of the open-beamed ceiling. She found her grandparents' box where she'd left it, the box she'd accidentally opened when she first arrived. She took out the photographs and journals and laid them carefully on the floor next to her. Then she began looking through the sheets of music, which had meant nothing to her the last time she'd seen them.

  She glanced at the titles. There seemed to be two copies of each work, in two distinct handwritings, one sloppier than the other, with dozens of directive notes—the violins must go head to head with the piano here—scratched into the margins. They had to be her grandfather's early drafts.

  She found what she was looking for at the very bottom of the box—a thick chunk of paper set inside a tan folder. The typed label on the front of the folder read Reflections. Rachel sat back against the wall with a smile.

  She looked at the folder in her hand, opened it, and leafed through the stack of music. Would her grandfather have left the piece here, in the bottom of a box of music, or had Gram hurriedly packed these things and never noticed it? Perhaps she'd simply forgotten about it.

  The piano stopped, and she cocked her head to listen for it to begin again. When it didn’t, she rose to her feet and turned out the attic light. She carried the box of memorabilia downstairs, along with the tan folder and the treasure inside it.

  Light poured through the open door of the library. She took the box into Chris's room first, setting it on the dresser next to his computer. Then she carried the folder into the library.

  Gram was reading, but she glanced up when Rachel walked into the room.

  "Look what I found," Rachel said. She held the folder out in front of her and saw the color leave her grandmother's face.

  "I didn't say you could look through my personal belongings," Gram said without touching the music.

  "I'm sorry." Rachel lowered the folder to her side. "When I first arrived and was looking through the boxes, I accidentally opened one of yours first and noticed there was music inside it. I remembered it tonight and thought I should check it out, just in case. Forgive me, Gram. I thought you'd be pleased that I found it."

  "No." Gram looked down at her book again. "I'm not pleased."

  Rachel hesitated before speaking again. "You've known all along, haven't you?" she said. "You knew where this was."

  "It doesn't matter."

  "Gram." Rachel sat down on the ottoman. "I don't understand. This doesn't make any sense. I know you want to save that land as much as anybody. All we have to do now is get this music to that pianist and we're—"

  "We are not sending the music to anyone." Gram slammed her book closed. "Not to anyone!"

  She stared at her grandmother until the older woman had to avert her eyes.

  "It's not negotiable, Rachel," Gram said. "And that's final. So you might as well put the music back where you found it."

  "I can't do that."

  "I don't expect you to understand my reasons," Gram said, "but I do expect you to honor my wishes. That music belonged to my husband, so it's mine now, and I will decide what's done with it. We should burn it. I should have burned it long ago."

  Rachel clutched the folder to her chest. She wouldn't let her grandmother get her hands on it.

  Gram stood up. "I should have let you go back to Texas," she said.

  Rachel's eyes stung as she watched her grandmother start for the door. Gram stopped, resting her hand on Rachel's shoulder. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean that. This is all just very disturbing to me."

  * * *

  They didn't speak for the rest of the night, and Rachel kept the folder with her, looking at the handwritten music inside it every once in a while. It was almost midnight and Gram was in bed by the time she heard the two cars pull into the driveway. She met Michael and Chris on the porch.

  "How did it go?" she asked, turning on the porch light. She could tell by Michael's expression that he wasn't happy.

  "The people don't want the development," Chris said. "Michael told everyone who was against it to stand and practically the whole room stood up, but it doesn't seem to matter."

  "He's right." Michael sat down on the porch swing with a sigh and Rachel sat next to him, the folder on her lap. "The board seems to have its mind made up. They really don't care what the little guys think, I'm afraid."

  "It was so cool, though, Mom." Chris sat down on the top step. "I mean, I met so many people. So many Amish. They were really nice, but you could tell they weren't used to that kind of meeting—not that I was, either." He grinned.

  "The place was packed to the rafters," Michael said. "People stood out in the hall."

  "And there was no air-conditioning," Chris added.

  "Oh, no." She thought of her hour in the heat of the attic.

  "There were lots of reporters, lots of cameras," Michael said. "NPR was there, and the Wall Street Journal. One thing we got was good coverage. I don't think it's going to make a difference, though." His gaze fell to the folder on her lap, and she saw his expression change as he made out the typed word on the label. "What the…?"

  It was her turn to grin. She handed the folder to him. "You won't believe this," she said. She described finding the music and Gram's reaction.

  "That's it?" Chris asked. "That's Reflections? "

  Rachel nodded.

  "Can I see it?" Chris asked, and Michael handed the folder over to him. Chris set the music on the floor of the porch so that the light hit it, then began leafing through it with concentration, head bobbing slightly, one hand keeping time on his thigh.

  "I'll talk to Helen," Michael said. "Maybe she just doesn't understand how this can save us. What do you think the problem is?"

  "I have no idea." Rachel shrugged. "Maybe she wants to hold on to this piece herself as her last remembrance of her husband. Although she did say she should have burned it."

  Michael shook his head. "Weird."

  "Can I play it?" Chris asked. "Can I use the piano?"

  Rachel was longing to hear the music, but she shook her head. "We'd better wait until you ask Gram, since she's being so strange about it. And I don't want to wake her up with the piano."

  Chris returned his attention to the music, clearly mesmerized.

  Michael got to his feet. "I'm going to go," he said.

  She wished he would stay, but she wasn't certain how Chris would react. She knew that was Michael's reason for leaving.

  "Can I take this to my room with me?" Chris asked. "I want to finish it."

  "All right." Rachel stood up herself.

  "Good night, Chris," Michael said. "I enjoyed your company tonight."

  "Yeah, me too," Chris said. "See you tomorrow?"

  "Sure." Michael gave Rachel a quick hug, and she reluctantly let him go.

  She was in bed when she was startled by the knock on her window. At the second knock, she laughed out loud.

  Naked, she got up and opened the window for him. "You used to throw stones," she whispered as she unfastened the screen.

  "Well, you slept upstairs back then," he said, climbing over the sill. She and Luke and Michael would wake one another that way. They'd sneak out of their houses and go exploring in the middle of the night. Their mothers would compare notes the following day on how lazy and tired their kids were all the time.

  "And you slept in your jammies back then." Michael stepped into the room and pulled her into his arms for a kiss. His clothes felt cool and soft against her bare skin. "I've missed touching you," he said.

  She began unbuttoning his shirt, and in minutes she had him undressed and stret
ched out beneath her on the bed. He let her make love to him as he had to her a few nights before—slowly, dragging it out, as if making up for all the years of lovemaking that had been lost to them. They lay naked together afterward, the moonlight on their bodies. Despite the air-conditioning, it was too hot for the covers.

  "Your son is terrific." Michael stroked the backs of his fingers along her side.

  "You were so good with him," she said. "Thanks for asking him to go with you tonight."

  "He was a big help."

  She could see Chris's face at the kitchen table, the hope in his eyes as he listened to the stories about his father. "I love him too much," she said.

  "Impossible."

  "I do," she said. "It makes me so afraid of losing him. I've lost too many people. Two husbands, my parents. I lost you, in a different way."

  He hesitated. "Are you afraid of losing me again?"

  "Yes."

  He pulled her closer, but she knew he could offer her no reassurance that that wouldn't happen. She clutched him tightly, pressing her face against his chest to breathe in his scent.

  "It's understandable that you'd fear losing Chris, but it's unfounded," he said. "Really."

  "He's so much like Luke, though," she said.

  "Yes. I couldn't stop looking at him tonight. He's Luke, through and through."

  Rachel felt the lump form in her throat. "He's like the Luke you were describing tonight. Beautiful and kind and loving. But he's getting to that age where Luke changed."

  "It won't happen."

  She began weeping, and for the first time she realized the fear had been inside her all along. "He wants to quit school. He wants to play full time in his band."

  "He has a passion. Let him follow it."

  She sat up. "But I'm afraid it will be the beginning of the end," she said. "He'll change. Maybe the mental illness is there, beneath the surface, just waiting for something to trigger it."

  Michael reached up to touch her cheek. "There's no Vietnam right now, Rache. And Chris is not Luke."

  She studied his face for a moment. His expression was serious. There was love in his eyes, and she lay down again, pulling close to him. She wouldn't think about Chris any longer tonight. She wouldn't think about all she had to lose.