The Secret of Clouds

by Alyson Richman

  It was a bit pathetic, but I had spent much of the prior evening trying on different clothes for our outing. The logical and skeptical part of my brain kept telling me to stop imagining this as a romantic rendezvous. We were going to see my parents, after all, and no sane male would suggest a visit to a girl’s family as a first date. Only someone who really wanted to purchase a violin and nothing else would suggest such a ludicrous plan. But I still couldn’t help but want to look as fetching as possible. I tried on nearly a half dozen pairs of pants until I found the ones that flattered my hips the most.

  I thought about how Katya always looked so effortlessly chic with her long tunic sweaters and pants, but I didn’t have that ballerina body that looked good swaddled in so many layers. After trying on every blouse I had in my closet, I selected one in French blue cotton and tied a scarf jauntily around my neck like my mother did when she needed a bit of a boost. I wasn’t quite sure the look worked for me. I looked either very French and chic or like a stewardess for Air France, but there was no going back now. He had already rung the doorbell.

  When I opened the door, Daniel was standing at the threshold, holding a box of chocolates. “Thought I should bring your parents something,” he said, lifting it up for me to see.

  Suddenly my nervousness dissipated. He looked so earnest standing there with his box of chocolates, I knew that he wasn’t going to notice if my black pants matched my blue blouse or not.

  “How sweet of you.” I waved a hand toward the living room. “I just made a pot of coffee. Do you want some before we leave?” He stepped inside, and his eyes glanced over the room. The house still smelled of the cherrywood I had burned the night before.

  “You have a working fireplace?” Daniel asked, eyeing the mantel. “How did you find this place?”

  I laughed. “The PennySaver. It was a real stroke of luck.”

  “I’ll say,” he said, impressed. “You’d probably vomit if you saw the hole I’m renting. It’s normally a two-family house, but I’m the non-family-related tenant who’s stuck in the basement.”

  “Sounds quite lovely . . . Milk or sugar in the coffee?”

  “However you take yours is good for me.”

  “Light and sweet, then?”

  “I’d like that . . . ,” he said, and I watched as he carefully moved the pillows of the couch to sit down. “Yes, light and sweet sounds perfect.”

  * * *

  • • •

  WE drove out to my parents’ with no music on the radio, just a bit of small talk. It was a treat to bring a fresh pair of eyes to see my beloved Strong’s Neck. I rolled down the window an inch, and an icy breeze rushed into the car. I admired him in profile. His high cheekbones, the small sickle-shaped scar, and the head full of Byronian black curls.

  “I feel like I’m traveling back in time with you,” he laughed as we drove over the bridge. “Your cottage, your fireplace, and now this . . .” He pointed to a horse farm not far from the old Selah Strong homestead, a place where my dad had taken me to ride my first pony when I was no older than five.

  “It’s very special out here, and it’s nice to show it to someone new. “Want to hear a cool story?”

  “Absolutely,” he said. “I’m all ears.”

  And just like my mother did, sitting at the edge of my bed all those years before, I began telling him about the spy Anna Smith Strong and her wicker basket full of colorful clothes.

  * * *

  • • •

  “NOW, let me tell you a story,” he said as I drove deeper into the Neck. He told me how he had grown up in Riverdale, that his father was a history professor and his mother had been a concert pianist until arthritis cut her career short. After her professional retirement, her career was spent teaching a few private students at their home.

  “We always had music in our house, you know? My mom or her students practicing, or a record playing or the radio on . . . ,” he shared as his eyes drifted out the window. The snow had mostly melted, except for a few frozen islands that would dissipate in the next rain.

  “Don’t tell me: WQXR.”

  “Yep, that’s the one.”

  “All classical, all the time,” we said in unison.

  “But I don’t think my brother and I had the sophistication to embrace classical music like you did. I preferred my Olivia Newton-John and Duran Duran.”

  “All music stirs the soul in some way. Guess I can appreciate all kinds.”

  We were now in my parents’ driveway. “Well, that’s a huge relief . . . I don’t have to worry that you’re going to snub me the next time we run into each other in the faculty room.”

  “I hardly think you have anything to fear.” He opened up the door of the car, hopped out, and gave a dramatic rolling gesture with his hand. “You’re a Renaissance woman, Maggie Topper.”

  I laughed under my breath as we walked toward the front door. “I hope that’s a good thing.”

  He raised one of his eyebrows and shot me a devilish look. “Now, I don’t even think I need to answer that one, do I?”

  * * *

  • • •

  ONCE inside, Daniel was greeted by the scent of eggplant parmigiana and the sound of a violin concerto.

  My parents could hardly contain their excitement. I was the cat who had brought in the bright yellow canary. Daniel offered my mother the box of chocolates, and his broad shoulders cut a handsome figure as he leaned over and shook my dad’s hand.

  “Hear you’re in the market for a new violin, son.”

  I could feel the energy of the room shift. My parents were completely taken with him within seconds of meeting him. “Yes, and when Maggie mentioned you have your own workshop, my curiosity was piqued. I knew I had to see it.”

  My dad was beaming, and I could see my mom sneaking glances toward me out of the corner of her eye. She was less impressed that I had brought home a music-loving violinist than by the fact that he was a single and handsome man. I looked at her apron and saw a fine dust of cocoa powder near the pocket. It appeared she had also made her tiramisu.

  “After you’re done downstairs, I’ve made a little lunch, Daniel, if you have time to stay . . .”

  “It smells so good, Mrs. Topper, how could I say no?”

  I watched my mother bloom in his presence. Happiness oozed out of her. He was so well mannered, he made Bill look like a convict from Alcatraz.

  “Let’s get down to the workshop before my wife tempts you with any more talk of her cooking.”

  Dad pulled open the door to the basement and waved at Daniel and me to follow him.

  “Make sure he tries the one that looks like there’s a bird in the pattern of the maple,” my mother called out to my father. “That one’s my favorite.”

  “Your mother is right,” he said. “It really looks like it has wings.”

  * * *

  • • •

  DOWN in my father’s lair, the smells of tomato, garlic, and ricotta were replaced by the scent of maple and spruce.

  My father did not yet have that many violins in his inventory. The ones from his first few years of learning the craft after his sessions at Oberlin were not what he planned on showing to Daniel. I knew he had at least four more-recent pieces that he was especially proud of, which were the ones that I myself had heard him play. But as was par for the course, I knew that he’d first want to explain his process to Daniel in great detail. And Daniel might even get a kick out of hearing it.

  The two of them took to each other immediately. My dad pulled out different examples of wood, the maple, the spruce, the oak . . . and brought them up first to his nose to inhale the scent before giving them to Daniel to also enjoy, like a wine enthusiast sniffing the bouquet before indulging in the first sip. Dad pointed out which wood was used for which part of the instrument and how the beautiful patterns of each piece could insp
ire the soul of the instrument. He brought out three examples, one in a rich red varnish and the other two more amber in hue, before placing a fourth one on the table. This was the one whose back looked like it had a pair of angel’s wings.

  My father reached for the last one and tucked it under his chin. He took his bow and began fiddling up and down, his body moving into the instrument like it was his partner in their own dance.

  “Unbelievable, Mr. Topper! You can certainly play the fiddle . . . Did you ever play professionally? Maggie didn’t mention it . . .”

  My father laughed. “No, it didn’t work out for me. I tried when I was a kid to get into Juilliard and a few other music schools, but they didn’t take me. Guess I wasn’t up to snuff.” He patted his hands on his smock. “And when I met Maggie’s mom, I had to find a job that put food on the table. But I never abandoned my love of music.” He looked over to me and smiled. “Maggie can tell you, I tortured her and her brother with all my classical stuff for most of their childhood.”

  “Most of my childhood? How about all of it!”

  “So music was your life, but it was not your livelihood? And it made you feel happy, and it made you feel so good . . .” Daniel’s voice lilted. Deep and soulful, the lyrics were immediately familiar to me.

  “Oh my God, did you just quote ‘Mr. Tanner’?”

  “I did, indeed. With a few minor adjustments.”

  “I’m not kidding you, Daniel. I was obsessed with that song when I was a teenager.”

  “It’s true. My girl’s a huge fan of Harry Chapin.” Dad’s fingers gently touched the edge of one of his violins. “Such a tragedy . . . He died too young . . . and from Long Island, too.”

  “You don’t need to tell me,” Daniel insisted. “My college roommate was from Huntington. I know the lyrics to nearly every one of his songs. ‘Cat’s in the Cradle,’ ‘Taxi,’ ‘Mail Order Annie’ . . .”

  I had loved Harry Chapin ever since my best friend put on “Cat’s in the Cradle” down in her basement during a sixth-grade sleepover. His songs always told a story, and they gave me the same sort of escape my favorite books did.

  “I think I have his greatest hits in my car,” I mumbled, still in a state of disbelief. “We’ll have to pop in the CD on the ride back home.”

  My father tapped his bow on his worktable. “I don’t mean to interrupt you kiddos, but your very own Mr. Tanner would be honored if you tried out one of his instruments. A little honest feedback from a fellow musician would be good for me.”

  Nearly an hour later, after Daniel had tried out each of the violins and my father gave a tutorial about all the details that went into crafting them—the chisels used for carving the scrolled neck, the saws, the jars of varnish—I could sense that Daniel had fallen in love with the one my mother had mentioned. The one whose pattern in the flaming maple resembled a pair of wings.

  “You’ll fly with that one.” Dad went over and gently touched the rounded edges. “But it’s special to me. I’d be sad to part with it.”

  Daniel pulled the instrument out from his neck and held it up to the light. “It’s definitely a real beauty.”

  “Why don’t you take it home with you?” Dad suggested. “Play it a bit and see if you really do love it. I don’t want you to make a rushed decision, and there’s absolutely no pressure either way. I’ve only sold a couple of my fiddles, to family friends, so it’s not like the customers are beating down my front door.”

  “Well, not yet, Dad,” I added in his defense. “Maybe in ten years you’ll be known as the Stradivari of Strong’s Neck.”

  Daniel smiled. “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Topper, but I’m not sure I could afford it on my salary, even if I did end up wanting it.” His eyes gazed at the strings. “It’s a true work of art.”

  “The truth is, Daniel, I haven’t given much thought to what price I should sell it for. I’m making these violins to give me something enjoyable to do in my retirement, right? Honestly, it’s all a labor of love.”

  My dad withdrew a scrap of paper and a small pencil from the pocket of his smock. He tallied up a few numbers and then circled one at the end. “That’s the cost of my materials and little bit extra for the time involved. Think about it, and let me know if you think it’s fair.”

  Daniel’s eyebrows raised. “Are you kidding me? This is more than fair. You’d practically be giving it away . . .”

  “I’d be giving it to a fellow music lover, who also happens to be a friend of my daughter’s . . .” He shot me a quick glance. “Think of it as a gift to me, too.”

  50

  WE drove home listening to Harry Chapin’s greatest hits, the music filling the air. In the reflection of the car window, I could see Daniel’s hands resting on my father’s violin case, his fingers gently tapping out the melody against the black handle.

  I hadn’t felt this happy in months. And now, as the lyrics floated between us, I felt reinvigorated. Our conversation had been so easy. We talked about everything from the smell of the Franklin cafeteria to the perils of teaching the clarinet to twelve-year-old boys with braces. I laughed harder than I had in months. And that laughter made me feel lighter, less lonely, and infinitely more joyous than I had for some time. I had a new friend in Daniel, and it felt good.

  What I also realized was that I came alive being around someone who was as thirsty as I was to learn. I loved teaching because my students’ curiosity fueled me. And that’s why I preferred to spend my lunch hour with Suzie, who was a waterfall of artistic energy, rather than the other English teachers, Florence and Angela, who, with their one-dimensional pragmatism, were anything but inspired. Daniel, however, was part of that special group—he had the same spark behind the eyes that I looked for in children.

  * * *

  • • •

  I coasted into the driveway and turned off the ignition. Suddenly, with no more music around us, we seemed to grow more serious.

  “I hope the violin lives up to your expectations,” I said. “But really, there’s no pressure. If you don’t like it, we can always do another trip back to the maestro and see if there’s another one you want to try out.”

  “A full-service family,” Daniel joked. “I like it. Far better treatment than I’d get at Sam Ash.”

  He opened the door and popped out. “To say this has been one of the best afternoons I’ve had in a long time is an understatement, Maggie,” he said as he walked backward toward his car, lifting the violin slightly in my direction.

  “I’ll be looking out for you in the faculty room tomorrow!”

  The scent of microwaved plastic and stale coffee no longer seemed so off-putting to me. Instead, I was elated at the thought of it.

  51

  SUZIE didn’t seem so thrilled that I forced her to eat lunch with me the next day in the faculty room. “But I brought a salad,” she said. “I don’t need the olfactory overload. Can’t we just eat in your classroom, like usual?”

  “I really want to hear how much he liked my dad’s violin, but I don’t want it to look like I’m stalking him, either.”

  “It’s hard to imagine you as the woman from Fatal Attraction.” She leaned in closer to me. “Does he have a little bunny you could cook if he crosses you?”

  As much as she teased me, Suzie surrendered and had her lunch with me at the circular table, with its tomato-sauce-stained top and the stench of old Mr. Coffee floating in the air. In return, I had to fill her in about our adventures with my father and his workshop. Not to mention the rides with Daniel to and from my parents’ house.

  “I assume Josephine made a feast,” Suzie mused as she stabbed a piece of lettuce with her fork.

  “Eggplant parmigiana with fresh ricotta and basil. But she went all out with the tiramisu.”

  Suzie shook her head. “In my next life, I’m coming back as you.”

  I laughed. “I thi
nk she enjoyed having another man to feed. She misses my brother, and you should see her expression when a new person compliments her cooking.” I made a funny face, sucking in my cheeks and batting my eyelashes, in my best imitation of her.

  The clock on the wall continued to tick, and I kept sneaking glances toward the door to see whether Daniel would walk in. We had only fifteen more minutes before the bell rang and we would have to return to class. Suzie sensed my nerves.

  She leaned in closer to me and whispered, “He’s probably helping some student whose braces got stuck on her mouthpiece again.”

  I was just about to give her a little smack on the shoulder when Daniel entered and headed straight toward our table.

  “So glad I caught you, Maggie Topper.” He reached for one of the empty chairs and sat down. “I played your father’s violin all last night. It’s got a fantastic sound . . . so rich and velvety. It puts my old fiddle to shame.”

  “Slow down, fella,” Suzie said, lifting a hand. “You’re going to choke to death if you don’t pause for a second and breathe.”

  “Sorry, it’s just so damn exciting to play an instrument, knowing the hands who crafted it. Your dad is the real deal, Maggie.”

  I blushed. “I’ll be sure to tell him.” I looked down at my half-eaten container of the leftovers my mother had sent home with me. I loved my dad deeply and was so proud that he had dedicated his retirement to fulfilling a lifelong dream of making violins. But somehow I felt a strange sense of disappointment wash over me. I wanted Daniel to also at least mention something that didn’t involve my parents, as childish as that seemed.

  And then, just as the bell struck, he leaned over and looked me straight in the eyes and said, “And you know, I thought it was pretty cool you knew I was quoting ‘Mr. Tanner’ to your dad.”