Mama looked at me, her eyebrows raised.
“Yeah,” I said, trying not to squeak. “This is Clara. Are you—are you sure you’re okay taking her?”
Mrs. Hsu laughed. “Are you kidding me? She’ll fit into our family perfectly.” From somewhere else in the house, a parrot squawked, like it was agreeing. “We’re delighted to have her. She’s a beautiful dog.”
“We’ll take care of her, Annie Lee,” said Monica, and when I looked up at her, the fake smile was gone and something tentative and serious and real was there instead. “I promise. And—and you can come see her anytime you like. And your friend Mr. Owens can, too, once he’s out of the rehab place.”
“Thanks,” I said, and then it was my turn to crouch down and look Clara in the eyes. “You’ll love it here, girl,” I whispered, while Mama exchanged small talk with Mrs. Hsu. “It’s great. It’s the best place for you that I could imagine. And Ray and I will come visit you, all right? He’ll be back home in a month, the doctor said. I bet he’ll come see you first thing.”
Clara barked, her liquid gold eyes filled with understanding. She licked my chin. For once, I didn’t wipe it away—instead I wrapped my arms around her neck, hugging her as tight as you can hug a dog without getting bit. “We’ll see you soon.”
“Thanks,” I said again after I’d disentangled myself from Clara and stood, looking at Monica and then at Mrs. Hsu. “Ray feels a lot better knowing Clara’s got someplace like this to be, where she’ll be safe, and—loved.”
I handed the leash off to Monica.
“I’ll show her around the place,” Monica said with a little wave and a half smile. “See you, Annie Lee.”
“See you.”
As she turned away and skipped out the back door with Clara beside her, I waited to feel that familiar stab of hurt and anger, the one that had been a part of me all summer and fall, every time I’d seen or thought of the M&Ms.
But it didn’t come. It was like a whole different Annie Lee had felt all those things.
And when I said goodbye to Mrs. Hsu, the smile on my face was one hundred percent real.
48.
That December was the coldest ever recorded for Durham. By the day of the DPTA piano competition, halfway through the month, there was still almost a whole week before school would get out for the holiday break, and we’d already had a dusting of snow, just enough to kiss the grass with white and give the whole district a snow day.
The morning of the competition was chilly and bright. I wore a red dress that we’d found at Goodwill, and I could hardly breathe for nervousness.
A month before, when Mama had found out where the piano competition was being held, she’d come close to making me pull out. “I can’t go there,” she’d said, her eyes dark and haunted. “Not for anything, Annie Lee.”
I knew just how she felt, because I felt it, too. The competition was going to be held in the Presbyterian church we’d gone to since I was eight years old.
The church where Daddy’s heart had stopped.
But I thought of what Mama had said when we’d gone to visit Ray in the hospital.
I don’t want to live like that anymore.
“I don’t want to always be so afraid,” I said, and Mama smiled, the haunted look slipping away.
“You’re right,” she said, and pulled me into a hug. “You’re exactly right, Annie Lee. It will be hard, but we can do it. We’ll be brave together.”
Now, as we stepped into the sanctuary, I thought of that conversation, and what Ray would have said to me: Open your heart. Be the brave, wise version of Annie Lee Fitzgerald.
I squeezed Mama’s hand. It was trembling a little, but she squeezed back anyway.
The judges were sitting in the choir seats near the full-size grand piano at the front of the sanctuary. The piano was newer and nicer than the one at Brightleaf, so glossy I could see myself reflected perfectly in the ebony as I sat down.
The room was too quiet; it was too easy to hear my whump-whump heart, too easy to pay attention to my nervous skittering thoughts. Too easy to think about all the times I’d seen Daddy sitting in this room, heard his strong voice singing hymns. All those memories of Daddy just added to my nervousness.
“You may begin whenever you’re ready, Miss Fitzgerald,” said one of the judges, an Asian man whose black hair was graying around the temples.
I put my hands down on the keys. They were cool as water.
And then I straightened my shoulders, the ones that felt so much lighter without an invisibility cloak wrapped around them.
Invisible people couldn’t be hurt, but they couldn’t be loved, either. And even if my heart would always have a Daddy-shaped hole, I was starting to think that being able to let other people see what was inside me was worth the risk.
Be brave.
Be wise.
Open your heart.
I played my C major scale slow and then fast, and then went right into my G minor scale, my fingers only slipping once on the part where my thumb was supposed to cross under my middle finger.
When I was finished, I lifted my hands and then started Bach’s “Minuet in G Minor.”
This time, I let everything that had happened over the last six months come out in my playing.
Daddy dying.
The ghost.
Mama using up all the room for grieving until there was no space left for me to be sad, too.
The M&Ms.
Mitch.
Ray and Queenie and Clara.
Finding Ray at the end of October, half-dead.
Helping him move back home after he was discharged from rehab, and giving him the picture of Clara that Monica had sent me, put into a nice frame and wrapped up with a bow.
All the people who were standing outside this room right now, waiting for me to finish playing: Mama, Mitch, her mama, Queenie and Mr. Banks, Ray. So many people I hadn’t known I needed so bad. So many people who felt just like family.
As I finished the minuet and started into Beethoven’s “Russian Folk Song,” I could have sworn I saw somebody out of the corner of my eye, sitting in the pews. Somebody with red hair and an easy smile. Somebody with a singing voice that could fill a whole room. Somebody whose laughter was contagious. Somebody who loved music more than life itself.
I closed my eyes and thought, This one’s for you, Daddy.
When I was finished, both the judges clapped, and I stood and bowed just the way Ray had shown me.
“Thank you, Miss Fitzgerald,” said the judge who’d told me to begin when I was ready. “Competition results for your skill division will be available in a few hours.”
As soon as I opened the sanctuary door, I heard clapping—clapping from everyone who was waiting for me.
“We heard it all,” Mama said. There were tears in her eyes, but this time I could tell that they were happy ones. “That was beautiful, Annie Lee.”
Ray limped forward, leaning on his shiny new walker. The doctors had told him that between the arthritis and the broken leg, he was never going to walk quite the same, but he didn’t mind. He said the walker was “fantastic” because it had a built-in seat, and that it didn’t matter so much that he couldn’t walk from his house to Brightleaf, since he’d gotten set up with a special bus pass for “disabled old codgers” like him.
“That was real nice, Miss Annie Lee,” he said now, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. His blue eyes were happier than I’d ever, ever seen them, and they looked suspiciously shiny, too. “I’m real proud of you, child. You’re one of the bravest, wisest girls I’ve ever known.”
“Thanks,” I whispered, and hugged him back.
One month after New Year’s, I sat on a different piano bench—this time at Ray’s house, in front of the small upright piano he’d started using to teach lessons. It wasn’t just me anymore; he’d had two paid students sign up already since the competition, and Queenie, who said she’d always wanted to learn. Ray wouldn’t let me even try to pay hi
m, though. He said since I was the student who’d taught him how to be a teacher, he owed me.
It had taken Mama a little while to get to the point where she’d agree to let me keep taking lessons from Ray, but eventually she’d come around. She’d gotten a scholarship and some government grants for beauty school—enough for that and a little bit extra, including a new-used washing machine—and enrolled in classes that had started right after the new year. Already she seemed happier than she had since the Bad Day. Now she sat in on my lessons, paying bills or reading a novel in a chair in the corner while I played. She’d even taken me to the music store to pick out an electric keyboard of my very own with the fifty dollars I’d received when I’d won second place at the competition in December, and she’d helped me set it up in a place of honor in our living room.
“You ready, Annie Lee?” Ray asked now.
I nodded and laid my hands down gently on the keys, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath and calling up that place deep inside me where the music lived.
And when I started playing, I didn’t even need to open my eyes to see the thread of gold light that unspooled itself out of my heart with every note.
Acknowledgments
Like Annie Lee, music was an integral part of my life growing up. Many of my most vivid memories of adolescence are centered around my time as a serious violinist and pianist—lessons, practice sessions, concerts, and competitions. Like Annie Lee, I regularly participated in Durham music competitions (and occasionally even won!). Like Ray, piano improvisation and composition has always been a deep and important creative outlet for me. And, like both of them, I’ve spent my fair share of afternoons performing in the unique and lovely Brightleaf Square mall.
There are so many people who supported and guided me in my musical journey, and I thought of each of them often as I wrote Beginners Welcome. First and foremost, my violin teacher, Stephanie Swisher, who not only taught me performance and competition skills but also nurtured my passion for teaching and gave me opportunities to assist in orchestras for many years. I’m so grateful to have had Stephanie’s friendship, love, and cheerleading for the past two decades (!!!).
Other musicians who were integral to my music education were Sally Ehrisman, my first piano teacher; Susan Kosempa, who taught me how to seek excellence as well as how to shape my piano compositions into the strongest versions of themselves; Dorothy Kitchen, whose incredible Duke University String School was my second home all through middle school and high school; Alisyn Rogerson, who let me assist her as an orchestra conductor and showed me how much I loved pedagogy; Sean Johnson, who made me play pieces that felt too hard, but believed in me enough to help me succeed; and Sam Hammond, the most talented accompanist I’ve ever known, with whom I shared many wonderful conversations about books, music, God, and life. And my mom, Cindy Ray, who filled our home with everything from John Denver to Les Misérables to the Well-Tempered Clavier—and, of course, made me practice even when I didn’t want to.
I am blessed with a vibrant and tenacious publishing team, without whom this book would not be half so good. I can write a 64,000-word novel but still never have enough words to describe how grateful I am for my incomparable agent, Elizabeth Harding, who helped me revise Beginners Welcome, convinced me that the whole book really couldn’t be Annie Lee skulking around in the shadows not talking to anyone, and spent hours via email and phone counseling me through every anxious, frustrated, or confused moment. I can’t imagine not having Elizabeth on my side. I’m also thankful for the help and support from Sarah Gerton, Jazmia Young, and everyone else at Curtis Brown.
Alexandra Cooper is, hands down, the most talented editor I’ve ever had the privilege of working with. She understands my stories on a deep level, and without her, Beginners Welcome would still be a sad thing trying really hard to be a book but not quite managing it. Alexandra’s passion for Annie Lee and Ray and her insightful suggestions were a light for me in the moments it felt like I’d never get this story right. I also benefited from the support of the whole HarperCollins team: Alyssa Miele, Allison Weintraub, Nicole Moreno, Gweneth Morton, and Valerie Shea. Harriet Russell, Erin Fitzsimmons, and Catherine San Juan created a cover so filled with life and color that I can’t look at it without smiling.
So many people read drafts of this book through its long journey to publication, and I am so thankful for the feedback they gave as I struggled to shape Annie Lee’s story into what it is today. I’m grateful for critiques from Heather Murphy Capps, Ashley Martin, Amanda Rawson Hill, Cory Leonardo (who is responsible for coming up with the title Beginners Welcome, which I love so much!), Jamie Pacton, Kit Rosewater, Mary Bader-Kaaley, Julie Artz, and Shannon Cooley.
I don’t know how anyone gets through publishing without community. To my #TeamMascaraTracks kindred spirits; my Sisters of the Pen group chat; and Shannon, who models resilience and persistence better than anyone I’ve ever known: You make this writing life a joy.
Likewise, Beginners Welcome benefited enormously from the expertise and enthusiasm of many friends and relations. My brother Jason Ray put his brilliant scientific mind to the problem of helping me iron out the details of Annie Lee’s egg-drop presentation. So many friends answered Facebook questions about everything from obscure car problems to school counselors to automated absence phone calls. My other siblings—Josh, Rachel, Jenna, and Jared—and my dad, Russ Ray, were tireless cheerleaders. My parents came to every single event for Where the Watermelons Grow and seeing them in the audience each time was the best gift I could imagine. My new sister-in-law Ruth Ray earned a special place in my heart the minute she gushed to me how much she loved my first book. I also have been so lucky to have the support of my mother-in-law, Kathy Baldwin, and the rest of the Baldwin family.
I owe so many happy memories to Mallory Perry and Melissa Lewis, my best friends through my preteen years and the original M&Ms, who were far kinder than Monica and Meredith and included me in their circle from the moment I met them.
And, of course, I was buoyed so much in writing this book by every person who bought, read, reviewed, and loved Where the Watermelons Grow. I’m honored that so many teachers, librarians, and booksellers (especially the wonderful indie bookstore community!) embraced and shared that book with those around them.
Most important of all, I am forever grateful for the love and support I’ve received from my husband, Mahon (who sparked the initial idea for this book), and my daughter, Kate. Both have encouraged me to chase my dreams and—just like Annie Lee—to open my heart to the new experiences that come my way.
About the Author
Courtesy of Cindy Baldwin
CINDY BALDWIN is the author of the critically acclaimed novel Where the Watermelons Grow (an Indies Introduce title and Indie Next selection) and Beginners Welcome. As a teenager, she studied piano and violin and played many holiday recitals at Brightleaf Square. She lives in Portland, Oregon, with her husband and daughter, surrounded by tall trees and wild blackberries. To learn more about Cindy, visit www.cindybaldwinbooks.com.
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Advance Praise for Beginners Welcome
“As delicate and powerful as a sonata, Annie Lee’s story of music, magic, loss, and love should not be missed!”
—Jessica Day George, New York Times bestselling author of Tuesdays at the Castle
“Southern charm and ghostly magic bridge the loss of eleven-year-old Annie Lee’s daddy. Once again, Baldwin crafts a solid story of hardship tempered by community and resilience.”
—Kirkus Reviews
Praise for Where the Watermelons Grow
An Indies Introduce Title
An Indie Next List Selection
“Della’s story is a reminder that even under the toughest rinds of troubles, we can find the cool, sustaining sweetness of friendship.”
—Kirby Larson, author of the Newbery Honor Book Hattie Big Sky
“Della’s voice will tu
g at readers’ heartstrings as she tries to hold her family together. Middle grade stories about mental illness, particularly those that focus on empathy and acceptance, are rare.This heartfelt story will stay with readers. A top choice.”
—School Library Journal (starred review)
“Baldwin has written a heartbreaking, yet heartening, story that explores mental illness and its effects on an entire family.Readers will connect with the novel’s well-formed characters and be absorbed by the plot, which pulls no punches but doesn’t overwhelm.”
—ALA Booklist (starred review)
“Cindy Baldwin’s graceful debut is an ode to family and community. Hints of sweet magical realism touch Where the Watermelons Grow, balancing this exquisite novel’s bittersweet authenticity.”
—Shelf Awareness (starred review)
“In her debut novel, Baldwin presents a realistic portrayal of life with a mentally ill parent.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“This has a tenderness that will appeal to fans of DiCamillo’s Because of Winn-Dixie.”
—Bulletin of the Center for Children’s Books
Books by Cindy Baldwin
Where the Watermelons Grow
Copyright
BEGINNERS WELCOME. Copyright © 2020 by Cindy Baldwin. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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