“Please, my dear” he said, drawing out the word in his deep, melodious voice, “call me George. Everyone does. ‘Mr. Fisk’ sounds too formal.”
Angela laughed. “All right . . . George. If you’ll call me Angela instead of ‘Miss Bellini.’”
“Angela it is. A beautiful name.” He paused thoughtfully. “Beautiful angel,” he added, translating the meaning of her name.
She liked this man. He was so different from the Italian men of Mulberry Bend. Here was a man of great talent, but he showed no haughtiness, as she’d expected.
He led her through the foyer and into a small bright kitchen, with sunlight streaming through yellow-and-white eyelet-trimmed curtains. Everything here, too, was neat and orderly, as if George, lonely and restless, had little else to do but straighten the modest furniture and wash his dishes. By the way his clothes hung on him, she wondered if he’d long ago lost his appetite and often forgot to eat.
As if hearing her stomach grumble, George opened an ice box and took out a wrapped block of cheese and a loaf of heavy crusted bread and set to work making a sandwich. He gestured her to sit in a chair at the kitchen table while he prepared the food. He then set before her a plate that held a ham-and-cheese sandwich, two fat dill pickles, and something she guessed was potato salad. He poured her a tall glass of sweet tea, then sat in a chair across from her.
“You’re not joining me?” she asked, feeling uneasy at the thought of eating with him sitting there staring at her.
He shook his head and smoothed down his unruly hair as if suddenly aware that he hadn’t had time to present a more neatened version of himself to his potential customer. “I’ve already eaten,” he said. “Please.” He waved a hand at her food. “I don’t often have visitors dropping in from New York.” He threw her a smile, and Angela sensed his loneliness fill the room.
She bit into the delicious sandwich and sated her hunger as George talked on, telling her how he’d lived in New York for a time, although he grew up in Vermont. He spoke of how this town began and why and how he’d come to live here—a close friend had introduced him to Mr. Meeker years back—and by the time Angela finished her meal and started on a second glass of tea, she’d learned much about him and found him wonderfully personable and sweet. He didn’t mention his wife, though, while he talked, his recent grief was palpable in the timbre of his voice and the clouds of sadness that drifted into his eyes.
“So,” he said, “now that you’ve eaten, tell me about yourself. You mentioned in your letters that your dream is to play in the New York Philharmonic. That’s quite an aspiration, my dear.”
Suddenly Angela was filled with doubt. George wasn’t chiding or belittling her—not at all. But his words reminded her how desperately she wanted to play professionally. A horrific thought seeped into her mind. What if those members of the audition committee were merely being polite when they told me I played well? What if they told me to come back with a better instrument only to get rid of me? She’d never considered that they may have been merely placating her in a condescending way, and she, in her naiveté, assumed they were encouraging her.
Angela’s stuffed stomach soured at the doubts gnawing at her. She pushed back in her chair and stood. The blood seemed to drain from her face. Why did I come all this way? This was impetuous and foolish of me.
George came to her side and took her arm. “My dear, are you ill?” He glanced at his ice box as if wondering if he’d unknowingly served her tainted meat.
“No, no, I’m fine,” she said, assuring him. Had her face looked as stricken as she felt? “Perhaps . . . I’m just worn out from the long trip.”
George studied her a moment, and Angela stiffened under his gaze.
“Where are you staying?” he asked quietly, looking into her eyes as if searching for something he’d lost in there.
“I’ve a room at the Greeley Hotel for the night. I’d planned to visit you tomorrow morning, and then catch the afternoon train to Denver—”
George took a step back and scrunched his face. “Catch the train to Denver . . .” His eyes suddenly showed understanding. “You mean, after you bought your violin.” His words were flat and even, which gave Angela pause.
“Why, yes. I must get home as soon as possible . . .” Her throat tightened at the thought of her mamá and the way her papá had dragged her from the station platform. She swallowed back tears.
George looked at her as if able to read her mind. Flustered, she forced the words through her throat. “I live with my parents, but they’re not very supportive of my interest in music. I’m . . . My father was not pleased when I left to come here.”
George let out a sigh, nodding. “Those who don’t know music can never understand.” His eyes smiled at her, but his face stayed impassive. “We—you and I—know a world they can never fathom. We speak a language they can’t learn.” He paused. “Have you ever read Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy tales?”
Angela nodded, surprised at this change in topic. Surely everyone had read them. She especially loved “The Princess and the Pea” and, of course, “The Little Mermaid”—the story of a mermaid who so loved a man that she sold her beautiful voice to a wicked creature in order to be given legs and a chance to win his heart.
“Well,” George said, “he once wrote ‘Where words fail, music speaks.’ This prolific author, who died not two years ago, knew that at the moments when words failed him, music would not. Come.” He took Angela’s hand in his warm large one and led her into his living room that was full of bookcases packed tight with books. He turned and looked deeply into Angela’s eyes. “Music never fails,” he said. “People will fail us. They will . . . let us down, and may even leave us, and at times we will be alone. But with music, we are never truly alone.”
He grew quiet, and the room filled with the thick sound of silence, like the rush of quiet that followed the fading of the last bowed note of a violin solo.
“Here,” he finally said, reaching for a small bound book from a shelf. The gray cloth cover was faded and threadbare, and Angela could tell this book had been read many times over many years. He handed the book to her, and she read the title: Only a Fiddler, by Hans Christian Andersen. She’d never heard of this book.
He took it back and flipped through the pages, then stopped and leaned close, narrowing his eyes to read the small text. “‘Thou must also learn to play the fiddle, that may make thy fortune: thou canst win money by playing, and drive away thy sorrows when thou hast any. Here, thou shalt have my old fiddle, for the best I cannot give thee yet. In this manner place thy fingers,’ and saying these words, he laid the violin on the little fellow’s arm and guided himself the bow in Christian’s hand. The tones rejoiced the little fellow; he had made them himself! His ear caught up each one, and his little fingers passed easily over the strings. Nearly a whole hour did the first lesson last. The godfather then took the instrument himself and played. That was fiddling! He trifled with the tones as a juggler who plays with his golden apples and sharp knives.”
George smiled wistfully as if awash suddenly with sweet memories. He closed the book. “This is a story about a poor child named Christian who discovers his musical talent, but it’s not supported. He thus goes through life striving but empty, for without the encouragement needed, he fails to find that fulfillment he yearns for.” He frowned. “It’s a sad tale, truly. But there is a rich lesson within these pages.” He handed the book back to Angela. “Perhaps the story will resonate within your soul.”
He seemed about to say more but fell silent again. Angela’s heart felt heavy and pained, and she thought about what Violet had said about George’s wife—her long illness and confinement. She imagined his music provided comfort for him now, but wondered if it truly was enough.
Was he right? Was music enough? If she devoted her life to it—if she turned her back on love and marriage and children—would it fail her? Or would it fulfill her? Was it possible to have both, as, no doubt, George once ha
d?
“I think,” George said, his voice rough with tiredness, “we should plan to meet in the morning, as you had suggested, and go to my shop, which is in the backyard. There, I’ll show you some of the violins I’m presently working on, and we’ll see if we can find one suitable for you.”
He walked Angela to the front door, but before he opened it, he turned and gave her a hard look.
“Choosing an appropriate violin isn’t something that can be rushed, my dear. While I know you feel the need to hurry home, it’s . . . unlikely you’ll have your violin tomorrow.”
Angela’s breath hitched, and her stomach knotted. “But . . . I must insist. You don’t understand . . .” She could say no more. Her throat closed so that no other words could escape.
He rested a hand on her shoulder and opened the door with the other. A hot breeze assaulted her face as she stepped outside and tears stung her eyes.
“We’ll discuss this in the morning, my dear. Whatever troubles await you back in New York will be there whether you return this week or the next.”
“But I can’t afford to stay longer,” she blurted out, unthinking, immediately regretting her words. She hadn’t wanted to reveal the dire financial situation she faced. Yet, if she had to stay longer—a week!—she would little afford a violin of quality. Unless she could find someplace else to stay. Maybe a room in a boarding house—if they even had such a thing in Greeley.
Her hope sank as she stood on the porch, unable to get her feet to move. I should just leave in the morning. She was on her own for the first time in her life, and she felt wholly incapable of taking care of herself. She’d never had to, and suddenly she felt scared and homesick and alone, here in this strange town halfway across the continent.
“I see,” George said, standing in the doorway. “I suppose it’s my fault. I didn’t make it clear that you’d need to stay awhile. Just as it takes time to craft a fine instrument, that perfect match between musician and violin must emerge naturally. It can’t be forced. But please, Angela, my dear—don’t fret. I’ve a little cozy room in the back of my shop with a bed and all the comforts of a home away from home. Many a visitor has stayed there while searching for just the right violin to call his own. Just bring your things in the morning, and we’ll get you settled in. All right?”
A room—for free? Then she remembered his letter, and how he said he’d take care of her lodging. Angela’s stiff shoulders relaxed, and she let out a deep breath of relief. “Mr. Fisk, that’s more than generous of you—”
“George—just George. So, will that suffice?”
Angela smiled and nodded. He was right, she told herself. Whatever awaited her in New York would still be there when she returned. And this was why she’d come—why she chose to purchase a violin from the famous instrument maker. He would ensure she got the perfect violin, one she could pour her heart into and that would, in return, respond with such sweetness, her soul would soar to the heavens. One that would speak, when words—and all else—failed.
“Yes, thank you, George.” She gave him a wide smile and gripped the little book tightly in her hand. Tonight, she would read the story of Christian, but she would not share the boy’s failure.
Nothing—and no one—she vowed, would ever get in the way of her dream.
Chapter 4
Brett strained to open his dirt-crusted eyelids. He rubbed a shaky hand over them and craned his neck up from the saddle to get a look-see of the land in the harsh glare of a noonday sun. His head pounded like someone was beating it with a hammer. A steady wind from the west blew grit into his eyes, and as he moved, just about every muscle he had yelped in pain and stiffness. He’d lost track of the days he’d been wandering lost, though he doubted he’d covered more than a few miles since he left Dakota behind for the buzzards and coyotes.
The thought of his poor horse sent a new stab of guilt and despondency through his empty gut. He’d failed to find any source of water, reckoning maybe his little Pinto might have died a more grueling death than the one he’d suffered. The way Brett felt, he prob’ly wouldn’t last the day. His throat had swelled up as if a dry wad of clay lodged there, and as hard as he tried, he couldn’t work up the spit to even swallow. His head wobbled on his neck, and his leg was a smoldering stick of agony.
As he tried to stand, searing pain shot through his back from the hours he’d foolishly hauled his saddle across this sorry wasteland of a prairie. His clothes were pretty well torn off, and his boots’ soles flapped from the ripped seams.
Once he got some purchase with his feet, he looked far off to the west—to the mountains that beckoned heartlessly with their cool peaks of rarified air. The snow looked like cracked plaster.
He closed his eyes and saw his ma smiling at him, standing on some porch with brilliant light casting a halo around her whiskey-colored hair. She was younger than he remembered, and oh so beautiful, with soft skin and rosy cheeks, and a smile that gave no hint of the abuse or suffering she’d endured at the hands of his pa. She seemed so at peace. And happy.
“Come’on over, my sweet Brett.” She reached out her arms to him, and Brett’s heart surged toward her. But his feet wouldn’t comply.
Then she seemed to slip back from him, getting smaller and smaller as the bright light sucked her inside and blocked her from his view, casting a long shadow over his heart.
“Ma!” he yelled, but his voice was swallowed up by the wind. He stumbled after her, grasping for the hem of her dress, which fluttered before him—all that was left of her.
“No, please, Ma! Don’t go. Don’t leave me . . . again . . .” Brett’s throat ached as the words crumbled to dust. His longing for her hurt more than all the pains in his body, and his heart wrenched as if someone was squeezing the daylights out of it.
“I’m sorry, so sorry,” he sobbed, collapsing on the dirt, knowing he could never forgive himself for what he’d done, for her death.
After the tears dried on his feverish face, he lifted his head, then squinched his eyes. Not far off to the west, the ground shimmered wet. He told himself it was a mirage, another of the myriad delusions he’d suffered these past days. But he couldn’t take his eyes off the rippling surface that promised soothing water. If only it was real.
What if it was? A tiny spark of hope lit under his doubt.
He crawled a few feet on hands and knees and stretched his neck. A wide, dark swath of water sparkled under the blinding September sun. His mouth salivated as he fixed his eyes on the river coursing across the endless desert. It seemed so close, yet as he crawled in agonizing slowness, the water inched away from him, teasing and tormenting.
Another few feet only confirmed his great fear. Through the wavering heat drifting up from the hot dirt, Brett made out a rutted road—dry and cracked like an old earthen crock. The despair rolled over and covered him—a blanket of surrender. He would go no further; he knew he had precious few minutes left. Here he would die—and he wasn’t doing a gallant job of dying, at that.
He hardly had the strength to care. His life didn’t amount to much anyway. Under all that cocky posturing, he was a coward at heart—truth be told. He’d run that day instead of standing up to his pa like a man. Instead of doing the right thing. Now he’d have to face his Maker. He doubted there’d be any forgiveness forthcoming for this son of perdition.
As he fell to the ground and laid his hot cheek against the hotter dirt, his mind emptying of thoughts and his heart hardening like a rock, he watched a plume of dust spin up from the road to the south. Like a tornado, it came for him, a steady approach. Brett lay there, resigned to his fate, a bit surprised at the manner in which the Devil was coming to collect him.
In a wagon drawn by two mules? A chuckle cracked in his mouth at the hilarity of his demise. Well, what did ya expect—some golden chariot to come down from the heavenly heights with the angel Gabriel blowing that trumpet and whisk ya away? The chuckle grew to an uncontrollable paroxysm of laughter as the ground vibrated with h
orse hooves and the jangle of breeching met his ears.
His final ride pulled to a stop before him, and as Brett’s eyes closed and darkness enveloped him, he heard the Devil’s footman jump down from the bench. Then his spirit cut loose from his body and seeped away.
***
“Oh, Lord,” Joseph Tuttle declared as he hurried over to the unfortunate young man lying half dead on the ground. How in the world did this cowboy get here? He doubted he was riding line for a ranch. There was nary a cow in sight, though Joseph knew this to be open rangeland, and the ranch of his friend Logan Foster wasn’t all that many miles from here.
He threw his hand over his eyes and scanned the prairie around him, then spotted something in the distance that looked like a saddle. A saddle? He saw no horse wandering about.
He knelt by the fella who looked to be about his age, his medical bag at his side. It didn’t take six years of medical school for him to assess what was ailing this poor sod. He was suffering from severe dehydration and hunger. The burns on his face and neck were bad, but Joseph’s greater concern was the leg. A cursory inspection through shreds of cloth that once were a pair of trousers showed what looked to be a gunshot wound, but while it didn’t appear infected—thank the Lord for that mercy—the whole leg was swollen and red. He moved quickly, the heat of the day causing sweat to dribble down his neck.
The mules hitched to his wagon pawed the ground restlessly. They knew they were close to town and were tired from the trip to Loveland. Flakes of hay, a trough of cool water, and a rubdown awaited them at the livery.
“You’ll just have to wait a little longer,” he called out to them, then turned back to the cowboy lying beside him.
He gently tapped the man’s grime-streaked cheek. “Hey, mister, wake up. You need to wake.” Eyelids fluttered—enough for Joseph to think he might get some water down his throat.
Colorado Dream (The Front Range Series Book 4) Page 5