“Not at all! Oh, goodness, no. I’m not here to gossip. I wanted to call on you for a favor of sorts.”
“A favor?” He relaxed and smiled slightly. “All right. What is it you need?” He seemed so curious and uninformed that she was pretty certain Stella had not mentioned anything to him about Annie wanting him to play the piano at her cookout.
“You know I’m having a barbecue this Saturday at Grey Gables?”
“Oh, yes. We’ll be there. Mrs. B is planning on bringing three dozen deviled eggs, and I’m going to bring a few bags of my world-famous potato chips.”
She smiled. “Good! I appreciate all the help I’ve been getting, and I do believe there will be enough food to sink a ship.”
“Let’s not do that!” he laughed.
“No, let’s not. Well, Jason, the favor has to do with the cookout.”
“Oh? You want me to help you get things set up? It’s going to take a lot of work to get tables and chairs in place, and I’ll be happy to lend some muscle.”
“Thanks for offering, but I think Ian and Wally and a couple of other men are coming early to get things set up. What I want from you is your talent.”
He narrowed his eyes. “I beg your pardon?”
“I’d love for you to give us a piano concert. After the cookout.”
He blinked.
“You’re joking, right?”
“Not at all. Jason, I want some live music to make this a real party. I had scheduled the Nocturnal Loons band but Rory and Billy Flynn’s grandfather passed away, and they had to cancel.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I never met him, but I understand he was a nice old gent. But Annie, I’ve never played at a party before.”
“Don’t look at it that way. Think of it as a recital. I’m sure you did recitals when you were a boy, didn’t you?”
He rolled his eyes. “Twice a year for ten years, in front of friends and family, until I left home.”
She grinned. “Then you know what’s expected. I’d love for you to pick your favorite music and give us a recital. Just think how much everyone will enjoy it.”
“Oh, I don’t know …” He ran his fingers through his hair, chewed on his lower lip, and stared into the distance. He glanced at her as if expecting her to give him a reason not to, but she smiled back placidly and waited.
Finally he said, “Well, all right, then. I think I can do that.”
At that very moment, Stella entered the room, the scent of her expensive perfume floating in the air, enveloping Jason and Annie with its powdery fragrance.
“Are you sure, Jason?” she asked, making no attempt to disguise her obvious eavesdropping. “Don’t do this if you don’t want to.”
“Of course not, Jason,” Annie chimed in. “I don’t want you to participate if you really don’t want to.”
He looked back and forth between the two women for a moment.
“Sure I’m sure. It’ll be fun.” He smiled at Stella. “You’ll let me practice on your piano, won’t you?”
“Of course! Whatever you need.” She turned to Annie. “So you’ve found someone to build you a platform and move that instrument outside, have you?”
“I talked to Wally and he agreed to do it, but since we’re going to have a ‘concert’ instead of live music throughout the entire party, we won’t need to take the piano any farther than the front porch. Alice suggested having a concert, and I believe it’s a better idea.”
“Indeed, yes. I assume you’ll be paying Jason for doing this?”
Annie had not even considered a fee, and Stella’s remark caught her off-guard.
“Well, certainly,” she managed to say after a moment. “Whatever you think is fair, Jason.”
“I think doing it for free is fair,” he said. “I understand you’re trying to help someone; let this be my contribution.”
“Helping someone?” Stella said, looking at Annie narrowly. “Who are you helping? Not that wretched Alexander Dexter you mentioned the other day, I hope! He doesn’t need—”
“Of course not. I’m just giving Alice’s business a little boost. It’s been a bit slow lately.” She leaned forward slightly, meeting Jason’s eyes, and then Stella’s. “But this cookout is not a charity drive, and I trust neither of you will speak of it as such or treat it that way.”
“Absolutely,” Jason promised.
Stella smiled. “You show good sense, Annie.”
“Thank you. I hope you are planning to come.”
“Of course. I’d never miss the social event of the season in Stony Point.”
“That’s great. Papa Dexter asked if you’d be there.”
Stella froze.
“Is that man going to attend?”
“I believe so, yes.”
Stella huffed and walked from the room.
Annie gaped after her, and then looked at Jason who merely shrugged.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “She’ll be there because she wouldn’t miss hearing me play, even if Papa Dexter was singing and picking lead guitar.”
As Annie drove to Seaside Hills Assisted Living, she kept puzzling why Stella had such a negative reaction to Papa Dexter when he seemed to hold her in high regard.
Oh, well, she thought, as she pulled into the parking lot of her destination. That’s Stella for you.
17
Annie opened the front door of the Seaside Hills Assisted Living facility, grateful that the staff kept the place clean and inviting. With the music box in her tote bag, she passed through the large entry room. The jade green-and-gold rug, the soft pastoral prints on the walls, and comfortable chairs gave the big room a welcoming air. She smiled at the residents who looked up hopefully at her approach. As her glance passed over the wrinkled faces and bent bodies, she once again thought of Violet Hutchins’ remarks about how little family history meant. And yet, look at the decades of history that were represented in this home—and in every similar facility across the country, in fact. How many of these dear old people had their own histories handed down and preserved?
Today, she was going to tap into one man’s history, and she looked forward to it.
At the front desk, she waited until a red-haired young woman looked up from a computer keyboard.
“Hello,” Annie said.
The girl got up, smiled, and approached her.
“Hi. How may I help you?”
“I’m looking for Peter Starne, and I understand he lives here.”
The girl nodded. “He does. He’s in the east wing, room 112. Would you like me to show you to his room, or can you find it?”
“I’m sure I can find it if you point me in the right direction,” Annie said, and the girl indicated the hallway to her left.
“At the end of that corridor, turn right.”
“Thank you.”
Annie walked the shining white floor, passing the doors to offices, staff rooms, and the dining room. A glance into that room showed several clean, round tables with dispensers for salt, pepper, and napkins. At one table, eight white-haired women played a noisy game of cards. At another, a man and woman drank coffee and chatted, leaning toward each other like young lovers.
Annie smiled and kept walking. She turned right when the corridor intersected with another. She followed the hallway until she came to room 112. The door stood open. Daylight poured in through a large window. The room was pale green with white blinds, and there was a narrow bed with a white bedspread. Two small, green-and-tan easy chairs faced each other on either side of the window. A thin, white-haired man sat in one of the chairs, reading. He wore jeans, a long-sleeved pale blue shirt, and sneakers.
She knocked softly on the door frame. He looked up, clear dark eyes behind black-framed glasses, finger holding his place on the page. Surely this wasn’t Peter Starne! Peter Starne was in his nineties, and this man looked to be no older than seventy-five, if that.
“Yes?” he said in a steady, strong voice.
“Are you Peter Starne?” sh
e asked, taking a couple of steps into the room.
“I am.” He regarded her with guarded curiosity. “Do I know you?”
“No, sir. My name is Annie Dawson. I’d like to speak with you, if I may?”
“If you’re here to peddle trinkets or your religion, I already have enough doodads for this small space, and I attend worship services right here in the home.”
“No, no,” she said quickly, with a smile. “I’m not here to sell you anything or to convert you. But I’d like to talk to you about this.”
She carefully pulled the music box from her tote bag.
The book he held slipped from his fingers and clattered loudly onto the tile floor. He stared in what seemed like horror at the wooden box in her hands. He shrank back in his chair as though trying to escape.
“Where … where did you get that?” he asked weakly. “And why do you have it?”
“It was part of my grandmother’s collection,” she said, hurriedly setting the music box on the other chair. “Are you all right?”
When he did not respond, she turned toward the door, ready to dash down the corridor. “I’m going to call a nurse,” she told him.
Peter Starne lifted one hand, but did not move his eyes from the box.
“Stay!” he said.
His eyes remained fixed on the music box for so long, Annie wondered if he had lost his thoughts. But after a lengthy time, he turned his gaze to her, his eyes a deep, liquid brown behind the lenses. It seemed he studied her for an eternity.
“You said that music box is part of your grandmother’s collection,” he said, finally. “Who is your grandmother?”
“Betsy Holden. She was an artist who lived here in Stony Point for a long time.” She paused, and then added, “She passed away a while back.”
He continued to scrutinize Annie as if he looked for some flaw in her appearance. She resisted the urge to check her hair with her hands. After a bit he seemed to return from whatever place he had traveled in his mind.
“Yes,” he murmured. “I remember when she died. She was a fine woman.”
Annie nodded. “The best.”
“The resemblance to her is there,” he said, “in your eyes. And maybe in the way you stand.” He indicated the chair where she’d rested the music box and said, “Please. Sit.”
Annie picked up the music box and sat on the edge of the chair, still watching him carefully, half-fearful that he was near collapse.
“Are you all right?” she asked again.
“I’m fine. But seeing that music box after all these years … it gave me quite a turn.”
She reached down, picked up his book from the floor and handed it to him.
“I am so sorry to have shocked you with it, Mr. Starne,” she said, settling back into the chair. “I should have given you more warning.”
He waved off her apology with one thin hand and shook his head. He placed a much-used bookmark between the pages of his book and set it aside on the small table near him.
“I never expected to see that box again, not after all this time. In fact, I had asked Betsy to bury it for me.”
“Bury it?” she echoed in shock.
“Yes. Or better still, burn it. But I see she ignored my request.”
“Burn it?” Annie gazed down at the intricately carved music box again. “But it’s so beautiful, so rare. In fact, these boxes carved by Malcolm Tyler are now collector’s items.” She turned back to Peter. “I don’t understand why you’d want to give it away, let alone destroy it.”
Instead of replying to that, he rubbed his palms along his thighs, as though rubbing away dampness. He said to her, “Would you hand it to me, please, miss?”
“Sure thing.” Annie got up and held the music box out to him.
He stared at it while she stood, unmoving, holding it out to him in both hands. Peter ran his fingers across the velvety dark wood, touched the vines, the lovebirds, and lastly, traced the heart with a fingertip. At last he took it from her, his hands shaking.
“Is it too heavy for you?” she asked. “I don’t mind continuing to hold it while you look at it.”
“It’s not too heavy.” He settled the box in his lap, gazing at it, stroking it with tender hands. He lifted the top lid and examined the empty compartment. “This was to hold gold and diamonds—rings, necklaces, bracelets.”
“Oh?” Annie said, almost in a whisper as she seated herself again. But she doubted he would have heard her, even if she had shouted. It seemed Peter had forgotten she was there, and she was content to wait until once more he mentally returned to the room where they sat.
After a while, he lifted the box and shook it.
The wrinkles on his brow deepened and he shook it again, head tilted to one side as though listening. He lifted his gaze and gave her a sharp look.
“What happened to it?” he asked.
She raised her eyebrows. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean! My sonata! If it were still inside I would hear it move when I shake the box. The sonata was supposed to be sealed inside and never removed. It was supposed to be destroyed along with this box! What happened to it?”
He shoved the music box toward her, and she grabbed it mere seconds before it would have crashed to the floor.
His entire body trembled—lips, hands, legs. His eyes clouded with unshed tears.
“Why did you bring this to me?” he cried. “Why must I live it all again?”
He gripped the arms of his chair so hard his knuckles shone large and white, and he turned his face to the window, staring hard at the world beyond his room.
“Mr. Starne,” Annie said, feeling sick. “Please, sir, my purpose in coming here and in bringing this box was not to cause you pain.”
His gaze remained focused outside for what seemed ages, and then he finally turned his head to face her.
“Then why have you come, like a wraith, to haunt me in my last days? Why did your grandmother betray my trust by preserving that … that awful piece of history?” His eyes found the box once more.
Annie felt worse than ever.
“Believe me, Mr. Starne, when I tell you again that my intention was not to upset you, or to destroy your peace of mind.”
“I trusted Betsy Holden,” he muttered. “I did not expect her to betray me.”
The words stung, and Annie leaped to her grandmother’s defense.
“Please don’t even think such a thing,” she said. “Gram kept this lovely and rare music box because she was a keeper of treasures—a steward of something that has no equal. In her mind, to destroy something as beautiful as this music box would have been the real betrayal.”
He glared at her, at the box, and turned to face the window again. He said nothing. Perhaps, Annie thought, she should leave. Staying might cause him more pain. And yet she could not go until he understood that Gram had appointed herself as caretaker of a mystery rather than having gone back on an agreement.
“If it makes you feel any better,” she said softly, “Gram kept the music box with a collection of others, and this one stayed on the top shelf. She never let me touch it, and she never displayed it overtly for others to examine.”
After a moment, he said in a rasp, “Where’s the manuscript I hid in that box? It was never again to see the light of day.”
She hesitated, and then said, “I have it.”
He glanced at her, running his gaze over her head to toe, as if he expected her to have it in her pocket. “Where do you have it?”
“It’s at home, in my desk, in a folder.”
He grunted and looked out the window again.
“You have no right to keep it.”
“I’ll be happy to bring it to you, Mr. Starne. It’s a lovely piece of music.”
He snapped his head around and fixed a steely look on her. “You’ve heard it?”
“Yes. And the movement inside the music box has been repaired—”
He tried to stand up, gripping his cha
ir for support.
“You had no right to do that!” he yelled. “What business is it of yours? You have no right to resurrect the dead!”
Annie could only gape silently at him. A young woman in pale blue scrubs and white, thick-soled shoes rushed into the room. She held a half-eaten candy bar in one hand and a paperback book in the other.
“What’s all the commotion? Peter, are you all right?”
The man said nothing, but continued to glare at Annie.
“What did you say to him?” asked the woman. The little black and white pin she wore said her name was Corliss.
“I didn’t mean to upset him,” Annie said, all but wringing her hands. “Mr. Starne, I am so sorry.” She spoke to Corliss again, pointing at the music box. “I only wanted some information about this antique music box that once belonged to Mr. Starne.”
Corliss put down her candy and her romance novel. She glowered at Annie.
“I must ask you to leave,” she said as she lifted Peter’s wrist and tested his pulse.
“Certainly,” Annie said meekly. “I am so sorry, truly.”
“You should be! Coming into a place where people are trying to have some peace and causing this disturbance,” said Corliss.
Feeling lower than she had in a long time, Annie shoved the music box back in the protective tote. She was almost out the door, blinking back tears of frustration and embarrassment when Peter spoke again.
“No!” he said. She turned to see him tugging his arm free of the hovering orderly. “No, I want to talk with Betsy’s granddaughter.”
Annie stopped in her tracks, shocked by this reversal of attitude. “You do?”
Corliss regarded him from cool blue eyes. “Are you sure?”
“I do, and I am.” He fixed his steely gaze on Corliss. “Will you excuse us, please? And pardon us for disturbing you when you were so …”—he glanced at her candy bar and book—“ … busy.”
Annie wondered if she was the only one to hear the irony in his tone. Apparently so, because Corliss patted the old man’s shoulder, glared at Annie, and then grabbed up her food and reading material, and trotted off to take care of other things.
“I certainly seem to have caused some upset to everyone,” she said.
The Unfinished Sonata Page 15