by Ann McMan
Five past nine was early for the first patron of the day, but she was relieved to have the distraction. She’d been checking in returns and setting aside books with waiting lists. The blue request slips were clipped to the backs of the circulation cards and she had quite a stack of them piling up. It was a terribly low-tech operation, but a surprising number of her patrons in the small mountain community continued to have no access to email. She’d be on the phone for the better part of the morning, calling folks to let them know it was finally their turn to dive into the latest release by Nora Roberts.
If only it were that simple.
She’d fall on bended knee and thank an obliging creator whenever an answering machine picked up. But that wasn’t the norm. The average phone call lasted anywhere from fifteen to thirty minutes. After all the “Hey, howdy” and “We hadn’t seen you at church lately” comments, the conversations would naturally drift into prolix ruminations about recent or upcoming hip replacements, apocalyptic weather events or whoever was occupying the top spot in the cheating spouse category.
That last one was pretty hotly contested right now.
It had been a hard winter.
Syd shifted the tower of romance novels to the side of her desk and left her office to go and greet her patron.
It was Byron Martin.
“This is certainly a surprise. Are you here to arrest me,” she smiled at him, “again?”
“No, ma’am. Not unless you’re the one who spray-painted obscenities all over the mayor’s Buick.”
Syd’s eyes grew wide. “Really? Someone did that?”
Byron nodded.
Syd lowered her voice, even though no one else was in the building with them. “What’d they write?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Oh, but I do.”
“Let’s see.” Byron ran through the list. “Fearmonger. Chinless bigot. Hate is not a family value. And—my personal favorite—Read These Lips—accompanied by an anatomically correct illustration of female . . . parts.”
“Oh, my god. That’s quite a display.”
“Isn’t it?”
“He must have a big ride.”
“It’s a LaCrosse,” Byron explained. “Roomy inside and outside. Those Buicks are good cars.”
“Well, it couldn’t have happened to a more deserving object.”
“True. But it’s still a crime.”
“Any suspects?”
“A few.” He laughed. “Actually a ‘slew’ would be more accurate.”
“Is that why you’re here this morning? Or did you want to use the full force of your office to butt in line ahead of the two dozen women waiting to read Island of Glass, Book Three in the Guardian Trilogy?”
“Um. No.”
“No, you’re not here about the vandalism or no, you’re not interested in the book?”
“No on both counts.”
“Too bad about the book. I hear it’s a real page-turner.”
“I’ll wait for the movie.”
Syd smiled. “Well, it’s always lovely to see you, whatever your motivation is.”
“I’m not sure you’ll feel that way after our conversation.”
“Oh, come on, Byron. I was having such a good morning.” She sighed. “Are we gonna need coffee for this?”
“It wouldn’t hurt.”
“Come on back to my office then, and ruin my day in style.”
He followed her into the small room behind the circulation desk and dropped into an ancient Bank of England chair while she fixed him a cup of coffee. Syd thought he looked tired. Probably his errand.
Or it could be all those late nights with Celine.
She handed him a bright yellow “Hello Kitty” mug. He frowned at it.
“Is this the only one you have?”
“Of course not.” Syd sat down behind her desk in the room’s only other chair. “I’m trying to lighten the mood.”
“I’m afraid that will take more than festive drinkware.”
“Byron? You’re killing me here. What is it?”
“It’s about Roma Jean. And Charlie.”
Syd closed her eyes. “Oh, no.”
He nodded. “Apparently, some God-fearing citizen complained to the mayor’s office about the two of them meeting up on some of her bookmobile routes.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“No ma’am.”
“Who was it?”
“I’m not at liberty to say. But I have been directed by our mayor to insist that you impose disciplinary measures on your young employee.” He took a sip of his coffee. “For the good of the Commonwealth, of course.”
“This is absurd.”
“I agree. But the mayor shares the concerned citizen’s worry about exposing children to unnatural behavior.”
“Unnatural?”
“His words, not mine.”
“Oh, I so do not believe this. Doesn’t that man have better things to do?”
“Apparently not.”
Syd fumed. “Have you spoken with Charlie?”
He nodded.
“What was her response?”
He laughed. “You mean after she turned about thirty-four shades of red? She was mortified.”
“Do you think they’ve done anything wrong?”
“I think that depends on your definition of ‘wrong.’ Charlie made it clear that she wasn’t avoiding her work, and that she only met up with Roma Jean on her lunch breaks. Knowing the two of them, it’s pretty hard to imagine they’d ever do anything inappropriate in front of kids.”
“I agree.”
“Still,” he stretched out his long legs, “it does give the appearance of sneaking around.”
“I know. I’ve already tried to caution Roma Jean. I guess I wasn’t specific enough in the way I went about it.”
“You need to know that Watson intends to approach the library board if the meet-ups continue. Hell. Knowing him, he may do it anyway.”
“If he thinks the board controls our funding for the bookmobile, he’s got another think coming. I pay for that service myself—out of pocket.”
“But doesn’t the board pay for Roma Jean?”
Syd sagged against her chair. “Shit.”
“I’m going to ask you something that’s really none of my business—and I understand if you don’t want to answer, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Do you think it’s possible that the mayor—or anyone else in this town—might believe that you . . . influenced Roma Jean in this relationship?”
Syd was tempted to throw her coffee at him, but she managed to remain calm—at least overtly.
“I cannot believe you would ask me that.”
“Wait a minute.” He held up a hand. “Before you go off the rails at me, you need to know that this is likely what he’s going to allege—if this escalates.”
“Why the hell would he do that?”
“Because he’s a homophobic asshole—with the moral compass of a rock. And, Syd? As stupid and offensive as his views are, he is not alone in possessing them. Life in this county isn’t always a stroll through Candyland.”
“Ain’t that the truth. Especially lately. It’s like a national damn epidemic.”
Byron sighed. “I predict it will get worse before it gets better.”
“Jericho, or the rest of the country?”
“Yes.”
Syd laughed. “Okay. You can tell our kumquat of a chief executive that I’ll deal with my wayward employee.”
“I’ve already told Charlie to stow it during work hours.” He shook his head. “It’s hard for them, though. It’s not like they have many other opportunities to see each other.”
“And they won’t. Not until Roma Jean figures it out and talks with her family.”
“Charlie’s a good kid. She won’t push her into anything she isn’t ready for.”
“Byron? Some time, you’ll have to fill me in on your relationship with Charlie.”
/> “Oh, it’s not that complicated. Charlie went through a pretty rough patch with her own coming out process. Her father damn near beat her to death when he found out about it. After that, she spent the rest of her teen years in and out of foster care.”
“My god.”
“I gave her a job when she turned eighteen. You pretty much know the rest.” He smiled. “She’s a good officer. One of the best I’ve ever had.” He finished his coffee and set the cup down on Syd’s desk. “You don’t have to worry about her. She has a good head on her shoulders.” He got to his feet. “I need to let you get back to work.” He gestured toward the tower of books on her desk. “Eight copies of the same thing?”
“I told you. Romance is in the air.” She stood up and smiled at him. “But I don’t have to tell you that, do I?”
He gave her an exaggerated eye-roll. “Nice try.”
“Oh, come on, Byron. The two of you aren’t exactly being discreet.”
“Do we need to be discreet?”
“Not as far as I’m concerned. I think it’s wonderful.”
Syd could tell he was trying hard not to smile. It made him look shy and adorable—wholly at odds with his imposing frame, uniform and gun.
“I think it’s pretty wonderful, too,” he said. “What about Maddie?”
“What about her?”
“What does she think?”
“You mean about the relationship her mother is not having with you?”
“Yeah.” He nodded. “That would be the one.”
“She thinks her mother is nuts.”
“Really?” Byron looked surprised.
“Not that kind of nuts,” Syd clarified. “She thinks her mother needs—in her own, high-toned words—to get her head out of her ass and quit worrying about what other people think.”
“I knew I liked her.”
Syd nodded. “She’s pretty much a keeper.”
Byron quietly regarded her for a moment. “I think you both are.”
“Thanks. Maybe share that with our august mayor?”
“You think it would help?”
“No. But it couldn’t hurt.”
He laughed. “Maybe I should take one of these books.”
“If you’re looking for a user’s guide, Celine doesn’t have one.”
“No?”
Syd shook her head. “Trust me. They threw away the molds after they made those two.”
“Lucky us.”
“Yeah.” She smiled at him. “Lucky us.”
◊ ◊ ◊
James and Rita delivered Celine’s piano exactly eight days after they left to fetch it.
Their arrival dovetailed nicely with her decision to move into the house, even though Bert and Sonny still had a fair amount of work left to complete. The interior was all but finished, and needed only a bit of touch-up painting here and there. They were almost entirely focused on exterior work now, and that part would proceed more slowly. She was confident that any dust or mess could be confined to outdoors, although Bert stipulated they would want to close off her studio and cover the piano when they started cutting flagstones for the patio area.
Celine was fortunate that David’s mother, Phoebe, knew a piano tuner who’d worked for years out of a Steinway showroom in Richmond before retiring to Abingdon. When she called to schedule an appointment, she explained that her Model A salon piano had just made the long, cross-country trek, and asked how long she needed to let it acclimate to its new surroundings before having it tuned.
“Well, that depends,” he said.
“Depends on what?” she asked.
“On how you had it moved.”
It became clear to her that Marty Fassbinder would take his time getting to the point.
“By truck,” she clarified.
“What kind of truck?”
Celine thought about replying that it was a big white truck with red stripes, but she resisted temptation.
“A commercial step van,” she explained. “The piano was professionally packed and stored in a climate-controlled facility prior to making the trip.”
“Was the truck climate-controlled, too?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then storing it in a climate-controlled facility was kind of a waste of money, wasn’t it?”
“Probably. But it was only in storage for a week.”
“Well. You could a done a lot worse. Some folks wouldn’t think twice about moving one strapped to the bed of a ’57 Chevy pickup with no shocks.”
“That wasn’t the case here.”
“Where is it now?” he asked.
“Here. In my studio.”
“Summer’s coming on early. You got AC in there?”
“Yes.”
“Is it on?”
She bit back an expletive. “Yes. I keep it set at sixty-eight degrees and have a humidity regulator.”
“You got any plants?”
“Not yet. I just moved in a few days ago.”
“Well then, I’d say you can have it tuned whenever you want to.”
“Really?” Celine knew she’d probably be sorry, but she decided to ask a follow-up question anyway. “Why did you want to know if I had any plants in the studio?”
“They attract moisture. Especially if you overwater them like my wife always does.”
“I think I can promise to keep Mrs. Fassbinder away from my houseplants.”
That got a laugh out of him. “Don’t be too sure. That woman is wily.”
“So, how soon can you come out here?”
It turned out that Marty had an appointment in Wytheville the following day, so he showed up at Celine’s just before noon. He was fast and efficient and he expressed surprise that the big Steinway was still relatively in tune.
“It’s not on concert pitch, but considering all the potholes it survived getting here, I’d say it’s in good shape.” He gently tapped his tuning wrench on the side of the cast-iron frame. “Nice job, girlie.”
When he’d finished, and was packing up his tools, he dropped one of his tuning tips and had to crawl beneath the piano to retrieve it. While on the floor, he appeared to notice something on the underside of the frame. He fumbled around inside the pocket of his jacket and fished out a penlight to take a closer look.
“Well, I’ll be.”
“What is it?” Celine was afraid that he’d discovered a crack or some other imperfection.
“Did you know your piano was autographed?”
“Autographed?”
“Yep. Right here. In ink. ‘Raymond Parada. 28 January 1986.’ There’s something else, too.” He peered closer. ‘Challenger exploded today.’” He sat back. “If that don’t beat all.” He looked up at her. “You wanna come take a look?”
“You bet I do.”
Celine got to her knees and crawled beneath the massive instrument. Marty handed her the penlight and pointed at the spot where he’d discovered the handwritten message.
She ran her fingers over the tidy script. “Who was he?”
“Unless I mistake, Raymond Parada was one of the best tone regulators at Steinway. He’d be the man who gave this hunk of metal and wood its voice.” He shook his head. “Though I didn’t know he ever worked on the salon series. He was better known for the concert grands.”
“Raymond Parada.” Celine repeated the name. She laid the flat of her hand against the underside of the frame that held the soundboard. “So, he taught you how to sing?”
“Oh, no, ma’am,” Marty corrected. “He gave it a voice. You make it sing.”
Celine and Marty sat together beneath the big piano like children hiding in a homemade fort. It was a curiously intimate experience, vaguely like sharing secrets with a stranger.
“Did you buy it new?” Marty asked.
“No,” she shook her head. “I bought it from a member of the music faculty at UCLA. But she got it new in New York, when she was at Juilliard.”
“That makes sense. She probably bought it
right out of the showroom in Queens.”
“My parents were both musicians.” It was a random comment, apropos of nothing. She was embarrassed by her candor. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to babble.”
“Talking about music isn’t babbling. Talking about politics or the weather, or who’s gonna win the World Series—that’s babbling.”
“I suppose.”
“So, you’re a musician, too? Like your parents?”
“Me?” Celine shook her head. “No. It’s just a hobby.”
Marty laughed. “Pretty expensive hobby.”
She shrugged.
“And you paid a private contractor to haul this thing all the way across the country?”
“I tend not to go out much.”
“Tell you what? How about you take this thing for a spin and see how it sounds?”
Celine was surprised. “Don’t you want to test it out?”
“I already did my part. Besides, I don’t play the piano.”
“You don’t?”
“Nope. Never learned.” He held up his hands. “I have a great ear but I was born with eighteen thumbs.”
“But you tune pianos for a living?”
“No. Not for a living. I do it because I love music. As a hobby. Kind of like you.”
She found it hard to argue with that. “Fair enough.”
They retreated from their cave beneath the piano and got to their feet. Celine took her seat at the keyboard.
“What should I play?” she asked him.
He sat down on an ottoman near the window. “Surprise me.”
She decided on a Schubert Impromptu because its main theme allowed her to get a feel for the keys, the sound, the pedals, and the instrument’s full dynamic range—especially in the middle section, where the notes fell faster and tested the action. It didn’t take her long to forget that Marty was in the room. The lush sound filled the space and wrapped around her like a silk cocoon. As she played, she could hear echoes of her mother’s voice, reminding her to note the accidentals in the second part of the Trio.
Playing her piano was like resetting her internal gyroscope. It anchored her. Righted her center. Reminded her that a tumultuous world was always navigable as long as she maintained a stable reference point. It didn’t really matter where the journey took her as long as she remained balanced and had both eyes fixed on the horizon ahead.