Duet for Three Hands

by Tess Thompson

  “Exactly.”

  “What an idea.” He yanked the wheel, straightening the car, his eyes focused on the road again. “How would we get them to France?”

  “Ocean liner.”

  “No. Too dangerous. There’s talk of war over there. Hitler wants to spread his power east from Germany. I can’t imagine it won’t include west—possibly France—at some point in time. He wants power, Lydia, and will try to get it however he can. No European country will be safe from war if the speculation is correct.”

  She paused for a moment, considering what he meant. “A second world war? Surely that cannot happen again?”

  “Lydia.”

  “Couldn’t be more of a risk than staying here,” she said softly.

  “We can’t know that.”

  She turned and looked out her window, peeved that he hadn’t seized on the idea. “Nathaniel.” Her voice wobbled. She swallowed, hard. Why did this man evoke such emotion from her? “Think of the baby.”

  He took in a breath and shifted in his seat.

  “In France there are others like them. I’ve read about it.”

  “What if he’s miscalculated somehow?” asked Nathaniel.

  “Miscalculated?”

  “What if she’s not the girl he thinks she is?” His eyes never left the road, but he jerked his head toward the window in a slight movement that reminded her of a yoked animal.

  “Are you speaking about yourself, or are you thinking of Whit?”

  They passed a creek. “I married Frances because there was a baby coming.”

  “Oh. Well.” She opened her purse, pulling out a handkerchief, wiping a trickle of sweat that ran down the back of her neck. “No situation is exactly the same as another.” She tried to keep her voice steady, but the shock of what he’d just told her made it difficult.

  “Here it is,” he said as he turned down a dirt driveway.

  Tension made her sit up taller when they turned a corner and she saw Jeselle sitting in a rocking chair, knitting, on the porch of a ramshackle house. Nathaniel turned off the car just as Jeselle pushed herself up out of the rocking chair in the way pregnant women must and cupped a hand over her eyes, squinting. He moved to open his door. Lydia put her hand on his jacket sleeve. “Wait, what do we say?”

  His eyes were sharp. “You’re not saying anything. You’re staying in the car.”

  She turned in the seat and faced him. “What’s given you the idea that you can tell me what to do outside the practice room?”

  He continued to stare at her for a moment, his eyes impatient. “I’m trying to keep you safe.”

  “That’s not your job.”

  He sighed and shook his head. “Fine. Come along if you wish.”

  “I will.”

  As they approached, Jeselle jumped down from the porch and stood watching them, the ball of yarn unraveling. A black and white kitten leaped from under the porch and began to bat the yarn between its paws. “Mr. Nate? Mrs. Tyler? Is something wrong?”

  “Whit came to my office today,” said Nathaniel. “Looking for you.”

  Jeselle’s lower lip trembled. “He shouldn’t have come here.”

  “He knows about the baby,” said Nathaniel.

  “Did you tell him?”

  “He says he loves you,” said Nathaniel.

  “You tell him to go home. Tell him nothing good can come of it.” Tears rolled down her cheeks, and she brushed them away with ferocious swipes. “You tell him that for me.”

  “What if there was a place you could go where you could live together as man and wife?” Lydia asked. Lydia felt Nathaniel’s gaze piercing through her.

  “There is no such place.”

  Lydia kept her voice low. “What if there was? Would you go?”

  Before the girl could answer, they were startled by a sound from the porch. Lydia looked over to see a black woman standing in the doorway, hands on skinny hips, scowling in their direction. Jeselle composed her face, but there was terror in her eyes. “Bess will wonder what you’re here for.”

  Lydia’s mind worked quickly. “Tell her we came by because Mr. Fye needs you to come into work.”

  Jeselle nodded and spoke quietly. “Whit’s naive. He won’t see it.”

  “What if we could figure a way?” Lydia asked her again.

  Jeselle’s brown eyes snapped. Nathaniel shuffled his feet. “Why do you care?” asked Jeselle.

  Nathaniel put his hand on Lydia’s forearm. It felt like a peace offering. Lydia softened. “She’s a friend.” He spoke gently. “Jeselle, answer her question.”

  “The answer would be yes, if I didn’t know better.” Jeselle’s eyes darted to Bess, waiting on the porch, and then back again to their faces.

  Lydia stepped closer, putting her hand on Jeselle’s forearm. “Come with us. He’s waiting for you.”

  Jeselle blinked, cocked her head. “Wait just a moment, please.”

  She turned and walked quickly toward the house, saying something to her cousin that Lydia couldn’t hear before starting back toward them. Bess stood with her hands clasped together at her chest, eyes on the yard.

  Nathaniel escorted Jeselle into the boarding house while Lydia waited in the car. She twisted her handkerchief between her fingers, looking out the window but seeing nothing.

  When he slid behind the steering wheel again, Nate took off his hat and wiped his brow. “The sisters who run the place weren’t at the desk, thank the good Lord. I said I’d come back for Jeselle after I drop you off.”

  They drove in silence. When they arrived at the edge of campus, Nathaniel slowed the car, parking next to the lawn. He took the keys out of the ignition and turned to face her. “Can Jeselle travel in her condition?”

  “She needs to go within the next several weeks or not at all.”

  “All right then. Let’s propose the idea to Whitmore. See if he’s really willing to walk away from everything and go to France.”

  She studied him. “What’s made you change your mind?”

  “I don’t see a safer option.” He appeared to study his keys, moving them one by one until they looked like a fan in the palm of his hand. “I’m not the person you think I am.”

  “What do I think exactly?”

  “That I’m small-minded.” He continued to gaze at his keys. “I’ve been all over the world, you know.” He cleared his throat, looking up and into her eyes. “I don’t protest your ideals.”

  “Ideals only matter if you use them to actually do something.”

  He looked at her steadily. A magnolia blossom from a nearby tree drifted onto the car’s windshield. “Perhaps.” There was a slight flicker in his eyes. “I would’ve given anything for my baby son to have lived. I would’ve done anything. Anything. And I’ll do anything for Whit. But I’m frightened to lose him. Sometimes I think he’s all I have.”

  “I understand,” she whispered. “Nathaniel, I’m sorry about your son.”

  “His name was John.”

  “John.”

  “My father’s name.” He dropped the keys into his lap. Shifting in the seat, he leaned closer and brushed the side of her face with his fingertips. “Lydia Tyler, I wish I didn’t care so much what you think of me.”

  Her heart pounded. A roar started between her ears. “I couldn’t think more of you than I already do.” She put her hand on the door handle. “I have to go.” She opened the door, blind and trembling, and put her feet on the ground. Steps from her dormitory, she turned to look back, startled to see him standing by his car, watching her. He lifted his hat, and she waved, feeling like a schoolgirl sneaking home in the middle of the night.

  Chapter 41

  Whitmore

  * * *

  Whitmore sat on the side of the bed. Jeselle stood near the desk, grasping the back of the chair. “You plan on giving this baby away?” he asked.

  “It’s what Mama wants. Doesn’t mean I’m going to do it.”

  He got up from the bed and reached for he
r, took her hand between his own. “I knew it.”

  “Mama wants to give the baby to the Reverend Young. But I can’t.”

  “Not even when you thought about Oberlin?”

  “Even then. I’ve been saving every penny. I planned to go out west. I thought California, but lately I’ve been thinking Wyoming or Montana. Places with miles and miles of space where a person could get lost and never be bothered.”

  He moved away from her, trying to keep the pain out of his voice, but it was impossible. “Did you think at all of me?”

  “Of course I thought of you. You’re all I think of. I won’t have you giving up your life or getting killed over me. Think of me living with that the rest of my life? Think about that, Whitmore Bellmont.” She crossed her arms over her chest and winced. Was she hurt? He took her arm in his hands, gently. “What is it?” Then he saw it. A burn mark on her soft flesh. He knew instantly who had done it to her. “My God, Frances burned you?”

  “Never mind.”

  “She burned you? With an iron?” He brought her into his arms and held her. “I’m sorry, Jessie.”

  She put her arms tighter around his neck, and he felt her chest moving up and down as she cried, her tears damp on his neck. After a moment he shifted so he could hold her face between his hands, catching the tears with his fingertips as they fell. “Do you love me?”

  “You know I do,” she whispered.

  “Are you willing to go with me, wherever it is?”

  “What about your life? Your daddy’s plans for you?”

  “My plan has been and always will be you.”

  “How will we live?”

  “I don’t know.” He moved his hand to rest on her round belly, amazed there was a baby inside. “I’ll find a way. Will you come with me?”

  “Yes.”

  Chapter 42

  Nathaniel

  * * *

  Nathaniel walked over to the church early that evening, the sun behind a fat, ash-colored cloud dimming the landscape. He found Ferguson in the windowless pastor’s office behind the sanctuary. The warm and untidy office smelled of dust and old books; piles of papers were scattered about the desk, and books stacked sideways and wrong side up looked as if they might collapse a rickety shelf on the far wall. An empty, chipped teacup was perched precariously on a tattered dictionary.

  Gillis, writing, looked up and smiled broadly when Nathaniel knocked. “Nathaniel. Come on in. Excuse the mess.” Getting up, he grabbed the pile of books off the visitor’s chair and set them on the floor near the radiator. “This is the only place Lulu can’t get to.”

  Nathaniel remained standing, too antsy to sit. “Lydia thinks they should go to France. To live.”

  “They could live in relative peace there, I suppose.”

  “Except for the war most believe is inevitable.”

  “Hitler. Yes.” The room filled with a sound like someone beating a snare drum. “Ah, our friend the woodpecker, saying hello.”

  “If anything happened to Whit…” Nathaniel’s throat tightened. “It would be the last thing I could take. I wouldn’t make it through.”

  “How would they live?” asked Ferguson.

  “I have money put aside from the old days. It’s enough to get them started. Whitmore’s talented. I could introduce him to some art contacts there and in New York City. He could paint portraits or something.”

  “The answer seems clear then.”

  “France?” said Nathaniel.

  “France.”

  “I should get home, check on Frances. I haven’t been home since I saw you earlier.” At the doorway, he stopped and turned back to look at the pastor. “Jeselle says Frances is out most afternoons.”

  “Out? Where?”

  “I don’t know. Frances tells me she always rests in the afternoons. I mean, what would she do out all afternoon?”

  “Do you suspect something?”

  “What? No. I mean, suspect what?” The noise from the woodpecker ceased, replaced with the hum from a car on the street. “What would I suspect? A man?”

  “Just ask her. Most folks tell the truth when asked.”

  “How do you remain so optimistic about people?” asked Nathaniel.

  He chuckled. “Well, we’re made in God’s image.”

  “Yeah, but the mirror’s awfully blurry for some of us.”

  When Nathaniel returned home he peeked into Frances’s bedroom to find her at her dressing table applying lipstick. She met his eyes in the mirror. “Where did you get yourself off to?”

  “Business to take care of.” He leaned against the doorframe. “Frances, what do you do in the afternoons?”

  “Rest.” She turned from the mirror to face him. “Darlin’, I’ve been thinkin’ maybe we should move to California.”

  “What?”

  “California. Los Angeles. I hear there are dozens of universities out there. You could get a post at one of them.”

  He sat on the end of her bed, sighing. “Frances, I can’t leave my position here.”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “Why can’t you give me one thing I want?”

  “We’re not moving to California. I’m sorry.”

  With that, she jumped up from the dressing table, swiping her arm across the top so that all the contents flew to the floor. “You’re determined to ruin my dreams.” She lunged toward him, wailing and pushing both of her hands into his chest. When she was in a fury, she had enormous strength, and he fell back onto the bed. She beat him with her fists until he managed to get his hands under her arms and toss her off him. Collapsing in a heap, she looked small and fragile and crumpled, her gown in a swoop around her as her small ribcage moved in wracking sobs.

  I can’t even look at her anymore, he thought as he left the room. I can’t even stand to look at her.

  Chapter 43

  Lydia

  * * *

  The next morning Lydia made her way sluggishly across campus, through air that felt thick with heat, thinking even the bees that usually hovered and sucked luxuriously from the flowers were slower, as if the humidity made their wings heavy. Inside the music building it was cooler, and dim. She went to Nathaniel’s office, where she knew he waited for her to begin their morning lesson.

  He sat at the piano, spine straight, his face in shadow, his right hand playing the notes of an unfamiliar melody. She stood at the door, allowing herself to watch him for a moment before shuffling her feet to let him know she was there. At the noise, his hand stilled and hovered over the keys before he turned his gaze toward her. “Lydia.”

  Where had he been, she wondered? She opened her mouth to speak, but all that came out was a squeak that sounded like a question. Then, “Good afternoon.” A trickle of perspiration meandered between her breasts. “Are you ready for me?”

  He moved to stand behind the piano. “Please begin with the exercises I assigned you.”

  She played through the scales and arpeggios. When she finished, his eyes were hooded, unreadable. “Is it all right?” The walls of the room felt unusually close.

  He blinked. “Yes, it was quite good.”

  She sighed, feeling limp from the warmth of the room and something else that hung in the air. She stirred on the seat. “I’m so warm.”

  “Yes, it’s ungodly hot in here today.” The vein on his neck above his shirt collar twitched. His skin was damp at the back of his neck. Her fingers twitched, wanting to feel his skin.

  “Are you feeling poorly?” she asked.

  “What? No, not all.”

  “You seem distracted.”

  “I am, I guess. Worried about the kids.” He paused. “Lydia, how old are you?”

  She moved from the piano bench and reached for her bag, attempting to sound lighthearted, teasing, like she’d observed in other women when they were asked a question that made them uncomfortable, but it came out flat and breathless. “My mother said never to tell a man your age.”

  He smiled. “Right, men and women don�
��t discuss these things in polite society.”

  She rifled through her bag as if she were looking for something. “I’m forty years old, last month.”

  His voice was quiet as he rested his arms on the top of the piano, leaning over to peer at her. “I apologize if I’ve made you uncomfortable. You seem younger yet older, soft and hard, all harmonious.”

  “Is that how I appear to you?” She put her finger on middle C and tapped it, twice. The sound reverberated in the quiet room.

  “Yes, it is.” The tone of his voice was careful and measured, like he didn’t want to alarm her.

  She stared at his mouth. What would it feel like to kiss him? Put it aside, she told herself. No good comes from coveting a married man. Any imbecile knew that. Apparently her heart wasn’t very smart.

  “I have something for you.” He rifled through his bag. “Yes, here it is. This is the Brahms B-flat Piano Concerto. I’d like you to begin practicing it. Might take you six months to learn, but I want you to perform it in public when you’re ready.”

  Startled, she took the sheet music from him, scanning it quickly. “A woman can’t play it.”

  “Small, weak women, perhaps not. But someone with the capacity of your large hands? I think you can.” He smiled, teasing. “You’re the perfect age. You should be at least forty to even attempt it.”

  “Did you play it?”

  “Once. Publicly, that is. I was thirty, and it was only by some miracle it wasn’t an utter failure.”

  “I would’ve loved to see you perform.” Why had she said this? It would only make him feel worse.

  “Performing made me feel powerful—to hold an audience’s attention like I did. Does that sound awful?”

  “Merely honest.”

  “You’re either a performer or you’re not. I believe you to be a performer, Lydia. I believe it with all my heart.”

  “Nathaniel.” Pesky tears came to the corners of her eyes. “Thank you.”

  “It’s selfish, you know, this mentorship. It feels a little like the old days, here, with you.”