Before Todd came along, she and Alan used to take the other two boys for long rides in those little seats? On the back of the bikes? They had little helmets for them and everything.”
“Did you learn to ride?”
“No time,” she said, walking up the steps beside him. “I had to practice.”
He suspected there were many childhood activities she’d missed out on and that a listing of them would depress them both. He led her across the porch and offered her the swing, but didn’t sit down next to her.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Your flowers this afternoon? We had a little talk about picking other people’s flowers, Chloe and I. I’m sorry I didn’t say something to her earlier. I didn’t anticipate that she’d—”
“Oh. I wish you hadn’t.” She had to move. She couldn’t just sit there while he stood looking down at her. “I mean, I’m glad you did, but I wish you hadn’t. She...Her intentions were good.”
“Her intentions were good?”
“Well, she picked them for me. To please me. I just didn’t...wouldn’t want her to think I was disappointed or unhappy with her gift.”
She’d moved to the railing and was looking out at the lights glowing softly in windows up and down the block. Shamefacedly, he admitted silently that he would have automatically reprimanded Chloe there on the spot, embarrassed her and spoiled her gift, if he hadn’t been stopped. She was pretty astute for a woman who had no children, he thought. Then again, maybe not having children made her more sensitive toward them.
“I owe you twice then,” he said, sensing he’d be running up his debt to her at a steady pace. She glanced over her shoulder, askance. “First the ladder, now the flowers.”
She laughed softly and turned back to the night.
“She liked the music you played for her,” he said, moving to sit on the rail beside her. “She said it sounded happy.”
She smiled. “ ‘Fiddle Head Reel’ it’s called. I liked it when I was a little girl too. My father played it for me.” A pause. “I haven’t come across many songs about little girls who paint their rooms red, I’m afraid. Think she’ll mind, if she ever finds out?”
He chuckled softly. “No, not at all,” he said. Silence wedged between them, like an unwanted third person. They both struggled with it, but Scotty was first to elbow it out of the way. “What was he like? Your father.”
“Quiet.” She shrugged and walked a few feet away to the top of the steps. Seconds ticked by before she added, “He never called himself a violinist. He would either say he played a violin or a fiddle, but he wouldn’t say he was a musician. He was self-taught. He played by ear but couldn’t read music, and there was some sort of distinction there for him. He played with a band, in Irish pubs mostly, sometimes Western bars. He played it all—jazz to sixties folk music.”
“But he wasn’t as good as you,” he assumed.
She turned to him and leaned against the big white pillar holding the roof up, shaking her head gently. “No. In many ways he was much better. I love the music and I respect my talent. He did, too, but he also loved the instrument. The violin. In my heart I think I could have just as easily picked up a flute or sat down at a piano, learned to play and loved the music just as well. For him, it was only the violin. The sound, the shape, the feel of it in his hands. His face would light up every time he picked it up, and he...” she hesitated, “...he went somewhere else when he was playing it. Heaven, maybe. You could see it in his expression and the way he moved and...” She laughed softly. “Sorry. That’s probably more than you really wanted to know.”
“No. I like people stories. They fascinate me. I’m a people person, remember?”
“You’ve no doubt noticed that I’m not, ah...a people person.”
“No. I hadn’t noticed that. People here like you, kids adore you. I hadn’t noticed.” He
“Did you learn to ride?”
“No time,” she said, walking up the steps beside him. “I had to practice.”
He suspected there were many childhood activities she’d missed out on and that a listing of them would depress them both. He led her across the porch and offered her the swing, but didn’t sit down next to her.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Your flowers this afternoon? We had a little talk about picking other people’s flowers, Chloe and I. I’m sorry I didn’t say something to her earlier. I didn’t anticipate that she’d—”
“Oh. I wish you hadn’t.” She had to move. She couldn’t just sit there while he stood looking down at her. “I mean, I’m glad you did, but I wish you hadn’t. She...Her intentions were good.”
“Her intentions were good?”
“Well, she picked them for me. To please me. I just didn’t...wouldn’t want her to think I was disappointed or unhappy with her gift.”
She’d moved to the railing and was looking out at the lights glowing softly in windows up and down the block. Shamefacedly, he admitted silently that he would have automatically reprimanded Chloe there on the spot, embarrassed her and spoiled her gift, if he hadn’t been stopped. She was pretty astute for a woman who had no children, he thought. Then again, maybe not having children made her more sensitive toward them.
“I owe you twice then,” he said, sensing he’d be running up his debt to her at a steady pace. She glanced over her shoulder, askance. “First the ladder, now the flowers.”
She laughed softly and turned back to the night.
“She liked the music you played for her,” he said, moving to sit on the rail beside her. “She said it sounded happy.”
She smiled. “ ‘Fiddle Head Reel’ it’s called. I liked it when I was a little girl too. My father played it for me.” A pause. “I haven’t come across many songs about little girls who paint their rooms red, I’m afraid. Think she’ll mind, if she ever finds out?”
He chuckled softly. “No, not at all,” he said. Silence wedged between them, like an unwanted third person. They both struggled with it, but Scotty was first to elbow it out of the way. “What was he like? Your father.”
“Quiet.” She shrugged and walked a few feet away to the top of the steps. Seconds ticked by before she added, “He never called himself a violinist. He would either say he played a violin or a fiddle, but he wouldn’t say he was a musician. He was self-taught. He played by ear but couldn’t read music, and there was some sort of distinction there for him. He played with a band, in Irish pubs mostly, sometimes Western bars. He played it all—jazz to sixties folk music.”
“But he wasn’t as good as you,” he assumed.
She turned to him and leaned against the big white pillar holding the roof up, shaking her head gently. “No. In many ways he was much better. I love the music and I respect my talent. He did, too, but he also loved the instrument. The violin. In my heart I think I could have just as easily picked up a flute or sat down at a piano, learned to play and loved the music just as well. For him, it was only the violin. The sound, the shape, the feel of it in his hands. His face would light up every time he picked it up, and he...” she hesitated, “...he went somewhere else when he was playing it. Heaven, maybe. You could see it in his expression and the way he moved and...” She laughed softly. “Sorry. That’s probably more than you really wanted to know.”
“No. I like people stories. They fascinate me. I’m a people person, remember?”
“You’ve no doubt noticed that I’m not, ah...a people person.”
“No. I hadn’t noticed that. People here like you, kids adore you. I hadn’t noticed.” He
Similar Books
