On The Run by Iris Johansen Page A

“I understand he once gave orders to you. Did you mind?”
    She looked away. “No, you’re right. He knows what he’s doing.” She moved toward the door. “I’d better get Frankie. Her food will get cold.”
    “It won’t matter. She won’t taste it. I remember she had that same look on one of our pizza nights. We might as well not have been there.” He paused. “I’m glad she’s got something to occupy her mind. I thought she might brood.”
    “She’s still thinking about Charlie. She’s just dealing with it in her own way. That’s what we all have to do, isn’t it?” She passed him and a moment later she was out on the porch. It was sunset, and the pink-and-lavender-tinged clouds hovering over the mountains were magnificent. “Frankie?”
    Frankie glanced over her shoulder. “Nice, huh, Mom?”
    “That’s an understatement.” She sat down on the step beside her. “Beautiful. But it’s time to get something to eat, Frankie. Soup and garlic bread okay?”
    “Fine.” Frankie looked back at the sunset. “We don’t have mountains like this back home. I bet Charlie would have liked it here.”
    “I’m sure he would. But Charlie was all for gentle ponies, not bucking broncos. He always left the broncs to me.”
    “I was thinking. I bet he wasn’t like that all his life. He went through World War Two, and that must have been like riding a bronc.”
    “Worse.”
    “So maybe he only wanted the gentleness when he got old. Maybe when he was younger he wanted crashing cymbals instead of violins, Tchaikovsky instead of Brahms.”
    “It could be.” She slipped her arm around Frankie’s shoulders. “Where is this going, baby?”
    “I just have to be careful. It’s got to be right for Charlie. Do you remember when I told you I heard the music again that it was just a whisper?”
    “Yes.”
    “I think it might have been Charlie.”
    Grace went still. “Charlie’s not with us anymore,” she said gently.
    “But maybe he’s like the music. You don’t know where it comes from but that doesn’t mean it’s not there. Do you think maybe that could be true?”
    “I believe anything is possible.” She cleared her throat. “And I think Charlie would like the idea that you’re comparing him to your music.”
    “No, not mine; this one is Charlie’s.” Her gaze shifted back to the sunset. “That’s why it’s got to be right. Broncos and gentle ponies and cymbals and everything that Charlie— It’s got to be right.”
    “I can see that.” She could see more than the picture that Frankie was drawing for her. She’d told Robert that Frankie would deal with her grief in her own way, but she’d never dreamed it would be with this gift to Charlie. Or maybe it was Charlie’s last gift to Frankie. Either way, it was moving and beautiful and right. “Can I help?”
    Frankie shook her head. “It’s coming slow. It’s a whisper, but it’s louder now.” She jumped to her feet. “I’m hungry. Let’s go in and eat supper and then look at the horses.”
    Frankie was back in child mode and Grace accepted it gratefully. She didn’t know how much longer she would have been able to keep her composure. “That’s a great idea. We’ll have to do some heating in the microwave.”
    “I’ll do it. I kept you out here.” She headed for the door. “I just wanted to talk to you. It makes things clearer. . . .” The last words drifted off as Frankie ran into the house.
    Clearer?
    It seemed to her that Frankie saw things with crystal clarity. There was no truth like that seen through the eyes of a child.
    She glanced at the sunset one more time. It was almost gone, disappearing in a maze of deep purple. There was no longer a wind. At least, she couldn’t hear it. Perhaps it was there, still singing through the pines.
    And probably Frankie could hear