blushes and begins to stammer, but then he realizes I’m teasing him and he laughs and says good-bye. Alex and I stand side by side and watch him walk across the porch and down the driveway past St. Booger.
“He’s quite attractive,” I murmur. “And sweet, too, I should think.”
He doesn’t answer. Whatever he’s feeling about Eric, he’s not about to reveal it.
After a minute I clear my throat again. “Which recording of mine did you listen to?”
He tilts his head to look down at me. “Bach’s
French Suites.
It was great. I mean, you were great. I’ve never heard anything like that before.”
“Ah.” I lean my head on the screen door. My breath fogs up thewindowpane. “I made that recording the same year I married Arthur. He always claimed it was my best, but at that point in our relationship I could have played ‘Chopsticks’ with my knees and he would have thought it was divinely inspired.”
A car swings into the driveway and shoots up toward the house. It’s a red Volvo. I sag away from the glass as the car screeches to a halt next to the carriage house.
“How lovely,” I say. “It seems we have a surprise visitor.”
“Who is it?” he asks.
I don’t look at him. My eyes are fixed on the large, hairy man climbing out of the Volvo.
I take a deep breath. “I’m afraid you’d better make yourself scarce, dear. This is likely to be exceptionally unpleasant.”
He touches my shoulder. I try to mask my agitation, but my body gives it away by trembling.
“Who is it?” he repeats.
I purse my lips. “Who else?” I mutter. “The prodigal son, of course. My darling boy, Paul.”
C HAPTER 7
W hen did my son and I become enemies?
Paul is even heavier than he was the last time I saw him, and as he walks toward the house I can see him panting for air. His brown beard is wild and thick, and it’s speckled with small white dots that have recently sprouted all over it like mildew on a basement wall. Even before he reaches the porch I can see the fury in his face; his forehead is red and furrowed, and his eyes are narrow, puffy slits.
Dear God, how I’ve grown to detest this man.
It wasn’t always this way between us. Truly. Once upon a time, we even
liked
each other. I have a snapshot somewhere of the two of us in the music room, sitting side by side on the piano bench, when he was only twenty years old, and in the picture we’re looking at each other with open affection. His arm is touching mine, and his cello is resting on the floor beside the piano, next to a music stand and a chair.
Paul had a lovely smile when he was younger. His brown, liquid eyes were alert and intelligent, his face was delicate, and his body, though never athletic, was trim and elegant. He was the best looking of my children, and in many ways my favorite—partly because he was the oldest (and arguably the most musically talented), but mostly because he had a pointed sense of humor very similar to mine.
I don’t remember why we were sitting at the piano together; Idon’t even remember if it was Arthur or Caitlin or Jeremy who took the photo. But what I do remember is that our being close like that wasn’t a rare thing in those days. We had many such moments, probably even hundreds, and the camera just happened to catch us in the middle of one.
But that was a very long time ago.
He slips a little on a patch of ice in the driveway and then clumps up the steps and glares at me through the window of the screen door. I lock eyes with him and make no move to invite him in.
Alex hasn’t left my side yet. I know I should order him upstairs to the safety of his apartment, but I don’t have the heart to face Paul alone. Not that I expect Alex to be of much use in handling Paul, but I very much want someone nearby right now who doesn’t hate me.
Paul seizes the handle of the screen door and flings it wide. Cold air pours around me into the house.
“Hello, sweetheart.” I make my voice pleasant. “How
“He’s quite attractive,” I murmur. “And sweet, too, I should think.”
He doesn’t answer. Whatever he’s feeling about Eric, he’s not about to reveal it.
After a minute I clear my throat again. “Which recording of mine did you listen to?”
He tilts his head to look down at me. “Bach’s
French Suites.
It was great. I mean, you were great. I’ve never heard anything like that before.”
“Ah.” I lean my head on the screen door. My breath fogs up thewindowpane. “I made that recording the same year I married Arthur. He always claimed it was my best, but at that point in our relationship I could have played ‘Chopsticks’ with my knees and he would have thought it was divinely inspired.”
A car swings into the driveway and shoots up toward the house. It’s a red Volvo. I sag away from the glass as the car screeches to a halt next to the carriage house.
“How lovely,” I say. “It seems we have a surprise visitor.”
“Who is it?” he asks.
I don’t look at him. My eyes are fixed on the large, hairy man climbing out of the Volvo.
I take a deep breath. “I’m afraid you’d better make yourself scarce, dear. This is likely to be exceptionally unpleasant.”
He touches my shoulder. I try to mask my agitation, but my body gives it away by trembling.
“Who is it?” he repeats.
I purse my lips. “Who else?” I mutter. “The prodigal son, of course. My darling boy, Paul.”
C HAPTER 7
W hen did my son and I become enemies?
Paul is even heavier than he was the last time I saw him, and as he walks toward the house I can see him panting for air. His brown beard is wild and thick, and it’s speckled with small white dots that have recently sprouted all over it like mildew on a basement wall. Even before he reaches the porch I can see the fury in his face; his forehead is red and furrowed, and his eyes are narrow, puffy slits.
Dear God, how I’ve grown to detest this man.
It wasn’t always this way between us. Truly. Once upon a time, we even
liked
each other. I have a snapshot somewhere of the two of us in the music room, sitting side by side on the piano bench, when he was only twenty years old, and in the picture we’re looking at each other with open affection. His arm is touching mine, and his cello is resting on the floor beside the piano, next to a music stand and a chair.
Paul had a lovely smile when he was younger. His brown, liquid eyes were alert and intelligent, his face was delicate, and his body, though never athletic, was trim and elegant. He was the best looking of my children, and in many ways my favorite—partly because he was the oldest (and arguably the most musically talented), but mostly because he had a pointed sense of humor very similar to mine.
I don’t remember why we were sitting at the piano together; Idon’t even remember if it was Arthur or Caitlin or Jeremy who took the photo. But what I do remember is that our being close like that wasn’t a rare thing in those days. We had many such moments, probably even hundreds, and the camera just happened to catch us in the middle of one.
But that was a very long time ago.
He slips a little on a patch of ice in the driveway and then clumps up the steps and glares at me through the window of the screen door. I lock eyes with him and make no move to invite him in.
Alex hasn’t left my side yet. I know I should order him upstairs to the safety of his apartment, but I don’t have the heart to face Paul alone. Not that I expect Alex to be of much use in handling Paul, but I very much want someone nearby right now who doesn’t hate me.
Paul seizes the handle of the screen door and flings it wide. Cold air pours around me into the house.
“Hello, sweetheart.” I make my voice pleasant. “How
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