"I'm resting, Rachel," she said. Closing her eyes, she listened to the resigned retreat of her granddaughter's footsteps.
She lay that way for a few more minutes, then opened her eyes again.
Peter, Peter, why couldn't you have left well enough alone?
He was trying to control things from the grave. She knew he was doing it for her, in his misguided way. But he should have known she would never agree to carry out his wishes. She couldn't do it ten years ago, and she couldn't do it now.
–25–
"Well, it's about time." Sam Freed sat on the edge of his desk and studied Rachel and Michael with a smile. "I was wondering how long it would take someone to figure out that the land under dispute is really Huber land."
The attorney was nearly seventy, Rachel knew, but she would have guessed him to be ten years younger. He looked very fit and lean, and he was impeccably dressed in a gray suit and blue tie.
"Do you have any idea where the music is?" she asked.
Sam raised his eyebrows in surprise. "I always assumed Helen had it."
"She claims not to," Michael said.
"Hmm." Sam shook his head. "You've got yourselves a mystery, then."
"Could my grandfather have had a safe-deposit box?" Rachel asked. "Somewhere he might have kept valuable papers?"
"If he did, I never knew about it."
"And this addendum is legal?" Michael pointed to the sheet of paper on Sam's desk.
"Oh, perfectly legal," Sam said. He touched the paper with the tips of his fingers. "I thought it was an odd contingency, but I knew Peter well enough to trust that he had a good reason for it. What that reason was, though, I haven't a clue." He looked at his watch and stood up. "I'm sorry to have to cut this short, but I have another appointment to get to." He ushered them toward his office door. "Wish I could be of more help to you, and I sure hope you can find that music somewhere. Ursula's been trying to convince me I could have a spanking new office in that building they plan to raise up by the pond, but frankly I'd rather have this old place and keep Reflection just the way it is."
On the street outside the law office, Michael took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "I don't think we'd better tell Helen we saw Sam," he said.
"No." Rachel agreed. "And I don't think we should push her about the will or the music right now, either." In the two days since they'd told her about the will, Gram had seemed withdrawn and preoccupied, occasionally a little impatient and snappish. Even the sweet, belated ears of Silver Queen from the garden failed to get her attention, and the fresh flowers Rachel had arranged throughout the house went unnoticed.
Michael slipped his glasses on again, nodding. "It's going to be frustrating tonight, though," he said, "seeing Karl Speicer at the Kennedy Center and not being able to talk to him. What if he has the music? Maybe we could—"
"We can't, Michael," she said. "We promised."
"All right." He let out a sigh. "I'm going to my office for a few hours. I'll pick you and Helen up around three, all right?"
"Yes." She touched his arm lightly. "I'm glad we had a few minutes alone," she said.
He smiled at her, then turned around and headed in the direction of his church. It was a moment before Rachel noticed the woman across the street, the man in the parked car at the corner, the two teenage girls coming out of the deli, and she realized that she and Michael had had no time alone after all.
* * *
She rode in the backseat of Michael's car on the drive to Washington, while her grandmother sat in the passenger seat next to him. It would be a two-hour drive, and Rachel wanted Gram to be comfortable. The older woman had moved slowly as she'd climbed into the car, her face pale and grim, and even now there was a brittle, nearly palpable anxiety about her.
Rachel watched as the countryside gave way to office buildings and industry. There had been little conversation so far on the drive, the few attempts feeble. She met Michael's eyes in the rearview mirror from time to time and thought she detected in them the same apprehensive excitement she felt at being with him, away from Reflection, away from everyone.
"When's the last time you heard any of Peter's music performed live?" Michael asked her grandmother.
It was a moment before Gram answered. "I don't think I've been to a live performance since before he died," she said. "Ten years, at least." She turned her head to look back at Rachel. "What pieces did you say they're performing tonight?" she asked.
"Patchwork and Lionheart and the Second Concerto." Rachel repeated information she had given her grandmother four times already.
They reached Washington at five-thirty and checked into their hotel, Rachel and her grandmother in a room with two queen-sized beds, Michael in a single room next door. They were short on time and so began dressing immediately. Rachel had bought a dress the day before in Lancaster, where no one would recognize her or talk about her after she'd left the store. The dress was short and black, cut low in back, and she grinned at her reflection in the mirror above the hotel dresser.
"Help me with this, Rachel?" Gram asked as she emerged from the bathroom. She was wearing a simple royal-blue dress and holding a strand of pearls to her throat. She looked taller, more striking than Rachel had ever seen her.
"That dress looks stunning on you." Rachel reached for the pearls and fixed the clasp at the back of her grandmother's neck.
"I need to sit down," Gram said, once the pearls were secure.
She sat down in one of the room's two wing chairs and shut her eyes. Rachel bit her lip as she studied her grandmother's face. The older woman was so pale and her white hands clutched the arms of the chair. She looked as full of fear as she would in the middle of a storm. Was she going to be all right? Perhaps they should have brought the wheelchair.
Rachel put on her makeup in the bathroom and was walking back into the bedroom when she noticed Gram surreptitiously transferring the little bag of herbs from her purse to her beaded evening bag. She pretended not to notice, but her heart ached for her grandmother. Poor thing. It had to be some superstition that made her captive to that little plastic bag. She always wanted those herbs with her. Rachel busied herself at the dresser, but she could see that Gram's hands were still trembling as they fastened the clasp on the handbag.
They joined Michael in the hotel lobby and took a cab to the Kennedy Center, and the three of them were quiet as they rode the elevator up to the rooftop restaurant.
"You ladies look beautiful," Michael said once they'd been seated at a table by the windows.
"Thanks." Rachel smiled at him.
She and Michael ordered full dinners, but Gram wanted only soup. She ordered the crab bisque, and Rachel watched her push her spoon through it, this way and that, bringing none of it to her lips. Michael looked across the table at Rachel, his eyes asking her what was wrong, and she shrugged.
They left the restaurant, Gram clutching her handbag, and waited by the bank of elevators for the ride down to the concert hall. Once off the elevator, Michael took each of them by the elbow.
"Well," he said, "I have a little surprise for you two tonight."
"What?" Rachel asked.
"You'll see." He winked at her.
In the massive foyer of the Kennedy Center, they picked up their tickets, then headed for the concert hall. When she'd called to order the tickets, Rachel had been disappointed to learn that the best available seats were in the very rear of the orchestra, so she was surprised when the usher led them toward the stage. She glanced at her stub. First row, smack in the center. She started to protest, then caught Michael's grin. So that was his surprise.
"How did you manage this?" she asked as they took their seats directly in front of the assembling orchestra. She sat between him and her grandmother.
Michael squeezed her arm. He seemed very happy tonight, more relaxed than she'd seen him since her arrival in Reflection. "Couple of phone calls," he said. "Didn't know I had such clout, did you?"
"I have a feeling
it isn't you who has the clout," Rachel whispered, her lips close to his ear. She smelled the soft woody scent of his aftershave and wanted to snuggle up to him, lean her head against his shoulder. She resolutely wrapped her hands around the arms of her chair instead. "Did you tell them Helen Huber would be here?" she asked.
He smiled. "They would have put us on the stage if they could have."
Rachel read the program while waiting for the concert to begin. The biographical material on her grandfather was familiar, and she felt a chill of pride as she read about his accomplishments and awards. She leaned over to ask Gram a question about the article but realized that her grandmother was engrossed in the biography of Karl Speicer. Rachel turned the page and began reading about Speicer herself.
He was born in 1911, the article stated, and he lived in New York City with his wife of forty-four years, Winona. He had been a longtime friend of the composer, and he had a passion for Huber music. Any competent pianist can demonstrate the technical brilliance of a Huber composition, the biographer had written, but Karl Speicer reaches deep into the heart and soul of the composer's work.
The concert opened with Patchwork. The conductor was a woman Rachel had never heard of before, but it was apparent from the first chords of the music that she was a Huber fan herself. And Karl Speicer was an extraordinary presence. His thick, silver hair was striking against the black and white of his tuxedo. He was quite tall and slender, and he displayed a wired sort of energy as he bore down on the piano. During the slower parts of the music he lifted his face, eyes closed, to the heavens, and Rachel thought to herself: Karl Speicer does indeed love this music.
By the third movement she feared she would no longer be able to bear the lump in her throat. She didn’t know what images other people in the audience saw as they listened to Patchwork, but she pictured the threatened view from Winter Hill and her grandfather at the piano in the house at Reflection, lost in concentration as his fingers worked their magic on the keys. She breathed through her mouth to stave off the tears. Michael knew, though. He took her hand and held it on her knee, his touch firm and warm, and the gesture only served to intensify her emotions.
She heard the slightest sniffle from her grandmother, and she took Gram's hand in her free one. The older woman's fingers might have been carved from stone, they felt that cool and unyielding. Rachel ran her thumb over the back of her grandmother's hand to warm it.
When the piece ended, Karl Speicer was heartily applauded, returning to the front of the stage several times to accept the adulation. He didn’t walk like an old man; there was no hesitancy in his gait. He nodded toward the orchestra with an easy, handsome smile and left the stage for the last time as the lights came on for the intermission.
Michael leaned forward in his seat so that both Rachel and Gram could hear him. "Now, be prepared," he said. "After the intermission, the conductor's going to acknowledge the two of you."
"What do you mean?" Rachel asked.
"You know," Michael said. "She'll introduce Helen as Peter's wife and you as his granddaughter, and you'll stand up and—"
"I'm sorry, but no," Gram said abruptly. "I can't stay for the rest of the concert. I need to leave." She stood up and began backing away from her seat.
Rachel and Michael glanced at each other.
"No reason for the two of you to go," Gram said. "I'll get a cab back to the hotel and—"
Michael was on his feet, reaching across Rachel toward the older woman, catching her by the arm. "What is it, Helen?" he asked. "Are you ill? Dizzy?"
"Yes," she said, "I'm not feeling at all well. I'm so sorry." She glanced toward the emptying stage.
"We'll all go," Rachel stood up between them.
"No! I don't want to ruin—"
"Nonsense, Helen," Michael said. "We got to hear Patchwork, and I don't know about the two of you, but that was beautiful enough to last me a year or so. It's been a long day. Let's go back to the hotel and relax." He glanced toward the stage. "I'll let someone know we had to leave so they don't try to acknowledge you."
Rachel nodded at him, grateful for his caring.
Gram didn’t say another word until the three of them were back in her hotel room. By then, though, the color had returned to her face. "Now, I'm tired," she said. "I'm going straight to bed, but I'm sure you two would like to stay up and talk, so you just go on and sit in Michael's room for a while."
Michael laughed. "Helen, you're incorrigible."
Rachel felt more relief than amusement. Her feisty grandma was suddenly back. "I don't want to leave you if you're not feeling well," she said. "I'll stay with you a while. We can watch TV or—"
"No, you're not staying with me. I'm fine now."
"You're sure, Helen?" Michael asked.
"I'm absolutely fine."
"You seemed so upset, though," Rachel said. "Did we make a mistake bringing you here?"
Gram smiled. "No, of course you didn't." She ran her hand over the surface of her beaded handbag. "It's just that even something very beautiful can occasionally be too much to bear."
Rachel nodded. That she could understand. She kissed her grandmother good night, then followed Michael out into the hall. Closing the door behind her, she folded her arms across her chest.
"Not in your room, Michael," she said. "I have to tell you right now, I have no willpower tonight. When you held my hand at the concert, you might as well have been making love to me."
He nearly grinned at her, and she waited, hoping he would invite her in anyway. But he shook his head.
"You're right," he said. He looked up and down the empty corridor. There was a loveseat at one end, facing a broad window. "How about down there?" he asked.
They walked toward the loveseat and sat down. The view from the window was of a moonlit Washington, the dome of the Capitol visible in the distance.
"Pretty view," Rachel said.
"You think Helen's okay?" Michael asked.
"She seemed much better once we got out of the Kennedy Center." Rachel sighed. "I don't know what to make of her lately."
"She scared me in there," Michael said. "I thought we were going to have to take her out on a stretcher."
"Mmm. I know." She craned her neck, trying to pick out the White House from the myriad of buildings stretched out below them. "Do you remember our senior trip to Washington?" she asked.
He laughed, slipping his arm around her shoulders. "How could I forget it."
Their entire senior class had ridden the bus to D.C. and slept dormitory-style at the Y. She remembered little of the sights and a lot of the sneaking around. She and Luke had made love in the Y's furnace room.
"I remember the night you girls got drunk and—"
"I was not drunk."
"Okay. Some of you were, though. And you raided the guys' dorm."
"I remember that." She laughed. "Becky Frank threw up."
"In my bed."
"In your bed? I thought she was sitting on Luke's when it happened."
"No, it was mine…well, wait a second." He made a face. "You know, sometimes I can't separate my experiences from Luke's. I've always teased Becky that it was my bed, but now that you mention it, I'm not so sure."
Rachel thought of Becky and the aerobics class. She'd missed tonight's class by coming to Washington, just as Michael was missing his support group. It had been a relief for her to have a legitimate out.
"I don't think I'm going back to the aerobics class," she said.
"Oh, Rache, are you sure? You were really enjoying it."
"Yeah, when I thought I had a friend there. But the pleasure's outweighed by the discomfort now. "
"That's a shame. We'll have to take some more bike rides. I can use the exercise myself."
She tried to picture the two of them riding their bikes around town again, but the image wouldn't take shape. It was hard to imagine being able to relax with him out in the open.
Michael grew quiet, and she had the feeling that he, too, was
trying to picture the impossible. "Maybe in Gettysburg," he said. "It's a great place to ride, and it's far enough from Reflection to be safe." Then he sighed and squeezed her shoulder. "Can we talk seriously for a minute?" he asked.
"Of course."
"Well, please don't let this scare you, but I've been trying lately to imagine a life with you. And that means a life without Katy or my church, and probably even more limits on my already limited time with Jace."
The thought didn't scare her so much as relieve her. She didn’t want to be alone in that fantasy any longer.
"I know the problems are nearly insurmountable," he continued, "even if I set aside the whole church-and-Katy issue. You and I live two thousand miles apart, to begin with. But I have to look at the possibility. Examine it. I can't live with myself unless I do."
"I'm glad you are," she said. "I think about it, too."
"What do you want, Rachel?" he asked. "I mean, with regard to me. I need to know. Please be very honest."
She drew in a long breath. "It wouldn't be fair for me to tell you," she said.
"For right now, forget about what's fair."
"I want you," she said. "I want to be with you. Take pictures with you and cook with you and go on long bike rides through the countryside with you. And I want to travel with you. See Norway together." She was speaking quietly, slowly. "I can be myself with you," she said. "I love our shared history. I love that you know me well enough to finish my sentences for me. I love the bond we have. I love that incredible feeling that your happiness matters to me as much as my own."
He smiled as she spoke. "'The soul of Jonathan was knit with the soul of David,'" he quoted, "'and Jonathan loved him as his own soul.'"
"Yes," she said, pleased. "That's it. And what I wish is that you and I could be together for the rest of our lives. But as long as I'm wishing, I have to add that I wish it wouldn't cost you anything." She knew it would cost him too much.
"Well." Michael stretched his long legs out in front of him. "What I want is not so different. I want you, of course—I guess that goes without saying at this point. And I want us to be able to do all those things together that you want us to do. But I also want not to hurt my wife, or my son, or my congregation, or my ability to be a minister."