But she’d promised: anything, she’d said last night under the bridge. If she got out of this alive, she’d do anything. Even confess to Gus.
Heart pounding, she answered the call. “Hello?”
“Miriam! August von Rickenbach. I just saw your post.” Gus gave an awkward chuckle. “Glad you’re okay. I have to say, I’ve gotten a bit obsessed with your little trip the last couple of days. My wife is getting irritated with me. Actually … she’s not the only one. I was supposed to have some excerpts ready for recording three days ago, but I … I can’t seem to concentrate.”
He almost sounded proud of it. Like it proved his worth as a human being. But surely even Gus couldn’t be so crass as to appropriate someone else’s grief.
Her silence seemed to get through to him. “I … uh … I know you must think I’m crazy, taking so much interest in your family,” he said. “I can’t account for it. It’s as if I’ve known you forever.”
Well, if she intended to do it, now was the time. Miriam sank into the plush office chair. “Listen, Gus, I need to tell you something.”
“Yeah, I have news too. Guess where I am right now? Denver International Airport!”
Miriam’s revelation died on her tongue. “What?”
“I know, right? I’m performing with the Denver Symphony tomorrow. What are the odds? Can you come? I’d love for you to come.”
“Um …”
“It would be so great to meet you in person. Talk about Blaise. I have some ideas I want to share with you. I can comp a ticket for you, if money is an issue.”
Miriam gritted her teeth. Money was an issue, but having him toss her free tickets like she was some kind of charity case just pissed her off. “It’s really not that kind of trip, Gus.”
“But it can be!”
“I’m traveling with someone else.”
“She can come too.”
Miriam’s near-death vow warred with the tower of resistance rising up in response to his pushiness. Maybe this was a sign—a humongous, flashing neon sign screaming “Tell Gus!” But it didn’t feel that way. It felt more like a car with all its warning lights going off at once.
“Listen,” she said. “We just got the crap beaten out of us by a tornado. I don’t know about Dicey, but I’m really not up for a concert.”
“Then I’ll rent a car and come down to Colorado Springs on Monday,” he said. “I really want to talk to you face to face.”
Miriam was starting to feel caged in. “We won’t be there by Monday. We don’t stay more than a day anywhere, usually.”
“But you could.” A wheedling tone had entered his voice.
Miriam was starting to feel panicky. What if she screamed, “Blaise is your son!” just to shut him up?
Except that wouldn’t end the conversation. That would just make it worse.
“Hey, I’m getting another call,” she lied. “I’ve got to go.”
“But Miriam—”
“Bye,” she said. She punched the red button and slapped the phone down on the desk, then picked it back up and shut it off entirely. She’d fulfilled her obligations to the people who mattered. If past history was any indication, she had at least an hour before Dicey would be ready to leave. It was time to take care of herself.
She needed to get her equilibrium back before she got on the road. Her body itched to feel the burn of exertion at elevation in muscles numbed by fifteen hundred miles of driving.
“Buck?” she called. “Do you mind if I take a walk outside?”
31
Friday, May 6
Colorado Springs, Colorado
DICEY SPENT THE DRIVE to Colorado Springs working on her scrapbook and singing with a playlist off her phone. The resiliency of youth: a hot shower and all was well.
Miriam had never been that emotionally agile, not even at Dicey’s age. The phone call with Gus rankled like an itch she couldn’t scratch. Maybe it was guilt. Every time she passed another highway turnoff, queasiness stabbed her throat again. That road would get her to Denver. And that one too. And that one.
Her phone dinged for the sixth time in an hour. Dicey glanced down at it. “Hey,” she said, “it’s not Gus, for once! It’s your sister.” She held out the phone for Miriam’s thumbprint. “Wow! It’s a prepaid hotel reservation in Colorado Springs.”
Miriam grimaced. It was one thing to have made peace with Jo, but accepting yet more largess from her really smarted. Knowing her sister, it would be the swankiest place Colorado Springs had to offer.
“Miriam,” said Dicey, seeing the look on her face, “don’t be an ass.” She coughed long and hard, reminding Miriam that she needed a place to rest too. Then she took a swig from her water bottle. “Only by pride cometh contention,” she said in a singsong voice as she capped it.
Miriam shot her a glare. “What is that?”
“Proverbs, Church Lady. Someone didn’t have enough Sunday school.”
Miriam tried to scowl but ended up laughing. “All right, fine. Tell her thank you.”
Thunderheads were building over the mountains, disgorging periodic lightning blasts and thunderclaps as the car sped south along the base of the range. After last night, the juxtaposition of storm and sunshine was doubly disconcerting. Especially with the long crack in the windshield bisecting the view, and the flap of plastic covering the back window for a reminder.
By the time they arrived in Colorado Springs midafternoon, Gus had given up texting. Miriam felt inordinately pleased to discover that she could not only resist him but outlast him.
It was also gratifying to discover that the room Jo had booked was, after all, in a modest hotel a few blocks from the repair shop. She couldn’t possibly have known about the crazy-painted upright piano sitting on the sidewalk outside. Miriam took it as a sign of divine approval.
“I’m going to run the car to the shop and then go work on that piano outside.” She frowned at Dicey, who’d mummified herself in pillows. The younger woman looked drawn and pale. “Are you okay?”
“I’m okay. But I need to stay close to a bathroom.”
Maybe not so resilient after all. Miriam wanted to feel her forehead for fever, but she suspected Dicey wouldn’t take kindly to that.
Dicey’s blue bracelet flashed as she extended the remote to flip a channel. For the first time, Miriam saw the symbol on the metal. “Is that a medical bracelet?”
Dicey folded her arms, hiding the ornament. “Yes.”
“What’s it for?”
“Drop it, Miriam.”
“Dicey—”
“I said drop it.” Dicey’s mouth took on a stubborn set. “Don’t look at me like that. You are not my mom, and this is not your problem! Butt. Out.” Her passion sparked a coughing fit, but when Miriam moved forward, Dicey put up the heel of her hand to block her.
Miriam’s anxiety ratcheted upward. She wanted to tell Dicey what a bad idea secrets were. But she knew it wouldn’t make any difference.
Maybe she could unravel the mystery herself. She knew all Dicey’s symptoms. Could a Google search illuminate a path forward?
Dicey finished coughing. “Just chill,” she said, her voice husky. “I’m just worn out. I’m taking care of myself while I have the chance. That’s all. I don’t need help.”
“Says the woman who told me, ‘Crap is easier to handle with help.’”
“Piss off.” Dicey turned up the TV volume.
“Fine.” Miriam put her hands up. “I’m outta here.”
“Fine.”
She made it to the door before the TV went silent. “Miriam?”
Miriam turned back.
Dicey’s voice was small, an echo of its usual bluster. She looked so fragile. “Do you ever regret it?”
Miriam glanced over. “Regret?”
“Keeping the kids. Getting married. Giving up your schooling.”
Miriam opened her mouth, then closed it. The right answer was no, but it wasn’t true, and Dicey would see through it in half a s
econd.
Dicey picked at a string hanging off one of the pillows. “It’s just that … my life would be so much easier. In so many ways. If I could’ve just taken that check, gone down to a clinic, and … but I couldn’t do it.” She swallowed. “You’ve been where I am. I guess I just want to know if it’s worth it. Everything I’m giving up.”
Miriam returned to the bed and sat down. “It’s worth it,” she said. “Motherhood is a terrifying responsibility. And an amazing gift. Yes, I did regret it at times, when it was hard. Sometimes I felt like if I got pulled another millimeter, I’d snap in half. Sometimes I wanted to run away. But I always knew if I’d chosen differently, I would have spent my whole life looking over my shoulder, feeling like something was missing. And now, I just regret wasting time regretting. But I guess that’s part of it too.”
“It takes a lot. Motherhood.”
“It takes everything. I was lucky. I had a good man who loved me. He gave up at least as much as I did, and they weren’t even his kids. I’d wish that for you if I were a fairy godmother.”
The corner of Dicey’s mouth turned upward. “I don’t need anybody,” she said. “As long as I have breath in my body, I’m going to live and breathe for this baby.”
Miriam smiled. Dicey would learn about balance soon enough. “I’ll let you rest now. Give me a call if …”
“If I go into labor?”
“Definitely if you go into labor.” She brushed Dicey’s hair back, letting the impression of the wiry, coarse texture imprint on her memory. “I may be gone a while.”
“I’ll be okay.”
Miriam stood, and Dicey clasped her hand. “Thanks,” she said.
* * *
Miriam took the car to the shop and walked back to the hotel, texting an update to her family on the way. She messaged Becky separately: There’s a piano outside the hotel—can you believe it? Going to try to work on the sonata. Send good vibes. She attached a picture of the garishly painted piano on the sidewalk.
Becky texted back: I’ll do you one better.
Miriam frowned. What did that mean?
She sat down at the piano and got to work, but people kept walking by. She wanted to move from the theme she’d wrestled out of the piano back in Omaha into a development of all the sonata’s themes. It was a sound idea; she could hear how they related to each other, but she couldn’t quite catch hold of the string that would tie them together. Having people walk by, pretending not to watch, just added distraction to pressure. The mental clutter buried the tiny voice of grief that desperately wanted to express itself through the music.
A paper cup plunked down on top of the piano, a red straw sticking out of its lid.
“I hear you need a place to write some music.”
Miriam looked up. The man was tall and fortyish, with a hint of gray at his temples. “Uh … hi?” she said.
“That’s for you,” he said, gesturing at the cup.
Miriam eyed the cup with suspicion. “What is it?”
“Chocolate shake.”
She eyed it, her mouth watering, but shook her head. She could hear Jo, walking down the street with her when she was in kindergarten, murmuring, Never accept anything from a stranger. “Um, thanks, but …”
“Oh, come on. It’s only a little spiked. How can you experience Colorado without a little hash in your shake?” Then, seeing her eyes widen, he laughed. “All right, I’ll quit teasing. My name’s Hadley Merrick. John’s my big brother.”
Out of context, it took a minute for the name to register. John Merrick, who’d figured out how to load Talia’s app to Miriam’s phone. “John … from my choir in Atlanta?”
“Uh-huh. I’m not really sure of the backstory—I got it secondhand—but I gather that someone called Becky remembered that John had a black sheep brother in Colorado Springs. John called me a few minutes ago. I was told to get my butt down here and look after you while you’re in town.”
Miriam laughed. “Leave it to Becky.”
“Yeah, she sounds like a person I’m not entirely sure I want to know any better.”
“Oh, she’s the salt of the earth.”
“I’ll bet.” Hadley had a quirky sort of Harrison Ford-Danny Kaye vibe going on. She could already feel her insides warming to his smile. He must be quite the lady-killer. And so easygoing. A far cry from his brother, who would move heaven and earth to help a person in need, but was wound as tight as a garage door spring. Holidays in that family must be something else.
Hadley picked up the cup and held it out. “Nothing but ice cream, I promise.”
Miriam smiled and took it, savoring the sweetness.
“Listen,” he said. “I own a dance hall down the street. It’s called the Gathering Haus. I have a piano. Seems to me like you could use a quieter place to work, considering what you’re trying to do.”
Miriam was getting tired of being handled, even by people she loved. She thought of Dicey, pushing back against Miriam’s concern, and felt more sympathetic than she had a while ago.
“I’ve got a couple staff members around too, if that makes you feel better,” Hadley added, misinterpreting her silence. “They’re prepping the bar for tonight.”
Miriam gathered her notebook. “Let me text my friend and tell her where I’m going. What’s the address?”
He gave it to her, and she punched it in as they started walking down the street.
The Gathering Haus had a baby grand with an easy touch. A handful of employees chatted and laughed as they set up tables and chairs. They paid no attention to her, so they were not a distraction.
Yet still, the music pushed back against her. The voice of grief was like a stubborn child; denied expression on its own timeline, it refused to cooperate at all.
Miriam blacked out yet another forced transition and laid her head on her forearms, themselves crossed on the music stand. Her melody didn’t want to be classical. It wanted to be sung, full-throated, by a group of people gathered for worship.
She sat up and punched the “Record” button on her voice memo, then started playing the music the way she’d first heard it in her head. Instantly, the melody relaxed, found a fresh chord progression, and took off. She hummed along, hoping to catch words she couldn’t quite hear. She paused to write: a few notes, then a few more. The harmony, freed from ostentation, washed away awareness of all else—the clanking and screeching of metal table legs against the floor, glasses banging on trays, voices calling to each other. She wrote and played, erased and wrote again: a clever rhythmic pattern in the bass, a descant, spicing up trite harmonic progressions with adventuresome accidentals. She experimented with a few words from Psalm 46, Teo’s favorite Scripture passage. Be still and know, indeed. Yes, that felt right. It felt right.
“Miriam!”
The voice had an insistent edge that spoke of several repetitions. It also sounded totally out of context because it wasn’t Hadley. She emerged, bleary-eyed, from the music, blinking a few times to get her eyes to stop playing tricks on her, because she couldn’t possibly be looking at Gus von Rickenbach.
But no matter how many times she blinked, the image didn’t change. Gus von Rickenbach was standing on the dance floor of the Gathering Haus. In the flesh.
Miriam gaped at him. “What are you doing here?”
“I told you I wanted to talk face to face,” he said, grinning at her befuddlement. “I realized if you wouldn’t come to me, I’d have to come to you.”
Of course he’d come. Of course he thought gratifying his own whim more important than respecting her wishes. She should have been prepared for this.
Gus shook his head. “It’s totally bizarre, how familiar you look to me. Are you sure we’ve never met?”
All these years preoccupied with him, and the best he could do was you look familiar? Well, Miriam wasn’t going to spoon-feed it to him. She stared him down, waiting for the dots to connect, for the tumblers to click into place. Surely it was inevitable now. “How did you f
ind me?”
“Well, I knew you were headed for Colorado Springs, so I took a risk that you’d share your location at some point. You didn’t, but”—he twirled a finger above his head—“the owner here did. He tagged you on Facebook.” Gus hopped up onto the stage, his eyes fixed on the music on the stand. “Is that it? The sonata?”
She swiveled back toward the keyboard. Shuffled the papers into a stack. He didn’t recognize her, she thought, numb. She really had been that insignificant on his playboy radar. “No,” she said, her throat tight. “It’s something else.”
She rested her hands on the piano, trying to think. She stood at a crossroads now. Either she took his presence as a sign and opened the subject herself, or she needed to get out of this conversation—fast. The longer he looked her in the eye, the sooner he’d figure it out.
She stood up, hugging the folder against her chest, and braced herself to face him. “What’s so important that you had to stalk me all the way to Colorado Springs?”
Gus mimed being stabbed in the heart. “Ouch. I guess I deserve that.” When she simply stared, arms crossed over the folder, he spread his hands and dropped the act. “Listen, I only have an hour or so. I have to be back in Denver by eight for rehearsal. Can we … can I buy you a cup of coffee?”
She stared back without answering.
He blew out a breath. “Okay, straight to business, then. I need to confess. I haven’t been completely honest with you.”
Of all the things he might have said, that was the last one she expected. She broke her silence to ask, “About what?”
“Um …” He cleared his throat. “Blaise and I talked a lot more than I led you to believe.”
Miriam went still.
“When he first contacted me, I thought it was just an inquiry about the school. Pretty routine. But he knew me. My work. That was before Terminus, you know. In fact, I was still writing the score at that point. But he knew other films I’d written music for. And he talked about them intelligently. I was intrigued.” He couldn’t meet her eyes. His hand crept toward the piano as if on autopilot, but he pulled it back. “So I responded. It turned into a regular thing. He’d text me questions about interpretation. Or advice on where to apply for college and what repertoire to use.”
A Song for the Road Page 21
