Hearts in Harmony

by Gemma Brocato

  Pippa shrugged and pushed her cup away again. She gathered up her belongings. “No matter. I just wondered. I have a new patient at Elder Pointe today. Don’t want to keep her waiting.”

  Jem set her cup down and stood. “Pip, are you coming this afternoon for a lesson?”

  Pippa had started taking cooking lessons from Jem six months earlier. Due to injuries Jem had sustained when she had been kidnapped, the lessons had stopped for a few months. Pippa, Jem, and sometimes Pip’s two six-year-olds had been meeting regularly since Jem had recovered. Pippa’s mother, Eileen, had tried for years to teach her, and was delighted to turn what she’d deemed an exercise in futility over to Jem.

  “I’ll be here. The twins won’t. They have a school field trip. I’ll try to get here early enough for the afternoon clean-up.”

  “The help is always appreciated.”

  Sam drained his coffee cup, handed the empty to Jem and stood. “I’ll walk out with you. I have to get going too.”

  * * * *

  Pippa swung into the lot and parked her Jeep in one of the slots reserved for staff. The brick façade of Elder Pointe, the assisted living facility where she worked as a music therapist, glowed pinkish red in the morning sunlight. The gorgeous old building was inviting. Homey. The owners had done a wonderful job converting an abandoned and crumbling woolen mill into a stately, turn-of-the-century masterpiece.

  She pushed open the Jeep’s door, grabbed her music portfolio and guitar case from the backseat and strolled toward the building. The autumn sky had turned clear and crisp after yesterday’s rain. A brisk breeze blew across the campus, energizing her. She crossed the staff parking area and walked through the wrought-iron gates leading to the main entrance.

  Smiling at the receptionist, Sarah, she flashed her electronic keycard against the reader panel. The lock buzzed, granting her entry.

  Creaky voices, singing an old Sixties show tune, assailed her when she pulled the door open. The smell of the bacon mingled with the scent of the cinnamon rolls from breakfast, underscored by a slightly medicinal smell. She drew a deep breath, filled with the life of the residents, and exhaled a soft sigh. She felt at home here.

  In the gathering room, a chorus of voices and laughter greeted her. “Good morning, Pip.”

  “Morning.” Pip waved and grinned at the assembly. “Stanley, someone hit a clinker. Was it you?”

  The man in a wheelchair next to the piano slowly raised his hand and waggled it dismissively at her. “I used to sing tenor in the church choir. I’m still trying to hit those high notes.” Everyone laughed around him. They knew, as Pippa did, that he could try as hard as he wanted; it wasn’t going to happen.

  Many of the Pointe’s residents needed assistance with daily living. Some were recovering from strokes and age-related illnesses, while others were just plain tired of life. They were easier to work with than the kids at the juvenile detention facility. The time Pippa spent with those kids was important to their rehabilitation, but her elderly clients appreciated her more and were less trying to work with. A huge bonus as far as she was concerned.

  Pip looked at the woman seated on the piano bench. “Maybe Irma could take it down a third, then it wouldn’t be such a stretch for you, or the others.”

  Irma repositioned her fingers and started the song over in a lower key, nodding her head, encouraging the happy-faced seniors surrounding the piano to sing along. Pip paused to watch the woman’s fingers fly over the keys, coaxing the rollicking tune from the piano. Irma lived at The Pointe for the company, not because of any infirmity. A former grade-school music teacher, Irma’s patience made her the perfect accompanist when needed for Pip’s therapy sessions with other residents.

  An orderly pushing an empty wheelchair paused in front of Pippa. “Hey, Pip. Mrs. Tombaugh is waiting for you in the therapy room.”

  “Thanks, Billy.”

  “She’s a nice lady. Young for her age, ya know.”

  She dug in her portfolio and pulled out the case file she’d started on her new client. “I haven’t met her yet. Today’s the initial assessment.”

  “Well, you’ll like her. She is determined to get better. But her son, well he’s sort of… I don’t know, commanding.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Billy shifted his grip on the chair, shrugging his shoulders. “Just that he seems to be a ‘my way or the highway’ kind of guy. Kind of a bully. The room we put his mom in when she got here wasn’t good enough for him. Insisted we change her living arrangements immediately and wouldn’t take no for an answer. He badgered the resident manager for a week, before he went over her head to the facility owner. Ya gotta know that made Hilary unhappy.”

  Pippa laughed. “I just bet it did. Did they end up moving Mrs. Tombaugh to another room?”

  “Yep. Now she’s in 218. The second floor has a view of the bay. I guess Mrs. Tombaugh loves the water. The son wanted her to have something familiar, but he’s wearing out his welcome with the staff by demanding special attention for his mom. And she’s only been here two weeks.”

  “Well, it sounds like he has his mother’s best interests at heart. You can’t fault him for that.”

  “Try telling that to Hilary.” Billy shrugged again. “She hightails it into her office and locks the door whenever he comes to visit.”

  She laughed. “I’d like to see that.”

  “I’m surprised he isn’t here yet. He told Sarah he wasn’t in favor of any music therapy woo-woo. But, Mrs. T. is turning into one of the staff favorites. Like I said, she’s okay.”

  After all these years as a board-certified music therapist, Pip continued to be amazed that people thought what she did was new age mumbo-jumbo. Voodoo medicine. Chalk it up to some people not liking what they couldn’t understand.

  “Thanks for the heads-up about the son. I’ll watch out for him.”

  Billy turned the chair in the opposite direction. “You do that.”

  She hiked her portfolio higher on her shoulder and walked toward the music therapy room to greet her new client.

  Mrs. Tombaugh’s stroke had occurred after she’d suffered a broken leg in a water-skiing accident. Bone marrow debris traveled far enough to attack her brain. She still wore the cast, which might cause some issues with therapy and gait training. But they’d cross that bridge when necessary.

  She paused in the doorway and observed Mrs. Tombaugh. Her wheelchair was parked near a large window with a view of the rocky gray boulders lining Granite Bay. A wistful look painted the older woman’s face and Pip saw tears glinting, even from across the room. Familiar anger and impatience arced through her over the idea that any person had to deal with the frustrating and debilitating aftereffects of a stroke. She knew from the medical records that her new client wasn’t seventy yet. The age gods had been kind to her. If Pip had seen her on the street, she’d have guessed closer to late fifties.

  She tamped down her emotions and pushed away from the doorframe, moving toward her client. “Good morning, Mrs. Tombaugh. I’m Phillipa Sanders, your music therapist.”

  “M-morning.” Mrs. Tombaugh turned a slightly crooked smile toward her, all traces of sadness or distress banished by a bright eagerness in the sharp green eyes.

  Setting her portfolio on the table next to the wheelchair, she propped the guitar case under the window facing the sea. She gestured toward the glass. “It’s a great view, isn’t it? When the windows are open, the music in the waves makes a great accompaniment. I hope you won’t find that too distracting.”

  “L-l-love the sea.” Mrs. Tombaugh worked to get the words out. Her speech wasn’t as impaired as some stroke victims, but Pip’s heart ached a little over the obvious struggle.

  “Me too,” she said, pulling a chair up next to the older woman. “I’d like to spend a little time getting acquainted, if that’s okay with you. First things first, though. My brothers tell me that Phillipa is a big name for a tiny woman, so they call me Pippa, or Pip.”

  �
��Pip!” Mrs. Tombaugh bounced in her chair, smiling and nodding. She thumped a fist to her own chest and grimaced. “C-c-cele-stine.”

  “That’s a pretty name.”

  Mrs. Tombaugh rapped her clenched fist on the table and grunted. “Hard, too. C-c-call me S-seeley. Easier.”

  “Seeley. You’re right. That is much easier.” She smiled at her client. “Are you settled in okay here?”

  Seeley smiled, the muscles on the left side of her face not working as well as those on the right. “Pretty.”

  “It is, isn’t it? My brother Jack was one of the contractors on the rehab project. He loves old buildings. I know he wanted to leave as much of the history intact as he could. He did okay here.”

  “B-better than.” Seeley chewed out the words.

  “I’ll tell him you said so. I’ve heard you’re in the paymaster’s old office on the second floor. It’s got a lovely view.”

  A nod accompanied the lopsided smile this time.

  “Shall we get started? I have a copy of your medical records and I wanted to explain a little about how music therapy works. Does that sound like a plan?”

  “A p-plan, yes.”

  “I like to share a bit of my history with clients. Seems only fair, since I know so much about you. I’ve been a Music Therapist for ten years. It was an easy career choice. I’ve been interested in the science of it since high school when I first of learned the recuperative value of music. For example, do you know Bob Marley’s Three Little Birds?” Pippa sang a few notes, gratified by Seeley’s grin. “Songs like that speed the process of relearning gross motor skills, like walking after a stroke, with rhythm and beat. And using a client’s favorite songs often helps combat the symptoms of dementia and Alzheimer’s.”

  For the next thirty minutes, Pippa explained what Seeley could expect during their therapy sessions and discussed Seeley’s musical preferences. Seeley flipped the pages of a catalog of music genres and groups they would incorporate into their program. Pip laughed in delight when her new client passed by the golden oldies and pointed to several songs from Bon Jovi, The Black Eyed Peas, and even some Kenny Chesney. Certainly not what she expected out of a client at this age, but a welcome diversion.

  “Our regular sessions will incorporate speech and physical therapies to help you regain most, if not all, of the skills you lost because of the stroke. Your speech might be affected now, but most likely you’d still be able to sing nursery songs, like Mary Had A Little Lamb. Do you want to try?”

  Seeley’s mouth worked, but the sounds she emitted were garbled. She blew out a frustrated breath and tried again. This time she sang the words and tune perfectly, in a reedy soprano.

  The lopsided smile on Seeley’s face and sparkle in her eyes proved to Pippa that this was right therapy. That smile made all the struggles they would go through worthwhile.

  “The brain is an amazing thing, isn’t it?” Pippa asked.

  When Billy arrived to take Seeley back to her room to rest before lunch, Pippa felt she had a good handle on which direction to take the therapy. Seeley, crooked smile and all, seemed eager to get started on the path to recovery.

  By the time Pippa finished with her clients for the morning, the temperature had risen, the sun warming the brisk breeze off the bay. She meandered her way back to the staff lot, enjoying the fine weather that had shown up this morning.

  Backing her Jeep out of the parking spot, she had to step down hard on the brakes when a motorcycle roared behind her. The beads hanging over the rearview mirror clacked together as she scowled and jerked her head around to watch the biker screech to a halt in the visitor parking lot. The driver had a helmet on, so she didn’t get a clear view of much but a broad back encased in a denim jacket, and jeans hugging muscular thighs. For a instant, the rider reminded her of the man who had rescued and intrigued her yesterday. She idly wondered which resident the man on the back of the powerful motorcycle was visiting.

  She breathed deeply to ease her racing heart, and indulged in the privacy afforded by being alone in the car to call him a bad word. Something she’d never do with her kids present. Shaking her head, she reversed out of her parking space and drove out to the rest of her day.

  4

  Pippa’s mom, Eileen, was waiting on the front porch with Mason and Mia when Pip pulled into the driveway. Mia clattered down the steps and hopped out to the car. Pip’s enthusiastic daughter grasped a miniature tree in one hand and a trowel in the other, a bright smile lighting her expressive face.

  Hands shoved in his pockets, Mason stood next to his grandmother, a frown marring his features. Pippa shot a what the heck look toward her mother and got a shrug in return.

  “Hey, Mia.” She bent and greeted her daughter with a hug, earning a sloppy kiss and a light smack on the back with the trowel as Mia threw her arms around her. “What have you got there?”

  “We got Christmas trees on the field trip today. We had a picnic and a tour of the farm. They have cats everywhere, but we didn’t see any mice. Some of the trees were big, but there were a lot of little ones too. They have a store where you can buy ordaments. Can we plant it now?”

  “Ornaments,” Pip corrected. She stooped down in front of her daughter, taking hold of the hand waving the seedling. “Well, look at that. How tall will it grow? We need to know before we decide where to put it.”

  Mia’s free arm stretched high over her head. “This tall and maybe higher.”

  “We’ll need to plant it in the back yard then. Did Mason bring one home too?” Pippa glanced toward her sullen child, who sucked his quivering lower lip between his small teeth. “What’s up, Mason?”

  He shuffled down the steps toward her, hanging his head the whole way. “I left my book bag and tree at the farm on accident. I thought it was on the bus, but when I got back to school, I couldn’t find it. Grandma called and the tree man said they had it.”

  “I’m relieved they found it. I’ll run out and get it tomorrow.”

  “No! I have homework and the tree man said to water the tree tonight. I don’t want it to die.”

  “Mason, I’m sure it will be okay for one night.”

  “Mom, please can we get it tonight?” Mason’s little voice quaked.

  The porch swing creaked as her mom stood. “I can take the kids to see Grandpa and feed them while you run out to the farm. Their science project is due tomorrow and the instructions and kit are in Mason’s bag. Mia put her kit in Mason’s bag too.”

  “Why wasn’t she carrying her own?”

  “She needed room for Peabody.”

  Pippa heaved a sigh. Mia had smuggled her stuffed cat to school, yet again. “Mia, we’ve talked about taking a toy to school. What if your book bag was the one that got left at the farm? Where is the best place for Peabody?”

  “On my bed. But he needed some country air today.”

  She stood up and brushed at her knees, laughter trying to sneak out. “I’m sure he does, but I think he’s happiest on your pillow.

  “Yes, ma’am. Are you going to get Mason’s book bag? We have to work on science tonight.”

  “Yes.” Pippa consulted her watch, then glanced her mom, who stood with an arm around Mason’s shoulder. “I’ll be close to an hour. Is that okay?”

  Mom herded the kids toward her car. “Sure. Dad’s fixing white chili for dinner. We’ll keep a bowl warm for you. While you eat, the kids can get started on their homework. They’re holding the bag at the gift shop.”

  “Thanks, Mom. You’re a lifesaver. Mia, leave the tree and Peabody with me, but take your book bag. I’ll see you guys in a bit.”

  “Don’t forget my tree, Mom. Be sure you get that too,” Mason said.

  Pip saluted. “Aye, aye, Major Mason.”

  She jumped back in the Jeep and twisted the key in the ignition. It seemed that she’d spent most of her day behind the wheel, hustling from place to place. There were days she wished for a job that involved nothing more than sitting in one office, at one
desk, doing one thing all day long. Well, not really. But she’d arrived home ready to relax and put her feet up only to postpone her plans again. It was a good thing her children were her life. Otherwise, she might be ticked off by this recent turn of events.

  * * * *

  The day had faded behind the trees as Pippa turned her SUV into the lane her mom had directed her to. She’d almost missed the unmarked turn because of the overgrowth of trees. Slanting sunlight obscured her view, even with polarized sunglasses. She wasn’t at all sure how the bus driver had found it this afternoon.

  Mmm, maybe he’d followed his nose. The tantalizing smell of pine teased her senses as she bounced slowly down the rutted road, evoking memories of holidays gone by. The year her parents gave her a bike, the family dinner she and Mark almost missed because of a flat tire…the twins’ first Christmas. She breathed deeply, sucking the magically tangy scent into her lungs and savoring it.

  She inched her way around a curve in the bumpy, rutted road, until the trees thinned and she caught sight of the grounds and farmhouse. Her breath exploded in a delighted gasp.

  The scene through her windshield looked like a painting. A grove of giant maple trees framed the brick farmhouse. Leaves, bursting with color, shaded a wrap-around front porch, with hanging baskets of neglected-looking ferns scattered about.

  Small cathedral style windows, three across, were open, allowing in cool, fresh air. Each window grouping was framed in white and crowned with a large keystone. Wispy curtains fluttered in the breeze. Matching white cornerstones marched up the sides of the building from foundation to roofline.

  Pippa steered down the drive to a large red barn across the yard with a sign declaring Gift Shoppe above the brightly painted green doors. A mountain of a man walked through a small opening set into the larger sliding panel, carrying a shovel with a burlap bag slung over his shoulder. She nosed her car toward the grassy parking lot in front of the building.