by Margaret Way
“Ah, a success!” Bruno murmured to Isabelle in a quiet, triumphant aside.
“Let’s hope I top you,” she punned. Her main gift was, in fact, a colourful spinning top.
To her great relief, the brightly painted and decorated present was almost as well received as the robot. Bruno had introduced her as Belle. Isabelle used that nickname as she’d handed her present to the child. “Hello, Josh. I’m Belle.”
“Belle,” Josh repeated, meeting her glance briefly before he looked away.
The star turn of the day came later. Bruno and Isabelle were sitting on the floor with Josh when his parents rejoined them. Both had made constant little peeps into the living room, thrilled their son had accepted their young guest. Josh, in fact, was leaning against Bruno, then Isabelle in turn, as if they were a pair of comfortable bookends.
“Play something.” Bruno caught Isabelle’s eye.
“Is that the favour?”
“Something bright to take Josh’s attention.”
“You take advantage of your seniority, Bruno McKendrick.”
“Thank goodness we’ve got that sorted,” he said, looking down his perfectly aquiline nose at her.
Isabelle glanced over at Cassie, pointing to the baby grand in the corner, silently seeking her hostess’s approval for her to play it.
Cassie understood perfectly. She nodded. Music was a powerful therapeutic tool. She knew it worked for Josh. She was in the habit of playing to her little son as often as she could because he was so receptive. She watched Isabelle go to the piano, lift the lid—which she seldom did, though a highly trained pianist would—then sit down on the long upholstered bench. Cassie wondered what Isabelle would choose and whether Josh would like it. She clutched her husband’s hand, experiencing a rush of adrenaline.
Isabelle launched into Mozart’s Rondo alla Turka.
Perfect.
Just perfect!
Immediately, as Bella’s fingers came down on the sparkling opening, Josh’s blond head shot up. Bruno moved quickly to help the child to his feet, watching with great satisfaction as Josh moved across to the piano, standing close to Bella’s moving left elbow. The piece required considerable manual dexterity. Anyone would know that, but Bella didn’t show any signs of being cramped. No change of expression on Josh’s face, but to those present who loved him, it was apparent his interest had been captured. Moreover, it was being held.
When Isabelle finished the piece, she didn’t stand up as Bruno expected. She started to play a snatch of some melody Bruno knew. Grieg’s “Morning.” She played the opening bars over and over, miraculously enticing Josh onto the piano bench. Bruno stood back, not crowding the piano, watching what was to unfold.
Bella spread the long, beautiful fingers of her right hand over the keys and then brought them down. She played two bars of the lovely, atmospheric melody and then she moved off the bench, standing up beside the piano. Josh, to the watching adults’ astonishment, took her place on the piano bench, as if this was a regular piano lesson. Isabelle the teacher, he the dutiful pupil.
Cassie clasped her hands tightly against her chest. What was Josh going to do? she thought in a sudden panic. Would he begin thumping the keys wildly? Would he work himself into a rage of frustration? Would the wonderful atmosphere of Sunday peace disintegrate? Cassie half-expected he would, but she had seen enough of their young guest not to have to worry about Isabelle’s reaction. Isabelle would handle the situation. She was a highly trained musician. She was also a born communicator, in Cassie’s view.
Her fears did not eventuate. There was no explosive reaction. Josh began to play. Play like a very young, aspiring pianist. Marvel of marvels, he reproduced the musical fragment with absolute accuracy.
Dear God!
He might be a savant! Cassie, overcome, ran back into the kitchen, swallowing down a gush of highly emotional tears. Josh’s father, equally stunned, followed her. Bruno continued to stand nearby, transfixed, while Bella sat down again, demonstrating several more bars of the music. She was playing the melody an octave higher, as Josh was centred middle C, but he had no difficulty repeating the motif from where he sat.
The exercise went on for another ten minutes. For Josh, it was manifestly clear this was serious business. His verbal communication skills would take time, but his musical skills appeared unique, especially in such a young child. Towards the end of what had become an important lesson, Isabelle demonstrated for her highly attentive pupil a three-note chord to play with his left hand, thus engaging both hands. Josh had no difficulty there either.
The implications of this were enormous, Bruno thought. Here was a child apparently very capable of musical achievement. He was thrilled for Cass and Ian.
Josh continued to play, unaware and uncaring of who else was in the room. He was locked into his own performance. He was even adding tonal colour.
Isabelle moved over to where Bruno stood, full of a born musician’s satisfaction and hope for the child. Her heart lost a full beat as, with a strong, muscular arm, Bruno pulled her into his side, giving her a spontaneous hug. “Bella, you’re a miracle worker!” He went further. Inclining his raven head, he landed a kiss on her temple.
Immediately, her temple throbbed. Isabelle couldn’t for the life of her suppress a huge rush of excitement. The scent of him was on her skin and her clothes. She’d had countless hugs from male friends. Nothing remotely like this. She couldn’t look at him when he was only a breath away. To look at him was to feel what she shouldn’t. She knew what a magnet Bruno was to women. She was conscious of the pulse beating away at the base of her throat. To save herself, she closed her eyes. As soon as he let her go, she prayed her heartbeat would slow.
A moment later, she was able to speak normally. “Josh is gifted,” she said.
“My God, so are you!” Bruno’s passionate dark eyes moved down over her. “That was fantastic!”
“Such responsiveness is,” she agreed. “You can write me a cheque for a million dollars.”
“It’s yours,” he said.
He sounded so utterly serious she produced a sweet, shaky laugh. “Don’t be silly, Bruno. I’m joking.”
“What has been accomplished is worth all of it.” Bruno found himself staring into her beautiful green eyes. He was feeling a little dazed. Come to that, the entire afternoon had had the sense of a dream.
“You honour me,” Isabelle said. “But dinner at your place will do. I really love Italian cooking. It’s so . . .”
“Squisito! Italian food is the best ethnic food in the world. I would have you know, Bella, my cooking would pass muster in Rome or Milan.”
“Skite!”
“Bella, you have a lot to learn about me.”
“We have a lot to learn about me. Have either of us asked if it could be dangerous?”
Bruno shook his head, trying to find an adequate answer. “You won’t be on your own. I’ll be right there beside you. You realize we have to take a trip to the Hartmann stronghold?”
“Have we got to?” she asked with a curious little shiver.
“Yes” was Bruno’s quiet reply.
“They might refuse to see us.”
“The older members of the family and the extended family will remember my father. Remember his name. I’ll get in touch with them. A photograph of you should secure a meeting.”
“They may not want to revisit the past,” Isabelle warned. “It could be too painful.”
“Or too problematic. Nevertheless, I’ll get in touch.”
“God knows what the response will be,” said Isabelle.
* * *
Cassie, still tearful, came back into the living room, Ian’s arm around her. “What can we say, Isabelle?” she asked, a poignant expression on her face. “My baby!”
“Josh is gifted, Cassie,” Isabelle said with gentle certainty. “We were all witness to that. I took a chance. I tried an experiment. It might not have come off, but it did. Autistic children have little or no
impairment when it comes to music, I believe. Josh had no difficulty processing the notes I was playing, along with my fingering, the correct fingering. I suggest you have him taught. He engaged with me. He will engage with someone else, providing they have a calm presence. The right teacher can be found. I can help there. I don’t know if you’ve tried singing to Josh, but I had a friend—a fellow student—who stuttered painfully but sang fluently when we were at choir. I suggested he take singing lessons. They really helped. In time, his singing lessons rid him of the stutter.”
Ian Taylor said in his quiet, cultured voice, “We can’t thank you enough, Isabelle.” He turned his head in their great friend’s direction. “We can’t thank you, Bruno, enough for bringing Isabelle to us.”
Bruno sketched one of his elegant, expressive gestures. “I can say for all of us, we’re thrilled with what has happened this afternoon. I’m certain none of us will forget it. There are little miracles and there are wondrous miracles. I would say it’s the latter in Josh’s case. Now, what about opening those chocolates, Cass?” he said with a brisk change of tone. “I’ll make the coffee.”
“He’ll want me to help,” Isabelle explained as she quickly moved off after Bruno.
Cassie and Ian, starstruck by their son’s gift, sat down and listened to bar after bar of Grieg’s “Morning.”
There are indeed miracles, Cassie thought. Their son had to be given every opportunity to live the fullest life possible. There had to be a reason Isabelle had come into their lives. It had a feeling of rightness, of fate about it. Yet all wasn’t right with Isabelle’s world. Who was she? She had a highly memorable face. An experienced journalist, Cassie had no difficulty putting two and two together. She would look further into what was virtually a cold case. What had happened to Helena Hartmann? Past and present family had to be checked out. Helena Hartmann would have had friends.
She also would have had enemies, Cassie thought. Perhaps close to home?
Helena Hartmann’s story demanded an answer.
* * *
The last thought Isabelle had in her head Monday morning was that the man she called Father would make a return visit. She had a rehearsal with the quartet in thirty minutes, yet here he was on her doorstep. Was she going to be subjected to more abuse? No, not from him. Norville wasn’t an abusive man.
She opened her door, inviting him into the flat. Her heart smote her. He didn’t look like a man ready to demand apologies. He looked deeply distressed, a broken man, if one looked closely.
Isabelle led him by the arm to an armchair. “Father, you don’t look well.” She had decided she was going to call him Father until it was proven otherwise. “You must tell me what’s the matter. I know Hilary was furious. She would still have been furious when she reported to you. My intuition tells me I haven’t had the whole story. Perhaps the true story.”
Norville Martin slumped over, one hand massaging the back of his knotted neck. “Can I get you something?” Isabelle studied him with pity in her heart.
“No, nothing, thank you, my dear.” He straightened. “Hilary doesn’t know I’m here. I fly back this afternoon. I have no intention of telling her I’ve seen you. Not until I have time to think. The very last thing I want is to create a scandal. Please sit down, there’s a good girl. We must talk.”
“I have to make a phone call first, Father,” Isabelle said, half-turning away. “I’m supposed to be at a rehearsal in thirty minutes. I’ll cancel.”
“I’m sorry about that, my dear, but this is important.” Norville went back to massaging his neck.
She couldn’t get James on his mobile, so she left a message. He would be far from pleased. She could even lose her spot. A number of fine cellists would be delighted to take her place.
Norville didn’t even ask if her apology was accepted. He was too preoccupied with his own troubling thoughts. Isabelle sat opposite him, waiting.
“You know how much I love your mother.” He gave her an imploring look. “There has never been another woman for me. Not from the moment I met her. I considered myself the most fortunate man in the world when she chose me. She could have had anyone. She was so clever. So many people envied her. She left her male admirers in the dust. I have to say she was a little cruel in that regard.”
I bet she was! “So you won her hand and married her,” Isabelle said, wondering how and why that happened. Hilary was self-obsessed. Norville was a man obsessed. She had never seen her parents as two people who loved each other. The big distinction: only one did the loving. The full weight of that had fallen on Norville. “Please get to the point, Father,” she urged. “The time has passed for deception.”
Norville Martin threw back his head, the muscles of his face working as if in physical pain. “I’m not your father, Isabelle,” he said starkly. “I have no idea who your father is.”
Isabelle now found she wasn’t immune to rage. “You’re not my father and you’ve kept silent all these years?” she cried. “How could you!”
“I beg you to forgive me,” Norville said. “The whole business is monstrous, a nightmare. I know all about your mother’s affairs. She’s a woman of strong passions. I could never satisfy them, but I loved her so much I was prepared to turn a blind eye. She has never asked for a divorce. She made it plain we were going to stay together. I suited her, you see.”
The explanation left Isabelle utterly cold. “She knew she could rely on you not to intrude into her extramarital affairs. There’s a world of sorrow and shame in that.”
“There is. There is.” Norville was back to hanging his silver-grey head. “When you showed me those photographs, it was too much for me to handle. I’ve known if only in my heart you weren’t my child. You were some other man’s. Seeing those photographs sent Hilary off her head. I’m convinced she recognised that young woman, but in what context I don’t know.”
“Of course she recognised her.” Isabelle gazed at Norville as if she had never seen him before in her life.
Norville covered his face with his hands, desperate to be left in peace. “I managed to get the full story out of her. She was very fierce at the start, but she broke down. She admitted I wasn’t your biological father. Her interest in whoever it was—I’m guessing a colleague, and may be connected to the young woman—had only been sexual.”
“Hilary, the nymphomaniac! So what was the young woman’s name?” Isabelle’s voice was quiet and grave. “Hartmann?”
Norville fell back against the armchair like a man on the verge of a nervous breakdown. “God knows!”
“You couldn’t get it out of her?” Isabelle’s whole body felt tremulous.
“Isabelle, there was no point in my trying. Hilary doesn’t give up her secrets. I’ve always been terrified of losing her if I pushed her too far. She seemed terrified. In all our years together, I have never seen her like that.”
“You know better than anyone she’s a consummate actress.”
“In certain lights, you look a bit like her.” Norville tried a weak smile.
“Rubbish!” Isabelle relished the denial falling off her tongue. “I look nothing like her.”
“No,” Norville admitted, the blood draining from his cheeks.
“So I’m to believe Hilary is my mother but you are not my father. Is that it?”
“Dear girl, I swear I didn’t know for certain until last week. Showing me those photographs changed my entire world.”
“Your world!” Isabelle could hardly believe her ears. “What about me? I still don’t count, do I? I’m the changeling.”
Norville sighed deeply. “Please don’t use that word. You do count. That’s why I’m here. I’m very fond of you. You must know that. You’re a beautiful, very gifted young woman. You’re a good woman.”
“Whereas Hilary is not,” Isabelle said bleakly.
“Some of the finer feelings are absent,” Norville was forced to admit. “I haven’t been able to sleep since I found out.”
Isabelle laughed. The
re was no humour in it. “In your own room. You and Hilary conspicuously sleep apart.”
“Sometimes she allows me into her bed,” Norville said, a man long enslaved.
“And that’s sufficient, is it?”
“She loves me in her own way.”
“So easy to lie to yourself,” Isabelle said sadly. “I pity you, Norville. You’ve been kind and generous to me.”
“I held to the belief you were my daughter.”
Isabelle cut him off brusquely. “That kept your soul in line, did it? If I were you, I’d divorce Hilary. Get your self-respect back. She’ll always have a lover on the side. Those appetites of hers! You still have time to find a good woman to love, who will, in turn, love you.”
Norville gave her a defeated, self-mocking look. “I know what I am, Isabelle. I’m a weak man held hostage by a strong woman. Hilary will have to leave me. I will never leave her.”
For once in her life Isabelle was tempted to be cruel. “That’s what leeches do,” she said. “They cling.”
* * *
Her life up to this point had been shadow play. After her father, in name only, had gone, Isabelle, even in the worst kind of pain, still managed to retain a measure of calm. She was sick to her stomach. She had been dealt with so badly.
If she had wanted one of them, Hilary or Norville, to be her biological parent, her choice would have been Norville. The thought that Hilary was now established as her birth mother made her laugh so hard her chest ached, scalding hot tears rushing into her eyes. She knew Norville meant it when he said he was fond of her. She had to accept he would have little in the way of love left over from his obsessive love for her mother.
She had thought, in secret, even from childhood, that she didn’t fit. Only in retrospect could she slot all the pieces together. Well, not all. It remained to find her biological father. She wasn’t Isabelle Martin. She was, in all probability, Isabelle Hartmann. It could be a life-changing existence. She knew families could be complicated, but hers was more complicated than most.
