The Unfinished Sonata

by K. D. McCrite

Alice’s suggestion to do an online information search of the phone number echoed in her brain.

  What a techno-world we live in, she thought, returning to the house and removing the gloves she’d just put on.

  In the library she went to the small desk, opened her laptop and turned it on. It seemed to take a short eternity before it booted up, as it always did when she was eager to get information. Once Annie was online, she accessed her favorite search engine, found a favorable website that listed phone numbers, opened it and clicked the “Reverse Lookup” tab. At the prompt she typed in the mysterious ten digits.

  She waited the blink of an eye before she had her answer. There it was, the name of the person who had been calling her.

  The sight of the name caused her heart to skip a beat. It was someone she’d never forgotten. Someone she thought she would never hear from again.

  2

  Annie sat back weakly and stared at the computer screen. Grady Brooks. The name rose from her long-dead past like a youthful specter. Not frightening, certainly, but disquieting. Grady Brooks had proved nearly impossible to forget. For years, Annie had tried to move him out of her mind. She had succeeded, but it had not been easy. A person does not easily forget a first love, even when that love was as green and untried as new grass.

  She grabbed the telephone, poised her finger over the return-call button, but paused. Then she pressed it. Immediately she pressed the “Off” button.

  Annie sat and stared at the telephone while clouds continued to gather outside and blanket the sun. She contemplated memories as the first drops of rain pattered the ground. By the time she raised her eyes, an afternoon rain fell in a gentle shower that preempted all notions of a return to the flower gardens. She rushed to close the windows, shutting out the June rain.

  Boots picked that moment to stroll into the room. She stood nearby, regarding Annie with unblinking green eyes. Sensing no objection to her company, she jumped confidently into Annie’s lap. While Annie absently stroked the purring ball of fur, she lost herself in the summer of her fourteenth year.

  She’d stayed at Aunt Susan’s—her father’s sister—that summer, while her parents were on a mission trip to Africa. Annie watched with considerable interest when the large moving van pulled up to the house next door. Soon a car parked in front of the house, and three people got out.

  Annie had been sitting on the front porch of her aunt’s house, nursing a cold glass of sweet tea, quietly observing. Behind her, Aunt Susan stood inside the house, just behind the screen door.

  “Well, looks like the new neighbors have finally gotten here,” she said. “And look there, Annie—a boy just about your age. Oh, isn’t he cute!”

  Annie distinctly remembered feeling her face flame. Aunt Susan was the kindest soul ever, but she had never learned to speak in a quiet voice. Annie scooted into the house where the boy couldn’t see her. While Annie wasn’t shy, she was at that postpubescent point between tomboy and young lady. She wasn’t sure how she felt about boys, let alone how she felt about a new boy right next door.

  As the summer passed, though, the two of them became friends, at first smiling and giving a quick wave across the yard, and then chatting a bit by the mailbox. Finally they sat together on Aunt Susan’s stoop or on Grady’s front-porch swing. He had turned sixteen that summer, and like her, he was an only child. His father’s job had moved the family from Texarkana, and Grady wasn’t sure he liked the change.

  Annie realized she liked Grady. Very much. He had deep gray eyes that seemed to see beyond what most people saw, and he often spoke of serious subjects. He was soft-spoken and given to long silences. When she talked to him, he would really listen; Annie liked that. The boys she knew were too busy goofing off or talking about their own interests. Grady was different; she was proud to be his friend.

  They went to see matinees at the theater once in a while and a couple of times had lunch at McDonald’s. He never kissed Annie. He never held her hand. After a few weeks, she decided she must not be pretty enough or smart enough to attract him. She came to feel foolish and awkward.

  Aunt Susan had taken to calling them “you two,” as if they belonged together. By then, Annie realized she was merely Grady Brooks’s friend and hoped he had never noticed how often she had gazed moony-eyed at him.

  By the next time she stayed with Aunt Susan, Grady and his parents had moved to a larger house in another part of the city, and she never saw him again.

  “This is ridiculous,” she said, shaking herself loose from the memories. She had wasted so much time strolling along the path to yesterday that the rain had picked up and its drum on the roof jolted her back to present day. No working in the flower beds now, she thought a little grimly. But at least the rain could not stop her from cleaning the library.

  It seemed to Annie that Grey Gables’ cozy library would have attracted dust even if the room had been sealed, locked, and kept in cold storage. She fetched a feather duster for the tops of the books, lemon oil and a soft cloth for the wood, and a can of dusting spray for everything else.

  The old house fairly burst with Betsy Holden’s treasures, and the library seemed to hold the best of her collections. Intricate, hand-stitched tapestries hung on the walls, antique books with gold edges and leather bindings filled the bookshelves, and an old Victrola phonograph with a collection of 78-rpm records looked ready to fill the room with tunes from an era long past. In one corner, a tall three-point shelf held Gram’s collection of music boxes.

  Annie stood in the center of the room, her burden of cleaning supplies cradled in her arms as she stared at that shelf full of music boxes. Again memories flooded her mind.

  She thought about other long-ago summer evenings in that very room, when the windows were open, and soft saltwater breezes blew the lace curtains inward. Gram would take down the music boxes, one at a time, wind the key on the back or bottom, and they would listen to the delicate music of each one, smiling and sometimes humming along.

  Annie decided to dust the music boxes first and relive those evenings with Gram. Maybe by doing so she’d finally be able to consign thoughts of her first crush back to the far, dusky recesses of her mind where such memories belonged. In fact, she decided to make a party of it and went to the kitchen to brew a steaming, fragrant pot of mint tea. The dusting could wait.

  Several minutes later, she settled into a small leather wing chair and sipped her tea while contemplating the corner shelf of music boxes and enjoying the anticipation of revisiting a part of the past that had nothing to do with adolescent boys with unforgettable, shining smiles.

  In the meantime, Boots had curled herself into the deep corner of the old armchair. She was deeply asleep, and the whiffling sound of her soft feline snore added to the snug atmosphere of the library.

  Annie finished her tea and then rested the thin blue saucer and its matching cup on the table next to her chair. Finally picking up the dust cloth, she stood and approached the corner nook with a smile. She dusted the music boxes gently, studying each one intensely. She wound each key and listened to the tunes. She remembered one time when Alice had spent the night, and the two of them persuaded Gram to wind all the music boxes so they’d all play at the same time. The tinkling musical chaos they created had sent all three into fits of laughter. Maybe later Annie would call her friend over, and they’d do it again.

  Annie stood on her tiptoes and reached for an intricately carved box that sat by itself on the top shelf. The largest in the collection, it rested on a crocheted doily. The gleaming, dark finish gave a pleasing contrast to the snowy white lace. It was the only one her grandmother never played. In fact, she rarely took it off the shelf except to clean the dust from its carvings.

  Annie settled cross-legged on the floor and cradled the heavy music box on her lap, gently wiping the dust off of every inch. Try as she might, Annie could not remember why Gram neglected to play this particular music box for her. She ran her fingertips over the carvings and examined the thi
ck English roses intertwined with curls of ivy. On the lid, two tiny lovebirds sat head to head on a branch, forming a heart. She opened the top, but rather than seeing a metal cylinder that played music, she saw a small wooden partition, as if the box had been designed to double as a keepsakes casket or jewelry box. But no keepsakes graced the interior.

  Annie explored the underside with her fingers. She found the key, and tried to wind it, but it refused to move. Very carefully, she turned the heavy box upside down. There was the key—made of tarnished brass—solid and unmoving, though she jiggled and tapped it, willing it to wind.

  So this is why Gram never played your music for me. Annie sighed and started to turn the box right-side up, but paused when she heard something rustle inside. Gently she shook it, hearing the sound again. It had a broken part, undoubtedly. No wonder the music wouldn’t play—and it was the prettiest of all the boxes too.

  Regretfully, Annie finished wiping away the dust from it and then got to her feet to return the music box to the high shelf. Once again she paused.

  It’s too pretty to keep on that shelf where no one can see it, she thought.

  She could use it in the bedroom for trinkets, or even just for display in the living room. Such a beautiful box must have played beautiful music. It was too bad she would never hear it.

  “But why not?” she asked herself suddenly. The sound of her voice awakened Boots, who popped open one eye to look at her.

  Stony Point, Maine, with all its antique stores and clever craftsmen, surely had someone who could help her. It wasn’t as if Annie lived on the moon or under the sea.

  I’ll just get the music box repaired, she thought.

  Later, after a light supper and a long, soothing bath, Annie lay in bed, comfortably drowsy—until Grady Brooks edged his way back into her mind. She had a difficult time shoving the old days out of her thoughts until sleep finally pushed them away.

  3

  The next morning dawned sunny and warm, and it found Annie walking the seaside near Grey Gables. The Atlantic Ocean gleamed rosy and glittered silver. Annie paused to watch the unending reach and retreat of the waves. A night filled with bittersweet memories and half-remembered dreams had left her pensive and as restless as the sea.

  Thoughts of her life with Wayne resurfaced. She and Grady had been little more than kids when they knew each other, but Wayne—who was never far from her mind—had been the love of her life. A massive coronary had taken him from her far too early. In her heart and mind she still longed for him; her arms still ached to hold him.

  There had been few men in her life since Wayne’s death. Ian Butler, Stony Point’s mayor, had shown romantic interest, and they had gone out to dinner a few times. He was a man who could, if she wasn’t careful, make her heart skip a beat from just one look into his beautiful brown eyes. But she was careful. Annie diligently kept their relationship casual, and nothing more. Their friendship was a warm, easy one.

  She turned and retraced her steps toward the house.

  It was Tuesday, and that meant the Hook and Needle Club would be meeting later that morning at A Stitch in Time. Annie anticipated the meeting with joy and excitement. She needed some company and lively chatter to channel her thoughts from the past to the present. Besides, she really wanted to talk about the music box, and hoped one of the women could share some knowledge or insight about it.

  A few minutes before eleven, dressed casually in khaki capris, a pale olive sleeveless blouse, and new bone sandals, Annie parked her trusty Malibu near the craft shop. She gathered the extra-large tote that contained her crochet project and the music box and went inside.

  A chorus of voices rose to meet her the moment she stepped through the door, and she smiled gratefully to hear them.

  “Good morning, ladies!” she sang out. “Isn’t it a lovely day?”

  “It is,” agreed Stella Brickson. She was already busily knitting something thin and delicate. Her perfectly styled gray hair, lovely dark plum pantsuit, and lacy white blouse complemented her regal bearing. She looked her age, but she was an elegant and fashionable octogenarian. She gave Annie a sharp look as Annie sat down next to Alice. “What has made you so extra chipper today?”

  “Just happy to be here, that’s all.” Annie laughed. “I enjoy seeing you ladies every week.”

  “Oh, so do I!” said Kate Stevens, the shop assistant. Dark-haired and dark-eyed, with a warm, sweet smile, Kate did not have an easy life. Being a divorced mom with a teenage daughter, she bore a lot of responsibilities, but her friendly nature and creative enthusiasm endeared her to anyone who came into the shop. “I keep pretty busy most of the time, and Vanessa is fun to spend time with. Of course, she’s with her father often, so I’m alone quite a bit. To be perfectly honest, the Hook and Needle Club meeting is something I look forward to every week.”

  “I second that!” Peggy Carson agreed. “It’s good to be around people I like, especially if I don’t have to take their meal orders and bring their coffee.”

  The ladies shared a laugh with her.

  “But you’re everyone’s favorite waitress,” Annie pointed out with a grin.

  Peggy giggled, and her dark blue eyes flashed merrily.

  “Thanks, Annie. It’s not that I don’t like my job at The Cup & Saucer, because I do. I like it a lot, but it’s just so nice to sit here and relax once a week.”

  The women murmured in agreement.

  “Mary Beth doesn’t get a chance to rest, though,” Stella said, looking at A Stitch in Time’s owner, who was assisting a customer choosing yarn colors. “She’s always jumping up to answer the phone or to help a customer. It’s a wonder she isn’t more gray than she is.”

  “Kate too!” Peggy added. “Oh—I don’t mean the gray part! I mean, she’s busy during the meetings. It seems she is always straightening things on the shelves or adding things to the shelves or selling things from the shelves. Oh, and ringing up purchases on the cash register.”

  “But it’s how we pay our bills,” Kate said cheerfully, and in the chair next to Annie, Alice MacFarlane moved restlessly.

  Annie shot a glance at her subdued friend. Alice smiled, but again the smile didn’t reach her eyes. Annie knew Alice’s financial worries would linger until the problem was solved.

  “Ladies, you just have to see this!” Kate said with excitement. “I’m so happy with this new design. Tell me what you think!”

  She came out from behind the counter carrying the cutest clutch purse Annie had ever seen. Kate loved purses, and probably had more in her collection than Annie had had in her lifetime.

  “That is darling!” said Gwendolyn Palmer, leaning forward to get a closer look. Gwen was one of Stony Point’s leading women and a local fashion maven. That day she wore a simple off-white dress with a cheery red belt and red sandals. Annie noticed Gwen’s nail polish matched the belt and shoes. “Did you make it, Kate? Of course you did! You’re just clever enough to do that.”

  “I want one of those purses!” said Peggy and Annie together. They looked at each other and laughed.

  “I’ve already placed my order,” Mary Beth Brock announced, joining the group at last. She patted her short salt-and-pepper hair, pretending to gloat. “But you ladies haven’t seen everything yet. Show them, Kate.”

  Her cheeks pink with excitement—or maybe it was embarrassment from so much attention and praise—Kate unhooked the purse flap. It opened, and then opened again, revealing a different style of crochet and a new color of yarn. With a few deft motions, it had metamorphosed from a small clutch to a full-blown handbag large enough to carry most things women pack into purses. Kate had even added a colorful, contrasting strap.

  Everyone applauded, but Mary Beth held up one hand. “And that’s not all.”

  “Pockets!” Kate declared. Pointing to each one, she sang, “Here a pocket, there a pocket. Everywhere a pocket!”

  “You see!” Annie said loudly enough to be heard above the other voices. “This is why I lov
e these meetings!” Every woman there agreed with unbridled enthusiasm. “Where else do we have this fellowship and great fun showing off our work?”

  As she gazed fondly at the faces of her friends and listened to their chatter, she remembered how much she had wanted to be a part of this group when she first moved to Stony Point. Her grandmother had been one of the founding members, and she always took an active part. But fitting in had not been easy, in the club or in the small town. Being Betsy Holden’s granddaughter guaranteed no favors from anyone, and in fact, it seemed perhaps more was expected from her than she could fulfill. But she continued to attend the meetings, throwing herself into the circle of crafting and involving herself in the town’s events until, finally, she was a full-fledged, much loved member of the Hook and Needle Club and a respected citizen of Stony Point.

  “Goodness!” Alice said. “You are such a craftswoman, Kate. And here I am, struggling to make simple sampler squares.”

  Annie glanced at her good friend again, a woman she’d known since they were both young teenagers. Alice had so many gifts that everyone else seemed to see, but that she herself couldn’t recognize as special. An idea began to form in Annie’s mind, a way to boost Alice’s business and her confidence. For the time being, she shuffled the notion to the back of her thoughts and turned her full attention to Mary Beth Brock, who was speaking to them as the leader of their club.

  “With your permission, we have a fabulous new project for the summer,” she said with a big smile. “But it starts this week.” She held up one hand, squelching the rise of surprised comments. “Reverend Wallace called last night and asked if I thought the Hook and Needle Club would like to participate in the crafting part of the church day camp this summer. We would be teaching our skills to children and encouraging those who are creating art projects.”

  She paused, looking at the group expectantly.

  “The floor is open for discussion and questions.”

  “How many days a week would we be doing this?” Stella said. “My summers are quite full, you know.”