The Sound of Home

by Krista Sandor

  She gulped a breath and fumbled with the small compartment that held the rosin. She placed the violin on the ground, slid the bow from the case, and ran the small golden-orange cake of sticky amber residue back and forth over the bow’s strings. She glanced up at Noland. Red angry blotches mired his neck. She took another breath and rubbed the rosin on her bow in smooth, steady strokes. She didn’t have time to tune the instrument, but without applying rosin to her bow, there would be no sound at all.

  Em stood and held the violin in position. She ran the bow across the E-string. A little flat. She would have to live with it.

  Noland reared back, but this time, Michael was ready for his father’s right hook and dodged the punch.

  Em drew the bow across the strings, and the first notes of “Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing” filled the room.

  Em’s fingers pressed the familiar strings, and Noland stilled. She met his gaze, but his eyes weren’t full of the recognition she had seen last time she played this song for him. Not even close. His eyes narrowed into angry slits and the blush that crept up his neck now engulfed his face, red and hot.

  Noland lunged toward her and knocked his chair to the ground. “Who are you?” he growled. “Stop that! Knock that shit off!”

  Michael sprang to his feet and positioned himself in front of her. “Dad!” he said, holding his father’s shoulders. “It’s Em. It’s our Mary Michelle. She’s trying to help.”

  Noland’s eyes darted back and forth like a trapped animal. “Everyone here wants me dead!”

  The door opened, and Tony came in holding a syringe.

  “Mr. MacCarron, I’m Tony, a nurse here at the Memory Care Center. It’s going to be all right. This is medicine to help you rest.”

  Michael held his father while Tony administered the sedative. Noland blinked as if each movement took expert concentration. His fierce expression melted like a child’s ice cream left out in the summer sun. Em met his glassy-eyed gaze. At that moment, she would have sworn he had recognized her. But before he could say another word, his body went limp, and E. Noland MacCarron hung like a rag doll in his son’s arms.

  * * *

  Em leaned against the wall outside Noland’s room clutching her violin. The rush of adrenaline still popped in her veins, and she nearly jumped out of her skin when the door to Noland’s room clicked open.

  “It’s just me,” Anita Benson said. She handed her the empty duffle bag and violin case.

  Em took the items, crouched on the floor, and secured the instrument in its case. She placed the case in the duffle and willed her hands to stop shaking.

  “I know you’re going to tell me I made it worse for Noland. But last time I played for him, it worked. Last time I played for him, he recognized me. He came back to himself. You were there, Mrs. Benson. You saw it.”

  Anita’s pinched expression relaxed. “The brain is a complicated organ. Throw in an Alzheimer’s diagnosis, and the complexity is magnified.” She took a step closer. “I didn’t come out here to scold you, Em. I think what you tried to do for Mr. MacCarron was very kind. But Alzheimer’s is an unpredictable disease. What helps a patient one day, may not work the next.”

  “Oh,” was all she could muster in response as she stared wide-eyed at the woman who had judged her so harshly in the past.

  “Why don’t we sit down?” Anita gestured to a cluster of chairs in the main area. “Noland’s asleep, but Michael is still speaking with the nurses. They shouldn’t be much longer.”

  Em swiped at her face. She hadn’t even noticed the warm tears making slick trails down her cheeks. Christ! She did not want to cry in front of Anita Benson.

  “I know what you saw can be quite jarring,” Anita said, patting her shoulder. “But what happened tonight is a product of his disease.”

  Em stared at the scuffs on the linoleum floor. “I only wanted to help.”

  “Of course, you did.” Anita gestured for her to sit. “Nobody doubts that.”

  Em met her gaze, and the woman smiled. In all the years she had known Anita Benson, this was the first time she had seen her smile.

  Anita glanced toward Noland’s room, then settled into a chair. “Kyle mentioned seeing you near Garrett this morning out by Sadie’s Hollow.”

  Was that just this morning?

  “Yes, we ran into him while we were…while I was trying to…” Em broke off.

  But Anita was quick to fill the void. “Kyle also mentioned you don’t remember anything from the night you…” She pursed her lips. “The night of your injury.”

  Em would rather have her toenails pulled out with pliers than discuss her injury with Anita Benson, but the woman seemed sincere. Em searched her face for some shred of disgust or resentment but couldn’t find any.

  “No, I don’t remember much. Just flashes of images and sensations that don’t make any sense.”

  Anita’s brow furrowed. “I’m sure that’s frustrating.” She leaned forward. “But you’ve got so much on your plate right now, dear. Your father needs help getting settled in the assisted living cottage, and you’ve been tasked with getting his house ready to sell. Are you sure you’ve got time to be taking trips to Sadie’s Hollow?”

  Em’s mouth went dry. Everything Anita Benson said was true.

  A door opened and closed. Em and Anita stood, expecting to see Michael and the nurses, but it was Mrs. Teller. She was wearing a pink bathrobe and a child’s plastic tiara.

  “Did I hear music?” the woman said, her arms in a mock dance pose.

  “No, no, Mrs. Teller,” Anita answered. “It was just Em MacCaslin playing the violin for Mr. MacCarron. It’s late,” she added, checking her watch. “Let me help get you back to your room.”

  Mrs. Teller clutched Em’s hand. “Did you graduate from Garrett High?” she asked with an innocent twinkle in her eye as the birdlike bones of her fingers tightened their grip.

  Em took in the woman’s frilly get-up and smiled. “No, Mrs. Teller, I didn’t.”

  “Are you sure?” Mrs. Teller released her hold. “The other young lady who comes to play the piano for us did. I’m sure of it.”

  Anita patted the woman’s arm. “Mrs. Teller was Garrett High’s Homecoming queen. Isn’t that right, dear?”

  “Oh, yes! And my Rodney was the Homecoming king. I still have my crown,” she said, pushing the play tiara askew.

  Anita lowered her voice. “Mrs. Teller thinks we’re all from Garrett. It’s a product of her dementia.”

  Em nodded.

  Mrs. Teller waltzed across the floor, embracing an invisible partner.

  A trio of voices echoed through the hall. Em caught Michael’s eye as the group entered the main room.

  “I’m going to help Mrs. Teller back to her room. Take care, dear,” Anita said, gifting her with another smile.

  Michael took hold of her elbow and led her toward the exit.

  Em tried to meet his gaze, but Michael wouldn’t make eye contact.

  “I’m sorry. I thought I could help—like I did last time.”

  Michael stopped walking but kept his hand wrapped around her arm. She searched his face. The anguish in his eyes churned like a dark, angry sea.

  “Oh, Michael! I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

  He squeezed her arm like a child holding tight to a treasured blanket.

  “I know this is hard for you,” she said, searching for the right words.

  She hadn’t chosen wisely.

  Michael’s eyes widened as if she had slapped him. The raw emotion disappeared, and the mask was back. Blank. Detached.

  He released her arm. “It’s late, Em. Let’s go.”

  18

  “Michael, talk to me. Please, say something.”

  Em stood across from him, standing on her driveway. He faced her, standing on his. He looked down at the strip of dry grass separating the MacCaslin property from the MacCarron’s. A foot, maybe fourteen inches, but it might as well have been the Kansas River.

  He
hadn’t spoken a word during the drive home. Em’s pleas slid off him like Teflon. It took everything he had to hold it together—to keep all that pain locked inside.

  But there was one thing he knew for sure: He didn’t have time for her pity.

  He had a law firm to run. His clients expected him to provide the same diligent service just as his father had done for the last forty years. In addition to living up to the legacy of E. Noland MacCarron, he also had to stay on top of his father’s condition. A job that was taking up more and more of his time and energy every day.

  He couldn’t give in to a moment of weakness. But Christ, he wanted to.

  He wanted to drop his head into Em’s lap and have her stroke his cheek. He wanted to let it all out. The frustration. The guilt. The pretending. The monotony of living a life he didn’t choose.

  He stuffed his hands into his pockets and let his eyes travel up the length of her body. The hint of a smile played on his lips. She was still wearing his hoodie. She shivered and pulled the extra fabric tight across her chest. A few hours ago, that body was writhing and panting in his lap. She hadn’t been wearing panties, just those tiny pajama shorts. And she was wet. So wet. His hand flexed inside his pocket, itching to feel the slick slide of heat between her thighs.

  “Michael, I know this is hard.”

  His eyes focused. He’d gotten so lost in his fantasy he’d almost forgotten his father.

  Em watched him like a hawk, chin raised. He searched her eyes and saw it. Pity. Motherfucking, pity.

  “Let me help you,” she tried again.

  “Aren’t you the pot calling the kettle black,” he said, words laced with disgust.

  Em took a step back as if he’d slapped her across the face.

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  He barked out a laugh. “You didn’t want any help. You had over a decade—twelve fucking years to answer my letters. I would have done anything to help you. Now you’re back, and you’re barely letting me lift a finger. I’m basically your glorified chauffeur.”

  “You know that’s not true. It’s complicated. Everything is so complicated.” She took a step closer. “Your dad, Michael. I had no idea. I really didn’t.”

  “Enough about my father for Christ’s sake! Yes, it sucks. Yes, it breaks my fucking heart. But it’s my cross to bear.”

  “It doesn’t have to be,” she whispered.

  Her words cut him like shards of broken glass. He wanted to believe her. But not like this. Not if all she felt for him was pity. The thought made his insides twist.

  “It’s been a long night, Em. We’re both tired. Go inside and get some rest.”

  She crossed her arms. “I don’t pity you. I know that’s what you’re thinking. But you’re wrong.” She picked up the duffle and took a step toward him. “If what you think you see in my eyes is pity,” she said and took a shaky breath, “then you don’t know me at all. And you never did.”

  Her eyes glassed over, but she blinked away the emotion. Without another word, she turned on her heel and left. He stared hard at the gravel driveway, listening to the squeak of the front door open and the angry crash when it slammed shut. The same angry crash he had heard on Halloween.

  That crash had turned his world upside down.

  He closed his eyes and ran a hand down his face. He hated to admit it, but he was glad she was with him tonight. Her presence, her willingness to do whatever she could to help—it brought him comfort.

  She had played her violin tonight. Her Polly. Christ, that couldn’t have been easy for her. He wasn’t even sure Polly had survived when she tore apart her room after her injury. He had peeked into her room when he helped her father move. The layers of time and dust had accumulated on every disheveled, broken treasure, and the violin case sat like an ancient tomb that no one dared open. He was sure Dr. MacCaslin hadn’t touched it either. Knowing she had destroyed Polly would have been too much for him.

  Michael stared at the side of Em’s house. Images of her smiling in the rain filled him with a longing that seeped into his bones. He closed his eyes and let the image expand into the empty corners of his soul. They were better together. No matter where she was on this planet—France, Japan, Australia, something in his heart always called out to hers.

  But he’d let her down. Guilt clutched at his heart, sharp and heavy. He closed his eyes as the gentle notes of Chopin’s Nocturne 20 in C-Sharp Minor drifted through the air and danced in the night breeze.

  He let out an exasperated breath. Now he was delusional. Maybe he wasn’t too far behind his father in losing his fucking marbles. But when he looked up, Em was there, standing in front of her bedroom window. Golden light encased her like a treasure preserved in amber.

  He stared at the window. She was playing for him. She always played for him. He could hear her voice calling out to him in every note, in every vibration of her fingertips pressed upon the delicate strings. He burst through her front door and raced up the stairs to her room. His heart always knew how to find her. He could have been blindfolded. He would still have made it to her without a scratch.

  She laid the violin to rest in its case and stood in front of him. She pushed up on her tiptoes and cupped his face in her hands.

  “What do you see?” she asked, forcing him to meet her gaze. “What do you really see, Michael?”

  The room was quiet, but he could still hear the music. She was the music.

  “I see everything, Em.” He slid his hands down her back and lifted her into his arms. “You’re my everything.”

  She had taken off her jeans and was back in those sweet little pajama shorts. Her bare legs wrapped around his waist as his fingers pressed into her buttocks through the thin fabric. She wasn’t wearing panties. His cock turned to steel, and Em released a breathy moan.

  She felt it too. Their connection was more than just carnal lust. It was layer upon layer of smiles and laughter. An infinite loop of memories and music.

  He carried her over to the bed and sat down with her legs still wrapped around him. She slid onto her knees but kept her core pressed flush against him. The golden glow of the small lamp lit her features, and he resisted the urge to pull out his cock, rip off those pajama shorts, and drive into her.

  He sucked in a ragged breath and dropped soft kisses on the sprinkling of freckles that dusted the bridge of her nose. He let his lips explore her neck and earlobe.

  Em traced her fingers down the length of his jaw. Her touch was like a match pulled across the striker strip. It set his body on fire. She clawed at his shirt, but he finished the job, pulling it over his head and throwing it onto the floor.

  Em shifted in his lap, grinding into him. He unzipped the hoodie and peeled off the garment, allowing his fingers to linger along the ivory skin of her delicate collarbone. She wasn’t wearing her tank top anymore, and her naked breasts heaved with each breath.

  “Christ, Em! You’re perfect,” he said, taking her breast into his hand and circling his thumb around the peak of her nipple.

  He shifted his body farther onto the bed but stilled when something pressed into his thigh. He reached down and pulled out a string of pearls. “Are these the pearls?” He held them under the golden lamplight. The clasp was missing, and thin lengths of twisted thread hung limply on each side where a few pearls should have rested.

  “Yes,” she answered, gathering her hair up on top of her head.

  Em craned her neck to the side, and Michael knew exactly what she wanted him to do. He draped the pearls around her neck, twisted his fingers around the cool, tiny spheres, and tightened the fit. Em gasped, and he growled as his lips crashed into hers.

  He couldn’t hold back now. Images and sensations of their first kiss at Sadie’s Hollow flooded his mind. Those pearls, cool and smooth against her skin, sent his need to have her into overdrive.

  Michael loosened the pearls and let the strand fall into his palm. He wound the necklace around his fingers and palmed her breast. He let
the pearls pass over the peak of her left breast, then her right. Em’s head fell back, and she closed her eyes, arching into his touch as she gripped his thighs. She looked like a wanton goddess soaking in each touch, each delicious sensation.

  She tilted her head forward and opened her eyes. Pools of endless blue flooded his lust-filled mind. He dropped the pearls and captured her mouth, pressing a kiss to each corner. He moved lower kissing her jaw, her neck. The soft light illuminated the delicate round indentations made by the pearls. He kissed each mark and allowed his tongue to glide over her skin. It tasted of oranges and sunlight and Sunday mornings spent wrapped around each other in bed.

  Em weaved her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. “Michael,” she breathed, “make love to me.”

  He searched her face. He knew each freckle, each eyelash. He had memorized all her smiles. Her face had haunted his dreams for years.

  “I just want to look at you for a minute.”

  Her lips curved, and she smiled her shy smile.

  He ran his thumb across her bottom lip. “We’re better together, Em.”

  Her shy smile bloomed, and he knew that easy grin, sticky with cherry popsicle running down her chin. He cupped her face. “I need to know you believe that, too,” he said, leaning in and taking her bottom lip gently between his teeth.

  She shuddered, her hot breath mingling with his. He released her lip and found her earlobe.

  “Tell me, Mary Michelle.”

  Now it was her pulling back and cupping his face. Her eyes darkened with lust. “You and me.” She pressed her lips to his. “It’s always been the two of us.”

  “Say it,” he mouthed against her lips.

  “We’re better together. Always.”

  She’d barely breathed the words before Michael had her flat on her back. He pulled off her sleep shorts and sank down to hover above her naked body, kissing a trail past her navel and down to her sweet center. Her knees fell to the sides, and, unashamed and unguarded, she opened herself to him. He licked a line across her delicate folds as she lifted her hips to meet his tongue.