by Ann McMan
The piano was performing brilliantly—just as it was built to do. Sitting at the keyboard and running through the Impromptu was more than a good way to test the tone and agility of the instrument, it was a way for her to reconnect with her simplest and most authentic self.
She could imagine Raymond Parada smiling.
She didn’t finish the piece. She didn’t need to. She knew the piano was perfect. She lowered her hands to her lap and closed her eyes so she could focus on the faint reverberations of the final notes. They seemed to hover in the air a bit longer than normal—as if they were taking their time getting acquainted with the contours of the new space.
“Well?” she heard Marty ask. “What do you think?”
Celine smiled. “I think it’s more important to ask what you think.”
She turned around to face him and was surprised to see they were no longer alone in the room. Buddy was standing just behind Marty in the doorway that led to the patio. He was still wearing his helmet and his blaze orange vest, so she knew that he’d probably just arrived. That meant Bert and Sonny would be along shortly, too.
“Oh, Buddy,” she said. “Come in. Meet Marty Fassbinder. He tuned the piano for us.”
Celine got to her feet and addressed Marty. “Marty, this is Buddy Townsend. Buddy is helping with the renovation work on the house. He loves music, too.”
“I kinda thought so.” Marty extended his hand. “Nice to meet you, Buddy.”
Buddy glanced at Marty’s hand but didn’t shake it. He nodded his head and stared at the floor.
Marty didn’t seem offended. He casually folded his arms. “What’d you think of the performance, Buddy?”
“Not finished.”
Marty looked confused.
Buddy was staring at the tops of his shoes.
“He means I didn’t play the whole piece,” Celine clarified. She stepped closer to Buddy. “That’s right, Buddy. I didn’t need to finish it. It was only a test to see how the piano sounded after being moved here from California.”
Buddy looked at her with his clear eyes. “Half is not finished.”
She smiled at him. “How about you and I meet here a bit later, and I’ll finish it for you then?”
Buddy didn’t reply. Celine patted him on the arm before turning back to Marty.
“Let me walk you out?”
Marty nodded. “You make her keep that promise, Buddy. I want to hear the rest of the music, too.”
This time, Buddy did look at Marty. “Half is not finished,” he repeated.
“No, sir. It is not. But one thing we know for sure is that when Ms. Heller here does finish it, it will be perfect.” He winked at Celine. “Raymond Parada took care of that.”
They left the house through the patio door and walked across Celine’s unfinished garden to reach Marty’s car. Buddy’s scooter was neatly pulled in beside it.
“Autistic, right?” Marty asked. “He a savant?”
Celine began to make an automatic reply, but thought better of it.
“You know, Marty, I’m not sure what Buddy is. I only wish science had a way to clone his goodness, bottle it, and freely dispense it to the rest of the world’s population—starting with me.”
“I think I know what you mean.” He opened his car door. “You’ll let me know when that magic carpet of yours needs another tune-up?”
“I promise. Thank you, Marty.”
She watched and waited while he backed out and began his long trek down the lane that led to the county road.
The morning mist had all burned off and the sun was now holding court in a deep blue sky. It was shaping up to be a warm and beautiful day—another one for the record books. The redbud trees ringing her pasture were all shimmering with branches full of bright pink blooms. The tall grass between them was full of white and yellow oxeye daisies. A nuisance plant, as Bert explained. They’d have to be rid of them if she wanted to use her pasture for anything useful.
Yes. Bert and Sonny were sure to make good progress on the patio and garden today.
And Byron was coming for dinner tonight—the first meal she’d be able to cook for him in her new kitchen.
Remember the accidentals, ziskeit . . .
She did remember them. To forget them wreaked havoc on pacing and tempo. Destroyed the power and nuance of the transition from minor to major. To remember them meant preserving the delicate balance and counterbalance of the minuet. Because in the end, a dance—like life—was always about balance. Always about careful give and take. Always about grace, syncopation and a hint of mystery.
Yes, she whispered to the spirit of her long-departed mother. I remember the accidentals.
As she drew closer to the house, she heard the music. The notes floated toward her on warm currents of air, blending so seamlessly with the color and scent of early summer that she could barely distinguish them from the pastiche of nature spread out around her.
But as the music went on, she did distinguish it. It was the Schubert. All of it. Accidentals. Harmonic ambiguity. Cascading semiquavers. Played just as she had played it for Marty.
No . . . not just as she had played it. Precisely as she had played it.
She stood outside the house in stunned silence until the music stopped—exactly where she had stopped.
Buddy.
She entered her studio through the patio door and found him sitting quietly on the bench in front of the Steinway, still wearing his helmet and his bright orange vest. His hands were resting on his knees.
“Buddy?” She took a step toward him.
“It isn’t finished,” he said.
“It isn’t . . .” Celine didn’t really know what else to say, so she didn’t say anything. Instead, she crossed the room and took a seat beside him on the padded bench.
They didn’t speak.
A pair of tree swallows landed on a branch outside the window and started trilling. They seemed anxious for her to get on with it.
They were right. Buddy was right. It needed to be finished.
She raised her hands to the keys and played the rest of the Impromptu for him, picking up from the spot where they’d each stopped.
When the piece was finished, Buddy didn’t say anything.
He got up from the bench and left the studio as quietly as he’d arrived.
◊ ◊ ◊
“Are you sure I can’t help you out?” Maddie picked up a shiny whisk and tested its heft.
Michael took the whisk away from her and returned it to its place in a queue of devices.
“Don’t. Touch. Anything.”
“Oh, come on, Michael. I’m a doctor. You don’t think I can handle a few of these crude implements?”
“Crude?” Michael glared at her over the rims of his glasses. “Did you say crude?” He picked up the whisk. “I’ll have you know that this,” he waved it aloft, “this is not an ‘implement.’ This is a Kuhn Rikon French wire whisk. And it’s far beyond your level of expertise.”
“Oh, really? Next time you need your gallbladder removed, be sure to call on someone with a higher level of expertise, okay? Maybe they can just whisk it out.” She smiled at her own joke. “No pun intended.”
“Oh, don’t get your panties in a wad.”
“I just don’t understand why you can’t get over that damn mixer incident. It was years ago.”
Michael sighed. “Years ago, and it seems like yesterday.” He gazed up at the faded, framed photograph of an industrial-sized stand mixer that adorned the shelf above his work area. “I miss you, Gloria.”
Maddie picked up her wineglass and took a healthy sip. “You’re a head case.”
“Hey, I take my work very seriously—just as you do yours.”
“Yeah? Well I don’t name my tools.” She held up a palm before he could correct her. “My partners in the craft.”
“That’s more like it.”
“What’s so special about this Wrath of Khan thingamajig, anyway?”
Michae
l rolled his eyes. “Kuhn Rikon.”
“Whatever.”
“It’s the only whisk that won’t break the mayonnaise.”
“Break the . . .” Maddie changed her mind. “I don’t even want to know what that means.”
“Probably wise. You’ve already proved that you can’t be trusted with the information.”
“What are you making, anyway?”
“Amuse-bouche. These are white cheddar and thyme gougères with black lava smoked sea salt.” He sighed. “But Nadine will insist on calling them ‘finger food.’”
Maddie laughed. “What’s the occasion?”
“They’re celebrating. Apparently, Azalea signed some big contract with a video game company and she’s giving Evelyn and Nadine enough money to pay off the note on the café.”
“No kidding? That’s great.”
“Yeah, except we have to plan two separate meals because they’re hosting two parties—on the same day.”
“Why?”
“You know Azalea. She won’t eat with Yankees.”
“Oh, good god.” Maddie refilled their wineglasses. “Didn’t her War of Northern Aggression end about a hundred and fifty years ago?”
“Not in her mind. That’s why I need the mayonnaise whisk. I have to make a vat of broccoli slaw for the second party. You and Syd will be invited, by the way.”
“Great. Dare I ask to which party?”
“Don’t get your hopes up, Cinderella. You won’t be getting the fried chicken.”
Maddie’s face fell. “Why not?”
“Duh. Syd is from Baltimore. Ring any bells?”
“Maryland is below the Mason-Dixon Line.”
“Not good enough. Azalea’s Mason-Dixon line is more of a moving target. To her, Maryland was nothing but a ‘buffer zone.’ She’s very specific about these nuances of geography.” Michael added a mound of freshly shredded cheese to his dough mixture. “Astrid isn’t allowed to attend the later event, either. David will be apoplectic.”
“Astrid?”
Michael nodded.
“Well that’s hardly surprising. She is a dog.”
“That isn’t why. David got her from a breeder in Rehoboth Beach.”
“Astrid is from Delaware?”
“Of course.” Michael shrugged. “All the best Papillons are.”
Maddie thought about it. “I guess that makes an odd kind of sense.”
“Tanning. Drag shows. Parading your candy-ass dogs. It’s a beach town trifecta.”
“Well, however the dueling parties unfold, it looks like your experiment with Nadine has worked out beautifully. You two seem to have settled into a perfect arrangement sharing kitchens.”
Michael did not disagree. “That woman is a master chef—although she’ll forever reject the distinction.”
“How’s business been since you two combined forces?”
“Great. Nadine has been a godsend helping with all the wedding catering. We’d never manage without her.”
Maddie watched him fill a pastry bag with the seasoned dough and began covering prepared cookie sheets with dollops of the mixture.
“So, I guess that means adding the extra land you bought from Mom succeeded in getting the mayor off your backs?”
He paused mid-dollop. “Not exactly.”
Maddie didn’t like the sound of that. “What do you mean?”
“Now it seems we have to apply for special permits to serve food to groups larger than twenty-five.”
“Does that man lie awake at night inventing new ways to be a cretin?”
“If so, he must never sleep.”
“I just don’t get it.” Maddie shook her head. “What does he gain by working so hard to antagonize everyone in the county?”
“For starters, it’s not everyone. There are plenty of people who appear to be just fine with the mayor’s methods. I mean, there hasn’t exactly been a groundswell of angry mobs picketing his office on Main Street.”
“I suppose he’s riding the so-called ‘populist’ wave that seems to be driving political discourse these days.”
“That’s one way to put it. I’d be inclined to take a less charitable view.”
Maddie helped Michael carry four large pans of the upscale “finger food” to a massive wall oven. He slid them all inside and set the timer.
“Those’ll take about fifteen minutes to bake. Let’s have a seat and I’ll tell you why I asked you to come over here tonight.”
They walked back to Michael’s prep area and perched on a pair of mismatched stools.
“I was wondering if you planned to keep me in suspense. Syd was pretty intrigued when I couldn’t tell her why you summoned me.”
“What’s she doing tonight?”
“She and Roma Jean took the bookmobile to a state library symposium in Roanoke. They’ll be home late tonight.” She looked around the kitchen. “By the way, where is David?”
“That’s part of what I wanted to talk with you about. He’s out canvassing.”
“Canvassing? Canvassing for what?”
Michael sighed. “He didn’t call you, did he?”
“Call me?” Maddie was immediately suspicious. “What about?”
“Brace yourself.” Michael refilled her wineglass. “He’s decided to run for mayor. As a write-in candidate.”
“What?” Maddie was flabbergasted. “That’s completely insane.”
“Trust me.” Michael held up a hand to halt her tirade. “I already went the distance with him on this one. There’s no stopping him.”
“Come on, Michael. This is David we’re talking about. Until last year, he thought the electoral college was an online university. How the hell can he run for mayor?”
“You’re preaching to the choir. I told him it was a harebrained idea. He’s persuaded that the only way to get Watson to back away from his crusade to drive the queers out of Jericho is to beat him at his own game.”
“He’s really serious about this?”
“Deadly.”
Maddie ran a hand over her face.
“I saved the best for last.”
Maddie dropped her hand. “Do I wanna hear this?”
“Probably not. But I’m going to tell you, anyway. He’s going to challenge Watson to a public debate—at the river, during the town Fourth of July celebration.”
“Oh, good god. What the hell is he thinking? Watson will eat him for lunch.”
“I think that’s part of his strategy. The more Watson comes after him—or any of us—because of our sexual orientation, the more David can publicly call him out. Right now, any protests are about as effective as pissing into a stiff wind.” He held up an index finger. “But as candidate Jenkins, he has a bully pulpit.”
“I’m . . . speechless.”
“Well, don’t be because he needs you to help him.”
“Help him?” Maddie narrowed her eyes. “Help him how?”
“He wants you to write his speech.”
“What?” Maddie bolted up from her stool. “Why the hell would I write his speech?”
“He says you wrote all of his papers in high school.”
“That was different.”
Michael raised an eyebrow.
“It was,” Maddie insisted. “Writing a five-page report on the life cycle of a planarian is hardly the same as taking on a seasoned politician.”
“Maddie? Have you ever actually looked at Gerald Watson?”
Maddie took a moment to consider his question. There was some truth to the comparison. Like David’s planarian, Watson had two heads . . .
“I see your point.”
“Besides,” he continued. “It’s one speech. We both know he doesn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of winning.”
“True.”
“So, what could be the harm in helping him?”
“You mean apart from the ridicule and endless self-loathing I’d endure if it ever came out?”
“Precisely.”
Mad
die sighed and dropped back onto her stool. “Let me think about it.”
The wall phone behind them rang.
“That’s probably David.” Michael got up to answer it. “Hello? Oh, hey, Nadine. What’s up?”
Maddie could hear Nadine’s voice on the line. She sounded rushed and agitated, although Maddie couldn’t make out what she was saying.
“What?” Michael asked. “What?” he repeated. “When? Just now?” Michael began striding back and forth. “He did what? How many people were there?” He threw his head back and closed his eyes. “That rat bastard,” he muttered. “I hope he broke his damn jaw.” He took a slow, deep breath. “Yeah,” he said. “I can handle everything until you get back. Just tell Nicky to keep topping off the iced teas. Uh huh. Right. You just stay calm. We don’t want you both in the slammer.” He glanced at the wall clock. “Listen, I’ve got four pans of gougères in the oven. I need about five more minutes, then I’ll be on my way.” He started to hang up the phone, but Nadine said something else. Michael listened, then rolled his eyes. “White cheddar, like we discussed.” He nodded. “Yes. I used the smoked sea salt.” He nodded again. “Yeah. I’ll be at the café in fifteen minutes.” He hung up the phone and turned to face Maddie.
“That was Nadine.”
“I gathered as much. What’s going on?”
“She was calling from the jail. Raymond’s been arrested.”
“What? Why?”
“She didn’t give me all the details but, apparently, he got into a shouting match with the mayor about some shrubs and ended up slugging him. Watson charged him with assault.”
“Shrubs?” Maddie was incredulous. “When did this happen?”
“About an hour ago—at the café. Watson was there giving Raymond all kinds of face about some landscaping faux pas, and it snowballed. She said the restaurant was full, too . . . some church bus from Patrick County.” He shook his head. “None of it makes any sense. I just know I need to get over there and fry some catfish while she gets this mess sorted out.”
“Need me to go by the jail and lend a hand?”
“Are you serious?”
“Of course.” Maddie nodded. “Consider it research.”
“Research? Research for what?”
“For the speech it now appears I’m going to write.”
