“I’m sure he does.” Angie put the car into gear, and as she drove out of town, she wondered at what she could say to change the subject. But just as swiftly, there was an answering chime within her heart. This was on the child’s mind, something she could not speak of at home. Perhaps she should follow the child’s course.
As she turned off the main highway and onto a narrow county road, she asked, “Were the old folk songs your mother’s favorites?”
“Momma had lots of favorites.” Carefully Melissa lifted off her blue hat and set it on the seat between them. “She liked lots of old music, and she liked hymns, and she liked bluegrass music. She said bluegrass music was the best music ever made for tapping your foot. Momma said every time she heard bluegrass she wished she had a long skirt on so she could lift it up and whirl around the room.”
Angie could only glance over once in a while, as the road twisted and turned and climbed at a steep pace. “Your mother liked hymn singing?”
“Yes.” But something about the question left Melissa eager to talk about something else. “Momma said her old music was for quiet times, when she could sit still and take it in deep. I could always tell when Momma was in a quiet mood, ’cause I’d come home and she’d be playing old music with the big orchestras and lots of violins.”
“That sort of music is called classical,” Angie said. “Who were some of her favorite composers?”
“She had one she used to play a lot. But I never could say the name. I remember the story, though, the one the music was written about. Once upon a time there was a beautiful lady. She gets caught by a bad old king, who says he’s going to kill her. But she keeps telling him these beautiful stories, and every night he lets her live another day so he can hear one more. Finally he falls in love with her, and they get married and live happily ever after.”
“Scheherazade,” Angie replied. “It’s a symphony by Rimsky-Korsakov.”
“That’s the one,” Melissa said, nodding in her excitement. “Do you like it, too?”
“Very much. The music captures the feeling of struggling against terrible odds and overcoming them in the end.”
“My momma struggled,” Melissa said. “But she didn’t win.”
“You don’t know that.” Angie paused to choose her words with great care. “She didn’t live, no, that much is true. But she left behind a legacy of love and a beautiful daughter. And from what you said, she met her Maker with great love and great faith.”
When Melissa did not say anything, Angie asked, “Why did you and your father move here?”
“Papa said we were wasting our lives.”
The words wrenched at her heart. Angie crested the rise, signaled, and pulled off the road. She focused her full attention on Melissa. “What did he mean, dear?”
“He said that a lot after the funeral.” Melissa’s gaze remained directed out the front windshield. “But then he was talking about Momma. ‘What a waste,’ he’d say, over and over and over. ‘What a waste.’ I used to dream those words. Then for a while he stopped saying them. And then last spring he started saying it again, but he was talking about us now. We were wasting our lives. We needed to move on. We needed to go somewhere else and start over again.”
“So you came here,” Angie said, but inside she was remembering the night of the argument with the pinched-faced man. She had seen him as both angry and menacing. She had even feared for this little girl living with him. She had seen no seed of love in him, none at all. And now she felt mortally ashamed. “Your father is a very strong man. And wise.”
“I think so too. Papa needed to come. I didn’t want to, though. I was scared.”
“What frightened you?”
“I was afraid that maybe if we moved I’d forget Momma.” She turned imploring eyes toward Angie. “That’s not wrong, is it?”
“I am sure your mother is very proud of you and of the love you hold for her memory,” Angie replied. She watched Melissa settle back, as though the reassurance made everything all right. Once more Angie felt the gentle urgings of her heart. She marveled at this, for it had been so long since her heart had spoken at all. She led the talk back around by asking, “You say your mother loved hymns. Was she a Christian? Did she believe in God?”
Melissa responded by turning back to the windshield and giving a single nod.
Angie searched her heart for what needed to be said. “And you and your father, you moved away from God after she passed on?”
“Why not?” Melissa replied to the window. “God didn’t do anything for us.”
Angie sighed. And nodded. A very slow nod, one of shared pain and understanding. She had been along this very same route. It would have been so easy to have abandoned faith, to have used her distress and her anger, yes, anger at God as a reason for turning away.
Slowly Melissa swung around, as though her gaze was drawn against her will. She watched Angie a moment, then asked, “Do you believe in God?”
“I do.”
“But why?”
Angie could not help but feel the pain behind that question. And the yearning. Even so, all the words she had come to know from youth about salvation and repentance and commands, they did not seem to fit. So all she said was, “Because I could not go on without faith. I would have shriveled up and blown away a long time ago.”
Melissa gazed at her with eyes that held both the openness of youth and the ancient wisdom of suffering. “Did somebody die?”
There was no place for anything less than the truth. “My husband. A little over six years ago.”
Melissa stared out her window a long moment. “Then, you know,” she said simply. “I prayed a lot when Momma got sick. I prayed all the time. And still God let her die. The preacher said she was in a better place. But why did God have to take her? Momma didn’t want to go. She told me. She said if she was not already dying, the pain of not being able to watch me grow up would have killed her stone-dead.” Melissa wiped an impatient hand across her cheeks, as though not wanting to take the time for tears. “Why did God make her go away?”
It came to her then—the Bible passage, and the need to talk it through. “I asked myself the same questions. I searched everywhere for answers. I asked everybody I could. And it seemed to me that the people who talked didn’t know the first thing about suffering. And the people who knew, they didn’t talk at all.”
Angie turned in her seat so that she could face the young girl straight on. “So I started reading the Bible more than I ever had before, looking for my own answers. It was either that or close the Book and never open it again. And I came across the shortest verse in the Scriptures.
“A close friend of Jesus became ill, a man called Lazarus. By the time Jesus arrived, though, Lazarus had been dead for three days. All the family and friends were gathered about, crying and weeping and full of grief. And you know what Jesus did?”
“He healed His friend,” Melissa said. “But He didn’t heal my momma. Even after I asked Him. And Momma loved Jesus. I know that.”
“I believe you,” Angie replied solemnly. “But let’s go back to the story for a moment. Before Jesus brought His friend back to life, He did something else, and this something is the shortest verse in the Bible, just two words. The Bible says, ‘Jesus wept.’ When I came to that passage in my searching, I stopped. I couldn’t go any further. Why did He weep? I wondered. The Bible doesn’t say. Jesus didn’t tell us why He cried. I thought and thought about that. And I decided that Jesus didn’t say anything because He was a fellow sufferer. He knew He was going to die on the Cross. He carried this knowledge with Him all His life. He was born to suffer and die for us.”
“So He was silent,” Melissa said softly. “He knew suffering, so He didn’t talk about it.”
“That’s what I decided,” Angie agreed. “I don’t know if I’m right, because the Bible doesn’t tell us. But that’s what my heart said to me. Jesus wept. Not for His friend, because Lazarus was going to be healed and rise up and wa
lk away. No. Jesus wept for everyone. Because all of us who are born to this earth will suffer. It is a part of the burden of sin, of the imperfection of life on earth. None of us will escape the weight of sorrow. And because our gracious Lord understood this and because He loved us so, He wept for us. He wept with us. All of us. Even me. Even you.”
Melissa’s small chin trembled, and one tear spilled over to tumble down her cheek. She whispered, “I miss my momma so.”
“I know you do,” Angie said, and it was the most natural thing in the whole world to reach across, to take the small frame into her arms, to hold her close, so tight that the hat that had been set between them was crushed in the embrace. Angie sat and held the girl and let her sob and stroked her hair and shed a few tears herself. And somehow, despite the pain in her own heart, she knew there was a healing at work. Not just in Melissa, but in herself as well. She knew this because for the first time in years, she was crying not for herself but for another. “I know you do.”
8
When Angie returned from church the next day, she found a strange car parked out front of her house. Then the tall angular figure emerged, and she breathed a quiet, “Oh, my.”
But there was no anger on Carson Nealey’s features. Instead, he awkwardly approached her and said, “Mrs. Picard, I hope I’m not—”
“Miss,” Angie corrected. “I took back my maiden name. Melissa may have told you about . . . Well, anyway, you can call me Angie. The whole world does.”
“Thank you.” His face was not pinched, as Emma had described it and she had first thought. He had the sharply carved definition of someone honed down to his very essence. “I apologize for stopping by unannounced, but I wanted to say this in person.”
“Won’t you come in?”
“No, thank you, I don’t want to be a bother.”
“It’s no bother. And if we stand out here in the street, folks will think either we’re arguing or you’re a bill collector working on the Sabbath.” To end further protests, Angie turned and started up the walk. As she did, she breathed a fervent little prayer. Then she said, “It certainly is warm for this time of year, don’t you think?”
“I suppose so.” Clearly the man walking behind her was not comfortable with small talk. “Seasons seem more sharply defined here in the hills.”
“Yes, Melissa says you’re just recently arrived.” She fought back a moment’s embarrassment as they approached the house. She was seeing it through another’s eyes, observing the peeling paint, the trim that needed replacing, the signs of neglect and wear.
But Carson Nealey apparently took no note of anything but his intended mission. “It’s actually your talk with Melissa that brought me by. You see—”
“Where would you be more comfortable, Mr. Nealey?” Angie interrupted, determined to hold to proper manners. “Out here on the porch or in my front parlor?”
“I don’t really mind,” Carson mumbled.
“Well, perhaps we’d be better off inside. Even in the sunshine the air still holds a cool edge. Besides, I’m afraid I haven’t kept up the exterior as I should.”
Strange that she would want this man to come inside. Stranger still that the sense of inner guidance she had felt yesterday had returned. Angie entered the hallway, paused to take off her hat and coat, then led him into the front parlor. “Sit wherever you wish, Mr. Nealey.”
“Please call me Carson.” He stood in the high-ceilinged room and did a slow circle. “This is very nice.”
“Thank you.” Angie gave him a careful glance, searching for the politeness that covered disapproval. But his reaction seemed genuine. Which was strange, given the almost-sterile furnishings in his own home. She probed, “Some folks would say it’s crowded.”
“It’s a home,” he replied. He examined the polished oak flooring with its covering of hooked rugs, then glanced up at the crown molding that encircled the ceiling. “How old is this place?”
“Gracious, it must be a hundred and fifty years if it’s a day.” If she had any need for assurance that more than her own mind and heart was at work, she need look no further than right here, having such a conversation with such a man in her own front parlor. “Would you like a lemonade?”
“If it’s not any trouble.” He examined a mahogany sideboard supporting her silver coffee service and collection of figurines, then peered at a cupboard decorated with carvings of farm scenes. “You have some beautiful things.”
“Why, thank you,” Angie said, observing him through the open kitchen door. “I suppose Melissa told you antiques are my hobby.”
“In a way. She said you liked to drive around buying old stuff.”
Angie smiled at that, then explained as she poured two glasses, “Many of these country families still have pieces made by the original settlers. Some, like that cupboard there, are of great artistry. But many of today’s farmers are the same as people everywhere—they want whatever is newest and brightest.” She walked back from the kitchen and handed him a glass, then motioned him toward the sofa by the big bay window. “They know me and trust me, or at least some of them do. If they want to sell something, I’ll either help them find an honest buyer or buy it myself.”
Angie settled herself across from him and went on, “My parents bought this house when they first arrived here. They were originally from down Louisiana way. My full name is Angelique Picard. They’ve retired down to the coast. My father’s had a mild stroke and isn’t up to traveling. My mother has her hands full these days, but she’s happy. She always did miss the sea. They left me this house.” Angie offered him a smile. “My father worked as foreman at the shoe factory.”
“Is that a fact?” His interest heightened perceptibly. “I’m just getting to know my people. The ones from families who’ve been there for two or even three generations—they’re the hardest to talk with. But gradually they’re starting to open up. I’ll have to ask them about a Mr. Picard.”
My people. There was something about the natural way those words fit him that appealed to her. “His name was Jason. Jason Picard. I’m sure some will remember him.”
“I’ll check on that first thing Monday.” He set his glass down, clasped his hands, unclasped them, his face settling back into habitual lines. “Miss Picard, I owe you an apology.”
“Yes.” Angie tasted her own glass. “Yes, you do.”
“Melissa told me about your losing your husband. I’m very sorry. Really.” He pushed out the words in a determined fashion, as though they had been carefully rehearsed. “Do you have a time that is worse than others? I mean, a particular day when the littlest thing can set you off?”
Such questions from a stranger. She began to retreat behind her traditional barrier of prim haughtiness, to hold him off before he probed further. But something stopped her. What, she did not know. But it was not the time for standoffishness. Of that she was certain. She made do with a slight nod.
“Tuesdays used to be hardest for me. It was a Tuesday that Nancy’s headache got so bad we had to take her to the hospital. Nancy was my wife’s name.” His gaze took on a dark, haunted look. “And it was the day we laid her to rest.”
Again she started to reply, but was halted by a sudden flush of realization. Once more there was a sense of her heart silently calling out the now-familiar message. Yet this time there was no surprise, no resounding force. Simply a need for her to continue the service she had started the day before.
“I don’t know what it was that hit me so hard the night you came by,” Carson Nealey was saying. His hands moved restlessly. He crossed and uncrossed his legs, as though whatever position he chose was uncomfortable before he settled. “It’s been months since I felt that way, like the littlest thing could push me over the edge. I know it probably sounds awful, but I don’t miss Nancy the way I used to. Before, I felt like my heart had been cauterized with a red-hot poker. Not anymore. Most days, I just feel empty.”
For an instant Angie found herself listening to the man and to
herself at the same time. Hearing her own heart’s silent call, to learn the lesson of love the only way it could be taught, by giving to another. Wondering if perhaps the reason she had not heard the Lord’s directive in the past was because she had not wanted to.
Carson glanced up, his eyes as nervous as his hands. “I’m not saying this well. But I just want you to know that I’m not the way I must have seemed to you that evening. Not anymore. And I’m truly grateful for the friendship you’re showing Melissa. She’s talking about you all the time. She doesn’t have any friends here. It’s been harder on her than I expected—this move. I can’t remember the last time I saw her smile.”
He stopped then, his shoulders slumping slightly, like a balloon of tension had been deflated in his chest and he no longer had enough inside to hold himself erect.
Angie hesitated, not because she did not know what to say, but rather because she did. There was no question in her mind, no room for doubt. Not because it had been given to her in some powerful lightning bolt of the Spirit. There was no need. The answer was there in the same quiet assurance with which she knew she needed to speak.
When she finally did respond, it was to simply say, “Springtime.”
That brought his gaze back up. “I’m sorry, what—”
“I am going to answer you honest for honest.” Angie set down her own glass, settled her hands into a determined little ball in her lap, straightened herself fully, and said, “My husband abandoned me four months before he died, Mr. Nealey. We had been married just under a year when it happened.”
“Call me Carson,” he said quietly, clearly uncertain how else to answer. “Why—”
“I was informed by the doctors that I could never have children,” Angie pressed on, amazed at herself. She needed to continue without pause, afraid if she stopped she would be unable to continue. Knowing without understanding how or why that this was not just correct, it was essential. “My late husband was Greek. When he learned that he could not have children by me, he went . . .”
The Music Box Page 6
