Authors: Amanda McIntyre
“Evenin’, Sheriff,” Angel stated in neighborly fashion. She waited a heartbeat for a response, but he continued to stare at the jewel. Her heart twisted with sadness for the way things had turned out—not only had he lost the woman he loved, but the tension between him and his father had all but severed that relationship, as well. Other than Nate, his deputy, Sheriff Jake had no one to turn to. She’d never been very good at small talk. If her past had taught her nothing else, it had clarified if she had something to tell someone, she’d best be telling them without hesitation because no one could predict what the future held. She drew in a deep breath, pushing ahead, hoping to make conversation, to reach him. “You think Miss Lillian’s out there somewhere, Sheriff?” she asked with care, aware of the rumors about his mental state.
“If she were dead, I’d know it.” His gaze never wavered, and Angel wondered if he realized who he was speaking to.
Prompted by a morbid curiosity to understand the mechanics of the devotion between the man and her friend, Angel pressed on. “How would you know,
Sheriff? How could you possibly know what fate has in store for her?”
His eyes narrowed as though harnessing some sort of mystical strength. It was a moment before he turned to her. Angel stepped back, unsure of his reaction.
“I’m going to find her. No matter how long it takes, or how far I have to go. I will find her. I’ve got to. It’s like a part of me is missing.” He blinked. “Does that make a lick of sense?”
Angel had nodded to make him feel better, but the truth was, she had no idea of the scope of such love. Her experience with men was shallow at best. Two weeks later, Sheriff Jake had disappeared, causing a stir among the townsfolk. Preacher, of course, blamed the sins of the brothel for turning his son away from his duties to Deadwater. Not once did he join any of the search parties.
The mayor swore in Nate within hours of Sheriff Jake’s disappearance. She’d sensed Nate’s interest in her when, as a deputy, he was forced to protect her while a rogue gunslinger held Miss Lillian hostage. She was beholden to him for his attention; his kindness was a welcome respite from the hateful looks and whispered comments of the townspeople. But she didn’t feel about him the way Miss Lillian felt about her rugged lawman, and rather than bruise the former deputy’s ego, she chose instead to avoid him as best she could.
“Don’t go changing….” Angel sang quietly as she snapped the wrinkles out of the wet sheets before hanging them on the line. Miss Lillian had taught her everyone deserved to be happy. Angel had never associated happiness in relation to her own wants and needs before. Her life was built on pleasing others, yet her friend had shown her that as much as anyone, she deserved to have hopes and dreams. Her wispy blonde hair blew haphazardly, and she turned her face upward, allowing a gust of warm autumn wind to brush back the strands for her.
She didn’t know much about Miss Lillian’s background, but when she played piano and sang her strange songs, it caused Angel’s heart to take wing. What kind of man could write such lyrics about a woman? Certainly, no man she’d ever met, with the exception of Sheriff Jake. The words made her heart race, sent gooseflesh up her arms. Closing her eyes, she recalled the night she’d asked Miss Lillian about the music.
“Did you make up these words, Miss Lillian?” Angel asked dreamily, resting her arms atop the piano.
The beautiful, dark-haired Magnolia madam chuckled softly, then took a sip of the Kentucky bourbon the bartender reserved for special occasions. She sucked in a deep breath as the whiskey left its mark. “Don’t I wish.” She swept her fingers lightly over the keys. “The man who sang this song was named Billy. Billy Joel. It’s called ‘Everybody Has a Dream.’” She glanced up and despite her smile, sadness shone in her eyes.
“Billy,” the name slipped off Angel’s tongue in quiet reverence.
Miss Lillian rested her hands in her lap, uttered a quiet sigh, and gently closed the lid of the piano. With a soft smile, she touched Angel’s cheek as she rose to leave. “Don’t be up too late. It’s sure to be busy tomorrow. Isn’t it your day to help
Cook?”
She nodded. Angel enjoyed the times she spent in the kitchen learning Cook’s recipes. She hugged Miss Lillian, wishing she could find a way to ease whatever had her heart so heavy. It was the last time they’d spoken. The next morning, Miss Lillian was gone without a trace. Her clothes and personal belongings left behind. But the melodies she played clung to Angel’s aching heart, giving comfort and hope in the dark days as they moved ahead.
***
A few weeks later, Angel sat humming one of the piano tunes, daydreaming of the man who so effortlessly wrote about what it meant to love a woman. His words spoke of a different kind of relationship, a mutual passion of give and take.
Feelings not normally allowed women and rarely shown by men. Perhaps that was what resonated in her. His music celebrated all it was to be a woman and have a man love you. A warm breeze blew softly over the desert plain, barely lifting the corkscrew curls at the back of her neck. She halted her pea shelling for a moment to stretch, rubbing the annoying crick in her shoulder, when she spied the dusty cloud of a fast approaching buggy. She stood to get a better look, placing the bowl at her feet. After a few seconds, she realized it was Josie driving the rig, and it appeared she had the hounds of Hell nipping at her heels. Caution prompted her to search the horizon, debating whether to retrieve Paddy’s gun from behind the bar. She stepped to the edge of the porch, shading her eyes, and heard a scream.
“Angel!” It was Josie all right, and she sounded frantic.
Angel turned on her heel and headed into the saloon to get the gun.
“You won’t believe the news I have!” Her friend shouted over the din of the horses’ hooves.
She darted a look back over her shoulder in time to see Josie yank on the reins and cause the buggy to sway precariously. Angel hurried down the steps, careful to avoid being in the path of the oncoming horses. The team slowed to a standstill and the other woman jumped out. Her face was covered with a film of dust.
“Josie, what on earth has happened? Is someone after you?”
She shook her head. Taking a few moments to catch her breath, she licked her lips, chafed by the desert wind, and held her hand to her chest while her breathing slowed. “There’s a new music teacher in town.” Her face lit with a smile. “And he teaches piano lessons.”
Angel’s heart soared. An opportunity to learn to play the music she so dearly loved? But her lofty dreams plummeted, along with her heart, falling with a thud on the cold dry ground of reality. “You know how we’re thought of in this town. It would never be permitted. The preacher would make sure of it.”
“Maybe he could come to the Sweet Magnolia,” Josie responded enthusiastically. “I bet he’d come.”
Though the idea was tempting, it would never work. Accepting a student from the Sweet Magnolia, even one enthused to learn, would end his business in town quicker than a summer dust storm.
Josie pushed on, determined to make her case. “Would it hurt to ask? Maybe you could arrange something with Sheriff Nate?”
Angel glanced up, the corner of her mouth lifting in a wry smile.
“It’s no secret he’s had his eye on you for quite a spell. He might be willing to work out something.”
Angel picked up the crockery bowl and held it in the curve of her arm. Thoughts of her fingers skipping across the beautiful ivory and black keyboard danced merrily in her head. The swinging saloon doors flew open, banging against the house. Startled, she fumbled the bowl, grasping it to her. A man, an obviously satisfied man, stood for a moment, taking in the view from the porch. She doubted in his state he was even aware of their presence. Josie cleared her throat. Angel caught his startled gaze and in her mind, the image of his wife, Ermyma Brisbee—the only real pianist for church services, funerals, and weddings—slammed the lid down on her musical fantasy.
“A pleasant afternoon, ladies.” He tipped his brown bowler. “Has Deadwater ever seen such a magnificent autumn day?”
Josie slid Angel a look, hiding her smile. “It surely is, Mr. Brisbee.
He nodded and straightened his slightly askew collar, giving evidence he’d recently re-dressed. He was like many men in Deadwater who frequented the Magnolia to relieve the stress in their marriages. Ermyma, on the other hand, was a large woman, known for her controlling tendencies. She would not take kindly to her husband prowling around the Magnolia or engaging in behaviors unacceptable for the spouse of a church musician.
Angel handed the peas to Josie and hooked her arm through that of the austere man. She gave him a gentle smile. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind keeping me company for a moment or two on the porch swing? I have a little dilemma I hope to have your help in settling.”
He cleared his throat in a gruff, authoritative manner. “Well, now, I should be going….”
“I’m sure Mrs. Brisbee understands your need to have your Saturday afternoon card games. She’s always struck me as a reasonable woman.”
Angel saw the look of hesitancy in his eyes, replaced as quickly with sharp recognition. “Of course,” he said, ushering her to sit. “How can I be of service?”
“It has come to my attention there’s a new piano teacher in town,” she began. Noting his resigned expression, she offered him a sweet smile.
***
Burt Montgomery, known better as the “piano man” had become a regular to the Sweet Magnolia on Sunday afternoons, and as it happened, Mr. Brisbee’s card games on Saturday afternoons remained a pleasant occasion. Everyone was happy, especially Angel. From the moment they met, she had felt a kinship to Burt. Polished more than most folks in Deadwater, he appeared dapper in a gray flannel suit, his silvery hair brushed back over his ears and a black bowler on his head. But it was his eyes, soft and blue, that drew Angel to him. They sparkled with kindness, making her believe somehow he could see inside her heart.
“You play as though you carry the music inside you,” he remarked one day as they sat side by side at the piano. He had an odd, refined accent, indicative of his training, perhaps, but comforting in tone, which resonated with Angel in a fatherly way.
It was true. She was happiest when seated in front of the old upright. She sailed through her scales, playing them as he’d taught her—first one hand, and then with two.
“Miss Lillian said I had an ear for it.” Angel smiled at the memory. “She taught me a few chords to her favorite songs, but one day I would love to play as well as she did.” She rolled her fingers over the worn ivory keys.
He shrugged. “Miss Lillian was right. However, the spirit which thrives inside each of us is different, Angel. You must allow the music within you to emerge. Go ahead. Close your eyes. Let all that excites you or sparks your dreams carry you to a place where only your heart can hear.”
She stared at her hands moving effortlessly over the keys, and though the notes she played were rudimentary, she closed her eyes and tried to imagine greater, seeing a grand opera house filled with people who’d come to hear her play. She sat in a grand ball gown with yards of fabric flowing behind her, and in her upswept hair, a white magnolia perched over one ear.
“Listen carefully, feel the music, let it become a part of you… of your dreams.
Set it free, dare to risk all you know—for all that can be.”
His voice tapped into her thoughts, fueling her fantasy, touching the desire she held deep inside, the happiness she wouldn’t dare to believe in. Her body burned, the melody wrapping around her, transporting her senses, freeing her.
Anticipation rushed through her, and her fingers tingled. An energy fueled by her greatest desires lifted her higher. It guided her seductively through the dark abyss, pulling her beyond reality. In the distant corners of her mind, she heard Burt’s guidance. “Find your heart, Angel. Find Billy.”
***
His voice blended with the notes playing in her head and suddenly she saw a beam of light poised over a dark stage. A person dressed in white sat before the most magnificent piano she’d ever seen. And while it was the song she’d been playing, it was no longer her at the piano and then like thunder rolling over the desert valley, applause erupted around her, drowning out all other sound.
As though hungover from whiskey shots, Angel forced her eyes open and squinted into the semi-darkness.
“Sing us the song—”
She shifted in her seat, becoming slowly aware of others around her.
Where is Burt? Where am I?
Her vision blurred and with thoughts not much clearer, she blinked and narrowed her focus, drawn to a steady stream of light shining down on a man seated at a piano. She was no longer in the Magnolia but in a room larger than the biggest church or the tallest barn she’d ever been in. People yelling and clapping for the performer on stage filled every seat, rows and rows of them.
“The man’s a legend.”
She jolted suddenly with an awareness of a young woman seated next to her, who then leapt to her feet and began singing along with the crowd. She glanced down and motioned for Angel to join her.