Reflection (23 page)

When Peter returned to the piano, Helen and Hans walked back to the creek and the swing. Neither of them said a word, but it seemed understood between them that on this warm spring night they were going to behave like ten-year-olds.

The first fall from the swing into the cold water left Helen gasping for breath, more from laughter than anything else. The fully clothed plunge felt like something from her past, the reemergence of her wild side, locked inside too long. When she and Hans were thoroughly soaked and chilled, they sat down on the grass in the moonlight, laughing and talking, and it was several minutes before Helen realized that her white blouse had grown nearly transparent. It clung to the skin above her breasts, and she could see that Hans was trying to keep his eyes from drifting in that direction. She was ashamed of herself for wanting him to look.

Back in the house, Peter was aglow with accomplishment. He smiled indulgently at their soggy disarray. “Change your clothes,” he said. “I'm finally done.”

Helen changed quickly, excited to hear Peter play the sonata. Downstairs, she and Hans pulled chairs close to the piano and listened. Except for the piano lamp, the lights were off, and Helen closed her eyes as the music filled the room.

Beautiful, Peter
, she thought.
You've truly mastered it
.

Hans applauded when Peter lifted his hands from the keyboard at the sonata's conclusion. “Perfection,” he said. “Stunning.” He stood up from his chair and, with a nod of assent from Peter, lifted the music from the piano. Taking a seat in front of the second piano, he began to play. He was a spectacular sight reader, and the new composition, by now so familiar to Helen, took on fresh meaning in his hands. The entire room seemed altered. The furniture, the rugs, the wallpaper, the pianos—all were ghosts of themselves, faded and warm in the dusky light. The trees outside the huge windows were jade green; they hugged the screens as if trying to get closer to the music. She saw Peter's small smile of satisfaction as he listened, but she knew he didn't feel the intense emotions she was feeling. She could barely breathe.

She stood up quietly and slipped out the front door, holding the screen behind her so it didn't make a sound as it closed. On the porch the music swirled around her, and she sat down in one of the wicker rockers and wept.

SUMMER-SCHOOL CLASSES WERE
out for the day, and only a few kids were in the central corridor of the junior-senior high as Rachel walked toward the counseling office. The smell of the school had not changed in the twenty-six years since she'd been a student there. She breathed in the mix of scents: cafeteria, perspiration, and some other, nameless odor that seemed to emanate from the walls and the floor. The peculiar bouquet brought back nothing but good memories.

The counselors' office was where it had always been. She asked the receptionist if she could speak with Mrs. Reagan, and almost immediately a young woman appeared in the doorway. Her purple-framed glasses matched her dress.

“I'm Mrs. Reagan,” she said. “May I help you?”

Rachel shook the woman's hand. “I'm Rachel Huber.” She didn't miss the quick look of surprise from the receptionist, but the name seemed to mean nothing to the counselor. “Michael Stoltz gave me your name. I wanted to talk with you about possibly doing some tutoring.”

“Oh.”The counselor smiled. “Come in, please.”

Rachel followed her into a small cubbyhole of an office and took the seat she was offered.

“I'm a special education teacher in San Antonio and I'm here for the summer,” she began. “I work mainly with emotionally disturbed students, and I'd like to do some tutoring while I'm here. On a voluntary basis.”

“You're kidding.” Mrs. Reagan slipped off her glasses and leaned forward, elbows on her desk. “You want to tutor the toughest kids in the school system for nothing?”

Rachel smiled. “Yes, I do.” She rattled off her list of credentials and handed the counselor a slim folder. “I brought a few reference letters with me.”

The woman looked through the letters. “This is great,” she said. “I can think of a couple of kids right off the top of my head who are really struggling this summer.” She picked up a pen and a sheet of paper. “All right. Let me get your phone number. Your name again is”—she looked at the top of one of the letters—”Rachel Huber?” The smile abruptly left her face.

Rachel couldn't stop a sigh. “I'm afraid it's just dawned on you who I am,” she said.

The counselor slowly set down her pen. “You're right, and I'm not quite sure what to say.” She rolled the pen on her desk with the tip of her finger. “I personally think it would be wonderful to have someone with your credentials working with our students, and I'll talk to the parents of the kids I have in mind, but you have to understand. It's a bit…delicate. I'm not sure how they'll respond.”

“I do understand.” Rachel stood up, deflated. She suddenly wanted her old life back. She wanted Phil and Chris with her. Phil would hold her and let her rant and rave about the easy dismissal of her offer. Chris would hug her and tell her he loved her—well, at least the younger Chris would have done that. “Let me give you my phone number,” she said to the counselor. “If their kids really need help, I hope they won't pass up the opportunity.”

“I hope they won't, either.” Mrs. Reagan replied. She wrote down Rachel's number, then stood to shake her hand, and Rachel had the feeling that the woman herself bore her no ill will. Yet as she left the office, she was quite certain she would not be hearing from the counselor again.

She got into her car and began driving up Farmhouse Road, her hands tense on the steering wheel. She'd thought things had cooled down. She'd had no more run-ins with anyone, and while people didn't treat her with warmth, they were not hostile toward her, either. She'd shopped in town this week, taken books out from the library, and picked up Gram's order from the bookstore, where she'd seen the young clerk with the scarred face, Sarah Holland. Sarah had been in the rear of the store, and Rachel had gotten only a glimpse of her, but that had been enough. She hadn't been entirely comfortable on those outings, but she refused to become a prisoner in her grandmother's house out of fear that people disliked her.

The only place she couldn't bring herself to go was Halper's Bakery. On Wednesday she'd summoned up her courage and walked to the front door of the building, thinking she would talk to Arlena Cash directly and offer her sympathy. But there had been several customers in the store, and so she'd walked right on past. She had wanted to see Arlena alone. And yet was that fair? What right did she have to try to talk to the woman when she was captive in her own shop?

She could have stayed on Farmhouse Road as she drove home from the school, but she turned onto Main Street and cut straight through the heart of Reflection instead. She knew full well that she wanted to see the Mennonite church. Stupid decision. There was a pocket of loneliness in her chest that had been with her for days, and thinking about Michael could only make it worse. The week had been long and difficult, knowing he was nearby but unreachable.

She kept her eyes on the road and her foot on the gas pedal as she drove past the church. Would she have to go the rest of the summer without seeing him? It had to be his choice. He was the one with too much at stake.

The pocket of loneliness had become a cavern by the time she reached her grandmother's house, and she went straight into the library to call her son. She sat down in one of the wing chairs and dialed the phone.

“Hi, honey,” she said when he answered.

“Mom, God!” he said. “You don't have to keep checking up on me.”

She had called him twice this week, more than she called him when he was away at school.

“I'm not checking up on you,” she said. “I simply miss you. Okay?”

“Okay. Sorry.” How could he argue with that? “But we're practicing right now. Can I call you back later?”

She could hear the music in the background. Music and laughter, and she fought the urge to lecture him once more about returning to school in the fall. Each time she spoke to him she hoped to hear him say that he had come to his senses and couldn't wait to get back. Instead, he would talk about the parties or clubs the band had on its performance schedule.

“Well,” she said, “I just wanted to invite you to come out here for a few days before the summer's over.”
Please come, Chris
. She wanted to see him, even though she knew that if he came, she would have to tell him everything. Everything about herself, about his father. But it was time he knew it all, and she thought it would be best for him to learn about it here.

He didn't sound particularly enthused by the invitation, however. “I have to stay here to take care of Phoenix,” he said.

“The Lawtons would look after him, I'm sure.” Her next-door neighbors loved her dog.

“I'll think about it,” he said. “But we have a lot of work lined up.”

“It might be your only chance to meet your great-grandmother.” She hoped that didn't sound as if she were laying a guilt trip on him.

He sighed. “I can probably come for a couple of days, I guess. Not sure when, though.”

“Yes,” she said, more than pleased. “You just let me know your schedule.”

Her only real concern with having Chris in Reflection was that he might be treated poorly. He was, after all, Luke Pierce's son.

SHE WAS MAKING DINNER
for Gram and herself when her former high school classmate, Becky Frank, called.

“Michael told me you were in town,” Becky said, then added with a laugh, “like there's anyone who doesn't know.”

They talked for a few minutes, and when Rachel said she was looking for an aerobics class, Becky suggested they meet at her class on Monday night and then have dinner together afterward. “They have a shower in the ladies' room,” she said, “so we'll be all set.”

The call pleased Rachel, giving her something to look forward to, and she found herself humming as she returned to her cooking.

After dinner she and Gram settled down in the living room with a couple of books. Rachel had dealt with the loneliness this week by throwing herself into caring for her grandmother—cooking, straightening the house, gardening. Gram was enjoyable company. She could talk about books or music, and she loved their drives through the country. She was able to walk a bit now, and Rachel more often than not pushed an empty wheelchair down a country path while Gram walked beside her.

“We need some music,” Rachel said when she'd gotten a few pages into her book.

“We do indeed,” Gram said.

Rachel began loading a few CD's into the CD player. She accidentally hit the disk skip button, and a couple of notes—just a couple—sounded before she pressed the stop button.

Gram looked up from her book. “Prokofiev,” she said. “Concerto number three in C major.”

Rachel withdrew the cartridge and looked at the label on the disk. Gram was right.

“I'm impressed,” she said. “Try it again.” She shuffled the CD's and let another few notes play.

“Haydn,” Gram said before Rachel had even taken her finger from the stop button. “
The Passion
. Symphony number forty-nine in F minor.”

Rachel eyed her grandmother with curiosity. She loaded ten CD's in the player, relaxed on the sofa, and using the remote, shuffled the music. She'd play a few notes, and Gram would gleefully guess the composer, the piece, the movement, and throw in a few esoteric facts about the creation of the work as well. She was extraordinary. It was a one-sided game of course. Rachel couldn't play, nor did she know if her grandmother was right most of the time. But the older woman obviously loved the diversion, testing her brain, her memory, and impressing the hell out of Rachel.

Chris would be good at this game, too, Rachel thought as she pressed the buttons on the remote. I can probably come for a couple of days, he'd said. She smiled to herself. She couldn't wait to have her wayward son here with her in her grandmother's house, where he would be surrounded by the classical music he had once embraced, as well as by Peter Huber's gentle, benevolent ghost.

“SO.” DREW LEANED BACK
from the coffee table where he'd been jotting down notes for their next press release about the Hostetter project. He looked over at Michael on the sofa. “You about ready to eat?”

“Sounds good.” Michael moved a pile of flyers from his lap to the sofa and stretched. They'd been handing out the flyers about next month's hearing since one-thirty, on the street and in shops, talking to anyone who would listen to them. It was nearly six now, and his stomach was growling.

Drew stood up. “I'll get the coals going, and you can doctor up the steaks if you like. They're in the fridge.”

He left the room, and Michael read over the notes for the press release one more time. They were trying to keep the story alive in the papers, and so far they'd done a good job of it. This particular release was about the cultural-impact study, which decried the Hostetter plan for the hardship it would place on the plain-sect communities in and around Reflection.

He stood up slowly and walked over to the hearth. Drew had built the house himself, and it was full of intriguing architectural touches, like the thick slab of wood jutting from the stone fireplace. It was not the mantel itself, though, that had attracted Michael's attention, but rather the lone framed photograph resting on it. A young boy with an impish grin, a splattering of freckles across his slightly upturned nose. A hint of mischief in his blue eyes. Michael had seen the picture of Will a few dozen times before, but it sent a new wave of sadness through him now that Rachel was in town.