The Music Box (12 page)

“No, ma'am. Maw was just saying she'd hope you'd be stopping by. How you been keeping, Miss Picard?”

“Very well, thank you. This is a young friend of mine. Melissa, this is Clem Cannon.”

Tall and rawboned, Clem had work-hardened hands sprouting from an ancient but clean shirt. “How do, Missie.”

“Hello, sir.” Melissa pointed and asked, “Are those suspenders?”

“Yes, ma'am, they surely are.” He stuck one thumb behind the elastic and gave it a snap. “Don't they like to keep their pants up, where you're from?”

“They use belts,” Melissa replied seriously. “Aren't you cold out here without a coat?”

Clem gave a strong grin. “I got enough work to keep two folks warm.”

Mother Cannon pushed through the front door. “It ain't proper to keep guests hanging about in the snow, Clem.”

“It's not his fault,” Melissa explained for them. “I've never seen suspenders before.”

“Is that a fact.” Mother Cannon stepped out into the sunlight. “And just who might you be, young lady?”

“Melissa Nealey, ma'am. Miss Picard invited me to come with her.”

“Well, if Angie Picard invited you, then, that's good enough for me.” She turned back toward the house. “Y'all come on in before you catch your death.”

The interior was warm and fragrant with Mother Cannon's baking. Angie let Melissa go first and watched her fascination with everything. She explained to Clem, “She's just moved up from the city.”

“Well, I hope she's happy here.” Clem was a carpenter whose skills were known throughout the mountain communities, and he could have had enough work to keep him busy ten times over. But he and his quiet country wife loved the hills and the uplands' slower ways, so he took on only what he needed to support his family. He turned to the girl. “You miss the big city and all them lights and noise, Missie?”

“Sometimes.” Melissa gave him a quick grin and entered the kitchen. After a slow sweep, she said, “Oooh, this is nice. What smells so good?”

“Been using the last of the cherries I put up to make Clem's brood a few pies.” She cast the two adults a smile. “I don't reckon they'd miss a piece or two.”

“Long as they don't know about it, and long as you cut the biggest piece for me,” Clem joked, pulling out a pair of chairs, then winking at Melissa. “What brought you up to these parts from the city?”

“My momma died,” Melissa said, her tone matter-of-fact. She settled into a chair, unaware of the sudden stillness that gripped the room. “Daddy left his big job and took another one at the shoe company.”

Angie cleared her throat. “He's running the factory now.”

“You don't say.” Mother Cannon came over and took the chair across the table from Melissa. “I'm right sorry to hear about your momma, child. You must miss her.”

“I do. A lot.” Melissa gave a solemn nod with the words. “But Miss Picard's been teaching me things, and it doesn't hurt so bad anymore.”

“Well, I think right highly of Angie Picard.”

“Me too.” Melissa looked back to where Angie stood alongside Clem. “She's my best friend.”

“We all need friends, don't we?” Mother Cannon reached across and took one of the soft young hands with both of hers. “Especially when times get hard.”

Clem slipped from the room and returned bearing a hardboard case. “City-bred girl like you, I bet you never heard a country picker before.”

“Play us some hymns,” Angie encouraged, slipping into the chair beside Melissa.

“Girl's a churchgoer, is she?” Mother Cannon patted the soft hand. “That's good. Real good.”

“I stopped going for a while, but Miss Picard has started me back. Papa too.” She watched Clem put the strap around his shoulder, run a finger down the strings, then slip the thumb and finger picks into place. “Is this bluegrass?”

“Yes, ma'am, the real thing.”

“My momma loved bluegrass.”

“Did she, now.” He hitched a leg onto a nearby chair. “Then, you can just sing along.”

He started with a toe-tapping rendition of “Blessed Assurance.” Melissa's auburn hair bobbed up and down in time to the music. Angie exchanged a smile with Mother Cannon, then leaned forward and said quietly, “It's okay, honey. You can sing, if you like.”

So she did.

Clem was so startled he lost his place. Mother Cannon settled back in her seat, so as to watch the both of them. Clem glanced at Angie, widening his eyes a trace, and softened his playing to match the girl's voice.

They followed that with “Beulah Land,” then “I'll Fly Away.” After that, Clem stopped, exchanged a glance with his mother, and asked, “You got any favorites, honey?”

“Momma used to love ‘How Great Thou Art.' ”

“I believe I can recollect how to play that one.” It sounded so good Angie found herself unable to hold back anymore and joined in the singing. Mother Cannon tapped one gnarled hand on the tabletop. Clem swung them back through a second time, then moved directly into “I Surrender All.”

When he stopped, the room rang with the fading notes, then silence. Clem slipped off the guitar, walked over and seated himself at the table. He asked his mother, “Did you ever hear the like?”

“A pair of angels have come to tea,” Mother Cannon agreed, her eyes on Angie. “Four years I've known you, and this is the first I learn of you having such a voice.”

Angie accepted the rebuke with downcast eyes. “I lost it for a while.”

“Well, it's a delight to know you've found your treasure again,” Mother Cannon said, rising and walking to the oven. “Now, who's going to help me serve this pie?”

They sat and chatted until the shadows began creeping their way along the kitchen cabinets. Reluctantly Angie rose. “We have to be getting back.”

“You don't want to risk them high roads at night,” Mother Cannon agreed. “Just one second, now, I've got something you might like to take a look at.”

While she rummaged in the cupboard, Clem said, “Sure would be nice to have y'all come back and sing with me another time. Got two buddies I'd like you to meet. One picks a mighty mean banjo, and the other can fiddle up a storm.”

Melissa turned in her chair, eyes shining. “Can we, Miss Picard?”

“I don't see why not,” Angie replied. “Long as your father doesn't mind.”

“Bring him along, why don't you,” Mother Cannon said, returning and setting a large parcel upon the table. “He might enjoy a nice country meal.”

Angie unwrapped the brown paper. As soon as the item came into view, she exclaimed, “It's perfect!”

“Don't know about that,” Mother Cannon replied. “Used to hold a mirror, but one of the young'uns knocked it off the wall.”

The oval frame was carved from wild cherry and lined with a second inner frame of hand-beaten copper. “I've been looking for something just like this,” Angie said.

“Well, I'm glad you can put it to good use. Now you folks better be getting on the road.” As she came around the table, she took hold of Melissa's hand. “Come along here with me, my lady.”

Melissa cast a questioning glance back toward Angie but allowed herself to be guided down the hall and through the front door. Angie followed along behind them and watched as Mother Cannon led Melissa to the porch's edge. The old woman slowly bent over so that she could drape one arm across the girl's shoulders. “You see that old maple growing out there in my yard?”

“Sure is big,” Melissa said.

“That tree's older than either of us, older than this house, and my daddy's daddy built this place with his own two hands. Look close now, and tell me what you see.”

Melissa hesitated, staring out across the snow-covered expanse. “Branches?”

“Looks awful empty, don't it? All them bare limbs, all dark and lonely and cold. You might think that tree is dead, wouldn't you? A sad sight, some folks might say.” Mother Cannon shifted slightly, bringing her face up closer so her eyes were level with Melissa's. “But them who know, they understand how times like this are important. More than that, they're
vital
. You know why?”

“No, ma'am,” Melissa answered quietly.

“What you're seeing there is only half the tree. You're looking at only what's
visible
. But down underneath the earth, deep where only the good Lord can see, them roots are growing. They're reaching out, gaining hold, anchoring themselves stronger for the spring that's sure to come.”

Mother Cannon eased herself upright, looked down at Melissa, and asked, “You hear what I'm telling you?”

Melissa's gaze did not leave the tree. “I think so, yes, ma'am.”

“Then, you just reflect on that a time.” She stroked the girl's hair a time or two, then added, “And know I'll be keeping you in my prayers.”

13

February became March, carried by a steady flow of beautiful days. That Friday, Angie was clearing her desk, hearing the excited chatter and laughter of youngsters escaping the confines of schedule and school fade into the distance, when there came a quiet knock on her door. Carson stood in the doorway. He wore a well-cut gray suit, a fine silk tie, camel-hair overcoat, and a wool scarf. “I hope I'm not disturbing you.”

“No, not at all.” Although finding him here, in the center of her little world, was disturbing. “Won't you come in?”

“I heard from Melissa that you like to walk in the afternoons,” he said. “I . . . I was wondering if you might like some company.”

Her mind searched for some response but could only settle on, “Melissa has spoken to you about my habits?”

He smiled at that. “My daughter talks about you all the time.”

It was his smile and not his words that caught in her heart. She had never seen him smile before, and it transformed his face. All the somber lines lifted at once, gentling the sharp edges. Like a sudden shaft splitting the darkness of an afternoon thunderstorm, the act transfigured him. Angie rose from her chair almost before she realized she had moved. “I'll just get my coat.”

Silence accompanied them along the street. The act of walking with a man was so overwhelming in and of itself that Angie felt herself unable to converse. Carson apparently was of the same mind, for he only glanced at her a few times, and that was to share with her another of his smiles. Angie decided that the quiet was not uncomfortable.

Several passing cars slowed to inspect them. Each time, Angie dropped her head, not in shame but rather in confusion. She had never felt quite so on display. It did no good to try to convince herself that she was simply joining the father of a student on her afternoon stroll. She knew what the passersby saw and what they would soon tell all the town. Angie Picard was out walking with a
man
.

For some reason, her chagrin at being the talk of the town was not all that distressing.

It was only when they were approaching her house and she realized she had not opened her mouth a single time since leaving the school that she knew a sudden panic. What if he thought she had not enjoyed the walk? But try as she might, she could not come up with a thing to say, until it occurred to her to ask, “What will you be doing this weekend, Carson?”

He cleared his throat to reply, “I was planning to take my daughter, Melissa, to the cinema tomorrow evening.”

As if she needed reminding of who his daughter was. She smiled then, reassured that he clearly felt the same nerves as she. “Why don't you come by first and let me serve you both dinner?”

****

The next morning, Angie was awake in time to watch the first light of day arrive, clear and cold. She waited as long as she could before picking up the phone and calling Emma's number. “I hope I'm not disturbing you.”

“Luke takes it as a personal challenge to beat the roosters,” Emma replied glumly. “The day he lets me sleep half as long as I'd like is the day we lay him to rest.”

“Do you have your appointment at the beauty parlor this morning?”

“Just like every Saturday. My weekly treat for myself. Why?”

“Do you think you could get them to fit me in?”

Emma was on instant alert. “Angie Picard, you don't mean to tell me the rumors are true.”

“What rumors?”

“The ones about you being seen walking bold as day and holding hands with a certain gentleman.”

“Emma—”

“I told them it was ripe as last October's pumpkin pie.” Emma retreated quickly, but then her voice drew close in the receiver. “It was you, wasn't it?”

“Emma Drummond, do you honestly believe I would allow a man to hold my hand in public? Mercy, I have a reputation to uphold, no thanks to you.”

“Well, now, it's got to be something special going on, hand-holding or not. I know on account of you haven't been to a beauty parlor since your momma stopped dragging you down.”

“Of all the . . .” Angie struggled a moment longer, then said weakly, “I don't know why I put up with you.”

“Ten o'clock,” Emma said with a chuckle. “They'll squeeze you in, or they will have me to deal with. Wait till Luke hears about this one.”

When Angie entered the beauty parlor, she was ready for battle. Emma took one look at her face, smiled sweetly, and said, “I've finally decided on the music.”

Angie, caught totally off guard, stammered, “What?”

Emma patted the seat beside her. “Come, let her get started.”

“Saturdays we don't have a moment to waste, honey,” the beautician agreed. “You're lucky we had us a cancellation.”

Hesitantly Angie walked over and seated herself. Emma went on, “I've been scouring my books for the right music. I want to give them something they know, but not so familiar they'll try to sing along. I've decided on two English traditionals. ‘Alleluia, Sing to Jesus,' by Chatterton Dix, that's one. Then we'll flow directly into ‘Under His Wings.' ”