T's Trial: A Bone Cold--Alive Novel (5 page)

Her song. Lyla’s Song. Wes had written the title atop the score paper that held only a one-finger melody he had plotted out for their fifth anniversary. He had so wanted to please her, to do something for her in her special language. There were words, too, unwritten words blazoned into her heart, words that started in her mind now and wouldn’t stop, even as the music didn’t. Sam didn’t play the simple one-finger rendition Wes had carefully drawn. Instead, he had taken the melody and filled it out, given it life, caused it to soar. She had wanted to do that, to fill out the simple notes. But she’d never had the opportunity. Wes and the song were gone too quickly afterward. Lyla leaned against the doorjamb and fought tears and frustration. The copy lost in the shuffle of her grief had been tucked away safely all along. She was torn between gratitude for his finding it, and anger at the audacity that it took for him to take her gift and change it. To even touch it.

She decided she was more angry than grateful.

***

T knew what he had the instant he touched it the night before. He didn’t have to play it out to feel the sweetness of the tune, to appreciate the simplicity. That it had her name on the top, that it was yellowed beyond its date, that it was a piece of love for her from the Wes that signed it, made it all the more meaningful for her. He was willing to bet she didn’t know where it was. Things like this were either framed or tucked into scrapbooks. He’d be delighted to tell her. After a little fun, of course. Fletcher would not rise to his taunts and the kid was off-limits, so Lyla would have to do.

He hadn’t expected to have an opportunity so soon. With Fletch gone, he was free to do what he wanted with her. After her tirade in the kitchen, his thoughts had only dealt with her bitchiness. That damned word useful. And user. And used, too. Mustn’t forget that. A useful, used user. Perfect description for Eddie T. But it was Sam who had been left in charge of the house, and thank God, Sam remembered his manners in the kitchen. Good boy, Sam. That had effectively shut her up. Now he watched her take off to inspect their living quarters. He was glad he’d made both their beds, straightening them with the hospital corners his grandmother had always demanded. Now Lyla could just guess where they were sleeping.

He leaned over to peer around the piano and note her progress down the hall. She probably didn’t know her hips were swaying slightly, her sandals making a slight staccato on the hardwood floors. Watching her movement, he almost forgot to start the melody just as she turned into his room. He saw her hand grip the doorjamb, her knuckles whitening as the intensity of the music increased. Her foot stopped in mid-step. This was an even better reaction than he had hoped for. She was stunned. Whether from his arrangement, which was really good, or from this song’s mere existence, he felt sure he’d find out much sooner than later. He could tell already, he’d have to buy it from her. BCA needed one slow, artistically demanding cut per album. He’d just found the next one.

He already felt the music award in his hand.

***

It took a good two minutes to calm her breathing. In the meantime, he played the tune through five times, changing the key each time and adding some sort of chorus at the end. It was as if he beckoned her with the melody, called to her, demanded she return to the piano.

Lyla looked in the mirror, smoothed back the straggles of hair, then redid the ponytail into a bun. She brushed off her T-shirt, the one proclaiming her to be a baseball team mom, and strode purposefully back down the hall to the living room.

He was smiling, but it wasn’t one for her pleasure. Damn him!—he knew exactly what he’d done. She’d not give him the satisfaction! A single piece of paper now lay lopsided on the top of the piano, almost skidding into the bowels of the grand. She snatched it. The letters and notes scrambled themselves up in front of her eyes.

“You don’t like my arrangement? Infinitely better than the original.” He was baiting her, but she dealt with men trying to get the better of her every day. Mr. Thomas did not know his opponent as well as he thought he did.

She quietly folded the paper along the yellowed line. “Please stop.”

“Please stop playing that or please just stop playing?”

“Please both.” Her eyes met his.

“Please, why?”

“Because it’s mine.” Her voice was light, controlled, but she took a deep breath.

“That mean I can’t play any of this?” His hands indicated the musical carnage about him and the piano.

“I think you know perfectly well what I mean, Mr. Thomas.”

“Indeed. You never answered. Like my arrangement?”

She hesitated. “Which one of the five is your favorite?”

He squinted his eyes, made a good pretense of remembering. “Second one. I think.” He looked at her sharply. Ah, she  had impressed him. Only a trained ear like  hers—and now obviously his—could have told the delicate differences between arrangements three and four.

“Well, I’d just as soon you forgot it. The song belongs to me.”

“Music belongs to the world. Every pair of lovers has its own song. No matter that it’s shared by many more.”

“How philosophical you are.” Neither blinked at the edge held in her voice. She swallowed, then continued on quietly. “I think you’re no more a chauffeur than I am.”

“Sure he is! Best damn chauffeur I’ve ever had!” Startled, they turned quickly in the direction of Fletch’s voice coming from the kitchen doorway. Neither had heard him enter through the door to the garage. The bottoms of his chinos were wet and he was carrying sodden sneakers. “In fact, I think he’d better chauffeur the boat next time I go out.” They made no response. “And shorts! Definitely, I need to wear shorts!” Still no response. “I didn’t interrupt a duet, did I?” His expression was open, friendly, but he increased his grip on the tennis shoes and water dripped onto the floor.

Lyla recovered first. “I brought your groceries. Left the receipts and change on the table and put everything up. You are certainly going to eat well.” She hesitated, turned the sheet of music in her hand. “I’ll be going. You need anything, just call. I usually stay out of the way much better than this.” She grabbed for the front door, opened it too quickly, then almost tripped over Shep in her haste to be gone.

She heard the front door slam as she turned the key in the ignition. T was running down the front steps, a small brown book clutched in his hand. He grabbed the windshield of the Jeep as she put it in gear. Shep stood in the passenger seat, a low rumble beginning in his throat.

Lyla turned sharply to face the man, one hand on the steering wheel, one on the stick shift. She made no move to calm the dog. “There’s more?” The anger had overtaken.

“Don’t you want to know where I found such a valuable document?”

She pursed her lips. Hell, yes, she wanted to know. She’d ripped and torn and searched and scratched for five years trying to find it. She took a deep breath. “I’d appreciate it if you’d tell me.” Of course, I don’t expect a straight answer, she thought.

He held the old hymnal up. She recognized it immediately as Miss Tennie’s. Its back was broken from years of resting on a church piano. Lyla hadn’t seen it in a while, but she just knew she’d looked through it during her search.

“It was stuck in the back of the bigger cabinet, turned sideways between two shelves. Had a hell of a time seeing it, since it’s the same color. Had an even harder time retrieving it. I’d say it was worth it, though.” He still held it just beyond her reach.

She’d be damned if she’d reach for it even if her fingers did itch to hold it.

“Tell me, are there words?” She remained silent, her lips pressed together, a white line forming. “Here.” He held it out to her.

She took it, her hand shaking slightly. She didn’t look at him.

“Page 473.”

He turned and walked calmly back up the steps. She laid the book on her lap, and Shep sat down as she turned in the drive and drove over the cattle guard. She was well out of sight of the house before she opened the hymnal.

Page 473. “Shall We Gather at the River.” She’d known even without looking. Wes’s favorite hymn. The one they’d sung at his funeral.

Chapter Four

F
letch wasn’t immediately in evidence. T scanned the living room, down the hall. The bedroom door was open, but there was no noise. He ventured into the kitchen and found a pantless Fletch standing in front of the washer, reading the instructions on the opened lid. His wet chinos were on top of the dryer, the shoes beside them. He held a scoop of detergent in his right hand and seemed unsure what to do with it.

“Never done laundry, Fletch?”

“Had a mother, had a wife, had a laundry service. I don’t suppose you count it as one of your many skills?”

“No.”

“Unlike baiting our gracious landlady.” Fletch made his decision, dumped the detergent, slid the clothes in on top, shut the lid, spun the dial, pulled the knob. Water rushed in. “Do I get an explanation?”

T stuffed his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “No.”

“You realize this means I can’t leave you alone any more.”

T grimaced. “She was upset over the way I’d scattered her music.”

Fletch leaned on the washer, felt its rumble. “You can do better than that.”

“No, really, she was quite upset. In fact, I’m going to go clean it up right now.” He turned. Fletch followed.

“I thought maybe it had something to do with that yellowed piece of sheet music that bore her name. Seems to me you were playing a rather elaborate version of a one note song before lunch.”

“Since when do you know about notes—other than promissory?” He knelt on the floor, stacking the books and loose sheets, trying to categorize them back the way he’d found them.

“I am not as musically illiterate as you would suppose. You seem to forget how we’ve made our living for ten years.”

“You mean how I’ve made our living. Never forget that.” He put the first pile in one of the cabinets. “Just like you’re not going to let me forget how I squandered my share of the profits.”

Fletch was silent. “Want to know where I went?”

“Not really.” He continued with the music, now pulling old hymnals together. “But I would like to know how you can step from the nice big wooden dock into the nice big boat and manage to get your pants and shoes wet.”

“I made a couple of stops.”

T sat back onto the floor and stretched his legs out, still reaching for the music. “I’ll bite. Where did you stop?”

“Went to the marina.” Fletch settled himself down on the arm of the loveseat, not in any hurry to find dry clothes. “Quite an operation. There is money here.”

“Lee Marina?” Fletch nodded. “Then why does she rent this place out?”

Fletch shrugged. “There would certainly seem to be enough cash flow to go around. Must be a hundred slips, some big boats, a couple of fifty-footers. Little kitchen bathroom affairs built into some of the docks. I’d bet a quarter of those boats have never left the marina. Party hardy.”

“My kind of people.”

“I tied up at the big gasoline dock. A convenience store practically sits on the water. There was a bigger store further up from the ramp and a diner.”

“What’s on the menu?”

“Catfish. And more catfish. I brought a menu back.” He patted his sides, then looked toward the washer. “I guess we’ll have to get another copy. Shouldn’t matter to you though. We’re not eating out.”

“Hell, we’re not. If you think I’m subsisting on your cooking for three weeks…”

“What if you’re recognized?”

“Look at me, Fletch!” T finished stacking the books and placed them in the cabinets. “I’m bald! I’ve gained twenty pounds and I’m out of place! Who is going to recognize me?”

“It only takes one to blow your cover and bingo! it’s a mini-riot!”

“So then we could go back to the Coast.”

Fletch shook his head. “You’re not ready.”

T sat down on the bench. This battle wasn’t over, but he could ease off for the moment. He’d have his opportunity for escape. “So you got wet trying to get a menu we’re not going to use.”

Fletch cocked an eyebrow. “No. After I left the marina, I headed for what’s called The Islands. Kind of out in the middle. Nice sand. The boy at the dock told me about them. I decided to get out and stretch, take a leak. Didn’t pull the boat up far enough on the beach and by the time I was finished, it was half way out into the water. So I went after it.”

“I can’t believe you’re admitting that idiocy to me.”

“I am human, T. I just want you to know that.” Sarcasm laced his voice.

“You’re an ass, Fletch. And this scheme of hiding is asinine.” He turned back to proper position at the keys. He rested his fingers on the ivory, closed his eyes, and leaned his head back.

“I take it I’m dismissed, O Master.”

“Get a life, Fletch. Leave mine alone.”

*  *  *

Lyla placed the sheet carefully back into the hymnal, page 473. She entered the Quik-Lee through the front door, since she always wanted to know how her customers viewed the business. She slapped the counter top as she rounded it and headed upstairs, barely acknowledging Murph, who had no classes on Fridays and never turned down her offer to make time and a half. She heard the good-natured tone in the complaint he called after her, “Sally says next time you leave me to help her with the lunch crowd, she’s going to quit!” Lyla smiled as she climbed the stairs two at a time. Sally, short-order cook and chief hamburger maestro always had a few unkind words, especially on Fridays, the busiest of days. Still, Lyla knew she would have admonished Norm for his eating habits, remembered Bertie liked double tomatoes, and delivered witty, if somewhat salty, repartee with the telephone crew working down the road. When the lunch rush was over, she’d have handed Murph an extra ten-spot. But everyone had to complain to the boss and Murph was no exception.

She slammed the door behind Shep, who’d followed her up, then realized that Harrison was curled on the couch watching TV, rather than down in the store. She was clutching the hymnal and panting. He looked startled. “You okay, Mom?” There was a worry line across his forehead. Shep joined him on the couch, but he paid the dog only half the attention he demanded.