Sing Sweet Nightingale (6 page)

Her reaction is too strong to be normal. People don’t usually get choked up at the sight of a car. There’s something about
this
car specifically that freaks her out.

It takes a second for her to smile, but she forces the expression onto her face. “It’s my sister’s favorite car.”

But she doesn’t look happy to see it.

“Oh.” My chest aches. I don’t have to ask to know something bad happened. “I’m sorry.”

K.T. glances at me out of the corner of her eye, and her mouth tenses. “She didn’t die.” She says it like she’s not sure if it’s true. “She’s been in a coma for four years.”

“My…” I close my eyes for a second. Can I say it? I haven’t said it aloud more than a handful of times. Haven’t had to. Horace knew about J.R. when he came looking for me, and I’ve barely spoken to anyone else in the past few months. Certainly not about J.R.

Swallowing, I try again. “My little brother died a few months ago.”

When I open my eyes, K.T. is watching me. Her expression is blank—the careful blankness of someone who’s used to keeping people from seeing their pain—but the knowledge is in her eyes. She gets it. She knows what it’s like to lose someone you love.

“Sometimes I’m not sure if that would be easier or harder,” she says.

I nod as the ragged edges around the wound of J.R.’s death burn. Which
is
worse? Losing someone entirely or going years without knowing if the person you love will ever recover? Sometimes hope can cut worse than loss. But at the same time, at least you
have
hope.

A silver sedan pulls into the parking lot and honks twice. K.T. looks up and shakes herself off, her smile returning. It’s forced, but it’s there.

“Well, on
that
bright note, it’s nice to meet you, Hudson. Maybe I’ll see you this weekend.”

She smiles and, waving, jogs toward the sedan.

I watch her go, trying to breathe. I remember how when I realize my hands are locked around my phone. Where I now have the number of a girl who showed up in my dream this morning.

I don’t know how K.T. is connected to this mess, but she doesn’t seem to be in danger or a threat right now. Guess for once I have some time to figure it out.

I hope the burning blonde is as easy to find.

Four

Mariella

Wednesday, August 27 – 5:47 PM

During the summer, days pass in a blur. I spend my mornings searching the Internet for music I haven’t heard before. New singer-songwriters, old and almost-forgotten arias, hidden gems from one-hit wonders of the sixties. It’s all fair game. After lunch, I listen to the songs I love until I have them memorized, creating a playlist of my favorites for my iPod and letting it play on loop while I curl up in the window seat downstairs and read. I’d rather be in my room, but the compromise with my mother means spending time in the main part of the house. Afternoons downstairs, mornings and nights upstairs.

I put my book down and rub my thumb along the cool, smooth back of my glass nightingale. The bird is about two inches long from beak to tail and fits perfectly in the curve of my fingers. Bringing it up to my eyes, I admire the way it gleams in the sunlight streaming through the window. It’s not simply the way the glass reflects the light. My nightingale creates its own light—a gorgeous, pearlescent shimmer that only I can see. A light that marks it as a gift from Orane.

He’s given me dozens of trinkets and figurines over the years, but this one is my favorite. I’m his nightingale, after all.

The glow gets brighter as I watch it. I smile. The gifts he leaves for me are beautiful, but what I love most is the reminder that I’m on Orane’s mind as much as he’s on mine. I know he’s working on finding a way to let me stay. It’ll happen. I have to be patient.

The front door bangs shut, and I jump. My nightingale flies from my fingers. I dive after it, catching it before it smacks against the wood floor.

Sighing, I drop my head. It’s never fallen that far before. I don’t know if it would shatter, but I
really
don’t want to take the chance.

“Honey, it’s time for—Mari, what are you doing on the floor?”

I push myself up, holding out the nightingale with one hand and signing with the other, “Dropped.”

My mother’s confusion clears. She nods and helps me up. “Well, be careful and come set the table.”

I slip the nightingale into the pocket of my flannel pajama pants and nod. Putting my book back, I follow her into the kitchen. My father is already there, pouring two glasses of red wine. His tie is hanging loose around his neck, and his suit jacket has been tossed on a side table. Normally it takes him a little longer to unwind after work, but tonight he’s grinning as my mother and I come into the room.

“Dana, remember how I told you the house on the next block might have a buyer?”

“The fixer-upper?” my mother asks as she checks the oven. “I still think you’re crazy. No one would buy that place. The roof nearly caved in after that storm last winter!”

“You better believe it. I was right! It sold a couple days ago, and I found out who bought it. Makes
perfect
sense now.”

My father is nearly bouncing. I haven’t seen him this excited in years. Maybe ever. I glance at him as I pull the plates out of the cupboard, wondering why this is such big news. Swallow’s Grove is a tiny town, but newcomers aren’t
that
uncommon.

My mother’s lip quirks as she watches him. “Are you going to tell me who it is or do you expect me to guess, Frank?”

“Horace Gregory Lawson III.” He says the name with strong emphasis on each part. My mother blinks at him, waiting for the punch line.

“I’m sorry, honey. Should that ring a bell?” she finally asks.

My father sighs and shakes his head. “Dana, he’s the father of the Lawson who rebuilt the apartments in the center of town.”

She stares at him without recognition, her brown eyes steady as she sips her wine.

“He single-handedly designed the rebuild of Albany’s capitol building?” my father says.

“Oh!” Her eyes brighten, and she nods. “I remember now. Are you sure it’s him? His family has the money to live anywhere.”

“He’s on public record as the new owner. And Jen Selwyn already went over to meet him. He’s
here
!”

My mother nearly drops her glass. “He moved in while the house is in
that
condition?”

They keep talking about the house, speculating on whether Mr. Lawson will do the work himself or hire out. My father throws out ideas for the redesign, the directions he’d take with restoration and furniture, and which contractors he’d hire to do the actual work. He’s nearly wistful when he says, “But chances are he’s going to handle the whole project himself.”

“You never know,” my mother says as she clears the table. “Doesn’t hurt to introduce yourself.”

“He’s a world-renowned architect!” My father and I both pick up our plates and follow her into the kitchen. “What’s he going to want with a small-town firm?”

“Well, he’s moving to a small town, isn’t he?” she asks. “There must be something bringing him here.”

My father laughs. “Somehow I doubt it’s Teagan Designs.”

My mother turns and kisses him as she takes the plate from his hands. “Maybe it will be after he meets you. The worst he can say is no, Frank.”

The smile that comes onto my father’s face tells me it’s time to escape. They’re about to start cooing at each other, and they won’t realize I’m gone if I go now.

At the top of the steps, I stop and sit. There’s a corner where you can hear everything said downstairs because of the acoustics of the vaulted ceiling. For a while, I sit with my fingers in my ears, singing songs in my head to give them some privacy. After a few minutes I release the pressure, checking to make sure they’re done.

“How was she today?” my father asks.

I know how much my silence bugs them, but it’s been part of our lives for so long they rarely talk about it anymore.

My mother sighs. “She’s the same. It hasn’t gotten any better, but…I don’t know. I guess at this point I’m glad she hasn’t gotten any worse either.”

“Mari always was a determined little thing,” he says. “She takes after you.”

“I guess we should be happy she doesn’t take after your sister.” My mother laughs, and I hear the scrape of her piano bench sliding against the floor. “Can you imagine raising another Jacquelyn?”

My father groans. “I’m going to forget you suggested that. I talked to Julian yesterday. The way he tells it, my sister is a model of parenthood. I can’t tell if the kid is lying or delusional.” There’s a second of silence. “Can you believe he’s going to be a sophomore?”

I barely remember my Aunt Jacquelyn—she lives in Vegas with her son Julian, and though my father goes out to see them a few times a year, they rarely come to visit us in New York. If half the stories they’ve told me are true, I can understand their relief. She’s in her mid-thirties and still going through a rebellious teenage phase.

There’s a plop and a sigh as my father settles into his armchair. “Are you going to play it again?”

“Of course.” A few notes fill the air, and I breathe easier.
This
is what I’ve been waiting for. Closing my eyes, I lean my head against the banister and listen.

When my father renovated this house twenty years ago, he paid special attention to the acoustics because of my mother’s love for music. My ears have been spoiled by the perfection of my opera hall, but the slight echo of my mother’s performance space isn’t a flaw. It adds a sort of ethereal quality to her songs. Especially this one.

My fingers move across my knees, mimicking hers on the ivory keys of our antique piano. This composition is deceptively simple, but there’s strength in the bass line and resonance in the high notes. It is the most moving piece of music I’ve ever heard, and it’s one I’ve never been able to sing for Orane. Every time I try, something stops me. This song isn’t like all the others. It’s not mine to share. This one belongs to my mother.

My promise to Orane has already taken too much from her. I can’t take this, too.

The song fades, and my father asks, “Does it help? Playing that every night?”

“It doesn’t hurt,” she says, already flowing into another song. “Not more than it already does.”

I push to my feet, slip into my bedroom, and close the door with a soft
click
.

Inside my room, I can barely hear the music. Here, I can pretend my silence isn’t costing either of us anything.

As soon as I step into Orane’s world, he pulls me from one game to another. We go rock climbing in the craggy mountains, race through the emerald-green foothills, swim in the crystalline lake, and dance across an open plain as he teaches me to tango.

“You truly love this place,” he says as we start toward the opera hall.

I smile as I watch two tiny hummingbirds, their feathers a rainbow of iridescent colors, flutter past. “What’s not to love?”

“Will you feel the same way when it is no longer an amusement that comes and goes?” He’s smiling, but his eyebrows are low and his eyes are surrounded by deeply etched lines.

“Of course! As long as you’re here, I’d—” I stop short and run his words through my head again. “Orane, did you say
when
?”

His eyes widen and his mouth opens as though he’s going to deny it, but then his cheeks flush a soft shade of pink. Orane glances away and smiles sheepishly, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Mariella, how do you always make me ruin my surprises for you?”

“Oh, who cares about surprises?” I press closer, wrapping my arms around his neck and burying my fingers in his long hair. “Do you mean it?”

He pulls back, just far enough to stare into my eyes. “Have I ever lied to you, my nightingale?”

“Never.” From the beginning, Orane has been my trusted confidant, my strongest supporter, and my best friend. He’s become the standard I measure everything in the waking world against. Nothing comes close. Not even me. But staying with him has never been a possibility. If he’s talking about it as a
when
instead of an
if
…

“You finally found a way to bring me here for good? How?”

Orane shakes his head, but he’s smiling down at me. “I should not have told you yet. I am not certain it will work, and I hate to disappoint you.”

“You could never disappoint me,” I whisper against his skin, brushing kisses along the line of his jaw. “An estimate, at least? Please?”

Orane laughs, a low rumble that echoes through his chest. “All I will tell you, my impatient girl, is that I hope it will be soon.”

I pull back, adrenaline shooting through my veins. “Soon? How soon?”

“No, that is all you will get from me tonight.” He grins at me and touches the tip of my nose with his finger. “Not another word.”

“But—”

He cuts me off in the simplest and most effective way—with a kiss.

I melt into his arms, shivers cascading up my arms and down my body. His hands run through my hair and trace patterns on my arms, and it’s like my skin can no longer contain me, like I’m bursting apart at the seams. I don’t come back together until he finally pulls away.