The Music Box (13 page)

Angie realized Emma was talking about the church performance by her and Melissa. She felt the beautician flip back her hair, heard the woman ask, “How you want me to do this, honey?”

“Just a wash and cut, please.” She went on to Emma, “You're sure she can learn them in time?”

“She'll do fine, and so will you,” Emma assured her, then asked the beautician, “Have you ever heard this lady sing?” She carefully avoided Angie's eyes.

“Never had the honor.”

Emma settled back so a second woman could begin washing her own hair. “Angie Picard sounds like I wish I looked.”

The hairdresser rinsed and lathered and rinsed Angie with swift, practiced motions. When Angie was back upright, she said, “Nice hair, pretty face, great voice. How come some girls get all the luck?”

Before Angie could think up a response, the beautician working on Emma's hair said, “And still has her figure, ain't that something? You got children, honey?”

Angie shook her head slightly. “No.”

“There you are,” the beautician said, missing Emma's wince. “That explains it. Ain't nothing that'll put lines on your face and pounds on your middle faster than a couple of young'uns.”

“You don't mind my saying, you better get to work on it, “ Angie's hairdresser said to her. “You're not a spring chicken anymore, honey.”

“Don't you know, that old biological clock just keeps on ticking,” the client seated across from Angie agreed. The woman's hair was done up in aluminum foil and frosting dye. Clearly, she found the conversation more interesting than the magazine in her lap.

Another hairdresser announced, “Oh, they're probably just practicing until they get it right.”

That drew a big laugh from everybody. Emma tried to cut off the discussion, but her beautician declared, “There's only one thing you need to do when the time comes, and that's
relax
.”

“You got that one right,” Angie's hairdresser agreed. “You can't get all tensed up about things.”

“My best friend,” Emma's beautician added, waving her hairbrush for emphasis, “she tried for five solid years, then she adopts, and bam, two months later she's pregnant.”

“That happened to my cousin,” the woman across from them said. “But you know what else, a friend's sister went to a faith healer, and they laid on hands, and six weeks later she was pregnant with
triplets
.”

“Don't get carried away with this children business,” Emma's beautician proclaimed. “I've got three teenagers. If you ever want to see why
not
to have kids, come spend an afternoon around my place.” She noticed Emma's grim expression. “Is anything the matter, honey?” she wondered.

“I'm late,” Emma snapped.

“Don't get yourself in a dither, I'm almost done.”

Emma's irritation infected the room, and the remainder of their work was done in silence.

Emma held her tongue until they had paid and left the parlor, but once outside on the sidewalk she spluttered, “I declare—”

“Don't,” Angie said quietly. “It doesn't help.”

Her friend's big form deflated like a balloon. “I'm so sorry. I had no idea.”

“I'd like to say I am used to it,” Angie replied. “I suppose in a way I am. But it still hurts.”

Emma pulled up short and faced her in astonishment. “Do you know, that is the first time I've ever heard you confess to feeling anything? All this time I've known you, and I've known you longer than anybody in this town, you've never once told me how you feel.”

“I'm learning a lot these days,” Angie acknowledged. “The lesson of opening up has been a tough one for me, but I'm learning.”

“Well, if this doesn't beat all,” Emma murmured. She took her friend's elbow and guided her down the street. “You can't imagine the times I have wanted to ask you, to talk with you about it all.”

“Why didn't you?”

“Because I've felt like I needed to scale Mount Rushmore before I could get close enough, girl. Why do you think I'm always talking nonsense? It's the only safe conversation with you.”

Angie felt the truth hit her with the force of a hammer. “Emma, I never knew.”

“Well, you know now.” She glanced over. “So I'm going to ask while I've got the nerve. How on earth do you stand it?”

“With the Lord's help,” Angie replied simply. “There is no other way.”

They walked along in silence. Angie realized that what she had said was inadequate, that her oldest friend deserved more. She took a breath and plunged in, “I don't ever want to think that tragedy is random—that the fact I couldn't get pregnant, and another could, is just the luck of the draw. That one mother dies, and another child has both her parents until she is old and has children of her own. The temptation to accept randomness as a fact of life is an evil lure. It eats away at all hope.”

Emma stopped and fastened sad eyes upon her. Angie went on quietly, “Without faith, I would have had to say, that was just one of those things. It was just chance, a random act of fate. But I could not live with that. I would just shrivel up and blow away. It is faith that keeps me whole. I hope and pray that God will restore the days and weeks and months and years the locusts of pain and disappointment have eaten.” She started to turn away.

“Angie, wait.” Emma searched her face, as though seeking permission there to express her thoughts. “Did you ever think maybe this new, well, friendship with the Nealeys is a gift to you? One for keeping hold of faith through the hard times?”

“Oh, Emma.” The sudden rush of hope and fear caused Angie to reach out and hug her friend close. “I think I'm happy. But I've been sad for so long, I don't even remember for sure how it feels anymore.”

14

Angie found if she thought about the dinner itself, she grew too nervous to accomplish anything at all, much less cook the meal. She rushed through each preparation in order to focus on the next task. Even so, she only completed the final bits just as she heard the car pull up in front of her house.

Melissa came through the gate first, a full twenty paces ahead of her father because of her run up the sidewalk. Watching her progress, seeing the small face beaming behind the bouquet she carried, was enough to wash away Angie's last-minute nerves. She opened the door and smiled back. “What do you have there?”

“Flowers. Daddy said I could carry them, but they're really from both of us.” She offered them, shy and proud at the same time. “Aren't they pretty?”

“They're beautiful indeed.” Angie stooped to accept them, smelled the gentle perfume, then smiled in Carson's direction.

“Papa told me about your house,” Melissa announced. “May I go look inside?”

“Of course you can.” She watched the girl hurry around her, then turned and observed the father casting a careful glance over her home. “I really must apologize for the state of my house, Carson. It needs painting and so much else, I wouldn't even know where to start.”

“It's a grand place, in its own way. An old house needs constant attention. And you've kept the inside looking nice.”

“Yes, that's about all—”

Her words were cut off by a girlish squeal from within. “Papa! Come look!”

Angie smiled and followed Carson inside. The auburn head was now utterly still as Melissa pointed at the oval frame hanging above the side table. “That's my drawing,” she breathed. “She hung my drawing in her house!”

Carson stared at the picture for a long moment, then at his daughter. “You drew this?”

“I told you about it, Papa. In art class. Remember the cherry tree you had to chop down?”

He gave a single slow nod. “This is very good, Melissa.”

“It is a treasure,” Angie said quietly.

“Oooh, doesn't it look nice in that frame?” Melissa hugged herself with pleasure.

“Here, let me take your coats. And thank you so much for the flowers, Carson. You really shouldn't have.”

Melissa slipped her arms out of the sleeves without taking her eyes off the picture. Angie ushered them into the dining room, then left the kitchen door open so she could continue talking while she filled the serving dishes.

Melissa made herself at home with cheerful chatter about school, about the summer to come. Carson listened with a quiet intensity, his gaze direct and watchful between Melissa and Angie. She found that she did not mind either his silence or his gaze. Eventually Angie described each of the antiques Melissa could see from her chair, a discussion that took them right through dinner and into dessert. She tried to remember stories attached to them or their purchase. Afterward she listened as Melissa recounted for her father the story of Mother Cannon and Clem and the guitar picking and the songs and the little country house.

Step by step, the food and the atmosphere and the company worked its miracle on Carson. By the time dessert was served, his quiet reserve had dissolved into an occasional comment and an almost-constant smile.

After two helpings of brown sugar pie, Melissa's gaze had become a little owl-eyed. Angie took her upstairs to the spare bedroom and showed her the big hope chest carved from wild cherrywood and polished to a rich rosy luster. She opened the top and was rewarded with a gasp of pure pleasure. “You can take them out, but be very careful.”

“They're beautiful,” breathed Melissa. “And look, their heads are painted glass!”

“China,” Angie corrected. “They are called china dolls. Each one is handmade.”

“Oh, look at this one,” Melissa said, lifting a doll in a gown of lace and lavender. “Is she old?”

“Old as Mother Cannon. Some are even older.” She watched as Melissa gingerly placed the dolls in a row beside the chest and then rose to her feet. “Put them back and come on downstairs when you're finished.”

She returned to the dining room, poured Carson a cup of coffee, and asked if he would be more comfortable in the living room. “I'm settled here,” he said. “That was a delicious meal, Angie. Thank you for inviting us over.”

“It was a pleasure having you,” she replied, wishing the words sounded less formal.

But Carson did not seem to mind. “You've done wonders for Melissa. I was worried about her, I don't mind telling you. She was like a wraith after her mother died.”

“Like her father,” Angie said, then instantly regretted it. She brought a hand to her lips and said contritely, “I'm so sorry. That was awful.”

“But true.” Carson turned his chair sideways and stretched out his legs. “And she didn't have a factory to keep her occupied.”

“Tell me about your work.”

“The place is so old it looks ready to fall down around our ears,” Carson said. “Anything more than that would just bore you to tears.”

“Nonsense. Nobody living in this town can afford to take such an attitude toward the company.”

He gave her a keen look. “That's part of why I'm so interested in it. How important it is to the town.”

“Tell me,” she urged. “I'd really like to hear.”

Haltingly at first, then with increasing focus and energy, Carson described what he had found and what he was trying to do. Angie listened with one ear to his words and the other to how he spoke. She heard a desire to involve himself in the town and its welfare. She heard a man who had become deeply bound to the employees and their families. And as she listened, she found a gentle stirring within her heart, one so alien it took her a moment to comprehend what it was.

“I want to get us just as ready as I can,” Carson was saying, his gaze extended far beyond the confines of her little home. “Sooner or later, the parent company is going to decide we don't fit with their corporate goals. When that happens, I want us to have a strong enough cash reserve to go independent.”

She started to ask him to explain what he had just said, but she held back, for she could see how deeply involved he was. There would be time enough for questions later. And the realization gave her heart another quiver.

“This company is in a make-or-break situation for the employees, for their families, and for this town,” Carson went on. “It's not right to have so much hanging on a decision taken by a board who have never even been here, much less become involved in this valley. We need to take back control, keep it here among the people who make it work. I'd like to set up a stock-sharing plan, granted to every employee. Give them a chance to be rewarded for the loyalty they've shown.”

“I think that is wonderful,” Angie said quietly, no longer able to remain silent.

He lifted his head with a start. “Do you really?”

It was Angie's turn to look down at the table, uncertain and nervous. But sure of what she needed to say. “Your daughter has been teaching me a number of lessons.”

“Melissa? How?”

“Just by being who she is.” Angie took a deep breath. “One thing I have learned from her is how to let go, at least a little. To speak not just my mind, but my heart as well.” She raised her gaze and took refuge behind her schoolteacher's tone. “I would like to tell you what I think of your plan.”

He responded with a single nod, his reserve again in place.

“I have two reactions. One about what you said and one more personal. About your plans, I have to say that they are not only worthy, they are inspired. I am deeply honored that you would tell me about them, Carson. And I will pray that you are successful beyond your most hopeful dreams.”

The tension eased from his shoulders and a deep warmth filled his dark eyes. “And the personal?”

“The personal,” she said, the words a sigh. She toyed with her coffee spoon for a moment, no longer able to meet his eyes. “I cannot remember the last time I have spoken about the future. Nor can I recall when I last felt that it might be time to think about dreams of my own.”