A Time to Mend (18 page)

How she loved everything about her new venture! The rehearsals . . . the camaraderie with other musicians . . . the music. And tonight! The setting sun . . . the fragrant summer’s eve . . . the air crackling with energy from hundreds of people gathered in anticipa-tion of the music, an unparalleled expression of beauty.

Why, oh why had she waited so long? Why had she denied her-self this good thing?

Claire found her chair, sat, and smoothed her long, black skirt.

Her girls were in the audience, along with Tandy and friends from their musical group. Kevin was at a ball game. Erik and Danny had wished her well but begged off with other plans. She teased them about filling their music quota years ago by attending their sisters’ recitals. They didn’t disagree with her.

Max, most likely, was at the mayor’s wedding. Not only did his offer of doing “whatever” to get them back together fall short of sell-ing the agency, but it even fell short of supporting her efforts in music by coming to the concert.

So what else was new?

Claire exchanged smiles with other orchestra members as they wove their way between chairs and found seats.

She wondered what excuse Max would give for her absence at the wedding tonight. Surely people were already talking about them. In six weeks she had missed two high-profile social events, one of which she had spent months helping organize. People would have noticed. She imagined he was uncomfortable. She hated putting him in that position. She hated how she was throwing out all the good with the bad.

But, as Tandy remarked, none of that was her problem. To give up her concert for his agenda would be to step right back into the old way of ordering her life around his reactions.

Claire felt a pain in her jaw. She unclenched it. Maybe she was a raving feminist already, sloshing through deep, muddy waters of backlash.

Across the stage, behind other violinists, a trumpeter moved between chairs and music stands. He was a young man, probably a student at one of the nearby universities. She had noticed him at rehearsals but hadn’t met him yet. He played with such intensity it was almost painful to watch him. Painful in the way beauty could evoke pain, a longing and aching for something unnamed.

In another lifetime she had known him. Or, rather, one very much like him.

Now the concertmaster stepped onstage. In the split second before the applause began, Claire felt her lungs expand as if great drafts of air were pumped into them. She smiled.

Not only was she done holding her breath, but she was taking in a brand-new one.

H
is name was Petros Melis, that other one, the trumpeter she had known so many years ago. The man who came alongside her when Max worked twenty-four hours a day. Literally twenty-four hours a day.

They met at Creighton’s, in the back corner of the old music shop where the sheet music was shelved. Or, rather, not shelved.

“Excuse me, miss?” The accented voice had come from behind her.

She turned. At first sight, there was nothing particularly remark-able about Petros Melis. He was of average height, with an olive skin tone, large chocolate brown eyes, and dark, curly hair. The mythological Apollo, god of music, did not come to mind—not until later. Much later.

“Yes?”

“Do you work here?”

She smiled. “No. I teach lessons here, but I don’t work for Creighton. If I did, this place would not be in such chaos. I still don’t understand why any self-respecting musician sets foot in the store. It’s enough to unhinge me.”

“Unhinge?”

“Unglue.” She noted his blank expression. “It confuses me. Music is an orderly language. I would like sheet music filed alphabetically.”

“Ah. Let me guess. You play violin, and you play by the rules.”

“How did—Well, of course I play by the rules.”

“Music is the language of the soul.” He pressed a hand to his chest. “Not the head.” He tapped a finger against his temple.

“I have a twelve-year-old student who thinks he’s a musical genius. He refuses to practice the scales or to hold his instrument correctly. He plays cacophony.”

His full lips parted in a grin. “A twelve-year-old hears only cacophony in his soul.”

Claire shook her head and turned her back on the stranger. She began to flip through a stack of sheet music lying in an open wooden box set atop a table. Two of her more advanced students needed a challenge beyond what the lesson book offered. Despite the discomfort of feeling unhinged, she knew she would find the perfect piece at Creighton’s. He carried the best selection south of San Francisco; that was why everyone frequented his shop.

“Excuse me.” The uppity stranger again.

She looked over her shoulder.

“I apologize. I did not mean to offend you. Music is my passion. I—how do you say it?—I am too spoken out.”

“Outspoken.”

“Yes. Tell your twelve-year-old he must learn the rules. Then he can bend them and create music.” He smiled softly. “Can you help me find something? This mess is
unhinging
me.”

And that was how it began. At a time when Claire heard only cacophony in her own soul, someone came along who knew how to pull from the din a melody of wondrous beauty.

Thirty-nine

C
laire swung her arms in two windmill swoops and clipped along at a quick pace on the sidewalk. “Life feels so good, Tandy.”

“It shows.” Her friend scurried to catch up. “I’ve never seen you walk like this.”

Claire ignored the comment. “I suppose life shouldn’t feel good, though, I mean, given the circumstances.”

“Stop sighing, hon. You’re entitled to a respite from life as a pit. Forget my question. We don’t need to figure out why it feels good now. Just enjoy the positive energy.”

“I haven’t talked with Max in eleven days.”

“That’s reason enough for the euphoria.”

“Well, it shouldn’t be.”

“Stop with the ‘should’ and ‘shouldn’t’ already.”

“You’re right. I have to keep Max on the back burner for now. I’m determined to figure out
me
before tackling
us
. So in answer to your question . . . music is probably why life feels so good. The impact of playing with the symphony is nothing short of amazing. I feel like I’ve come home.”

Tandy thrust her arm skyward.

“Other things are falling into place. The kids aren’t on the phone twice a day asking how I’m doing. Indio and I talk more about guests at the hacienda than my marriage status. She doesn’t seem as angry. I’m liking your church more and more. The preacher deals with real issues more than mine does. And there’s no pretense.”

“Told you so.”

Claire laughed. “Well, I guess I wasn’t listening.”

“Nope, you weren’t.” Tandy playfully punched Claire’s arm. “And what about that real biggie falling into place?”

“I called my dad.”

They exchanged a smile and paused at an intersection to wait for traffic.

Claire didn’t know if forgiveness entered the picture with her dad. But she had talked to him. She asked him straight-out what the deal was with the marriage license. He confessed to shielding her and her brothers from the truth. He didn’t apologize, but he confessed. And his voice changed. The conversation left them in a place they’d never been before.

She and Tandy crossed the street. “And last but not least, I don’t notice the lumps in the mattress anymore. But I am thinking of apart-ment hunting.”

“You don’t have to. Wait until you’re ready to face all that entails. You’re a great roommate. Especially since we got rid of your boxes.”

“Speaking of Max . . .”

“We weren’t.”

“I need to think out loud. You can charge me counseling fees.”

“Cook me dinner again, and we’ll call it even.”

“Deal.” She slowed her pace; Tandy stayed with her. Like always. Claire wondered why she’d never totally opened up with her before now.

“Speaking of Max?”

“Right. I think I figured out why he’s always been so dead set against the symphony. I had a friend who played in it. His name was Petros Melis.”

“Oh?”

Claire nodded. “I met him about a year after we got married. I wasn’t playing in the symphony. I had quit in order to work with Max and Beaumont Staffing. I was totally inept managing the office. Then Neva walked in one day, wanting a temp job, and just sort of stayed. She whipped things into order in no time and worked for next to nothing. Max was released to go out and sell more. I took a backseat, trying to assist both of them. Again, ineptly.”

“Business isn’t exactly your cup of tea.”

“No. It was obvious Neva had a crush on Max.”

“What woman doesn’t? He’s charismatic and good-looking.”

“I still don’t know why he chose me.”

“Moving right along.”

“But it’s part of the story, Tandy. I was in the basement of self-esteem. I’d given up music, the only thing I was good at. I was totally incompetent when it came to business. I couldn’t even cook very well. Then the money situation got so bad I offered to give violin les-sons at night and on Saturdays. Max thought it was a great idea.”

Tandy touched her arm. “Let’s sit.”

Claire noticed they’d reached a park. They headed to a bench.

Tandy said, “Is that when you taught students at Creighton’s Music Shop?”

“Yes. He had those classrooms upstairs and a long list of parents wanting private lessons for their children. It was easy to get started. One day I met this guy there named Petros. He was from Greece, here as a visiting artist. He played the trumpet.” She smiled. “He was extraordinarily gifted but nowhere near as handsome or mag-netic as Max. Still, the thing was . . . we spoke the same language.”

“Music.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“What happened?”

“We connected. We’d go for coffee or drinks or dinner, usually after my lessons. Before he became better known, we’d go to places where there was live music. He let me cry on his shoulder. Max had no idea. We hardly saw each other. Our hours were crazy.”

Tandy nodded. She’d heard that part of the story. “He was building the business.”

“I had no clue what I’d signed up for. During the day I worked in the office.”

“Ineptly.”

“Yes. I managed to answer the phone. ‘Beaumont Staffing.’” She wrinkled her nose. “And I could hand out application forms to people who came in looking for jobs. Neva did the rest. She took orders from clients and filled them with just the right workers.”

“Where was Max?”

“He was out calling on clients. He’d show up at closing time. Then he and Neva worked on the payroll after hours.” She shook her head.

“It sounds like a tough gig.”

“It was. These past thirty years were nothing like those first two. We were married but not exactly living together.” She shrugged. “I was so jealous of Neva. She helped Max succeed in ways I couldn’t.”

“Did you tell him how you felt?”

“I tried. He usually said things like it wouldn’t last forever and did I mind not whining. He got enough of that from clients. When I mentioned the Neva relationship, he would remind me that he was married to me. What was the problem?”

“Hmm.”

“Anyway, once I started working at the music shop, I decided I’d made the wrong choice for a husband. Why would I stay with this guy who didn’t know the first thing about music? Or care to explore it? Or even pretend to be interested in my passion? At least I attempted to live in his business world.” She shook his head. “Petros wanted me to leave with him, go to Greece. In the end I couldn’t. Hindsight says I was just stubborn enough to stick by my commitment to Max. I had vowed my marriage would not resemble my parents’ miserable situa-tion, and that I would, no matter what, make it work.”

“Did Max know about Petros?”

“Eventually. After Petros went back home, I was a basket case. A mother of one of my students noticed. She kept inviting me to church. Finally I went.” She closed her eyes briefly. “And I learned that Jesus loved me and forgave me. But I couldn’t live with myself until I confessed to Max. It shook him up so badly we went to the pastor for counseling. He helped us see how we were pushing each other away. We got through it. We promised never to leave each other.”

“Whew. Max forgave you?”

“Not just like that, but yes. He said he did. I mean, there wasn’t that much to forgive. I had a friend I
almost
ran away with.”

“Friend?”

“We didn’t sleep together. Well, not exactly. I mean, there was plenty of kissing and—Do you want details?”

“No, that’s okay.”

At last Claire looked at Tandy. She realized then that she’d been avoiding eye contact through the whole story, afraid of seeing condemnation. What she saw now, though, was sheer compassion.

“Max never believed I didn’t have sex with him.”

“For a guy, that’s the worst betrayal.”

“Petros and I shared something far more intimate than a physical relationship. Our hearts connected.”

“Yeah, I know.” Tandy sighed. “Well, I think this explains why Max always avoided going to the symphony.”

“You think?”

“Definitely.”

“That’s what I thought. I’m a little slow.”

“Aren’t we all?”

C
laire’s respite screeched to a halt a short time later as she pushed open the gate in the tall privacy fence that surrounded Tandy’s back patio. There, on the concrete stoop, sat Jenna, a sea of luggage surrounding her, her eyes like those of a scared child who’d lost her way.

“Jenna!”

“Mom!” Her daughter flew into her arms.

“What’s wrong, honey?”

“Oh, Mom! Oh, Mom!” Great sobs swallowed the rest of her words.

Over Jenna’s shoulder, Claire met Tandy’s gaze.

Suddenly life didn’t feel so good anymore.

Forty

J
enna lay in Tandy’s guest room on the mattress her mother had warned her about. She said it made camping with tents and sleeping bags sound not that bad at all.

But a lumpy, saggy bed was the least of her concerns.

She felt encompassed in a body cast and propped in front of a television, forced to watch a rerun over and over and over. The show was not
Leave It to Beaver
.