A Timely Concerto (7 page)

“Thank you but no,” Howard said, with a half bow. “If you won’t mind, I’d like to play the piano.”

His eyes were sad, his mouth folded into a frown. “You seem upset. Are you?”

“I suppose that I am,” he replied after a pause. “But music hath charms to soothe the savage beast, doesn’t it?”

“It might. What’s wrong, Howard?”

He paused, leaning against the doorjamb. “It’s nothing, really. I just feel melancholy after showing you through the house. I am reminded of how much I enjoyed my life here and all that was lost to me through my death.”

What could she say to that?

“I’m sorry, Howard.”

“As am I.”

As she nibbled at a cheese sandwich, ate a little salad, the sad but unmistakable strains of Rachmaninov’s Piano Concerto Number 2 came from the second parlor. The music, more than his words, expressed what Howard felt and Lillian’s buoyant mood dissipated. She could not finish the sandwich or salad and after scraping her leftovers into the wastebasket, she followed the music. Although she could still hear the poignant notes, she could not see Howard and the music drifted into silence, note by note.

“Howard?” Her voice was a faint whisper. She expected no answer and none came.

Restless, weary of riding an emotional rollercoaster, the walls seemed to shift inward, closing her within. Lillian craved sunshine, wind, and air. She longed for human companionship and everyday bustle. With the realization that Howard longed for these things, she gathered up her purse and dashed outside, a half-formed plan in mind.

The sunshine felt as hot as mid August but she did not want to drive. Instead, she followed the curving drive to the sidewalk in front of the house and marched toward downtown, a woman on a mission. Her first stop was the local library where, with assistance, she located a 1902 plat map of Newton County. Although her eyes were crossed and her head ached, Lillian found Howard’s farm on the map. The next step was to find where it would be now, if it still existed. Two hours later, she had a current map of the city with the location of the former fruit farm marked. If she read the map right, the farm lay just to the west of the highway, not at all far from either Seven Oaks or the modern commercial district. It was too far to walk, however, so she tucked the papers in her purse and headed for the downtown Square.

Her hopes of finding an old-fashioned soda fountain failed but she bought a cold bottle of soda from a vending machine in the courthouse and popped three ibuprofen tablets to ease the headache. Sitting on a beach across from a mural that depicted county history she noticed the fields of strawberries and local landmarks. As the pain reliever kicked in, her interest revived and she studied the mural, wondering if any of the farmers in the fields were Howard. After about ten minutes, she felt refreshed enough to continue to her original destination, Retro Rags on the corner across the street. A single mannequin in the window sported a huge hat and a dress that trailed to the floor.

The shop faced the corner and reminded her of an old drugstore she had seen somewhere on a trip with Joe. For a moment, she thought she smelled the familiar aroma of prescriptions being ground but she inhaled and smelled nothing more than a soft lilac scent. Racks of garments ringed the small interior and to her dismay, there was a slight odor emanating from some of the clothing.

“Hello!” A woman as tall as she was wide emerged from a back room. “Feel free to look around the store. If you want help, ask.”

Lillian smiled. “I do want help, thanks. I am looking for something – an outfit or dress – from the early 1900’s. I know someone who is an expert on that period and I’d like to impress him.”

Truth but watered down, she thought, keep it simple.

“We have several things from that period. Tell me your size and we’ll see what I have that might fit.”

After an hour, Lillian narrowed down her selection to two outfits. Although she had tried on a number of garments, some failed to fit well and others were just too dirty to consider. With the owner’s advice, she paired a blue walking skirt with a dark blue waist with a sailor style collar. Even after decades of storage and use, the fabrics looked somewhat fresh. There was even a hat – something that the owner – Desiree – called a short back sailor hat. Made of straw and trimmed with lace, braid, and a spray of ivory carnations, the hat was something she would have rejected with any other garment but it looked right with the sailor outfit.

Her second choice what Des called a “wash suit
,” a ladies suit with a walking length skirt in a rich red shade that Lillian called maroon but that Des said was oxblood. It fit Lillian as if tailored for her and the hat that suited it was what Des termed a jaunty turban. To prove she knew her vintage fashions, Des thumbed through a replica of the 1902 Sears and Roebuck Catalog.

“See? This is very like the wash suit you chose,” Des said, pointing a stubby finger at a page. “Now, if you want, I can fix you up with some underskirts, ladies drawers and camisoles too.”

This was fast becoming more complicated than Lillian imagined it could be but in for a penny, in for a pound, she ended up with both outfits, two hats, and the appropriate undergarments.

Laden with two huge bags, she staggered out of the store into the bright sunshine and headed home, wishing now she had brought the car after all.

By the time she reached Seven Oaks, her feet ached and sweat dribbled down her back. Panting with the effort of walking from the Square, Lillian unlocked the back door and walked into the kitchen. For a moment, she thought she smelled something sweet baking, a cake, or cookies and then the aroma faded away. Lillian tossed her keys and purse with the photocopies on the counter and called his name.

“Howard?”

When he did not answer, she bolted upstairs and stripped. After a very satisfying tepid bath in the tub, Lillian donned the sailor themed outfit and brushed her hair up into an elaborate bun. Then she put the hat in place and looked. Her reflection in the wavering mirror on the bureau looked strange, as if she were someone else or a kid playing dress-up. Still, she thought he would appreciate the effort she made so she sauntered carefully downstairs, glad that the walking skirt came just to her ankles and not to the floor like some of the garments at Retro Rags. Shoes were the one thing she had forgotten to buy but a pair of sturdy, plain black pumps looked fine to her eyes; she hoped that they would to Howard as well.

Although she heard no noise, not the piano, or his footsteps, she found Howard in the living room, a book in his hand as he sat near the ornate fireplace. Although she moved with little sound, he glanced up at her approach and grinned.

“Well, aren’t you the candy?” He drawled the words out with obvious admiration.

“Candy?” Lillian wasn’t sure which surprised her more; his use of what had to be slang or the fact that “candy” had remained a way of expressing pleasure for more than a century. “Does that mean I look nice?

“You look lovely, dear Lillian,” he said, rising to his feet as was proper for a gentleman to do when a lady entered the room. “I almost thought I might have fallen asleep and awakened from a nightmare, that I might still be alive and well after all.”

“Thank you.” She whirled in a pirouette to display the new outfit. “Do I look like I’m from your time, Howard?”

“Very much so. Where did you find the clothing? I don’t recall anything of Maggie’s that looked like that and it is certainly not Mother’s.”

“There is a store, on the Square, that sells old-fashioned clothing,” Lillian said. “Are there clothes here, then, since you thought this could have been your cousin’s?”

“I believe there are a few trunks upstairs with some of Maggie’s clothes. Your mother and her sister used to dress up in them from time to time, so I do not know what condition they might be in today. You are more than welcome to them, Lillian.”

“Thanks.” If he had said so sooner, she might have saved a hundred and thirty dollars. “I’ll look for them sometime.”

“My house is your house, quite literally,” Howard said. “With you dressed like that, I wish I could offer you tea or take you on a tour of the farm. I feel like a man again – even if I’m not.”

Although he smiled, his tone softened with regret and for a moment, she wished she had not bought the vintage clothing. Extending false hopes were not what she had in mind but she was dressed up and it seemed a shame to waste the experience so she decided to play act just a little.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Speakman.” Her head tilted the way that she thought a lady might do if she wanted to flirt. “How fortunate that I found you at home.”

Quick witted, he picked up the game. “Welcome, Miss Dorsey. May I escort you into the second parlor for afternoon refreshments?”

He extended his arm and she linked hers through where his arm seemed to be but she felt nothing save a breath of warm air. “Thank you, I would be delighted.”

Her heart thumped with a rapid beat and she repressed an urge to giggle as Howard, the long dead host, ushered her into the familiar room and seated her in a comfortable armchair adjacent to a small table.

He sat down at the piano and tinkled the keys with one hand. “Would you like me to play for you as we wait for Shugie to bring us a tray?”

“That would be lovely.”

She settled into a chair, mindful of the skirt, and slipped into the game with delight. This would be fun, she thought, really fun. It was a game, that they were in 1904, but dressed in the vintage clothes, the fantasy felt almost real.

NOW/1904/NOW

The unfamiliar garments felt heavy so she fanned herself with a piece of sheet music, hot from the sun that slanted through the windows to heat the room. Unable to sit with any but perfect posture, she scooted until she felt comfortable in the chair and let the music wash over her, bright and vivid. Between tunes, Howard talked about the music but she only half-listened, somnolent in the summer afternoon. With her eyes half-shut, she inhaled an imaginary aroma of cinnamon and sweetness, as if someone were baking. Through slits, she watched dust motes dance over the bookshelves, marveling that the sun heightened the book covers so that they looked new. She might be taking their make believe game too far but the sweet scent awakened her stomach.

“I’m actually hungry.” She spoke over the music but he heard and paused playing.

“Shugie is famous around town for her Dutch apple cake,” Howard said, whirling on the piano stool to face her. “The apples are from last autumn’s harvest on the farm; we have a good supply packed away in the cellar.”

Funny she would imagine an aroma that matched his description but she could play the game too.

“It smells divine.”

He missed a note and keys crashed together in a discord sound that jangled her out of her relaxed mood.

“You truly smell it?”

“I think that I do,” Lillian said, with a laugh. “It’s the power of suggestion, I guess but I could almost swear that I smell something baking.”

If a ghost could look pale, he did. “But I
do
smell it, Lillian. I don’t suppose that you have a cake in the oven?”

She shook her head. “No. That’s strange, isn’t it?”

Howard did not answer. He changed keys and began playing a different song, one she recognized as the classic ballad,
Sweet Adeline
. Something in his manner shifted and although she did not know what had changed, something had and he knew it. What was it? It seemed vital that she figure it out.

She glanced around the room; nothing seemed different although the windows were open – had they been earlier -and a breeze ruffled the sheer drapes, bringing in a rich smell of blooming flowers and fresh cut grass. Every color in the room glistened brighter as she watched his hands move with deft skill over the keys. As he played, he moved with each note and when he shifted his head, it cast a shadow on the wall before him. Ten seconds passed before it sank in that he never cast a shadow before. That had been one of the first odd things she noticed about Howard, that he had no shadow.

That ticklish feeling along her spine shifted to ice. Something had happened and she did not know what. Before she could find any words, the rattle of pots and pans clashed in the kitchen. Over the noise, a rich alto voice sang the words to
Sweet Adeline
.

“My God!" His outcry was the closest thing to an oath she had ever heard him utter. “Lillian, do you hear that?”

She did and the game, if that was what it was, wasn’t fun anymore.

“I do. And, Howard, you have a shadow.”

To test the theory, he waggled his hands and they both watched as matching shadows danced on the wall.

“I will be damned,” His voice was very soft. “I do. That’s Shugie, singing.”

Wild emotions whirled through her, confusion, excitement, and fear. Afraid to hope that what she suspected might be so, she whispered,

“How could that be?”

Howard left the piano and leaned on the windowsill. She could not see his face but his stance changed and he thrust his head toward the windows.

“I don’t know. However, something has happened. Come look outside, please.”

Knees knocking beneath the ankle length skirt, Lillian tottered over to peer outside. The smooth, green lawn she remembered now swept much farther to the west and the line of small houses that edged the yard were gone. None of the flowers she remembered bloomed in the yard but a black man pushed an odd lawn mower, one that cut the grass with sharpened blades, across the grass. The whispering clack of the blades reached her and she gasped. On the street in front of the house, muffled sounds came through the window and she realized that it was the echo of horse hooves on the packed dirt. Pretending to be in Howard’s time was fun but she was not sure what she felt about this, whether it was real, a dream or a hallucination. Lillian opened her mouth to say something but before she could speak, Shugie did.

“Mister Howard, would you and your lady guest like a bite of my cake?” The voice, smooth as warm honey, came from behind and Lillian bit her lip to stop an outcry. By the time she turned, Howard had recovered his manners.

“Yes, thank you, Shugie. It smells delicious.”

“They’s lemonade too, sir.”

Lillian stared at the laden tray and then at the woman who carried it, calico sleeves rolled high to show copper penny hued skin.

“You have outdone yourself, Shugie,” Howard said, as the woman put the tray on a small table. “We can serve ourselves, thank you.”

This woman would not go so easy. She squared her shoulders and folded her arms.

“Mister Howard?”

“Yes?”

Lillian had to strain to hear him.

“Is everything all right, sir? I thought you’d be out at the farm, being as picking’s started but when I heard you and your guest, I thought I’d best bake a cake so I did. Didn’t expect you to come back home after your momma and daddy took the train, thought you wouldn’t be home till supper.” She could see his face; she hoped Shugie could not because he blanched until his lips had little color left and his hands trembled. When he spoke, though, he sounded firm and strong,

“Just the first berries are ripe, Shugie. At the station, I met Miss Lillian and invited her to come see the new house.”

Shugie sniffed. “I don’t know that she should be here without a chaperone, with your folks being gone and all. It don’t look nice, Mister Howard, but I’m that glad everything is fine...”

Crimson flooded his face and he set his jaw in a determined way she had never seen before.

“I will look after the proprieties, Shugie, and it’s not as if we were alone in the house. Thank you for the refreshments.”

Shugie’s eyes rolled up until Lillian thought they might disappear beneath the yellow and red turban she wore but she nodded and retreated, muttering under her breath. After the door banged shut, neither Howard nor Lillian spoke as the silence stretched between them like a heavy, living breath. She could not think of what to say and her thoughts tumbled in wild patterns, like leaves blown by storm winds.

“Lillian.” Howard sounded hoarse, his voice cracking with emotion although she wasn’t sure which one, fear, elation, or sorrow. “This is 1904.”

“How could it be?” Even as she protested, she knew it was true. The old house was new. The smell of fresh paint mingled with the Dutch cake aroma and as she had noticed earlier, the book covers were bright. Howard’s sheet music pages had not yellowed but sparkled unblemished white. It was true and if it was 1904, then Howard was alive. He was not a ghost.

Lillian reached for him, stretched out her hand to touch him, and closed her fingers over his arm. Through the wool of his sleeve, his skin was warm, so alive, and tears formed in her eyes. Her right hand stroked the curve of his cheek and she clasped his hand with the other. He twined his fingers through hers, tight as if he might never let go, and pulled her right hand to his lips, brushing her skin with a faint, soft kiss.

“Oh, Howard.” Her voice broke. “Howard, you are real.”

She could touch him now; she could smell him, a rich masculine aroma of soap and leather, and the outdoors. Before, he had been a ghost, not tangible, not touchable but for now, he was both and she reveled in him with every sense. She touched his hair with trembling fingers and rubbed her cheek against his suit jacket. When she lifted her face, his eyes blazed with emotion and she knew before he bent down that they would kiss.

In her dream, it had been sweet but in reality, it was sweeter. His lips heated hers, melted, and moved against her mouth until she could not breathe. She put her arms around his neck and he held her, one hand flat against her back. Until now, he had been unattainable, almost fantasy, but now he was a man, a man who held her in his arms, and she wanted him. Desire burned like a wavering candle flame but without warning, Howard released her.

“Lillian, I forgot myself. You must forgive me.”

Her lips, bruised from his mouth, stretched into a smile. “I’ll never forgive you if you don’t kiss me again, Howard.”

“I should not.” His voice sounded muffled. “But I will, sweet Lillian, though I should not. However, for the moment I am alive. Carpe diem!”

He took her mouth again, although his hands did not stray from her arms. Like the gentleman he was, Howard did not grope her breasts or stroke her body but his lips revealed the depth of his passion and she answered it with her own. Had Shugie not entered the room and shrieked with surprise, they might have kissed much longer.

“Mister Howard!” Her voice was shrill with outrage. “What has got into you?”

Irked at the interruption, Lillian stood her ground but Howard began to laugh, with full-bodied, deep mirth that vibrated through them both. He whooped aloud, his laughter echoing through the room until Shugie’s bronze face bloomed pink.

“Life,” Howard said, struggling for breath, still chuckling. “Life is what has gotten into me, Shugie, life - and love.”

Deep within, Lillian’s heart did a flip. Love. He said the word that she had been afraid to think, let alone say aloud but it fit, like the right size of shoe. The notion of love seem much more possible here, in 1904, with a solid human being but man or ghost, she realized that she loved Howard. Her eyes met his and his smile touched her, down to the very tight toes of the old-fashioned shoes that she wore. As one, they turned to face Shugie, Lillian aware that mere seconds had passed although her moment of revelation had seemed to last hours.

“Oh, my,” Shugie’s voice was not quite a full whisper. “I ain’t going to say no more, just go back to the kitchen where I belong. My, my, my.”

With a bang of the kitchen door, she vanished and Howard turned to Lillian, still smiling.

“Dearest Lillian, what do you think has gotten into me, as Shugie so aptly inquired?”

Dressed in out of date clothing, standing in a parlor in the year 1904 and discussing love with a man who had been dead for a century was insane but she had never felt happier than now.

“Life and love, Howard, honey. Especially love.” With one finger, she caressed his cheek and let her fingers touch the corner of his mouth. “Do you love?”

“That is such a provocative question.” He caught her fingers and kissed them. “And a most improper one, too, although you know the answer, do you not?”

She did but she needed the words, genuine and honest. “Say it.”

“I love you, Lillian, be it right or wrong, possible or impossible but I love you. Had we but world enough and time, Lillian, I would want to bring you to this house as my bride.”

Unexpected tears blinded her and she blinked in the afternoon sunlight. Although Andrew Marvell had been dead far longer than Howard, his poetry remained part of the English literary canon and she remembered the romantic lines well. If he could quote from the poem,
To His Coy Mistress,
then she could paraphrase and did.

“Then maybe we should sit down and think which way to walk and pass our long love’s day.” Her voice trembled as she spoke. “Before time’s winged chariot hurries near.”

“You know the poem,” Howard brushed the tears from her cheeks with two fingers and then dabbed at her face with a fine handkerchief she had never seen before. “May I assume that you also love me?”

She did cry at that and choked out the words with a sob, “Yes, Howard, I do.”

This time when he took her into his arms, he did not kiss her but held her with close, secure arms that surrounded and protected. Silence surrounded them, a deep, rich quiet that soothed her soul even as his love warmed her heart. Distant sounds intruded, kitchen clatters and a faraway child calling to someone but for a long moment, there was nothing but the two of them, together.

Later, when they could, they ate Shugie’s cake and drank tea, talking.

“What happened, do you think?” Lillian asked, as a piece of sweet apple touched her tongue. “How did we get here?”

“I have no idea,” Howard said. “It may be brief or we may be here for good. In the event that this does not continue, I would like to go outside if we could. It has been so very long since I felt the sun on my back or grass beneath my feet. Will you accompany me, my dear?”

He rose, crooking one arm in invitation, and she swallowed the last bite of cake. “Yes, thank you.”

They strolled across the verdant lawn as the wonderful summer smell of fresh cut grass wafted toward them, mingling with the rich fragrance of the blooming flowers. Other aromas came on the breeze, too, the familiar scent of wood smoke and other less pleasant odors, horse dung, and dust. She broke a single rose from a bush and inhaled the fragrance of the pink flower. An odd sense of déjà vous niggled at her and wondering why she felt this way, then remembered old movies like
Meet Me in St Louis.
That must be why everything seemed so very familiar.