Duet for Three Hands (27 page)

L
ydia

A
week
after her first meeting with Professor Fye, Lydia walked the short distance to his house, thinking of how much had changed since she’d left home. Nathaniel Fye had come into her life, and nothing was the same and, she suspected, never would be. It was the hottest part of the day, and she was limp and overheated by the time she reached the shade of his front porch. Taking a deep breath, she tapped twice with the metal knocker on the front door. A black maid answered.

“Good afternoon, I’m Mrs. Tyler.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Tyler, but the professor isn’t home as of yet.” The girl had a refined quality to her speech and a proud carriage. “But Mrs. Fye is waiting for you in the sitting room.” She escorted Lydia into a spacious room decorated in shades of burgundy and green fabrics, plump cushions, and dark walls that made Lydia think of a coffin. The baby grand took up a large corner of the room, next to shelving filled with books.

Frances Fye was beautiful. She wore a white silk dress with a light pink sash tied in a perky bow at her waist. The skirt of her dress fell gracefully below the knees, displaying slender ankles. She stood as Lydia came into the room, offering her a soft, slender hand in greeting. For the second time that week, Lydia’s own hands felt immense and calloused.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Tyler. I’m Frances Fye.” Her voice had a silky southern lilt. “I apologize. My husband’s uncharacteristically late. Can’t imagine what’s gotten into him. He positively can’t stand it if he’s more than a minute late.”

She indicated the armchair next to the couch and waved her bone-white hand at the maid. “Jeselle, bring us our refreshments.” Frances’s eyes narrowed as she gazed at Lydia. Lydia looked down at her practical cotton dress and walking shoes. Why had she worn this? And her hair was a mess, falling flat and damp against her neck.

“We simply must call each other by our first names and be best friends if you are to be my husband’s protégé.” Frances continued without seeming to take a breath, “I hope you like your tea iced and sweetened. That’s how we drink it in this house.” She nestled farther into the cushions. It occurred to Lydia that her mournful gray eyes made her appear almost tragic.

“My late husband preferred it sweet as well.”

“And you, Lydia. What do you prefer?” She smiled, reminding Lydia of a cat looking at a grasshopper, wondering if it was worth the energy to pounce upon and chew through its crunchy exterior.

“It’s fine for me as well.”

“Nate didn’t tell me you’re a northerner.”

“I’ve lived in Alabama for almost twenty years.” What was this? Feeling defensive? What a ninny, she thought. I’m a middle-aged woman. No need to feel ridiculous next to this girl, who was ridiculous. And vapid. Obviously vain.
Stand up tall the way God made you.
Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind.

Frances gazed at her. “Are you wondering how old I am?”

Lydia smiled. “On the contrary, I was just admiring your beautiful skin.”

Frances flushed slightly at the compliment. “I’m twenty-six years old. My husband is twelve years my senior.” She sat up slightly as the maid came into the room carrying a tray with iced tea and biscuits the size and shape of a quarter along with a dish of strawberry preserves. Lydia moved to assist the girl but hesitated when she felt Frances’s hooded eyes on her. She met Frances’s gaze for a moment and saw faint disapproval. Lydia folded her hands on her lap. “I understand you’re from Atlanta?”

“My father’s family has lived in Georgia since the early 1800s. Before the war we had a thriving plantation, sugar, tobacco, and cotton, but afterward, well, we all know the ending of that story.” She did a quick dart at the downward-gazing maid, who for all appearances seemed absorbed in the task of placing two of the biscuits with a teaspoon-sized dollop of strawberry preserves onto the delicate china plates. “Jeselle, you’re as slow as molasses. Do serve our guest before the sun goes down.”

Lydia accepted the plate from Jeselle. “Thank you.”

Frances drank from her iced tea and then made a choking sound, fanning her face as though she’d tasted a bitter root. “No need to ration the sugar, Jeselle.” She wiped daintily with one of the crisp white napkins that rested in her lap. “Needs at least three more tablespoons.”

Jeselle murmured. “Yes, ma’am.”

Lydia stifled a shiver and put her not-yet-tasted glass of tea into the outstretched hand of Jeselle, who quickly disappeared from the room.

Frances turned to Lydia with a slight shake of her head, which she assumed was meant to convey an apology for her maid’s behavior. “She’s the daughter of my mother’s longtime housekeeper. We couldn’t find a soul in this town who understood how to properly take care of a house. It’s bad enough I had to move to this godforsaken town, but to be alone all day while my husband works and not have decent help. Well, it’s positively awful.” She widened her eyes and moved her white hands in a flutter at her neck and then back again to her lap. “I don’t know if Nate told you but I suffer from poor health. Our town physician is Doctor Landry, and he’s the best there is, I mean, the very best.” She elongated and emphasized each word before continuing. “But the poor man can’t find a thing wrong with me. I’m a medical mystery, he said to me. And Lydia, it was terrifying the way his eyes looked at me, so tortured, like he would’ve given anything to save me, but for his own human weaknesses was not able to. He held his hands in mine and then wiped his brow, his distress apparent in every way. I believe he’s a little in love with me, the poor man.” She stopped speaking and looked toward the doorway. “I swear that child is an imbecile. If I weren’t so completely worn out this afternoon I’d march into that kitchen and find out what could possibly be taking her this long.”

As Frances finished the sentence, Jeselle entered, carrying the tray once more. Unabsorbed grains of sugar floated in the bottom of the glass pitcher.

After Jeselle left the room, Frances pinched off a small section of a biscuit and set it on the other side of her plate. “Mother sent three dozen of these jars of preserves when we first moved into this ridiculous elf house. This is the last jar. I begged Nathaniel to take me for a visit to Atlanta this spring, but he and Doctor Landry didn’t think I could withstand the trip. My mother’s unbearable and agitates my nerves no end.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Frances’s eyes became glassy, and she stared out the window with a sad look on her face. “It’s been terribly difficult. And poor Nate, he worries so over me.”

Lydia put her glass of tea on the table, unsure of what exactly had been difficult, but she nodded sympathetically nonetheless. “I can imagine.”

“I’ve been awfully lonely in this sleepy ole town. When we lived in New York, before Nate’s accident, gads, the parties we were invited to. My husband was never much of a conversationalist, but he’s become downright somber in his old age. I swear there are nights when he doesn’t say more than two words. And I’m afraid music doesn’t much interest me. He plays after supper, but I’m more interested in reading magazines or listening to the radio shows.”

Lydia put her half-eaten biscuit back on the plate. “He plays?”

“With one hand, yes.” She pointed to the piano. “He’ll sit for hours long after I’ve retired. The sound is enough to make a person mad after a time. Says he must keep the skill in his right hand, but for the life of me I can’t understand why.”

Lydia tucked this unexpected bit of information away to think about later and told herself to be kind. One must endure this tiresome woman if one wanted to study with the professor. “I understand perfectly. My husband worked very hard when he was alive. We had a small farm, and he was a banker.”

“Were you lonely, then?”

Lydia thought it a strange question but tried to answer it honestly. “I don’t remember being lonely, no. I remember feeling tired a lot. My daughters kept me busy, along with the garden and keeping house. I had my music. I played, still play, every day for hours.”

“And your daughters, did they resent your devotion to something other than them?”

Lydia, again, was surprised by the question, for she had never thought about it. “I don’t know. I believe they knew it was something I must do, like breathing or eating. And they never knew any differently. We don’t have much choice in who our mothers are, I’m afraid.”

“I’m afraid not.” Frances looked at her with what Lydia could only think of as dislike. “You simply must come to dinner tomorrow night, Lydia.”

N
athaniel

N
athaniel glanced
at his watch for the sixth time in six minutes. He detested lateness. The dean had stopped by his office just as he was about to leave. Which he normally would have welcomed, since he enjoyed Dean Woodruff’s conversation and company, but he was anxious to meet Mrs. Tyler. When he finally arrived at the house, slightly out of breath and dripping with sweat, he was a full fifteen minutes late. Jeselle stood at the stove, stirring something that smelled of onions in a large pot. He took off his hat, hanging it on the nail in the mudroom.

“Afternoon.” Jeselle didn’t look up from the pot.

Wiping his face with his handkerchief, he looked at her closely for any marks or tears. She seemed well enough. “How was it today?”

“Fine. She’s in there with your student.” She nodded toward the sitting room.

He loosened his tie as he went in. “Ladies. I’m sorry to be late.”

Mrs. Tyler leapt to her feet. “There you are.” She paused and smoothed the front of her dress. “I mean, your lateness is no trouble.” She pulled absently on a lock of hair that fell over one eye and glanced at Frances. “Your wife was entertaining me.” She turned to Frances. “The tea and biscuits were delicious.”

Frances rose from the couch. “I’ll take my leave then, now you’ve finally arrived. I’ve an appointment at the beauty shop.”

He looked at his wife in surprise. “But it’s not time for your weekly appointment, is it?”

“Darlin’, sometimes a woman needs a change. I’ll be back in time for a late supper. Lydia, a pleasure.”

“You as well, Frances,” Mrs. Tyler replied.

Mrs. Tyler found his wife ridiculous. Of this he was certain. He took off his jacket and tossed it onto the back of the couch.

Mrs. Tyler retreated toward the piano, resting her hand on its shiny surface as if it were an old friend.

“I’m sorry about Frances,” he said.

“Sorry?”

“Well, most women find her difficult.”

“Not at all. She’s exceptionally beautiful. We had a lovely talk.”

“Really?

“Well, sure, it was fine.”

“There’s no need to lie, Mrs. Tyler.”

“I’m not lying.” She looked at the floor, her cheeks red. “Not exactly.”

He smiled. “I see.” He motioned to the piano. “Shall we begin?”

L
ater that night
, when he returned from taking Jeselle home, Nate found Frances sitting in her usual place on the couch, flipping through the same movie magazine she’d read earlier and sipping sherry. He looked closely at her hair. It seemed the same as when she’d left. Usually she came home from her weekly appointment in tight curls that loosened as the week went on. “I thought you went to the beauty shop?” he asked.

“I was supposed to, but when I got there the silly girl was nowhere to be found. She must have forgotten I changed my appointment. Honestly, Nate, this kind of thing would never have happened in New York.”

“How did you feel today?”

Frances turned a page of the magazine, the flimsy paper making a delicate slice through the air. “Wrung out like a dishrag.”

“Everything go all right with Jeselle today?”

She turned another page. “Did you see anything wrong with her?”

“No.”

“Doctor Landry says to take a little sip of sherry when I start to feel that flare of temper.” She drank from her glass. “See. Like now. It evens one right out.”

“Doctor Landry’s medical advice is to take a sip of sherry?”

She widened her eyes, looking innocent. “Darlin’, does it ever get tiresome being so morally superior to everyone around you?”

He flinched, feeling the familiar anger before stifling it. Perhaps Dr. Landry’s advice was good, he thought, reaching for the whiskey and pouring himself a four-finger measurement.

She held her magazine up, peering at something on the page, her eyes slightly squinted. “I do believe I look a little like Jean Harlow. Prettier, of course.”

“I don’t know who that is.”

“How is it, darlin’, that you know so much about music and so little about anything else?” She flipped a page and took another sip of sherry, wiping the glass clean of lipstick before setting it on the table. “There’s a new Jean Harlow movie coming out soon.” She put the magazine on her lap and then traced the outline of something with her finger. “Anyway, if I had a few extra pounds on me I think people would mistake me for Jean Harlow.” She held up the magazine to show him a photo of an actress with bleached blonde hair and too much lipstick.

“She looks nothing like you, Frances.”

She pushed her lips out in a pout. “How ’bout now?”

He didn’t comment, placing his elbows on the top of the piano and folding his face into his hands, feeling like an old man. He ambled to the bookshelf, smoothing his hand over the books, which he had arranged in alphabetical order: Dickens, Fitzgerald, Hardy, Hemingway, Melville, and Shakespeare. He pulled
Great Expectations
from the shelf and opened it to the middle of the book, breathing in the dusty smell of the pages. He watched his wife, her delicate head bent over the ridiculous magazine, and then sat at his piano, closing his eyes, thinking of Mrs. Tyler.

“Doctor Landry told me his half-brother’s visiting from Los Angeles. I didn’t even know he had a brother.”

“We hardly know Doctor Landry,” said Nathaniel.

“I’m surprised you haven’t made more of an effort. He is dear Walter’s friend, after all.”

“Frances, don’t.”

“What?” She raised her arms as if defending herself. “I didn’t say a thing about your former leech. Anyway, I invited Doctor Landry to join us for dinner tomorrow. I also invited Mrs. Tyler.”

He turned to her. “What? Why?”

Her eyes were slits. “You seem taken with her. Isn’t that true?”

He turned back to the piano keys. “She’s the most promising student I’ve ever had.”

He heard her turn a page of the magazine. “They’re both unmarried. Did you know that?”

“Who?”

“Mrs. Tyler and Doctor Landry. Perhaps they’ll fall in love over roast beef.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He breathed in this idea, feeling a sudden pang that he couldn’t identify. He placed the fingers of his right hand on the piano keys and began to play the opening notes of Mrs. Tyler’s composition, letting the music wash through him and out of his hand.

Over the music he heard Frances get up from the couch, then the pop of the sherry decanter and a splash of liquid as it hit the glass. “Doctor Landry’s brother works in the moving picture business. He commented the other day that I have the face for the pictures.”

“Who did?”

“Doctor Landry.”

Nathaniel turned to look at her as she thrust the magazine onto the coffee table and began to stroll around the room with her neck elongated, sweeping her hand along the sway of her dress as if she imagined a camera followed her. “He said I move like a dancer, and I told him I studied as a child. He said, ‘Well, it surely shows.’” She went to the window and placed her fingertips on the glass so that the curve of her arm was gracefully displayed. “Doctor Landry said he’d introduce me to his brother. Actresses work for studios; they have contracts and get to make a certain number of movies every year and pose for publicity photos and such. Doctor Landry didn’t say so, but I got the distinct feeling he thinks I could be one of those actresses.” She turned toward him, cheeks flushed and eyes wide. “Isn’t that just the best news you ever heard?”

“Frances, the doctor in Atlanta said these fantasies about the motion picture business are not good for you.”

She began to twirl, like a child performing for a room of adults. “I’m so lucky because I never seem to age.” She ran her hands down her slight frame. “I’m the same as the day you met me. Mrs. Tyler commented how youthful I look. That’s important if you want to be in the pictures. I can tell by all the studying I’ve done looking at these magazines that they like actresses to be young. I’m what they call an ingénue, you see.”

He rose abruptly from the piano bench. “I’m going up to bed. Don’t have any more to drink.”