The Icing on the Cake (15 page)

“I can’t help it,” Isaac said. He leaned close to me, locking his eyes with mine. “There’s just something about you. Something that makes me feel like I’ve known you for years. And I know I probably shouldn’t say things like this since we haven’t actually known each other for years, but you are the most fascinating, alluring, breathtaking woman I have ever met.”

A feverish, lightheaded feeling suddenly took over my body, and the feeling greatly increased when Isaac took a hold of my hand and laced his fingers in mine. With our hands linked, we looked out at the green trees of the property, silent because there was no need for words.

The silence was finally broken by Ethan.

“Hey, guys,” Ethan called out to us from the doorway of the garage at the end of the driveway.

“Hey,” Isaac shouted back.

I watched as a van pulled up into the driveway. An older man with dark skin and dark hair exited the driver’s seat. He moved to the back of the van, removed a small, motorized wheelchair, and placed it on the ground. He then opened the passenger side door and picked up a small boy and carried him to the wheelchair. The little boy proceeded to drive the wheelchair around expertly, his wide smile visible even yards away. Ethan greeted the man and boy, and the trio went inside the garage.

“Why are they going into the garage?” I asked Isaac.

“Oh, that’s not a garage. It used to be, but now it’s Ethan’s piano studio,” Isaac said. “That’s one of Ethan’s piano students, Angel, and the man with him is his grandfather, Julio.”

“Ethan teaches piano lessons?” I asked.

Isaac nodded, straightening his back. “Ethan is, well, he’s a far better guy than I’ll ever be.”

“What makes you say that?” I asked. “Though I’d have to disagree with it.”

“Ethan was a football player, an all-American in high school. He was first-string quarterback when he was a college freshman. Then he went on his mission and was in the accident, and everyone knew he probably wouldn’t ever play football again.

“So the first few months after his mission, he was pretty messed up. I remember he’d sit in his wheelchair in my parents’ garage and hit a punching bag until his knuckles were bloody. I was really worried about him for a while. But then one day he said to me, ‘You know Isaac, I’m done. I don’t think God wants me to be like this. I think he expects something better out of me.’

“So from then on he tried to make the best of his disability. He set out to perfect another talent of his: his music skills. And that was easy since he was as good of a musician as he was a football player. Ethan’s music and story got really popular. He was even in the papers and stuff. Recording artists started buying his songs like crazy, and fancy restaurants like La Bonne Violette were offering him hundreds of dollars per hour just to play there.”

“If he makes all that money, why does he need to teach piano lessons too?” I asked.

“He doesn’t need to,” Isaac answered, a look of admiration on his face. “After he started making a decent living, he came to me with an idea. He asked me, ‘What would you think about me turning the garage into a piano studio? I want to teach music to kids with disabilities.’ I thought it was a great idea, so for the next few months we worked on turning the garage into a studio, Ethan working about four hours to every one of mine. And now he has six students that learn piano from him.”

“Wow,” I said, unable to find a better word. What an incredible thing to do. Rather than becoming bitter, Ethan had made something wonderful come out of something so devastating. And now, in that little garage at the end of the driveway, he was making a difference in the lives of six children.

“I’d love to see the studio sometime,” I told Isaac.

“How about now?” he suggested, standing up from his chair.

“But won’t we interrupt the lesson?”

Isaac shook his head. “There’s a nice little waiting area inside. We can sit there until the lesson is over.”

“That sounds good,” I said as Isaac helped me up from my chair.

The door to the studio creaked slightly as we pushed it open.

The little boy Isaac had called Angel was sitting at a shiny black grand piano in the east side of the room, and when the door creaked, he looked up, losing his place in his music.

I scrunched up my face in apology. “Sorry,” I whispered.

“It’s just my brother and his friend Annabelle,” Ethan told Angel.

The small, dark-haired boy nodded and resumed plunking the keys on the piano.

Isaac and I tiptoed toward a leather couch in the large waiting area of the room and nodded hello to Angel’s grandfather, Julio, who was already seated on a leather chair.

I looked around the studio from my seat on the couch. It was gorgeous. The high ceilings gave an open, airy feel to the room and the warm color of the stained-wood walls gave the place a feeling of natural elegance. Four large windows displayed a view of the beautiful landscape outside and the walls were decorated with incredible photos. Some of the photographs featured smiling children playing the studio’s piano, and others were artistic shots of the studio’s architecture.

When Angel had finished the song I recognized as “Michael Row Your Boat Ashore,” I clapped quietly. I couldn’t help it—he was just so adorable sitting there at the piano, a huge smile on his face.

Angel looked over at me appreciatively and quickly turned the page in his piano book to his next song. He began playing the song and singing the words loudly. I immediately recognized the tune: “La Cucaracha.”

As Angel played, Isaac took a hold of my hand. I looked over at him and smiled—I was enjoying this new handholding thing like crazy. Isaac and I watched and listened as Angel performed his song. He moved his small, feeble fingers from key to key with impeccable focus and determination, and he sang seemingly with all the joy in his little heart. He was obviously enjoying playing for his small audience, and it was terribly cute.

But there was something more. As I watched him play, I knew that I had something to learn. Here was this little boy who lived with limitations I could not imagine, and yet he was filled with joy. A joy that radiated from his face. A joy that was apparent in the determined way he plunked those piano keys. A joy that echoed in the sound of his voice.

When Angel was finished with his rendition of “La Cucaracha” I clapped again, this time the applause not only for the song, but for the little boy who had touched me through the way he played it. Everyone in the room joined in on the clapping, as if they too somehow knew what the applause was truly for.

After a couple more songs, Ethan told Angel that he had played his songs very well, told him to remember to practice, and helped him place his piano books in a SpongeBob backpack. Angel zoomed over to the sitting area, followed closely behind by Ethan.

Julio stood up from his seat. “Good job, Angel,” he said with a heavy Spanish accent as he secured the SpongeBob backpack to Angel’s wheelchair.

“I only messed up once on ‘La Cucaracha,’” Angel said excitedly.

“Yes, I know,” Julio said.

Ethan politely introduced me to Julio and Angel, and I shook Julio’s hand and told him it was a pleasure to meet him. Then I looked at Angel. “You are an excellent piano player,” I praised.

“Thank you,” Angel said bashfully. “Will you be here for my next lesson?”

“Um, I’m not sure,” I answered, looking over at Isaac.

“Maybe you can come to my recital,” Angel suggested in his adorable little-boy voice.

“It’s this Friday at seven,” Ethan informed me. “You’re welcome to come.”

I nodded my head. “I would love to come. I’ll check my schedule.”

“Okay, bye,” Angel said to me. He zoomed toward the door where his grandfather helped him outside.

I waved to the boy. “Bye.”

Isaac and Ethan started chatting about the recital, and I stepped toward the large windows and watched as Julio gently lifted Angel out of his wheelchair and secured him into the seat of the car.

As I watched the van bounce down the dirt driveway, the late afternoon sun poured in through the window, warming my face. And a stronger, different kind of warmth filled my chest, letting me know that on a simple Tuesday afternoon I had been given the gift of meeting a remarkable child of God.

Back on the deck, I opened the pink notebook that I carried in my bag and made two additions to my Pink Notes while Isaac was inside the house pouring glasses of lemonade.

“What are you writing?”

Isaac’s voice startled me, and I quickly closed my Pink Notes. “Oh, nothing, just notes,” I answered as Isaac set a glass of lemonade in front of me.

The thought of Isaac seeing my Pink Notes was terrifying. No one who doesn’t know my middle name had ever seen them. Meaning only my immediate family and Carrie had seen them since I have never, ever, told anyone outside my family, except for Carrie, my middle name.

Okay, okay. Since I know you’re just going to wonder, and won’t be paying attention to the next part of the story—which gets pretty juicy, I must say—I’ll tell you, as long as you promise to keep it a secret for all of your days.

You promise?

Okay.

It’s Methuselah. Which is actually the name of a man in the Bible who lived to be really old, but in the delirium of an un-medicated, thirty-two hour labor, Mom thought it sounded like a pretty name for a little girl. I’m just lucky it isn’t my first name.

“You really don’t want me to see that notebook, do you?” Isaac asked, mischief in his eyes. Then, without giving me any warning, he reached for the notebook, splashing lemonade onto the deck as he did so.

“No,” I hollered. I quickly put the notebook back into my handbag and clutched the bag tightly to my chest.

Isaac set his glass of lemonade on the table and raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay, fair enough.”

Isaac sat down next to me, and his cell phone began ringing from within his pocket. “Excuse me,” he said to me before answering the call.

I sipped my lemonade, which was a little heavy on the sugar, as Isaac talked.

“Of course,” Isaac said to the person on the line. “You can come pick them up here, if you’d like. I can have them ready in twenty minutes. Okay, sure. See ya.” Isaac hung up the phone. “Annabelle, I have to go get some photos together really fast. Do you mind waiting for a minute?”

“No, that’s fine,” I answered.

Isaac picked up the glasses of lemonade he had just set on the table. “Would you like to come inside?”

“All right.”

Isaac led me through the sliding glass door and into the house. Inside, the house was obviously well designed, but as can be expected with two brothers living together, under-furnished and undecorated. Just inside the sliding door was a dining room that contained a sturdy dining table and little else. To the left was a simple kitchen with solid wood cabinets and black appliances.

Isaac went into the kitchen and placed the lemonades on a low breakfast bar. Then he reached into the refrigerator and grabbed a pitcher full of lemonade from the bottom shelf. This left the refrigerator bare except for a large pizza box, a bag of oranges, a gallon of milk, and a door full of condiments.

Isaac placed the pitcher on the breakfast bar. “Just in case you want more,” he said.

“Thanks,” I responded sweetly.