The Music Box (16 page)

“Carson, I've been such an idiot.” She reached across and took his hand. “You didn't do anything wrong. It was me. I've been so frightened, and for all the wrong reasons.”

He raised his gaze. “Then, you weren't angry with me?”

“Oh no. Not at all.” She felt his other hand across her own, the warmth and comfort coursing through his touch, easing away her reserve. “I was hurt so terribly. I never thought I'd ever, well . . .”

“Love again,” he murmured softly.

She nodded, feeling the heat in her chest and the burning in her eyes, and whispered, “Yes.”

“Neither did I. And when it came, I couldn't believe it. Didn't want to believe it. But it's true.” He searched her face. “I know it's a lot to ask, coming into your life with a child who's not yours. But I love you so, I've lain there in my bed and known this as clearly as anything I've ever known in my entire life. Do you think you could ever love me—love us?”

“I do,” she whispered. “I do so already.”

The grip on her hands strengthened. He waited until she had raised her gaze to meet his own, then asked, “Angie Picard, would you marry me?”

“Oh, Papa . . .” The soft voice from the kitchen doorway drew their startled glances, then all three were laughing and crying and hugging.

19

Even though she had been ready and waiting for almost two hours, still the doorbell seemed directly connected to her head and jangled every nerve in her body when it sounded. She hurried down the front hall, opened the door to a beaming young face. “I declare, I thought you'd never get here.”

“Don't you start,” Emma called from the car. “We're ten minutes early.”

“Never mind. Oh, now where did I put my purse.”

“It's right here,” Melissa said, picking it off the doorknob, then turning and calling back to the car, “You were right, Miss Emma. She's nervous.”

“I am not either,” Angie restarted, rattling the keys as she struggled to lock the door. “And I'd have every reason to be if I were.”

Melissa hurried down the walk beside her. “Miss Emma says we're gonna knock them dead.”

“What an appropriately delightful way to describe a duet for a Sunday worship,” Angie said, climbing into the car.

“Good morning to you, too,” Emma said, putting the car in gear.

“I can't believe I let you talk me into riding to church. I probably won't have any composure at all without my morning walk.”

“You can loosen your grip on that purse, dear,” Emma said. “That is, unless you aim on tearing it in two.”

Angie's rejoinder was cut off by the sight of a familiar truck driving by. Hammond Whitley, Mark Whitley's father, was the town's finest builder. But this morning, the truck seemed to coast by the ladies on its own. The crest of a paint-spattered hat was all that could be seen of the driver, as though he had slumped down below the wheel. “Was that Ham?” Angie asked.

“It couldn't be,” Emma said, shoving her foot down on the gas pedal. “And if it was, I'll shoot him myself.”

Melissa giggled from the backseat. Emma glared at her in the rearview mirror. “I'll thank you to keep hold of whatever it is that's tickling you, young lady.”

Angie peered at her friend through squinted eyes. “Emma Drummond, what mischief have you got cooking?”

“Me? Huh. As if I had enough time for anything, what with three teenagers, four classes, Luke's hardware store, and a pair of singers so nervous they'd fly out the window if I didn't keep it rolled up tight.”

“I'm not nervous, and you're avoiding my question.”

“If I told you once I've told you a thousand times, you're worse than my youngest for dreaming up nonsense.”

“Speaking of your children,” Angie queried suspiciously, “why aren't they with you this morning?”

“Oh, they're with Luke.” Something about the question left Emma flustered. She picked up her program from the seat between them and began fanning herself. “I declare, it's more like July than late April.”

The road wound into town, a series of curves made graceful by the bounty of cherry trees blooming on either side. The blossoms were at their height that weekend, each tree bursting with white and pink. The gentle fragrance lingered on the tongue, sweet as honey, light as air. “Where is Luke?”

“In his truck,” Emma said, her agitation increasing as Melissa stifled another tiny giggle. “Now, why don't you think about what's just up ahead. Do you have your music?”

Angie proceeded to make a frantic search of the seat around her. “Oh my goodness, wait, you'll have to turn around.”

“It's right here, Miss Emma,” Melissa sang out from the backseat. “I picked it up from her hall table.”

“Bless you, child. It's good to know somebody's able to keep hold of their wits this morning.” Emma heaved a sigh of genuine relief when they rounded the corner and the church came into view. “Now, come on, let's go greet the folks.”

There seemed to be a determined effort by everyone at church to share a smile and half a secret with her. Their gladness was infectious, even with Angie, even on that particular Sunday.

Then the crowd parted, and there before her stood Gina. A smiling, happy woman, dark-haired and vibrant, inspecting her with those piercing black eyes, then lifting her arms and walking forward and hugging Angie close. To her ears alone she said, “You've changed, my dear. Oh, how you've changed!”

All Angie could manage was, “What? . . . How?”

“Miss Gina's been talking with Miss Emma,” piped up a very breathless Melissa. “And then Miss Gina called me!”

At Angie's questioning look, Gina said, “I remembered Emma from your wedding. Anyway, I wouldn't have missed this performance for the world.” She released Angie long enough to reach into her purse. “I found another passage and wrote it down. Only this one is not for you. It's for all the other people you're going to be able to help.” She handed over the card and finished with joyful assurance, “Now that you have found the answer for yourself.”

Angie accepted the card and read the neatly printed passage from Isaiah: “In all their affliction he was afflicted, and the angel of his presence saved them: in his love and in his pity he redeemed them: and he bare them up, and carried them.”

“This is beautiful,” Angie said slowly. She stared into the smiling face and said, “I can't believe you came all this way just to hear me sing.”

Gina looked startled. “Why, don't—”

“Miss Emma's waving at us,” Melissa broke in, suddenly frantic. “We have to go right now!”

Angie gave Gina a final hug and then allowed the little form to pull her from the gathering. Emma shooed them around to the tiny changing room used by the choir. “You two get into your robes and go over your songs one more time. I'm going to check on the folks up here.”

“Emma—”

“Go on now, anything you've got to say can wait until afterward.”

Angie watched the girl slip her robe over her head and begin singing through the first tune. Melissa swayed so her robe flowed out in golden ripples. Angie stood by the wall and watched her dance in little happy circles. Melissa's joy was infectious.

Suddenly Angie was caught by the need to ask something that had been on her mind all week. The thought left her so unsettled she had to sit down.

“Melissa,” she started, then caught herself, uncertain how to continue.

“It's okay, Miss Picard,” Melissa assured her. “Everything is going to be just fine. Miss Emma says once we start singing, the nerves will go away.”

“For once, I think she's probably right.” Angie tried to still her flutters, then patted the seat next to her. “Come sit beside me for a moment, please.”

When Melissa had settled, Angie hesitated a moment longer, then said, “It would be nice if you would call me Angie when we're alone like this. That is, if you want.”

Melissa beamed. “I'd like that very much. Is that what you wanted to ask me?”

“No.” Nervously she clasped her hands in her lap. “Your father and I have been talking about, well, plans for after we're . . .”

“Married,” she said for Angie, almost singing the word. The slim shoulders rose in delight. “Isn't it wonderful?”

“Yes.” Angie clenched her hands together and asked, “I was wondering, well, I needed to ask . . . how you might feel about perhaps your father and you moving into my house after the wedding. I know it's old and there's more bare wood than paint, but it's been such an important part of my life, I'd really love to make it part of yours as well.”

Melissa smiled. “Okay.”

“You can have all your things in your own room . . .” Angie plunged ahead before Melissa's response sank in. “You don't mind?”

“I always thought that's what we would do,” she said simply. “I love your house, Miss, I mean, Angie. I think it's beautiful.”

Angie leaned back weakly. “You don't mind that it looks a little shabby?”

For some reason, the question caused another giggle to bubble up from inside. Melissa managed to stop it by clamping both hands over her mouth. When she was sure it was past, she let go long enough to ask, “Which room is going to be mine?” Her eyes were gleaming. “Can I have the one with the turret?”

“It's called a gable,” Angie corrected. “Of course you can, if that's what you want.”

“I do. I think it's a beautiful room, with the windows around the corner like that. Can we keep the chest with the dolls in there? I'll be careful with them.”

Angie reached over and took her hand. “They're yours.”

“Really?” Melissa's eyes held her delight.

“They're my gift to you. My welcome-home gift.”

“Oh, Angie.” Melissa wrapped her arms tightly around Angie's shoulders. “That's the best new-home present anybody ever got.” Then she released Angie, leaned back, and said, “But can I ask for something else?”

“Of course.”

It was Melissa's turn to be nervous. “I was just wondering,” she started, then hesitated before ending in a rush, “can you and Daddy get married on my birthday?”

Angie felt the world tilt on its axis.

“Please, please, it would be the best birthday anybody ever had.” She rose to stand in front of Angie, their fingers now intertwined. “I already asked Papa, and he said he'd think about it, but I know he was just waiting to get up the nerve to talk with you about it. Please, say it's okay.”

“Melissa, sweetheart . . .” Angie stopped to bite down hard on her lip. Then she said, “That is positively the nicest thing anybody has ever asked me.”

“Then, you'll do it?” Her hands were already clapping.

“Of course I will.”

She squealed and grabbed Angie for a whirl around the floor. “Oh, this is great! Wait till Papa hears.”

Emma chose that moment to open the door. “What is all this racket? People are coming for worship out here.” She took one look at Angie and scowled fiercely. “Why aren't you in your robe? We're ready!”

Angie slipped into her robe in no time flat, although nothing could have stopped her from smiling. Nor Melissa. The two of them entered the sanctuary and took their places beside the organist, beaming out at the congregation, waiting for Emma to give them the downbeat.

Angie was so full of the day and the days to come that she scarcely knew she was singing at all. It was only when she was well into the final piece that the music and the moment came into focus. She heard herself blend in perfect harmony with Melissa, and sing,

“Under His wings I am safely abiding,
Though the night deepens and tempests are wild;
Still I can trust Him—I know He will keep me,
He has redeemed me and I am His child!”

20

She would never have admitted it, not even to herself, but Angie was a trifle disappointed with the scant number of comments she and Melissa received after the service. It seemed as though almost everyone was in a hurry to be somewhere else. Even Melissa. She hugged Angie swiftly and said, “That was great, Angie. Bye. I have to go with Daddy.”

Angie could only gape and say, “Now?”

“Yes, ma'am. Is it okay if I move one thing into the house today?” The smile filled her whole face. “Just one thing. But I want to go ahead and start.”

“I suppose so,” Angie said, feeling as though events were coming from the most unexpected directions today. “But what's the—”

Emma bounded into the choir room. “Aren't you ready to go yet? Come on, get out of that robe!”

“Emma Drummond, won't you even say we sang well?”

“All right, all right, you sang well.” She shooed Melissa out the door, who turned and gave Angie a little wave before vanishing. Emma went on impatiently, “Hurry up now, time's a wasting.”

Angie pulled off her robe. “Well, I never—”

“Come on, come on,” Emma urged her out the church's back entrance and around to where the car was waiting. Angie searched the churchyard, but Gina was nowhere to be seen. She allowed herself to be guided into the car, settled herself, and grimly crossed her arms.

When the road curved sharp enough for Angie to see a procession of cars behind them, she turned and saw that Emma was grinning broadly, and declared, “You've got something up your sleeve. Don't you dare deny it.”

And then they came up the final rise, and there was her little house. Or was it?

Trestle tables had been set up across her front yard, and women were laying out plates and glasses and knives and forks. Behind them, men were setting up a scaffold under the careful eye of Ham Whitley. Already her entire first floor bore a skirting of pipe and planks.

Angie turned to her friend as they pulled up, too astonished to even ask. Then Luke was at her window, formal now in his shy pleasure, opening the door and offering her a hand. She did not have the strength to either resist or protest. Angie alighted and steadied herself on the car.