The narrow staircase carried Grace up to a hallway with three doors. Though the doors on either side were open, the closed door directly in front of her drew her so completely that she didn’t even glance into the bedrooms she passed. Instead, she set down her cello and ran her hands over the smooth surface of the door, wondering how the woodworker had created rays that looked like Medusa’s snake hair, bending and spreading out from a center of pieces of amber, a sun. Suspended above its radiance were other cut-outs for planets, some a single stone, others a collection like the sun. Dozens of stars so tiny Grace could not discern their color completed the skyscape. Finally, she turned her hand, rapping her knuckles on the masterpiece.
“Come in,” Jen called from within. “Sorry to drag you out in the rain.”
“Comes with the territory, doesn’t it?”
Jen laughed. “Guess that’s true. I’m just warming up here.” she tucked her violin back under her chin and resumed her scales. Grace set down her case, surveyed the room as she pulled out her instrument, extended the endpin and tightened her bow. The polished hardwood floor would make for great acoustics. Two huge picture windows framed in fire-engine red dominated one wall. Grace’s hands stilled and she sat mesmerized by what Jen must be able to see during the day.
“You wouldn’t believe the view,” Jen said, breaking her reverie.
“Sorry.” Grace sat and accepted Jen’s A to begin tuning.
“Don’t be. It’s such a cool space. Every day, I think about how lucky I am to be able to play in here.”
“How did you ever find it?”
“I was already renting a room in the house. My landlady suggested I use this as a studio to try to build up a business.”
“The one who let me in?” Grace asked.
“Older woman?” Jen asked and then quickly looked at Grace. “I’m not saying…”
Grace cut off the coming apology. “Yes, an older woman.”
Jen nodded. “I moved in here after one year in the dorm. She’s saved me in lots of ways. This is just the most recent example.”
Her words made Grace curious about the other ways the woman downstairs had saved this vibrant young person. She spent a few minutes fine-tuning her four strings, thinking of the generosity that had been extended, more than just space since a music studio guaranteed a noise disturbance to everyone else. “Where shall I begin my audition?”
“You’re kidding, right? I can already tell you’re good. I don’t have anything specific for a violin and cello duet, but I love this Handel Partita. I thought you could play the continuo bass.”
“Usually the harpsichord part?”
“Exactly.” Jen beamed.
“Let’s take a look.”
Jen placed the sheet music on their shared stand. “Sorry, I only have one copy.”
“Not a problem.” Grace scanned the bass clef and felt her pulse quicken. “You’re not messing around.”
The young woman raised her eyebrows encouragingly. “Doable?”
“Yes, and it looks like fun. I’ve been struggling with the bowing in “The Swan” from Saint-Saens’ The Carnival of Animals.” She tipped her head toward the sheet music. “This tempo and fingering looks intriguing. It’s nice to have a different challenge.”
“Here we go then!” Jen counted them into shared rhythm. Their instruments’ voices joined, amplifying the joy Grace felt when she played. Her smile grew bigger and bigger, more so when she saw her expression mirrored by the young woman next to her. An hour passed in an instant as they played piece after piece on the stand between them until Grace’s stomach added to the chorus. Embarrassed, Grace held both bow and cello in her right hand, covering her tummy with her left.
“I don’t blame you,” Jen said, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. When she opened her eyes again, she beamed at Grace. “Mom’s cooking again!”
“Mom?” Grace said, perplexed.
Jen shrugged as she placed her violin in its case. “Like I said, I’ve been here a long time. Let’s see if she made enough to share.”
“I don’t want to intrude,” Grace said, snapping her own case shut. As they approached the amazing door from the other side, a bowl perched on the top of the piano caught her eye. She set down the case, reaching out to touch the lip of the piece. “May I?”
“’Course,” said Jen, pausing at the now-open door.
Grace savored the smooth surface of the bowl, the curve of the sides and flare in its base. She turned it in her hands and was not surprised to see the same Mother of Pearl signature she’d seen at Kristine’s when she had joined them for dinner, suddenly recalling the soup and bread. “Is this a local artist?”
Jen laughed. “You could say she’s the artist in residence. She made this door too. Come down and meet her.”
As they descended the stairs, both the warmth and the aroma from the kitchen enveloped them.
“What’s the occasion?” Jen asked.
Robyn, her back to them, rinsing her hands in the sink, said, “Just felt like cooking. I hope you’re hungry.” When she turned, her eyes immediately locked with Grace’s, and she flushed red.
Something about Robyn fascinated Grace. Too rushed at the barn, self-conscious at Café Mokka when she was on a date with Megan and caught off guard at the door earlier, Grace had never fully had the chance to study Robyn. She took the opportunity now, wondering what had caused the color in her cheeks to rise, not expecting such emotion from someone who seemed so grounded. She tried to recall whether she had ever seen anyone else with Asian coloring and blue eyes.
In the warmth of the kitchen, Robyn had rolled back her long-sleeved T-shirt, revealing muscles along her forearms that rippled even with the simple task of drying her hands. She stood a head taller than Grace, even barefoot, the cuffs of her unshaped jeans loosely rolled.
“Grace, this is Robyn, landlady, woodworker and chef extraordinaire. Robyn, Grace and I are going to try to get a string quartet together.” Jen reached into the salad bowl, scoring a slice of carrot before Robyn swatted her.
Robyn leaned forward to shake Grace’s hand. “Nice to finally meet you.”
Jen looked from one to the other with a puzzled expression on her face.
“Were you planning on running out of here as fast as you ran out of the barn when I took Bean off your hands, or would you care to join us for dinner?”
“Stay,” Jen said. “She’s a really good cook.”
“I know,” Grace said, enjoying the look of confusion on both women’s faces.
“I stopped by the day you took Kristine’s family dinner. They invited me to stay.”
“She admired the cherry bowl upstairs too,” Jen provided.
Admired more than that, Grace thought, remembering Robyn’s generosity in providing Jen with such a wonderful place to practice and give music lessons. She also recalled Kristine and Gloria teasing her for not noticing Robyn’s good looks when they had first met at the barn. She allowed herself another appraisal of the woman, noting hands free of any rings as Robyn moved back to work on supper, her aloofness returning.
“They’re remarkably crafted,” she said in an attempt to draw the woman out.
“Thanks.”
Grace furrowed her brow, wondering what it took to engage her.
“How long have you been turning?”
“’Bout six years now.”
“Tell her about that massive burl you pulled in,” Jen said. “She and a friend of hers spent the whole day winching it into her truck. Didn’t you say you almost had to make Isabel walk home because it was weighing down your truck so much?”
“Almost.”
What’s with this woman, Grace wondered, puzzling over the answers that went beyond succinct.
“But it’s pretty much all downhill, so I chanced it,” Robyn added, surprising Grace. Maybe she could be lured into a conversation.
“Do you have many pieces?” Grace asked.
“Enough to stock a booth each year at the North Country Fair.” Robyn didn’t look at her as she spoke.
“I can’t imagine that you get what they’re worth selling them at a street fair.”
Robyn regarded her, and when she turned, Grace couldn’t help but feel dismissed. She dug in, stubborn to see her point through. “I’m saying that as a professional. Surely the galleries here would be interested in displaying your work.”
“And taking a portion of the profits.” She drained some spaghetti and poured it into a pan with a creamy sauce and clams. “Jen, if there’s anything left of the salad, would you put it on the table?”
“But at least they’re sold for what they’re worth,” Grace prodded.
“I make enough.” Robyn paused between the stove and table with the steaming pan of pasta in her hands, her cool blue eyes hard on Grace.
Grace blinked, aware that she had hit a nerve. “Even so, a shop is more likely to widen your audience.”
“Do you get a cut when you bring in a new artist?”
“Excuse me?” Grace said, taken aback.
“Can’t see why else you’d be so interested in where I show my bowls.”
“C’mon, Robyn. She’s just saying you’re talented. People want to share talent, not keep it locked up.”
Grace gestured to Jen as if she were exhibit A. “Thank you.”
“Three plates or two?” Robyn said, dismissing the topic altogether.
Her stomach rumbled, urging her to stay, but Robyn’s attitude frustrated her. “Thank you for the offer, but I have other plans. Nice to meet you Robyn. Jen, this was so great. I hope we can get together again soon.”
“I’ll work on finding our other two. It’ll be even more fun when we round out the quartet.”
“Until then, I’ve always wanted to try the Ravel Sonata but never knew anyone who could play the other part. I could track it down if you’re interested.”
“That sounds great,” Jen said enthusiastically.
Jen swung open the heavy front door, and Grace paused to take in a carving of a ship, lighthouse and birds all intricately carved and then integrated into the door itself, exposed to the elements. She opened the umbrella she’d left on the front porch and hugged her cello case close to her body as she jogged out to her car, trying to put out of her mind why someone would be so stubborn about showing her work. She was used to artists being happy to talk about their creations, grateful for someone to take an interest, not to brush her off.