CHAPTER
fifty-nine

I was late getting to the dayroom, and I worried that Clara would think I’d forgotten about our visit. Her doctor had stopped me in the entryway, wanting to give me an update on her progress. While his news was good and his smile kind, I found him to be long-winded.

By the time he shook my hand and bid me a good day, I was more than a little anxious to get to my sister.

When I made it to the hallway, I noticed all the nurses on the ward gathered around the door, and my heart sank. All sorts of scenarios played through my head of what could have happened inside to draw such attention.

But then I heard music, rich as chocolate and smooth as cream.

Slowing, I took my time getting to the entrance, the music calming me, settling me down.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Someone’s brought a cello,” one of the nurses said.

“Albert,” I whispered. “Excuse me, can I go in?”

The nurses parted for me, and I made it into the dayroom.

On an ordinary day, the lighting was stark against the dingy white walls. But that day, the sun shone in just right, a cheery yellow tone filling the room. Usually the patients chattered or moaned or shuffled across the floor. But in that moment, they were quiet and listening.

Albert sat on a metal folding chair in the far corner of the room, head bent over his cello and making the bow go back and forth across the strings, filling everything around him with beauty. I had no idea what song he played, but it little mattered. In my mind it was nothing short of a masterpiece.

Clara, too, sat on a chair, right on the edge of it. She held her hands together under her chin, and her full attention was on Albie’s face. She hadn’t smiled so radiantly in a very long time.

I stood, frozen where I was, knowing that what I was watching was my sister falling in love, and it was more hope than I could have asked for.

At the end of the song, Albert held the final note, not moving for a moment before looking up. Clara stood slowly, taking the two steps that separated them. Leaning down, she kissed the top of his head.

I thought the blush from his cheeks could have warmed that whole room for the rest of the month.

“You’re telling me that Albert Sweet played his cello, by himself, for a room full of people?” Marvel asked, pouring hot water into a cup before handing it to me. “My brother?”

“Yes. I was just as amazed as you.” I grabbed the string and bobbed the tea bag up and down in the water. “And she kissed him.”

“She did what?” Marvel put the kettle down on the stove harder than I thought she’d intended to.

“Well, on his head.”

“Still.” She rushed across the room and sat down. “Honey, I think that was his first kiss.”

She grabbed a stack of papers on the table, tapping them against the surface to make them even.

“And, equally good news,” I said, sitting at the table with her, taking half of the pile when she handed it to me. “The doctor said that Clara should be able to come home by Christmas.”

“What a good day.” Marvel beamed. “What do you think Hugo will say?”

“I thought I wouldn’t tell him.” I rested my hands on top of the papers. “Just in case.”

“Good idea.” She nodded. “Better to be surprised than disappointed.”

We got to work folding the paper in half, fliers advertising that Sweet Family was taking orders for Thanksgiving pies.

MOM SWEET’S SECRET RECIPES! AVAILABLE FOR THE FIRST TIME EVER!

Pumpkin and apple and mincemeat and pecan and French silk.

Stan had made sure the advertisement read “Limit Two Per Order,” claiming it would make people more interested.

From the handful of orders we’d gotten the day before from the sign in the front window, I thought his scheme just might work.

When Mrs. Brown had asked if we were strict about the two pie limit, I’d told her we would fudge it just for her.

She’d placed an order for half a dozen.

“That other place won’t take orders for anything,” she’d said. “Talk about lazy.”

Marvel and I chatted away as we worked, getting the fliers ready for the twins to deliver door-to-door that afternoon, and I thought of the pie I would order just for Clara to eat at Christmas. French silk. Her very favorite.

Home by Christmas.

What a good day that would be.