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Spence made the mistake of arriving at Phoebe’s home near the end of another lesson with Teddy. With all the effort he could muster, he waited on the sofa and cringed at the notes the boy missed, the ones he played by mistake, and his poor sense of timing—even with the help of a metronome.
A wailing cat with its tail in the door.
Secure as a bank vault, his lips sealed in the amusement over Maura’s accurate description of the boy’s competence at the piano—or lack of it. This suffering was his own fault for not hiring Mrs. Crain on Sunday, then insisting he’d wait until the boy’s lesson was over to speak with her today.
The furniture in the room was tasteful though worn and sparse. A pile of sheet music sat in an old crate atop a small table near the piano. The teacher could use a music cabinet.
“That’s enough for today, Teddy.” Phoebe covered his hands with hers, stopping the erratic crescendo. Evidently, even she couldn’t bear it any more. “Your mother will be here soon.”
The boy spun on the stool and hightailed it to the front hall for his coat, as if that cat’s tail were on fire.
Maura called for her mother, and Mrs. Crain shot Spence an apologetic glance. “I should see what she wants. She’s in bed and not well.”
Spence made a mental note to send the child something to cheer her. “Tell Miss Maura I hope she feels better soon.”
Phoebe Crain mumbled a thank-you in a voice deeper than normal and left the room.
He rose and walked into the hall. “Tell me something, Teddy. Don’t you enjoy playing the piano?”
The boy’s mouth twisted. “I stink at it. I’d rather play baseball.”
Spence had never played sports. He’d been too sickly as a child. His activities consisted of reading, music, and building primitive wooden objects in his room, but he could understand the boy’s desire to rebel against doing what he stank at.
As much as he enjoyed working at Newland’s, if Spence couldn’t convince Lark to help them expand into the growing five-and-ten-cent-store market, he’d stink at proving himself a productive member of the Newland family.
“I like Mrs. Crain,” Teddy said. “She’s nice. Ma says she and the rest of them Widow’s Might women are a treasure.”
“Widow’s Might? What is that?”
Teddy shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s just somethin’ I heard her say. You’d better ask Mrs. Crain.” He bolted out the front door before anyone could order him to return to the piano.
Never.
When Mrs. Crain returned, she said, “I’m sorry you had to wait. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, and I wanted to get in Teddy’s lesson beforehand.”
No doubt she needed the money from every student. She was far too young to be saddled with so much responsibility and solemnity.
Given the sickness in this house, Spence shouldn’t have stayed, but he lowered his voice and said, “Has anyone told you that you sound like a too-bah today?” He slid one arm out straight and tucked it back, blowing a note through the hand curled against his mouth.
She raised her chin in a gesture that said she would not be amused. No, she would not. But her puckered lips betrayed her. She crossed her arms. “That is a trombone, Mr. Newland, not a tuba.”
He pretended to study the invisible instrument in his hand. “So it is.”
Despite a valiant attempt to hold it in, a croaky chuckle escaped from her.
His eyes widened in feigned surprise. “Now doesn’t laughter make you feel better?” It had always made him feel better.
“There’s nothing wrong with me.” Her expression sobered, and her brown eyes—as soft as the velvet covering a deer’s antlers—held a smidgeon of hope. “You’ve made up your mind?”
Father doubted the plan would pay for itself but left the decision to Spence. After days spent mulling over the plusses and minuses of employing Phoebe, he had decided to limit her presence to two days per week for the upcoming holidays. The time would allow him to test the idea of adding music to the customer experience and limit his exposure to this woman who awed him in both positive and negative ways.
“Newland’s would be pleased to welcome your talent in our store. What hours would interfere least with your private lessons on Fridays and Saturdays?”
“I could do”—she cocked her head, her focus on the wall behind him before it switched back to him—“two hours in the afternoon. Two to four?”
“And two hours in the morning? Ten to twelve?”
“That’s a lot of time out of my day.”
She was determined to make everything involving him as hard as possible. “It’s only for a month.”
“Well, I suppose I could rearrange my schedule.” She forced her shoulders back in a “there’s more” stance. “I’ll require a high-quality instrument.”
“I’ll have my personal piano delivered to the store this afternoon.” The sparkle in her eyes told him she had hoped that was what he’d say. “You’ll start Friday morning at ten.”
“I’ll be there.” She stopped him at the front door. “One more thing, Mr. Newland.”
Now what?
“I would prefer no one knows I’m Phoebe Langford.”
First thing Monday morning, he had wired a friend whose responses to his questions convinced him she could very well be the pianist. Even so, he wasn’t willing to risk the reputation of the store by claiming an uncertainty.
“I agree.” He buttoned his coat and adjusted the scarf around his neck against the chill breeze outside. “I’ll see you Friday?”
“Yes.”
After a few more instructions, Spence turned his bicycle in the direction of the store and cast a last glance at Phoebe’s frail little house, hearing once more her gravelly chuckle.
Seeing that smile, no matter how begrudgingly it came, had done something to him—something he was afraid to name.
***
“GRANDMA’S TAKING ME to see the trains. Maybe he’ll be there today.”
Phoebe pulled her daughter aside and out of the way of a customer entering the department store. Next time she would enter through the employee door at the rear of the building. “Maura, we’ve discussed this. What I told you before was only a fairy tale based on how I met your father. It won’t happen that way a second time.”
“But it could.” Maura’s voice rose to a shrill whine.
A gentleman bumped Phoebe’s shoulder and apologized. With people coming and going, this was not the time or place to continue the conversation. Mr. Newland expected her to begin her job in fifteen minutes. “God will bring you a papa when He deems it’s time.”
Even if it made her daughter happy, Phoebe was in no hurry for that particular gift. Not that she scorned marriage. She believed happy unions were possible—with the right man.
“Don’t forget to give Mr. Newland my drawing.”
“I won’t.” Phoebe hugged the child, then stood and handed her off to her mother. “I’ll be home for lunch.”
She inhaled a crisp, bracing breath before walking farther into the store. Only her desire to provide Maura with something nice for Christmas persuaded her to accept this job, especially after Mr. Newland had tried to charm her with his teasing about the trombone...and it had worked.
After losing two days of pay through illness, and considering she’d lose more wages because of the holiday, every penny earned here would go toward making up the income before she could apply whatever remained to Maura’s dollhouse. Hopefully, she’d be able to put a little aside too.
With each step forward, it often seemed that life knocked her back two.
She craned her neck and scanned the floor for the piano he’d said would await her this morning. She spotted it in a small alcove near a front window. Presumably, it was located there to draw the attention of those on the outside and lure them into the store. The Newlands were nothing if not strategic in the promotion of their business.
As instructed, she had hung her coat and hat in the fourth-floor storage room they called the employee salon and returned to the first floor.
She approached the ebony piano—a Steinway. The cabinet was polished to a satin sheen, and she ran her hand along the smooth surface. With the touch, memories assailed her. The applause. The travel. A sufficient income. Her short time here would be different from those days, and she no longer sought the lifestyle that led to her downfall.
Various pages of sheet music trembled as Phoebe placed them against the intricately carved music rack. She’d memorized the songs long ago. Regardless, it had been years since she’d played in front of an audience. She wouldn’t risk forgetting the notes because of anxiety.
Seated on a padded bench, her nerves did a dance, reacting with the excitement of a child on Christmas morning.
“I trust the piano meets your standards, Mrs. Crain.”
She peered up at a cheerful Spence Newland, unable to keep her fingers from stroking the surface of the keys, light enough the ivories never made a sound. Although she would have preferred a moment alone to warm up, he leaned against the curve in the case and waited. “It’s a beautiful instrument.”
“I saw Maura’s drawing.”
Phoebe had laid the paper on his desk, grateful he wasn’t in his office. “She wanted to thank you for the book you sent.”
“It was my pleasure.” An unexpected sadness dragged down his mouth and eyelids.
Phoebe played the opening notes of one of her own compositions. Closing her eyes, she blocked out the sounds of the shoppers around her, as well as the presence of the man who had hired her. As her fingers glanced across each key, she became lost in the melody and nothing mattered but the music. Nothing mattered but the peace that filled her soul with the ebb and flow of the dulcet sounds she had created.
With the last note left to evaporate in the air, enthusiastic applause commanded her return to her surroundings.
Her eyes flew open, and the first face she saw was Mr. Newland’s. Sometime during the piece, he had moved closer until he stood at the corner of the piano, near the keyboard. His face glowed with something she could only define as an admiration for what he had heard. It was the response she had hoped for on Sunday...and didn’t get.
Some women would call him a fine-looking man with his kind eyes, self-assured stance, and that hint of humor that seemed to always want to wiggle his lips into an upward curve.
After her experience with Douglas, Phoebe’s mother often reminded her that “handsome is as handsome does.” By the time she finished her engagement here, she would have a better feel for the depth of Mr. Newland’s handsomeness.
Phoebe focused on the crowd gathered near the alcove. Exposure here might bring her new students, extending the monetary advantage of this time well beyond Christmas.
She bobbed her head at the audience.
“That was lovely, Mrs. Crain.” Spencer Newland the Second broke through the crowd and leaned close to his son. “May I speak with you, Spence?”
The younger man excused himself, and the two of them walked off. They stopped several feet away while Phoebe began the next song on her list, a less complex piece. Eventually, people drifted away to carry out whatever business brought them to S. F. Newland’s and Company, and new listeners halted to hear her play.
Her fingers moved of their own accord as she watched father and son in a quiet discussion. There was something so...heartrending...in the way The Third’s shoulders sank as he followed his father to the elevator. At one point, Phoebe was struck with the oddest impression to go to him and provide him with encouragement.
All the more reason to mind her own business and continue playing.
