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Tonya
Emma had promised her the couch, but it wasn’t working out that way. Her daughter had tipped over and fallen asleep with her head in her lap, and Tonya was relishing the opportunity to run her hand over her daughter’s soft hair. How she had missed that hair.
It was late, but Tonya didn’t know how late. The storm had passed, but the power was still off. Knowing this section of Maine, she didn’t expect it would come back on soon. Their town was stuck out on a peninsula, so they were usually one of the last to get power restored. She didn’t mind. She found the candlelight comforting. She found Fiona’s presence even more comforting. The woman wasn’t at all what she’d expected.
“You know, I’ve tried to learn to play the piano.”
Fiona tipped her head sideways like a curious puppy. “Emma mentioned something about that.”
Tonya laughed dryly. “You can’t even imagine how bad I was at it. I don’t understand how anyone can read three or four or even more notes at a time and make their fingers do all those different things at the same time.” She’d started out trying to pay Fiona a compliment, but now thinking about her life as a pastor’s wife was making her feel sick to her stomach.
“Did you take lessons?”
She nodded. “I sure did. More than a year of them.”
Fiona scowled. “Usually, a teacher will only have you read and play one note at a time so that you’re not overwhelmed. Then, when you can play one note, you move on to two. Then, when you can play two, you move on to three. I don’t think you had a very good teacher.”
She shrugged. “She was all right. She tried. I don’t think I was a very good student.”
“Why was that?”
She didn’t like the intensity with which Fiona was studying her. “I guess I didn’t really want to be doing it at all. I mean, I wanted to be a good pastor’s wife, and all good pastors’ wives should play the piano, right?” She forced a laugh. “But there was all this pressure, and I—”
“Pressure from who?”
“I don’t know. My husband. The piano player who wanted to retire. And myself, maybe.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “I found that pressure and art don’t mix well together. Often, the appliance of pressure makes art not art anymore.” She grabbed a new candle from the end table beside her, got up, and went to the coffee table at Tonya’s knees. She lit the new candle with the nub of the other and then pried the spent candle out of the holder with knobby fingers.
Tonya tried to imagine those fingers dancing across the ivories. “I wish I could hear you play sometime.”
Fiona didn’t say anything. She just carried the old candle back to her chair and then set it on the end table.
“Is that why you stopped playing? Did the pressure make the art not art anymore?”
Fiona shook her head. “That happened, but that’s not why I stopped. I stopped because I didn’t want to be around people anymore. It hurt too much.”
When she didn’t elaborate, Tonya said, “I’m sorry.”
“I know you are.”
“So you don’t see anyone, ever?”
She shook her head, avoiding eye contact. “Don’t need to. Don’t want to. Much safer right here with the imaginary characters on television.”
Tonya looked at the black screen. “I’ve noticed myself that sometimes I enjoy those fictional characters more than the people in my real life. It’s not fair. All those people have a room full of writers making them likable.”
She’d been kidding, but Fiona didn’t laugh. “It never bothered me much if someone was unlikable. I figured that was their prerogative. What I couldn’t tolerate was the cruelty.”
“Cruelty?”
Fiona put both hands on her armrests. “You know what? I could use a glass of coffee brandy. I know you’re a pastor’s wife and all, but would you like a glass?”
Her lips started to object before she even realized how tempting the offer was. How odd. She’d never been tempted by alcohol before. “I’ve never had coffee brandy.”
She stood. “Do you like coffee?”
“Very much.”
“Then you’ll probably like coffee brandy. I’ll get you some. If you don’t drink it, I will.”
