“By what exactly? I’ve always been curious about this. By how music affects people.”
“The melody,” she says, setting down her cup. “The passage that keeps getting repeated in different forms. The hairs stood out at the back of my neck.” She pauses, embarrassed. “I’m not explaining this well.”
“For some, the concerto is purely an intellectual pleasure. You sound as though you absorbed it through the skin.”
“Yes, that’s it, through the skin.”
“Didn’t you listen to music in your home?”
“The radio.”
“You’ll have to get some records.”
She nods but wants to protest that she hasn’t any money, which leads her to her next thought, the reason why she’s here. “I have two children,” she says. “My husband, Gene, went off to make a firebreak, and he didn’t come home. His body was never found.”
“I’m very sorry.”
“Yes, thank you, it’s awful, but there’s another problem. Our house burned down, and I have nowhere to live. At the moment we’re living in the attic of a friend of my mother’s, but we can’t stay there indefinitely. Then I remembered this house. Gene inherited it when his mother died.”
“I’ll leave of course,” he says. “I can be gone by evening.”
Grace wants to touch his fingers. How can so much magic come from them? “Are your fingers insured?” she asks.
“My hands.”
“They’d have to be, wouldn’t they?”
“I can’t do anything else except play the piano.”
“I don’t want to make you leave,” Grace admits reluctantly. “I’d like to be able to hear that music again.” She blushes and bends her head. “The world is so dreary, so awful now.”
“Everything in the house seems to be working fine, as far as I can tell,” he offers. “Good hot water, the stove works, can’t speak for the oven, the steam heat is better on the second floor than on the first.”
“Don’t go anywhere tonight,” she says. Perhaps, she thinks, he can remain as a tenant. The money would be a relief, a source of income while she looks for a job. “When I come back with the children and my mother in the morning, we’ll have made a decision. If you would, could you unlock the front door starting around nine?”
Before Grace can tell her mother about the man at Merle’s house, she needs to be sure it’s what she wants. It doesn’t take her long to decide that the man must stay—somehow, in some capacity. The decision surprises her. She knows nothing about Aidan Berne. He might be an escaped convict, he might be a leech, he might be a spy who will endanger them all. But Grace feels certain he is only an evacuee who was interrupted in the middle of a rehearsal by a fire.
Grace has to wait until two o’clock, when everyone goes up for a nap, Gladys and Evelyn included. Her mother doesn’t leave the kitchen, however, knowing that her daughter has news to deliver.
They sit, her mother with a dish towel in her hand. “Well?” she asks.
“The house is open and is in good shape, and we can move in anytime. But it seems we have a tenant.”
“A tenant? Paying rent?”
“Well, that’s the thing. We haven’t established that yet.”
“I’m confused.”
Grace lights a cigarette. “There’s a pianist on the second floor. He was being evacuated during the fire, and he saw the piano in the turret. Curiosity compelled him to enter the house. He’s been there since the night of the fire.”
“A squatter?”
“A squatter with immense talent. And he’s offered to leave.”
“Well, then,” her mother says, setting the folded dish towel on the table. “That’s settled.”
“Well, not really,” Grace says. “I think we should let him stay.”
“Why? Will he pay good rent?”
“I’m sure he will, but that’s not the only reason. The music is beautiful. The kids and you and I have had so little in the way of beauty or music in our lives.”
“Music won’t pay the bills,” her mother says. “And what kind of a man just squats in the house without trying to find out who the owners are?”
“Oh, come on, Mother, you know it’s been happening all up and down the coast of Maine.” She taps her ash into the saucer. Gladys and Evelyn don’t smoke.
“If he has no credentials, we can’t trust him.”
“I’m sure he does have credentials. I just didn’t ask. But I talked to him. I liked him. I think he’s trustworthy.”
Her mother seems about to remind her of instances when her instincts didn’t pay off, but she holds her tongue.
“I want to go back with you and the children tomorrow, just to see the place,” says Grace.
“It might be good to have a man close by,” her mother suggests. “To fix things, I mean.”
“There may be one slight hitch. The piano is in the turret on the second floor. It’s part of Merle’s bedroom. I can only let him stay if he arranges to move the instrument down to the turreted parlor.”
“How can he do that?”
“The stairs are wide, but my guess is that they’ll take out one of the long windows and use a crane to get it down. They’ll have to take out a window in the parlor, too, to get it back in.”
“Is all that necessary?”
“I think so. The children and I will take over Merle’s bedroom. I want them near me for now. And you have your choice of rooms on the third floor. One of them is a turret room, too.”
“I already have my own room,” her mother sniffs, doubtless thinking of the house that burned down.
“You don’t anymore,” Grace gently reminds her.
“But what about the man? Where’s he going to sleep?”
“There’s a library on the first floor, just off the kitchen. It’s a good-size room, and we can move a bed down there. Then he’ll have everything he needs, a bed, a bathroom, his piano, and access to the kitchen. Not a bad little apartment.”
“You’ve thought this all out.”
“I have,” says Grace.
As they climb the stairs, Claire, whose eyes dart from side to side, seems to remember the house. Marjorie holds Tom while Grace opens the front door. Aidan has raised all the shades to let light in, and Grace can’t find a mote of obvious dust. They didn’t talk about whether or not he should be present, but he seems to have made a decision not to be. The light coming in the windows both enhances and detracts from the rooms. She notes a water stain on an expensive antique table, claw marks from a dog at the side of one of the sofas, a bit of threadbare carpet. It’s all fine, even better that way; Grace needn’t worry about the children hurting the furnishings.
Grace leads her mother, Tom, and Claire into the dining room and then into the yellow and white kitchen. Perhaps remembering the last time she visited this house, Claire tries to open drawers, looking for the wooden utensils her mother got out for her.
“I like this,” her mother says, gazing at the large windows.
Grace shows them the library she means to use as Aidan’s bedroom if he agrees. She leads the entourage up the carpeted curved staircase. They enter the room that once was Merle’s. Claire runs to the dressing table and wants to touch the jewelry there. “Not now,” Grace admonishes. Her mother has wandered into the turret, where the piano is.
“My goodness,” her mother says, “how are they ever going to get this thing out?”
“We’ll see how badly Aidan wants to stay, won’t we,” says Grace.
“Aidan?”
“Aidan Berne.”
“Where’s he from?”
Grace doesn’t know. “You can ask him when you meet him. Now to the third floor.”
Grace’s memories of a nursery are correct. There’s a crib and a wall of wooden toys, all neatly lined up. A rocking chair. Childlike paintings on the walls. A small lamp decorated with rabbits. Claire runs toward the toys, and even Tom strains to be put down. “You go explore the rooms,” Grace says to her mother. “I’ll watch the children.”
Grace has them seated around the enameled kitchen table as she pours tea for her mother and her, milk for the children. She finds the bag of Lorna Doones and is glad there are still several left.
“I like this room,” her mother repeats.
“So do I,” Grace adds.
“Me too!” Claire says.