Lost Melody (2 page)

Thursday, November 24
Almost One Year Later

A ribbon of steam wisped upward and lingered for a final shadowy dance before the air cooled it into oblivion. Jill closed her eyes against the onslaught of an unwelcome memory.

Steam rising from gutters along the city street. A yellow taxicab speeding by.

“Another headache?”

At the sound of her grandmother’s voice, the image dissolved. Jill fumbled in the box for a teabag and dropped it into her mug. She hadn’t heard Nana come up the stairs, and the door that separated Jill’s top floor apartment from the main house stood open, as it almost always did. One of the hazards of living with a relative — especially a nosey one — was a total lack of privacy.

“I’m fine.” She pasted on a perky smile and didn’t quite meet Nana’s gaze.

“You’re not fine. You haven’t been since the accident.” Shrewd eyes, heavily shaded with bright blue eye shadow, narrowed. “Do you want me to get your pain medicine?”

The kettle’s insistent scream filled the cozy kitchen.

Grinding metal, screeching steel …

Jill snatched it off the burner. “I’ll be okay. Really.” She poured steaming water into her mug and held up the kettle in Nana’s direction. “There’s plenty left. Do you have time for a cup before you go?”

“No, I must be running along.” She wrapped a Chinese silk scarf around her neck, her way of hiding evidence of the passing years. No growing old gracefully for Ruth Parkins. At seventy-nine she still dyed her hair the defiant, flaming red of her youth, ordered her underwear from the Victoria’s Secret catalog, and declared to anyone who would listen that Father Time wouldn’t take her out without a fight. “What time is your date tonight?”

“Greg will be here at seven. He made reservations for dinner in the city at eight.”

“Oh, I’ll be home long before seven.” She extracted a pair of gloves from her coat pocket and pulled them on. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with me? It will give you something to do, someplace to go.”

Jill ignored the ill-concealed note of concern in the question and focused her attention on the mechanics of opening the sugar bowl, scooping out a spoonful, sprinkling it into the steaming tea. For a fleeting moment she considered accompanying Nana to her church knitting group. It
would
provide a distraction. But the minute Nana’s cohorts laid eyes on her they’d rope her into volunteering for something. Probably put her in charge of organizing the music for the Christmas party. Jill’s throat tightened. No. Not happening.

“Don’t worry about me. I plan to go see Mom later this afternoon.”

“That’s good, dear. Take that poinsettia in my living room, would you? She would have loved that.” Nana referred to Mom in the past tense, as though the thin, gaunt woman who awoke each morning in a skilled nursing center was gone. The stroke had taken her motor and speech skills, but inside her mother’s haunted eyes Jill still saw the occasional flash of recognition.

“Well, I’m off. I’ll see you tonight.” Nana disappeared, leaving the scent of Estée Lauder Clean Linen in her wake.

Jill tracked her grandmother’s progress by the sound of her footsteps down the narrow wooden stairs. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen … Her spoon kept time as she stirred her tea. The front door closed with a bang, and a heavy silence rose up the stairwell toward her. Like fog rolling in from the ocean, creeping toward the rocky finger of land where the lighthouse stood tall and brave, its light a visible warning that saved lives.

No warning. Women screaming. Bodies flying.

Jill’s hand trembled so violently that hot water sloshed over the mug’s edge, burning her fingers. She set the cup down and flapped her hand to cool the stinging pain. No brave lighthouse here. Just a mistake, an accident. A survivor who should have died with the others.

The nagging ache in her hip reminded her she had not walked away from the accident without injury. Six weeks in the hospital, even longer recuperation at home. Two surgeries on her left hand, and still the shattered cartilage on the thumb and forefinger had not healed properly. She would never dominate the keyboard as she once had, would never again play with the liquid grace of a gifted pianist.

She wiped the mug with a towel and carried it into the other room. The dark Christmas tree looked lonely with no ornaments
and no packages beneath it. Nana had insisted on putting it up after they finished decorating the big one downstairs. Said it would put Jill in the holiday spirit. So far, it hadn’t worked.

The tree downstairs had at least a dozen brightly wrapped packages beneath the bottom branches, all of them addressed to Jill in Nana’s spidery script. Guilt stabbed at her. She should do some shopping before she visited Mom this afternoon. Make an effort to get into the Christmas spirit. Nana had hinted that she was nearly out of the peach-scented bath oil she liked, and Greg needed a new wool scarf and gloves. The guilt evaporated, replaced with lethargy that hung like heavy weights from her limbs. Join all those people that crowded the shopping malls this time of year? Not yet. Maybe tomorrow, or next week. She still had time before Christmas.

She opened the curtains in the big picture window in an effort to coax some light from the cloud-covered sky into the room, and stood for a moment looking out over the small town that had been her home as long as she could remember. Narrow streets. Rows of tightly clustered buildings. Wooden plank docks lined with moored boats that pitched with the motion of the dark water. In the distance, the lighthouse stood sentinel over the rocky shoreline. A ship’s horn blasted, a huge tanker. She sipped tea and followed its progress as it sliced through the narrow channel on its way to Halifax Harbor a few miles away. On the docks below, people paused to watch the ship’s passage. A few waved at the crew standing on the deck.

When the tanker had moved past the lighthouse, beyond the edges of Seaside Cove, the gawkers below continued going about their business. The oppressive silence returned. Jill positioned herself on the sofa facing the window, her back to the shrouded object in the corner. From beneath the padded cover, she heard
the piano’s call. It tugged at the edges of her mind, the lonely, desolate cry of a forsaken lover.

Kind, dark eyes smiling into hers.
What composer do you favor? Liszt. Definitely Liszt.

What was with her today? Everything seemed to remind her of the accident. She needed to think about something else. With a savage gesture, Jill seized the remote control and jabbed the Power button. Thank goodness for the mind-numbing distraction of daytime television.

“Listen, Bradford, I hear what you’re saying. I just don’t know if this town can handle a whole flock of tourists.” Mr. Allen, owner of the Midshipman’s Inn, picked up the last of the cookies from the tray his wife had placed between them and ate half of it in a single bite.

Greg Bradford leaned toward the polished maple coffee table and set his china cup on the matching saucer. He remained on the edge of the chenille sofa, his arms resting on his knees, and held the older man’s eyes. “It’ll take some work, but I think it’s a vital move. We have to take action to establish a solid tourist trade here in Seaside Cove. If we’re going to survive, we need an influx of money in the town’s economy. Outside money.”

Mr. Allen puckered his lips and leaned against the chair back. “What do we have to offer tourists? We’re just plain folks in these parts.”

“We have the Atlantic Ocean, and charter fishing, and a lighthouse, and unique shops, and several great locally run restaurants.” Greg opened his arms wide to indicate the Inn’s tastefully decorated front room, complete with a bay window
overlooking the harbor. “We have local charm, including your place here. The Midshipman’s Inn is a terrific B&B, one of the best in Nova Scotia. It will play an important part in our new tourism program.”

Interest sparked in the older man’s eyes. “A friend of mine runs a B&B over in Peggy’s Cove. His place is full every day of the summer. Raking in the money, he is.”

“That’s exactly what I mean.” Greg folded his hands and rested them on his legs. “Seaside Cove has every bit as much to offer tourists as Peggy’s Cove. There’s no reason we shouldn’t have as big a tourist industry as they do.”

“Our wharf’s looking a bit shabby, though. Have to spend some money fixing that up.” Mr. Allen’s eyes narrowed. “That’s what Samuels is going on about. Says you’ll drive the town to bankruptcy, and all the business owners with it.”

Greg steeled his features against the grimace that threatened to appear at the mention of Richard Samuels, a current councilman on the Halifax Regional Council, and an outspoken opponent to Greg’s tourism development plan. He picked up his cup and sipped lukewarm coffee, trying to give himself time to come up with the correct response. Samuels represented a small but powerful group of change-resistant residents who preferred to keep everything the same — always. Couldn’t they see that the town needed to generate some revenue? The sidewalks were cracking, a quarter of the streetlights didn’t work, and most of the public buildings were in need of repair.

“It will take some effort to get this place ready, by the town and by individuals, especially business owners.” Greg caught and held Mr. Allen’s eyes. “But I think the investment will pay off. If we can demonstrate that we have the infrastructure in place to handle an increase in tourism, then when I’m elected to Halifax
Regional Council, we can lobby for additional governmental money. That’s a critical element in my plan.”

A thoughtful look crossed the man’s features. “A couple of my rooms could use a bit of attention.” He glanced toward the ceiling, above which lay several of the Inn’s rooms. “And the building needs a fresh coat of paint to look her best. Been meaning to do that for some time now.”

“The whole town could use a fresh coat of paint, my law office included.” Greg grinned. “I’ve been thinking when the weather warms up we could have a couple of community clean-up days where everybody pitches in and helps.”

Mr. Allen leaned back in his chair, studying Greg like he was contemplating a chess move. “So, what exactly is it you want from me, Bradford?”

“Your support,” Greg replied without hesitation. “The election is six months away, and things are already heating up. In order to be elected as Seaside Cove’s representative on the council, I need influential people like you to speak out for me. If the subject comes up, tell people you support the increased tourist trade program I’m proposing. And,” he ducked his head, “if you’re not doing anything Monday night, I’d sure appreciate you coming out to the town meeting and letting it be known that you support me as a candidate.”

“In other words, you want me to go head-to-head with Samuels and his crew.” A slow smile crept across the older man’s lips. “Don’t mind that a’tall.”

Relief washed over Greg. With Mr. Allen in his camp, he had an important ally in the community of Seaside Cove. “Thank you, sir.”

Mr. Allen got to his feet. “I suppose you’ll be needing to do some fund-raising for this campaign of yours.”

Apparently, the meeting was drawing to a close. Greg set his cup down and stood. “I’m spending as little as I can on the campaign, but mailers and postage and signs cost money.” That was one part of campaigning he detested. Dad advised that he needed to get over his reluctance, be bold. But people in this town worked hard for their money, and he hated asking them to part with any of it.

“Thought so.” Mr. Allen reached into the breast pocket of his shirt and pulled out a folded check. “Been planning to support you all along, Bradford. Just been waiting for you to ask.”

Greg took the check, then clasped the man’s hand in his. “Thank you. Your support means a lot to me.”

Allen walked him toward the door. “How’s that pretty girl of yours doing? She recovered from that accident?”

His coat hung on a rack near the front door. Greg shrugged into it before answering. “Jill’s doing well. She’s looking forward to Christmas this year, since she pretty much missed out on it last year.”

Greg focused on fastening his buttons. At least, he
thought
Jill was looking forward to Christmas. She’d put up her tree, anyway. The accident still bothered her, which was understandable. It had been a terrible tragedy, one she was lucky to have survived. Almost a hundred people lost their lives in the subway crash, and she’d nearly been one of them.

Like it always did, the thought of how close he’d come to losing Jill hit him like a fist in the gut. Without Jill he might as well find a dark cave to live out his days in solitude. All his plans for the future, all his goals and dreams, included her.

He thanked Mr. Allen again and bid him good-bye. A cold breeze ruffled his hair with salt-scented fingers before he covered his head with his Stetson. When the front door of the Midshipman’s
Inn closed behind him, Greg followed the footpath to the small parking lot in the rear of the building, his thoughts on Jill. She hadn’t been the same since the accident. Completely understandable. It had been a tragic, life-changing occurrence. But in recent months she was starting to look like her old self again. She’d gained back some of the weight she lost during her recovery, and every now and then he saw the old sparkle in her eyes. Maybe all those appointments with the therapist were helping. She didn’t play the piano anymore, though, which bothered him. Shouldn’t she want to play again? It had been so much a part of her life before. Not just the performances, but hours and hours of playing every day. Surely she missed that.