Lost Melody (21 page)

A
COUPLE OF PICKETERS FOUND THEIR
house in the early afternoon. Their homemade signs read, “Evacuate the Crazies from Seaside Cove” and “No! No! We Won’t Go!” Jill watched from the window in the front room as Nana chased them out of the yard and pounded a hastily painted sign of her own into the frozen ground. It warned “Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted!” The pair took up stances across the street.

Nana returned to the house and slammed the door behind her. “Are you going to visit Lorna this afternoon?”

Jill let the curtains fall back in place and turned. “I don’t think so.” She jerked her head toward the front door. “What if they follow me? I don’t want them to bother Mom.”

“Tell you what. I’ll go with you early in the morning. We can make arrangements for the residents’ bus on Tuesday.” She checked the lock on the door, then headed down the hallway. “I’m going to make a coffee cake to feed the girls tomorrow. Want to help?”

Jill shook her head. “I think I’ll relax upstairs for a while.”

“That sounds nice. You might even try to take a nap.”

She disappeared into the kitchen. The distant sound of Nana humming “A Mighty Fortress,” one of the morning hymns, followed Jill up the stairs.

Upstairs, she paused to admire her Christmas tree. Though nowhere near as beautiful as Faye’s, the sight of the gently twirling ornaments gave her a warm feeling that almost chased away the chill of unpleasantness caused by the picketers. It still looked a little sad, though, without a single package beneath it. She’d been so focused on painting signs and getting ready for her news interview she still hadn’t managed to do any shopping. The thought of venturing into the city made her shudder. What if she were recognized? She might cause a riot in the middle of the mall. And besides, what was the point in shopping before Tuesday? For all she knew, there wouldn’t be a house to come back to Tuesday night.

She could at least make her shopping list, though. The stores all had websites that might give her some ideas. That way, she’d be ready to buy everything all at once, after things in the Cove had calmed down.

Glad for something to do, Jill retrieved her laptop and settled on the sofa. An hour slipped away while she surfed and compared, and jotted down notes about the best prices for the gifts she intended to purchase.

Her task complete, she started to close the laptop. She moved the cursor to shut it down, but her finger hesitated over the button. The article in the
Metro News
had included a recap of the subway accident. Not pleasant for her to read, but neither had it been as painful as she’d feared. For the past year she’d avoided learning any details of the accident, a fact that Doreen had mentioned many times. How could she ever put the tragedy behind her if she couldn’t even read about it? How could she ever truly mourn Robert’s death if she lived in fear of seeing his name, of learning who he was and how he knew so much about classical piano?

Maybe it was time.

She returned to the Internet search page. What keywords to enter?
New York subway accident December 8.
That ought to do it. She clicked the Search button and a list of results displayed, more than she’d expected. The top few links were news reports, and she selected one from the
New York Times’
website dated December 9. The headline read “Subway Accident Claims 97 Lives.”

A curious sense of detachment crept over her as she skimmed the article. She knew the bare facts, that the train had derailed while rounding a sharp curve, and that the subway motorman was suspected of being under the influence of illegal drugs. Nearly half of the 196 passengers had not survived the crash, and none of the survivors had escaped without injury. Her hip ached, and the scar on her left hand tingled, unnecessary reminders.

She pressed the Back button and clicked through a few more articles, searching for victims’ names, but the only name she found was Stephen Sullivan, the motorman who had been later convicted of manslaughter and sentenced to fifteen years in prison. Then she found a note about a memorial service held in honor of the victims two months after the crash. A memory surfaced. She’d received a couple of letters from someone asking if she would attend. Her third surgery, scheduled for a week before the event, had provided a convenient excuse, but in truth there was nothing that could have compelled her to go.

I should have gone. Robert’s family might have been there. I could have told them about his final moments.

A sharp pang of regret brought the sting of tears to her eyes. She had spent so much effort trying not to think of Robert’s death that she’d never really considered his family, how they might like to hear from someone who had held his hand at the end. How selfish of her.

The thought took her by surprise. Surely it took a fairly healthy person to recognize their own selfishness. Maybe she was getting better.

She returned to the search page and added the words
memorial service
to her criteria. The article at the top of the list had no picture, only a description of the service held in Central Park in honor of those who’d lost their lives in the crash. As she hoped, a list of the victims was included. She scanned the names.

There was no one on the victim list named Robert.

A swelling hope in her chest threatened to crowd her heart. Had he lived? No. The rescue workers who pulled her from beneath the heavy steel had called her fortunate because, as they said, no one else in that car had survived. Robert had died. She’d witnessed his final moments.

Pulse pounding like a drum in her skull, Jill returned to the search page. A query for
survivors
produced no new articles. The paper wouldn’t list the names of the survivors as they did the victims. There had been no service for the survivors. On impulse, she typed in her own name, and wasn’t surprised to find several articles mentioning her among the injured. The phrase “brilliant career cut tragically short” brought a tight lump to her throat, and she forced her eyes to skip over that part. A half-dozen other survivors were mentioned or quoted, but no one named Robert, Rob, Robbie, or even Bob. Not one.

Thoughts whirled through her brain. What if the rescue workers and the emergency room doctor were mistaken? If Robert lived, wouldn’t he have contacted her? They had supported each other through a horrible time. The public knew she had survived, so if he’d really wanted to find her, he could have. Or maybe he didn’t want to contact her. If he lived, he would have sustained severe injuries, as she did. Hadn’t she gone to great lengths to
avoid anything that would remind her of the crash? It was possible that he wanted to avoid thinking of her the same way she’d avoided thinking of him.

She had to know. Somehow she had to find a list of the survivors. But how?

Her gaze fell on the computer screen, on the headline of the article she’d just read about the memorial service. The lady who organized that event would have a list. Where had she put those letters? She was fairly sure she hadn’t thrown them away.

Her bottom desk drawer was a frightful jumble of correspondence. Fan letters from her concert days, get well cards, notices from her college alumni association, newspaper clippings about her performances. She pulled out the pile of papers she hadn’t bothered to organize in the past year and began shuffling through them.

A few minutes later, she uncovered a typewritten letter from a woman named Susan Rochester, describing the planned memorial service. Jill scanned the missive and found what she was looking for, phone numbers for calling Ms. Rochester’s office or cell phone. She snatched up her phone from the coffee table and, before she could back out, dialed the cell number.

A female voice answered on the second ring. “Hello?”

“Hi, is this Susan Rochester?”

“Yes it is. Who is this?”

“This is Jillian King calling from Nova Scotia.”

A second’s pause, and the voice became warmer. “Oh, yes. The pianist. How are you? I hope you’ve recovered from the accident.”

“I’m fine, thank you.” Jill swallowed. “Listen, I know this is an unusual request, but I’m wondering if you have a list of survivors. I made an acquaintance on the subway that day, and I’m trying to
discover what happened to him.” She cleared her throat. “Part of the road to recovery, you know.”

“I understand completely.” Sympathy colored the words in rich hues. “I do have a list. It used to be on my computer, but I cleaned off the drive last month. I’m sure I have a hard copy in my files. I can call you back, or would you like to hold the line?”

“I’ll hold, if that’s okay.”

“All right. Give me a moment.”

A clatter sounded in Jill’s ears as the phone was set on a hard surface. Seconds ticked away, each one stretching into what seemed like hours. Jill’s grip on the phone grew tighter as she watched the numbers on the clock pass. Two minutes. Three. Four.

Finally, a scraping sound and Ms. Rochester’s voice returned. “Found it. Now, what is your friend’s name?”

Is. Present tense. A ridiculous sense of hope eased a fraction of Jill’s tension.

“I don’t have his last name, I’m afraid. Only his first. It’s Robert.”

“Okay, Robert.” A moment of silence, and then Jill heard the rustle of paper. “It’s in alphabetical order by last name, so I’m just scanning …” Another rustle of paper. “I don’t see a Robert.”

Invisible bands constricted Jill’s chest. “What about Bob, or Rob, or some other derivative?”

“Hmmm, let me see. No, nothing like that either. Maybe —” Ms. Rochester paused, then continued in a softer tone. “Maybe he didn’t make it. Have you checked the victim list?”

“Yes.” Jill leaned back against the sofa cushion, her head suddenly light. “There were no Roberts there either.”

“Listen, if it would help I could copy this list at the office tomorrow and mail it to you. Maybe one of these names will jar your memory.”

A polite way of saying she didn’t think Jill’s memory of Robert
was accurate. Jill closed her eyes and Robert’s face loomed before her. She saw him clearly, heard the timbre of his voice as he introduced himself. He rolled his R’s slightly, giving his name an aristocratic feel.
Rrroberrt.
She was sure of it.

“That would be very helpful, Mrs. Rochester.” She knew with certainty the list would reveal nothing to her. “Thank you.”

Ms. Rochester verified her mailing address, and Jill thanked her again before they hung up. She sat on the couch, her feet propped on the edge of the coffee table, and stared at nothing as she tried to make sense of her discovery. Robert was not a victim. He wasn’t on the survivor list, either. She was positive he couldn’t have walked away from the crash unharmed, so there had to be some record of him. But there wasn’t.

She pulled her computer onto her lap and stared at the empty box on the search screen, thoughts spinning through her brain. The man she’d met and talked to exhibited an in-depth knowledge of classical piano music. Surely only someone who played would be so familiar with the spiritual nuances of Liszt. And he’d recognized the brand of her music portfolio.

She typed
classical pianist Robert.

The statistic at the top of the page indicated over five million results matched that criteria. If she had to, Jill intended to go through every one of them. She settled back in the chair and prepared herself for a long, tedious evening.

The first link took her to an advertisement for a wedding pianist in Massachusetts, but the picture revealed the man to be far younger than her Robert. The second showed her a video of an African man seated behind a piano. Robert’s skin had been the almost pearly white of someone who didn’t see much of the sun. Mechanically, she clicked the Back button and selected the next link on the list.

When the page opened up, a familiar face stared at her from the screen. Not her Robert, but another one she knew well. She’d studied him, played his music. The screen projected an old-fashioned painting of famed German composer Robert Schumann. She studied his face, and memories of his life that she had learned in music history class slammed her with full force.

The hair on the back of her neck prickled to attention.

Robert Schumann had dreamed of becoming a concert pianist, but had been unable to realize that dream because of an injury to his hand. Instead, he went on to become an extraordinary composer, creating music for others to play. But his life ended tragically. He died in a German mental institution in 1856.

She’d forgotten that. Or maybe in the past year she’d avoided remembering, as she’d avoided thinking about the accident.

His eyes peered at her from the laptop screen. What had driven the brilliant musician crazy? Was it a neurological disorder, or did his insanity have a psychological or physiological cause? Jill raised her left hand from the keyboard, her gaze drawn to the scar. Or did Robert Schumann lose his mind because of the loss of his music?

And was the same thing happening to her?

A loud knock pulled Greg out of a light sleep. He jerked upright on the couch, disoriented. The insistent pounding continued, and his groggy mind finally identified the source.