A Castle in Brooklyn(74)

How odd, Florrie thought, that this guest was so concerned about each detail. The others, young couples with families, all prospective buyers sent by a Realtor, no longer renters, had breezed through the home, counting bedrooms, a few flushing toilets. But this woman, stopping next to the coffee table, didn’t seem so eager to explore the rest of the house. Her long neck stretched as she took in each intricate detail.

“Would you like to see the kitchen and—”

The girl/woman—Florrie remembered her name, Mrs. Landau—put out the palm of her hand, stopping her in midsentence.

In other circumstances, Florrie would have considered the action quite rude, but now she simply obeyed her wish and silenced herself. The woman intrigued her. But then she made such a sudden exclamation that Florrie, in the moment, was shocked.

“A piano! Oh, I can’t believe it. You have the piano!” she shouted, dropping her large round tote bag on the plush beige carpet and taking long strides toward the instrument. She stood for a minute staring at its polished black body shining beneath the overhead lights, then moved her hand toward it tentatively, almost as if she were afraid to touch it. Florrie, still riveted to the spot at the home’s entrance, remained silent, her curiosity piqued.

The young woman licked her lips, a smile, a very pretty smile, suddenly overtaking her face. There was something familiar about her, Florrie thought. But, of course, it was impossible that they had ever met before. Still, the feeling scratched at the corners of her brain.

And then, as she smiled, the guest’s demeanor began to change. Swiftly, she moved forward, tossed back her long hair, sat down on the piano bench, and without asking permission, opened the top to reveal the sparkling ivories that Florrie had polished only the day before, and began to play. But as the melody ascended into the air, Florrie soon realized there was something familiar about that too. Perhaps a song from her childhood, or one of the tunes she and Sid would dance to when they first married. Still, she couldn’t quite place it. So she stood there, hands clasped tightly in front of her, and listened to the light but melodic tune until it ended. The girl—Mrs. Landau—sat back satisfied, finally, as if she had just completed a three-course dinner, the smile not yet faded from her face.

“That was very pretty,” said Florrie. “When did you learn to play?”

The girl paused, tilted her head as if absorbed in some aura, as if she were still listening to the music, and then she turned to Florrie, and seemed to notice her for the first time.

“My father taught me when I was a little girl on the farm. We never had our own piano—pianos and farmwork don’t usually go well together. But I had a friend whose home had a piano a few miles down the road, and in exchange for lessons from my father, the family would let me come and play, Katie and I learning together. Katie was a fast learner, a much better player than I was. Now my two boys are learning to play the piano at a tutor’s home a few blocks from ours. We—Craig, my husband, and I—made sure they would have lessons.”

“That’s nice,” responded Florrie. Then remembering, she said, “But that song you just played. What is its name?”

The girl nodded. “That was a favorite of my father’s, a sweet romantic song. ‘Clair de Lune.’”

“Oh. It was very nice.”

The girl stood then, ignoring the naked keys behind her, and approached Florrie, her expression turning serious.

“‘Clair de Lune,’” she repeated. “Didn’t you recognize it?”

“Now that I think of it, there was something familiar about the song. But I don’t know. I can’t seem to place it.”

The young woman was so close now that Florrie could feel her breath singe her cheeks.

“‘Clair de Lune,’ you played it all the time. You played it for my father.”

“I played? My dear, I’ve never played a note in my life! Where would you ever get that idea?”

The woman stared at Florrie, perplexed, then turned her head to the mute piano and back again to Florrie. Looking closely now, Florrie noticed the color of her eyes. They were blue.

The young woman then jerked her head up defiantly. “Are you an agent?”

“What?”

“An agent. A real estate agent.”

Florrie took a step back as if she’d just been assaulted. This woman must be mad, a real loony. She took a breath and gathered her nerves before speaking.

“Of course not! I’m the owner of this house, and I’m selling it myself.”

“Then you must know my father. You were married to his best friend.” She nearly spat the words at her.

But as soon as they were said, Florrie felt her knees grow weak, and she reached for the arm of the leather sofa to prevent herself from collapsing to the floor. She sat, but the girl remained standing.

“You’re not Jacob’s wife. You’re not Esther.”

A heavy silence like death hung over the brightly lit living room. Florrie tried to breathe again but found it nearly impossible as memories, all the sorrows of the past years, came flooding back to her in angry black waves threatening to sweep her away. Had it already been nearly ten years since 9/11 and the loss of so many innocent souls? It seemed that the world had changed then, irrevocably, and along with it, the sense of security that life had a certain predictability. But Florrie’s own world had been forever changed again only a few years later when she became aware that friendship, true friendship, was a precious thing, an ephemeral thing. Her lips formed the words, but they were barely a whisper.