The Stars Are Fire(33)

“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.