The Stars Are Fire(42)

In a drawer of odds and ends in Merle’s room, Grace finds an old brooch, most of its seed pearls missing. When she brings it downstairs, she asks her mother if she has come across any glue. Her mother knows of some in the sewing basket upstairs. Grace and Claire bend over the brooch, gluing the emeralds that haven’t stuck to Claire’s fingers against the silver backing. While they are working, Aidan enters the kitchen to pick up a sandwich that Grace’s mother has made for him. Aidan asks Claire what she’s doing, and Claire answers she’s making “julie.” Grace smiles.


In the afternoon, Aidan asks Marjorie if it would be all right if he practiced through the afternoon. She says yes, especially if he’ll help her get the children’s beds up to the third-floor nursery, where they will sleep better. Grace, who has been listening from the bottom of the stairs, watches Aidan carry first the collapsible playpen, then the crib across the landing. Her mother follows with bedding.

Sitting out of sight of Aidan, Grace listens while he plays. It’s the same piece he was practicing when she entered Merle Holland’s house, and she has physical sensations similar to the ones she had that day. Occasionally, Aidan breaks off and repeats a passage or he trills up and down the piano, practicing scales. Then he launches into a later part of the concerto. Grace lays her head against the back of the chair and travels with him.


After Grace has finished the dishes and put the children to bed, she hesitates as she descends the stairs. In seconds, she’ll walk into the sitting room with her book. Does Aidan look forward to these evenings as much as she does? When she turns the corner and sees him sitting in his usual chair, her relief is almost audible.

“How did the brooch come out?” he asks as she sits.

“Pretty good. Well, you know…Did you hear anything back from your inquiries?”

“Yes, I did.”

Grace looks up.

“I have an audition with the Boston Symphony Orchestra.”

A fist strikes her chest. “That’s wonderful news. When did you hear?”

“When I went to the post office this afternoon.”

“Oh,” she says, registering the implications of the audition. “When is it?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? So soon?”

“They need someone right away.”

She closes her book. “That’s why you were practicing all afternoon.”

“I hope I didn’t keep the kids from their naps.”

She notices that he didn’t bring his book to the sitting room. “They were fine.”

“Grace, I’ve enjoyed my time here.”

Stop, she wants to say. She hates his elegiac tone, his building up to a farewell. He stands and begins to pace. He walks the length of the sitting room and back again.

“How will you get to Boston?” she asks.

“By train.”

“It might snow tonight.”

“It might.”

“It looked like it this afternoon,” she adds. “If it snows tonight, the trains might not run.”

“Perhaps not.”

Only the reading lights illuminate the room. When he walks to the far side, she can barely see him. Time and time again, he returns to her. When he’s tired of pacing, he leans against a wall. “I don’t want to leave here,” he says. “I don’t want to leave you.”

She says lightly, “Maybe I’ll come to one of your concerts.”

“In a fur coat,” he says.

She’ll never go to one of his concerts. She can barely afford the bus fare to look for work, never mind a trip to Boston. And she could hardly take the kids with her. Nor would she ever dare to wear one of Merle’s furs. She’s done enough damage to her mother-in-law’s closet. Besides, isn’t it now her role in life to wait for her husband to come home?

“Maybe I’ll get back this way,” he says.

When? In three months? Six? A year? Two?

Her head is bent, and she knows he’s studying her. She’s afraid to look up; it will be her undoing. She bites her lower lip.

“If I play the piano softly, will I wake your mother?” he asks.

“They’re back up on the third floor tonight. After hauling all the equipment up there for the naps, it seemed too much trouble to bring it all back down.”

He takes her hand and leads her into the turreted parlor. She sits on one of the “audience” chairs.

His playing is subdued, so as not to wake anyone. The notes tickle her skin and soothe her mind. He’s trying to tell her something, and she understands it, she does, though there aren’t any words attached. Music doesn’t translate. She feels the chords envelop her, but not in the way a mother might hold a child.

Four sconces light the room. She imagines Aidan on a stage in evening clothes. That will be his world—this man who will make men and women sit up and listen.

The music is both commanding and sensual. No child could ever make sense of this embrace. It’s something she’s longed for, longs for even now. The music rises to a crescendo and then falls as softly as a pillow. She closes her eyes and lets the piano take her somewhere she’s never been.

This is what they will have, these next several minutes, these next few measures. She knows she’ll remember it always, that if in the future she hears a snippet of this music, she’ll be transported to this room, this evening. She opens her eyes and studies him as he plays. His gaze seems to be focused on a distant point out to sea, and only occasionally does he glance at his hands.