Where One Goes(45)

“So, tell us about your family, Char. Do you see them often?” Mr. Mercer asks as he sets a glass of iced tea on the table where she’s seated. Mrs. Mercer went all out and prepared a meal that could feed twenty people. The food is spread out over a clean, white tablecloth and she’s using her best china. My mouth waters as I stare at the fried chicken and mashed potatoes.

“I’m sure not as often as they’d like,” Charlotte answers before taking a sip from her tea. She’s wearing a loose, blue top with her jeans, her black hair half pulled up. She looks . . . beautiful.

“Do you have any siblings?” Mrs. Mercer asks as she takes her seat and picks up the dish of mashed potatoes. Charlotte’s eyes dart to mine very briefly before returning to the Mercer’s.

Smiling somewhat stiffly, she says, “I had a brother. He passed away about six years ago.”

Mr. Mercer’s brows furrow as if pained by this news. “I’m sorry to hear that. As you know, we know what it is to lose someone you love dearly.”

Charlotte sits up and takes the dish of potatoes from Mrs. Mercer. “This all looks amazing, Mrs. Mercer.”

“Best fried chicken in Bath County,” Mr. Mercer adds, causing his wife to grin as she gives Charlotte a bashful look.

“Like you’d say otherwise, Bill,” Mrs. Mercer quips and Charlotte smiles. “Maggie loved fried chicken. We had it every Sunday.”

“It was her favorite,” Mr. Mercer adds sadly.

Mrs. Mercer smiles softly. “She’s been gone ten years, and it still feels as though it was yesterday she was here.”

“She fought. Lived a hell of a lot longer than they said she would when she was diagnosed.”

“May I ask what it is she passed away from?” Charlotte asks delicately.

“Dyskeratosis Congenita . It’s a rare disease that can lead to bone marrow failure. Eventually . . . her body gave out,” Mr. Mercer answers as he spoons a helping of green beans onto his plate.

They chitchat back and forth, mostly speaking of Maggie, and Charlotte listens intently as they describe Maggie from the way she smiled to what an ornery toddler she was. When they’re done eating, Mrs. Mercer shoos her husband and Charlotte into the living room while she clears the table. Their house is modest; not huge, but not exactly small either. Antiques and numerous clocks hang on the wall, ticking mercifully.

“Say, could you tell me the time?” I jest, and she rolls her eyes. “Do you think they like clocks?”

But she doesn’t seem to hear the last part of what I said; when Charlotte enters the living room, her entire focus is on the mahogany grand piano against the back wall. Like a moth to a flame, she goes to it, running her fingers along the wooden lid that covers the keys.

“Do you play?” Mr. Mercer asks as he watches her.

“I did,” Charlotte answers, staring at her hand where it rests on the lid.

“Will you play for us?”

Charlotte turns and smiles sadly. “Would you mind?”

“Not at all. It hasn’t been played in years.”

Lifting the lid, she pulls the small bench from under it, taking a seat.

“A woman of many talents, I see,” I say, and she smiles but doesn’t look at me.

“Any requests?” she asks Mr. Mercer.

“Play me your favorite,” he answers, taking a seat in his worn-out recliner.

Charlotte turns back and tests a few keys tentatively; I assume checking the tuning. “It’s been a while so I might be a little rusty,” she warns, and Mr. Mercer chuckles.

“No worries, my dear. Go ahead.”

As her fingers dance across the keys, a beautiful melody fills the room and I’m stunned. She’s playing some kind of classical music; maybe it’s a piece by Mozart. I don’t know shit about pianos, but this is my best guess. The melody is deep and raw, like all her emotion is lingering in it. Her body is erect, her eyes fixed on her hands, and it almost seems like she’s connected to the piano. As if it’s an extension of her, a place where emotion and feeling can run free. Music can be angry and deep and people call it beautiful. But for people in the real world, those emotions are considered weakness.

She plays for a while and when she finishes, she nods to her hands as if to tell herself she still has it.

“That was . . . amazing,” I manage.

Mr. and Mrs. Mercer break out in applause and Charlotte stands, smiling sheepishly. “Where did you learn to play like that?”

“My mother. She’s a teacher. Besides her special education classes, she teaches piano, too.”

The remainder of the evening they sit outside on the porch and sip tea. And when it’s time to go, the Mercers hug her tightly. Charlotte pulls some money from her back pocket and hands it to Mr. Mercer. “I owe you sixty more and I should have it by the end of the week.”

“No. You owe us nothing.”

“Please, Mr. Mercer,” Charlotte pleads. “A deal’s a deal. I get my necklace back when you get the rest of your money.”

His thick, gray brows furrow and his lips form a smooth line as if he’s fighting the urge to argue, but instead, he nods his head once in compliance.

“Would you like to come for dinner next week?” Mrs. Mercer asks with a hopeful tone.