The Accidentals(67)

“Music theory is a great class,” Frederick says. “I liked knowing there was a reason that some things sound good together and others don’t—that the listener always wants a dissonant chord to resolve to a consonant one.”

“But doesn’t that make everything seem too simple? Like we’re all so predictable?”

“People are predictable,” he argues. “I don’t mind knowing why.”

We walk in silence for a moment. “How was your New Year’s concert?”

“Good.”

I wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t. And I’m sick of feeling like the cool parts of his life are off limits to me. “You never tell me a single thing about your job. Why is that?”

“Fine.” He chuckles. “We played a ninety-minute set for six thousand people, mostly music I wrote ten years ago, because that’s what they came to hear. People clapped. And Henry deposited ninety thousand dollars into my account.”

“Just another day at the office,” I mutter.

“Exactly. What I do for a living is the most egotistical thing in the world. It’s like…professional masturbation.”

Now it’s my turn to snort. “There’s a phrase for US Weekly.”

“No kidding. I don’t talk about it because…” He pauses so long that I wonder if he’ll finish. “Your mom became a nurse, right? For sick children. Christ. How can anyone compete with that?”

I make a choking sound, because he sounds just like Alice now.

“Can we go in there?” He points at a store.

I’ve been too busy trying to keep my head from exploding to notice where we’re going. “Why?”

“There’s something I want to show you.”

I follow through the store to a display rack. “Wool long underwear? Sounds itchy.”

“That’s what I thought too,” he says. “But it’s merino. Feel this. A friend of mine convinced me to try them. Let’s get you one pair, and I guarantee you’ll be back for more.”

“We’ll see.” I wonder which friend of Frederick’s discusses underwear with him.

“By the time winter is over, we’ll have this cold weather thing figured out,” he says. “What do you think of this?” He hands me a giant furry hat.

“It’s great. For someone else.” I replace it on the rack.

The February sun pours down on us when we leave the store. Its warmth begins to thaw out my heart. We take an outside table at the coffee shop. “It’s a heat wave,” I announce, tipping my face back to feel the sun. “I’m photosynthesizing.”

Sipping a cappuccino, I let myself bask in Frederick’s attention. He begins to talk about music theory. And for once my little-kid idea of hanging out with him becomes true.

“You really can’t learn the circle of fifths on a piano,” he says, waving his hands for emphasis. “A keyboard is set up to play major scales easily. But on a guitar, you can feel the intervals. It’s like looking right at music’s DNA. I’ll show you sometime.”

“That would be nice.” I still harbor a secret fantasy that Frederick will teach me to play the guitar. Someday I’ll work up the courage to ask.

“It will be the only homework I can ever help you with. The Chaucer you’ll have to figure out on your own.”

I swirl the foam around in my paper cup. In my peripheral vision, I notice a woman watching us. Actually, two of them. They’ve stopped on the outskirts of the coffee shop crowd.

At first I think they’re gawking fans. That still happens sometimes, even in Claiborne. But then I recognized the woman I saw through the window of Mary’s restaurant, and on the real estate listing sheet. And she’s staring at us, disbelief on her face.

Why?

I feel something go slightly wrong in my gut. Very deliberately, I put my hand on my father’s sleeve. I leaned in, my face closer to his. “When did you start playing the guitar?”

His smile is at close range. “In middle school,” he says. “I bought a Les Paul Junior with my carwash money.”

Of course I know that already. I’d read about it years ago. When I glance quickly toward the woman again, she’s still there, her face transfixed, as if she cannot look away.

“Oh, shit,” my father says. Now he sees her too.

“What’s the problem?” I ask, trying to keep my voice casual. Frederick looks like he wants to leap out of his chair.

At the edge of my vision, the two women put on a burst of speed. They pass the cafe and walk up the street.

My father lets out a strangled breath. “It’s…just a misunderstanding heading my way. Perfectly avoidable, of course. My usual good work on display.”

“She’s your girlfriend?”

He turns to me, his eyes narrowing, and he pauses longer than the question requires. I can see him trying to decide whether or not I’d caused confusion intentionally. “Yeah.”

“And she doesn’t know you have a daughter?” Even as I say it, my heart contracts with surprise.

He closes his eyes for a brief moment. “Right. But she’s about to learn.”

“Seriously? I didn’t know I was still unacknowledged. Wow.” My voice squeaks on the last word.