doing. “Mr. Delaney, I’m hiring you to do a job, not to advise me on real estate or my finances. If you can’t handle it, just say so and I’ll get someone else.”
His eyes narrowed. The fingers on her arm tightened fractionally. “I can handle it, Miss Fitzgerald. I’ll draw up an estimate and a contract. They’ll be in the mail tomorrow. If you still want the job done after you’ve looked them over, call my office.” Slowly, he released her arm, then handed her back the glass of tea. He left her there, near the edge where the slope gave way to gully as he headed back toward his truck. “By the way,” he said without turning around, “you overwatered your pansies.”
Maggie let out one long, simmering breath and dumped the tepid tea on the ground at her feet.
When she was alone, Maggie went back inside, through the back door, which creaked ominously on its hinges. She wasn’t going to think about Cliff Delaney. In fact, she doubted if she’d see him again. He’d send crews out to deal with the actual work, and whatever they had to discuss would be done via phone or letter. Better that way, Maggie decided. He’d been unfriendly, abrupt and annoying, though his mouth had been attractive, she reflected, even kind.
She was halfway through the kitchen when she remembered the glasses in her hand. Turning back, she crossed the scarred linoleum to set them both in the sink, then leaned on the windowsill to look out at the rise behind her house. Even as she watched, a few loose stones and dirt slid down the wall. A couple of hard rains, she mused, and half that bank would be at her back door. A retaining wall. Maggie nodded. Cliff Delaney obviously knew his business.
There was just enough breeze to carry a hint of spring to her. Far back in the woods a bird she couldn’t see sang out as though it would never stop. Listening, she forgot the eroding wall and the exposed roots of trees that were much too close to its edge. She forgot the rudeness, and the attraction, of a stranger. If she looked up, far up, she could see where the tops of the trees met the sky.
She wondered how this view would change with the seasons and found herself impatient to experience them all. Perhaps she’d never realized how badly she’d needed a place to herself, time to herself, until she’d found it.
With a sigh, Maggie moved away from the window. It was time to get down to work if she was to deliver the finished score as promised. She walked down the hall where the wallpaper was peeling and curled and turned into what had once been the back parlor. It was now her music room.
Boxes she hadn’t even thought of unpacking stood in a pile against one wall. A few odd pieces of furniture that had come with the house sat hidden under dustcovers. The windows were uncurtained, the floor was uncarpeted. There were pale squares intermittently on the walls where pictures had once hung. In the center of the room, glossy and elegant, stood her baby grand. A single box lay open beside it, and from this Maggie took a sheet of staff paper. Tucking a pencil behind her ear, she sat.
For a moment she did nothing else, just sat in the silence while she let the music come and play in her head. She knew what she wanted for this segment—something dramatic, something strong and full of power. Behind her closed eyelids she could see the scene from the film sweep by. It was up to her to underscore, to accentuate, to take the mood and make it music.
Reaching out, she switched on the cassette tape and began.
She let the notes build in strength as she continued to visualize the scene her music would amplify. She only worked on films she had a feeling for. Though the Oscars told her she excelled in this area of work, Maggie’s true affection was for the single song—words and music.
Maggie had always compared the composing of a score to the building of a bridge. First came the blueprint, the overall plan. Then the construction had to be done, slowly, meticulously, until each end fit snugly on solid ground, a flawless arch in between. It was a labor of precision.
The single song was a painting, to be created as the mood dictated. The single song could be written from nothing more than a phrasing of words or notes. It could encapsulate mood, emotion or a story in a matter of minutes. It was a labor of love.
When she worked, she forgot the time, forgot everything but the careful structuring of notes to mood. Her fingers moved over the piano keys as she repeated the same segment again and again, changing perhaps no more than one note until her instincts told her it was right. An hour passed, then two. She didn’t grow weary or bored or impatient with the constant repetition. Music was her business, but it was also her lover.
She might not have heard the knock if she hadn’t paused to rewind the tape. Disoriented, she ignored it, waiting for the maid to answer before she recalled where she was.
No maids, Maggie, she reminded herself. No gardener, no cook. It’s all up to you now. The thought pleased her. If there was no one to answer to her, she had no one to answer to.
Rising, she went back into the hall and down to the big front door. She didn’t have to develop the country habit of leaving the doors unlocked. In L.A., there’d been servants to deal with bolts and chains and security systems. Maggie never gave them a thought. Taking the knob in both hands, she twisted and tugged. She reminded herself to tell Mr. Bog about the sticking problem as the door swung open.
On the porch stood a tall, prim-looking woman in her early fifties. Her hair was a soft, uniform gray worn with more tidiness than style. Faded blue eyes studied Maggie from behind rose-framed glasses. If this was the welcome wagon lady, Maggie thought after a glance at the unhappy line of the woman’s mouth, she didn’t seem thrilled with the job. Much too used to strangers’ approaches to be reserved, Maggie tilted her head and smiled.
“Hello, can I help you?”
“You are Miss Fitzgerald?” The voice was low and even, as subdued and inoffensive as her plain, pale coatdress.
“Yes, I am.”
“I’m Louella Morgan.”
It took Maggie a moment; then the name clicked. Louella Morgan, widow of William Morgan, former owner of the house that was now hers. For an instant Maggie felt like an intruder; then she shook the feeling away and extended her hand. “Hello, Mrs. Morgan. Won’t you come in?”
“I don’t want to disturb you.”
“No, please.” As she spoke, she opened the door a bit wider. “I met your daughter when we settled on the house.”
“Yes, Joyce told me.” Louella’s gaze darted around and behind Maggie as she stepped over the threshold. “She never expected to sell so quickly. The property had only been on the market a week.”
“I like to think it was fate.” Maggie put her weight against the door and pushed until she managed to close it. Definitely a job for Bog, she decided.
“Fate?” Louella turned back from her study of the long, empty hall.
“It just seemed to be waiting for me.” Though she found the woman’s direct, unsmiling stare odd, Maggie gestured toward the living room. “Come in and sit down,” she invited. “Would you like some coffee? Something cold?”
“No, thank you. I’ll stay only a minute.” Louella did wander into the living room, and though there was a single sofa piled
