house. This one gave the impression of being flighty, and he wanted to make sure for Gerda’s sake that her long-lost granddaughter stuck around for more than one stinking night. Surreptitiously catching Gerda’s gaze on his way inside the dimly lit house, he inquired with a raised brow, “Everything okay?”
She nodded in her usual stiff-upper-lip way, clutching the thick blue bathrobe to her throat. “She’ll have Ester’s old room, upstairs and down the hall.” Gerda’s robe was the exact shade of blue as Desi’s painted-on jeans, and he wondered if either woman noticed their similar taste in color.
Kent carried the bags around the grand piano in the center of the living room—the piano he’d once taken lessons on and now Steven also took lessons on—and headed up the stairs. The third door on the left was the room where Ester had taught him how to play Go Fish. He knew this house like it was his own, having lived next door nearly his entire thirty-six years. Being so deeply rooted in Heartlandia when his parents moved to a retirement village in Bend, he’d bought their house.
As a doctor and part owner of the Heartlandia Urgent Care, he had an early shift tomorrow, so he excused himself. “Welcome to Heartlandia, Desdemona, but I’ve got to go.”
Desi sent a hesitant but thoughtful glance his way just before he headed for the door, her eyes filled with questions and suspicion. He nodded good-night, recognizing the mistrustful look, since he saw the same expression each morning when he shaved. When had he lost his natural trust in women? Oh, right, when his wife walked out.
“Gerda, I’ll check in tomorrow.”
“Tell Steven to be sure and practice,” Gerda said, reminding Kent that his son could come up with a hundred excuses when it came time to take his piano lesson.
* * *
A few minutes later, lying on his bed, hands behind his head on the pillow, Kent stared at the ceiling, wrenching his memory all the way back to when he’d been eight. Ester Rask had run away and had never come back. So much of the story had eluded him all these years. Now he understood it was because she was pregnant. He’d never known that part of the equation before. He’d heard she’d died last year, seen how distraught Gerda had been when she’d come home from her mysterious trip to California just before she’d been appointed mayor pro tem. Yet she’d barely spoken about it, just moped around for months. At least Gerda had been able to see her daughter one last time—a sad consolation to a lost life together.
Now, like a prodigal granddaughter, the woman named Desdemona had shown up.
The downright sadness of all the lost family years hit him where it hurt most—in the gaping wound his wife had ripped open when she’d left him. As he clearly didn’t need to be reminded, Gerda wasn’t the only one moping around for months on end.
He shook off the negative memories, choosing to focus on the stars outside his window instead of the ache in his heart.
The strangest thing of all was, tonight he’d immediately reacted to Desi’s exotic beauty when he saw her under the soft glow of the porch lamp. But that was such a shallow response. He should ignore it. Yet, in the still of the night, under the gentle beams of moonlight, he couldn’t get her or those questioning, mistrustful brown eyes out of his mind.
Tall and well proportioned, with extra-fine hips, she was a woman who’d fit with his big, overgrown frame. He grimaced. Why torture himself and think about women? After seven years of marriage, he couldn’t make his wife stick around. Not even for Steven’s sake. Why fall for their beauty when their motives cut like blades? He ground his teeth and rolled over, willing the young mysterious woman out of his thoughts and demanding his mind go blank so he could finally fall asleep.
* * *
The next morning, Desi threw on an old sweatshirt and baggy jeans and made her way down the creaky staircase of the ancient house. Gerda was already up and reading the newspaper, and jumped up from the table the moment Desi set foot inside the kitchen. They tipped their heads to each other in a silent greeting. Like strangers.
“I don’t drink coffee, but I’ve got some if you’d like,” Gerda said, sounding eager to please.
“Thanks, but if you show me where you keep it, I’ll be glad to make it myself. Sit down.”
The thin and almost ghost-white woman pointed to the cupboards near the back door before sitting again. “Your mother always loved coffee, even when she was young. I used to worry it would stunt her growth, and she was only five foot three when she left.” Silence dropped like a forgotten net. But Gerda quickly recovered. “I know it’s silly, but I’ve always kept her favorite brand on hand, even now when I know she’ll never come—” The sentence broke in half as Gerda lost her voice.
Desi rushed to her grandmother and put her hands on those bony shoulders, her own throat thickening with loss and memories of a family she’d never gotten to know.
Gerda reached up and tentatively patted one of Desi’s hands with icy-cold knobby fingers. “I’d asked your mother to come home so many times.”
“I know you did. Mom finally told me.” Mom had felt fragile like Gerda the last few months of her life. Desi could only imagine how hard it must have been for a mother to lose her daughter when they’d been estranged all those years. As for why her mother had never returned, well, that mystery wasn’t likely to be resolved.
“Well, you don’t have to worry about coffee stunting my growth,” Desi said, deciding to change the subject. “I’m five foot nine.”
Gerda offered a wan smile and Desi waited for her face to brighten, even if only a little, then she went back to making the coffee. Gerda sipped hot tea and ate a piece of toast with marmalade, putting the taste for toast and jam in her mind. Mom loved orange marmalade, too.
Since Gerda seemed engrossed in the morning paper, and Desi wasn’t sure what to talk about anyway, she filled her coffee cup and wandered into the living room, to the gorgeous grand piano in the center of the room. She took a sip of coffee and carefully placed the cup on an adjacent TV tray containing a bowl of candy and a pile of colorful stickers.
Lifting the keyboard cover, she explored the keys, enjoying the feel of the cool ivory beneath her fingers. She’d had to sell her mom’s piano when she’d sold the house in L.A. to pay for the medical costs. She’d put the remaining contents of that house of memories into storage, the piano and everything it represented in their lives being the biggest memory of all. Music, and her mother’s talent, had been their bread and butter, keeping them afloat through all the tough times. And there had been many.
When Desi became old enough to work and was able to contribute toward house payments, they’d finally settled into their own home. Though she’d never been sure where the large down payment had come from, Desi had a sneaking suspicion her grandmother had something to do with it. Then her mother got sick. All those years in smoke-filled lounges had finally caught up with her. Four years of lung-cancer treatment and suffering for naught. Even after Mom had died, Desi was hit with huge medical bills.
As she so often did when she felt sad or moody, like right now, Desi turned to music. Soon her fingers danced along the keys, as if having memories in their tips. Beethoven’s “Für Elise” filled the room with the rich tone of the grand piano. When she’d finished, she moved on to a Chopin nocturne. On and on she played, forgetting all her worries, losses and fears, until her fingers and hands were tired. She hadn’t played perfectly, far from it, but what could she expect for not having touched a piano in months, since she’d sold theirs? Still, it
