Maybe some tidbit a neighbor let slip? I honestly don’t recall her talking about her past—she probably knew I was too young to care and most of the time I was rattling on about my dance recitals or school plays or...” Miranda swallowed hard. “What a selfish little brat I was.”
“Honey, you were young. No kid wants to hear the life story of anyone over the age of eighteen. Give yourself a break. She understood. Believe me.” He paused for a moment then continued, “I heard that she bought the house in the mid-forties—she might’ve been a war widow. Then again I never heard anyone call her anything but Miss Virginia. And she definitely wasn’t from Birmingham.”
“That much I knew. She was Czech. I found out the first time she made kolaches for me and I became instantly addicted.” Miranda could almost taste the fruit-filled pastries Virginia had baked on a weekly basis. “She was a great cook but I think she also dabbled in art. Or maybe she told me she’d been an artist’s model? I’m not sure. She said she had a portrait of a child my age who had my ‘impish expression.’ But she never got around to showing it to me. I wonder if I’ll finally get to see it.”
“She also loved music and theater,” Tim said.
“She did. I used to perform all my dance routines for her. I have this very clear memory of reciting and acting out the poem The Highwayman when I was in sixth grade. She thought it was a Tony-winning performance.”
Miranda blinked back tears as the memories flooded in. She had often played piano and sung while Miss Virginia sat in a rocking chair, quietly listening; then the elderly lady and the small child would sit down to formal tea. Miranda inhaled. She needed to end the conversation before the strong emotions finished it for her.
“Dad, I just noticed the time. I’d better get a few boxes moved before the delivery guys show up with the new bed. If they can’t inch it back into the bedroom past the clutter they might pitch the frame and mattresses into the yard in disgust. Which reminds me—do I pay them today or did you already take care of the bill?”
“It’s paid in full and you don’t need to reimburse me. I’ll let you go, but remember you’re coming over to the house next week. Farrah’s invited some folks to meet you. And before you say anything, yes, I’m well aware that you’re not up for any matchmaking dinners right now, but Farrah really wants to do this. And I’ve been asked to remind you that the Trussville Fair is in ten days. As far as I know it’s still set up like it was back when we used to go. Lots of artwork and crafts and I think some local bands are playing.”
Miranda had winced after hearing Farrah and dinner in the same sentence but tried not to let her feelings about the get-together leak into her tone as she thanked her father and said goodbye.
She quickly began to move boxes away from the piano, muttering “labels” to herself. She needed a system for cataloguing so she wouldn’t end up going over the same box twice as she did inventory for the estate sale. Miranda peeked inside a box that was partially open and found Virginia’s sewing basket. Her smile warring with tears, Miranda reverently lifted it out and opened it, eyeing the ancient thimbles and the twenty-odd spools of thread in various colors. She gently unwrapped a pair of perfectly preserved scissors from their bed of fine linen and just as carefully put them back.
“No way am I selling Miss Virginia’s sewing supplies,” she said. These things had been a huge part of her friend’s life. They’d been her livelihood. Miranda remembered Virginia carefully searching to find the perfect color of thread to hem one of Miranda’s dance costumes. Even as a child, she had recognized the older woman’s pleasure in stitching that costume with expertise and love.
Miranda set the box with the sewing goods back on top of the piano and in doing so, she upset another opened box. The contents spilled out onto the floor—more than a dozen bound notebooks.
“Journals?” Miranda hesitated for a few moments, not sure whether she had the right to pry into Virginia’s private thoughts. When a sheet fell out of the book she was holding, she skimmed it and began to laugh. Recipes. Farrah would love this. Miranda opened the notebook at random, hoping to find ingredients and directions for tea cookies and kolaches.
Instead, she discovered a discourse regarding the fun side of politics in the 1990s including Miss Virginia’s opinion that Bill Clinton played one mean saxophone. Miranda grinned, dropped that notebook back into the box and picked up a journal that was obviously far older.
She sank to the floor after reading the first paragraph.
Miss Virginia hadn’t really been a miss. She’d been the missus to a gentleman named Benjamin Auttenberg.
May 15, 1960
I ran into Marta Rosenberg tonight at temple. We cried when we saw one another. I did not know she had moved to Birmingham, too. She said she has been attending the temple in the Mountain Brook area. It was so good yet so painful to see her. We were last together in Terezin on that day the Russian soldiers freed us all in 1945. Marta talked of our husbands’ deaths and we cried again. She wanted to know if I had remarried and I told her that Radinski was my maiden name. I don’t want anyone to know I was Benjamin Auttenberg’s widow because I don’t want to be hounded by art dealers trying to buy his paintings. I had enough of those vultures right after the war. I told Marta I simply want peace.
Miranda heard the sound of the delivery truck pulling up out front. She quickly grabbed a tissue from her purse and dabbed her eyes, then replaced the journal in its box.
“I miss you, Virginia. And I’m so very sorry—for everything.”
MIRANDA PAUSED IN the doorway of what would be her bedroom for the next month. She eyed the deliveryman who was currently kneeling on the floor with his back to her, putting the side slots of the bed frame into the footrest.
“Excuse me? Before you get the frame done and the box springs on, would you mind moving the frame a bit to the right? I need just a little more room to vacuum what passes for a rug on that side.”
Nothing. He ignored her and continued to click the side railing into place.
Miranda waited for a second, unsure if he was being rude or simply didn’t feel like responding. When he moved toward the left side of the footrest without shifting the bed an inch, she coughed, and then repeated her request with a bit more volume.
Nothing. Maybe he was listening to loud music on headphones and simply hadn’t heard her?
She was about to lean down and tap him on the shoulder when Henry—the head deliveryman from Rocky Ridge Furniture—did the same to her. She whirled around.
“He can’t hear you, Ms. Nolan.”
“Music lover with super teeny headphones set on serious blast mode?” she asked.
Henry shook his head. “Yes and no. He actually is a music lover—or I should say ‘was.’ He lost his hearing about two years ago when he was in Afghanistan.”
Miranda was stunned. She tried to imagine what life would be without music and began feeling hemmed in by the room itself. Would complete silence mean a world walled off from the rest of humanity? She shivered. “What happened?”
As if the man knew he was being discussed, he turned and
