The Music Box (10 page)

Angie just shook her head.

“I said I thought it was the best thing I could think of.” Melissa slipped from her seat. “Daddy is going to be real excited to know you can take us. I just know it.”

Angie watched the girl move to the door, returned her wave, and only when she was alone in the room did she realize she had forgotten to ask anything more about Melissa's singing.

10

Not even hosting visitors was enough to stop Angie's treasured ritual of walking to church. Especially not on a day when all the world was held in the silent white of winter's grip. Clouds had gathered again overnight, sealing the valley from above, making the stillness even more complete. The winter morning was a million hues of gentle gray. The occasional passing car seemed an affront to the Sabbath's peace. Her steps scrunched softly, and her breathing seemed loud in her ears. Here and there, tiny snowbirds appeared, their cheeps like chimes in the crisp air.

As she rounded the final corner, Angie spotted Carson Nealey emerging from his car. She hurried over. Melissa saw her and waved with such enthusiasm that her petite form seemed ready to take flight. Angie smiled and wished them both good morning.

“I am most grateful for your letting us join you like this,” Carson said in a rush, the words rehearsed. “I have learned at the factory how closed this community can be to outsiders, and I was concerned that we might face this here at church.”

“If you did,” Angie said, feeling an echo of his nervousness within herself, “I would be mortified.”

“It was for that reason I asked if we could join you today,” Carson pressed on, fidgeting with his hat. “I hope we haven't put you out any.”

“This is God's house, where all are welcome, or should be,” Angie replied, the formal words warmed by her tone. Then she glanced at Melissa. She was watching Angie with another of those smiles, the kind that were too big to be held just by her face so that she scrunched up her shoulders with delight.

Angie looked from one face to the other, then said, “I am honored that you would join me. Shall we go inside?”

As they approached, Emma stepped from the front doors. In her flowing choir robes she looked vastly impressive. Grinning from ear to ear, she said, “Well, praise the Lord! And who do we have here?”

“Melissa, you of course already know the director of our church choir,” Angie said, her tone as cool as the walk.

“Yes, ma'am. Hello, Mrs. Drummond.”

“Welcome to our little country church, Melissa. I look forward to having you sing with us some day,” Emma said, but for some reason it was Angie who received the wink.

Despite strong efforts at self control, Angie found herself blushing as she went on determinedly, “Mr. Nealey, Emma Drummond teaches your daughter's music class at school.”

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Drummond.”

“You have a talented daughter, sir.” Emma cast her friend another look full of meaning and continued, “It might interest you to know that Angie Picard here also has talent and was the choir soloist for a number of years—”

“Why don't we go in before they start without us,” Angie urged. Father and daughter entered the vestibule, but Emma grabbed her arm as she tried to pass. Angie was growing increasingly irritated. “Don't you have choir duties to attend to?”

“They can survive without me for just a minute.” Emma's grin widened. “Are you ever in for a surprise.”

“What are you going on about now?”

“You remember that friend at the shoe company's headquarters? She heard something else the other day.”

Angie refused to let herself ask the expected. “If you'll excuse me, I have guests waiting.”

“Something very interesting,” Emma added, flouncing about so that her robes billowed around her. “But you're in such a hurry, I guess you'll just have to find out for yourself.”

****

As with the town as a whole, almost everyone in church had some relative who had worked at one point or another for the shoe company. So to have the president arrive for Sunday worship was a cause for quiet comment. Angie attempted to discreetly trail father and daughter down the central aisle and reflected on the wisdom of accepting the invitation. Two bright red spots on her cheeks signaled her inner turmoil.
But after all
, she told herself,
I'm only introducing a new family to the church
.

Ignoring the eyes that followed their progress, Angie joined Melissa and Carson in a pew close to the front.

Together they sat through the first prayer and then rose for the opening hymn. Angie could not help but feel a little thrill as Melissa opened her hymnal and found the place without difficulty. Despite her feeling that Emma had been overly enthusiastic about Melissa's talent, still she was excited to see the child show such familiarity and interest in the worship time.

When the first verse began and Melissa started singing, Angie was so astounded she lost her place in the hymnal.

There was none of the piping, breathy tones of a child's voice. The sound was fragile, yes, but so clear it appeared to lift free of the earth.

Angie fumbled and found the line and started to sing as she had sung for the past six years, holding back, restraining from giving in to the music. But it was hard. With her open vulnerability, the girl standing between her and Carson challenged her to lift her own voice up in praise.

Heads were turning, glancing down at the girl, then at Angie, back at the girl, then around. Melissa took no notice. She kept her eyes focused on the hymnal in her hands.

Angie glanced at the father and saw upon his features a sadness that twisted her own heart. He did not sing. He stood and watched his daughter with a look of love and sorrow. He seemed blind to the attention directed their way.

At the end of the first verse, to Angie's utter surprise, Melissa raised her head. She ignored the strangers watching her, looked up at her father, and whispered urgently, “Sing, Papa!”

He started at the intensity behind those words. Angie saw it happen. He straightened with a jerk, as though waking from a sleep. He looked down at the hymnal, took a breath. And he sang.

There was no longer any attempt by those around them to disguise their interest and curiosity. Carson Nealey sang with the graceful clarity of a natural tenor. The notes blended perfectly with his daughter, forming a graceful ballet of sound. He sang in harmony one step below her, taking the more difficult middle range, and became the platform from which she soared.

Angie watched and listened, and it seemed as though the chamber's light became centered on them. Not upon the pair standing and singing beside her. Upon the three of them. And in that moment, the silent voice spoke to her again. There in the Sabbath worship, in the midst of people she had known all her life, in the simple stone-and-brick country church, she heard the unspoken words resound through her.

Share Yourself. Share Me
.

She did not need to read the words of the hymn. She had been singing them since joining the choir as a teenager. Angie closed her eyes to ward out the world, and she sang.

Gradually the long-locked inner door opened, as though her voice needed a moment to truly accept that freedom had come again. She tested it, using the first few lines as a scale, gradually allowing her voice to rise in strength and clarity. Angie felt as much as heard Melissa's voice shift in direction as she lifted her face to look toward Angie. But Angie did not open her eyes. She dared not. She was afraid that if she did and saw others watching her she would not have the courage to continue.

And it felt so good to sing again. So
wonderful
. Her voice seemed to find wings and soar, taking the third verse in joyous acclaim. Angie heard Carson's singing rise in strength, matching now not just his daughter's but hers as well. Gracing them both with a stage upon which they might pirouette in praise of the Lord.

Afterward, the congregation took longer than usual to settle. Pastor Rob gave the traditional welcome to visitors, then smiled down at her as he said, “It certainly is nice to hear our congregation holding such rich talent—both the new and that already known to us.”

“Amen!” Emma's voice rang out from her place with the choir.

Angie hid from inquiring eyes by studying the church program. Her gaze wandered over the page, before fastening upon one particular line. The pastor's voice receded into the distance, along with awareness of her own previous discomfort, as the printed words sank in.

The title of the day's sermon was written in bold type, five words that rose up to speak directly to her heart. She felt more than saw Melissa glance her way, but she was unable to return the look. Not just then. For the moment, she could see no further than the message upon the page, one she knew for certain was meant for her.

The title read:
Sharing Is Compassion In Action
.

11

“After my wife died, I didn't really ever turn away from God. Not specifically. I was angry at the whole world. I never bothered to single God out for anything in particular. He just got mixed in with the rest.”

Angie sat against the car door, not to keep herself far removed from Carson, but rather to see both father and daughter without shifting her glance. Melissa sat in the seat directly behind her father and took in her father's words with quiet acceptance. Her face held a fading sorrow, like shadows cast by a sun lost behind thick clouds.

“The anger died after a while; I think it had to. Otherwise it would have consumed me. But I had a daughter to raise, and that above everything else kept me going.” Carson drove with steady intent along streets ringed by white snowbanks. His voice contained a sense of departure, as though he was discussing a life that had belonged to someone else. “After a while it seemed as though I just stopped caring about a lot of things very much. Everything except Melissa.”

“Are you happy here?” Angie asked, more because she felt it was time to speak than because she needed to know. In truth, her mind remained caught up by the scene after church. As they had started back down the aisle, almost everyone they passed had offered Carson a solemn nod and handshake. Angie sensed that it was not just because of his position at the factory. He was gaining a reputation, this man, for reasons she did not fully understand. These hillfolk were slow to accept a newcomer, and yet there they stood, thanking him for joining them in a way that had left Angie certain that they genuinely meant the words.

“Happiness is such an alien word,” Carson replied quietly. “But to be honest, I think I would have to say yes.”

A little indrawn breath from the backseat was swiftly stifled. Angie watched as Melissa observed the back of her father's head with wide eyes.

“I'm coming to love this town,” Carson went on, turning into their drive. “And the factory. You can't imagine how nice it is to work with my hands again, to deal with issues that relate to people I know. Problems aren't just numbers on a balance sheet here. They are people and their jobs and their lives.”

Carson Nealey cut off the motor and said in the silence, “If I never go back to the city again, it will suit me just fine.”

As Angie climbed from the car, Melissa came around and asked, “Would you like to see my room, Miss Picard?”

“I think perhaps I should help out with lunch.”

“You are our guest,” Carson said, returning to nervous formality now that they were home. “Go on ahead, I'm a fair cook. I'll call when things are ready.”

“Well, if you're sure.” Angie followed Melissa through the front parlor, a room as void of soft touches as it had been the last time she had seen it. They moved through the kitchen, the dining room, a smaller formal parlor, and down the hall to the bedrooms. Everything stood in its proper place, some fine pieces here and there, but most of it new and unscarred by time or use. There was little on the walls except occasional prints of famous paintings, bright splashes of color that seemed somehow hollow hanging there.

“You have a very nice home, Melissa,” Angie noted truthfully, despite its lack of homeyness.

“It's okay. Papa said we needed to start fresh, you know, when we came up here.”

Angie avoided looking into a darkened room to her right, one whose bed was still rumpled. “You don't agree?”

“I guess it's all right. Maybe he needs to do it.” She opened the hall's last door and said, “This is my room.”

“It's very . . .” She stepped inside and finished, “Oh my.”

“I asked Daddy and he said it was okay, if it was really what I wanted. And it is. I don't mind Momma's stuff being here. I like it. It makes me remember better.”

It had the look of a grown woman's room—the curved dressing table with its hanging pink velvet skirt and mirror top, the big four-poster bed, the grand oval mirror, the two bedside tables, the lamps.

“Daddy doesn't like to come in here much.” Melissa went over, and with a little twisting jump she bounced onto the bed. Her legs dangling over the side, she said, “I remember bouncing on the bed on Saturday mornings when I was little. Papa used to growl at me for waking him up, but Momma always giggled. I liked the way she used to laugh.”

Angie started a polite response but was halted by the sensation that something important was going on here. Something bigger than what appeared on the surface. “Did your momma sing as beautifully as you and your father do?”

“No, not really. Momma claimed she sounded like a hungry goat. She always said God would need to do a major corrective miracle before He ever let her sing in heaven.” She slid from the bed and headed for the double closet. “Momma played the violin. She was very good.”

“I'm sure she must have been.” Angie watched as Melissa pulled over a chair, climbed up, stood on her tiptoes, and pulled a box off the closet's top shelf. “May I help you with something?”