Second Chance Hero (11 page)

“Of course.” Mrs. Leggett stepped aside to let the teacher pass and then, with a “shall we?” glance for him, headed toward the door.

Taking his cue, he followed her out. By the time they stepped out on the small porch, there were no children in sight.

“Well, what do you think of our choir members?” she asked.

“I think, as a whole, they're a much younger group than I'd expected.” He hadn't seen more than two or three who looked like they'd hit their teen years yet. “Especially when you consider the four who weren't here today aren't yet old enough to be in school.”

“The majority of them
do
seem to fall in the eight-to ten-year-old range.” She didn't seem the least bit concerned by that. “It's a blessing for us, really.”

“How so?”

“I find younger children much more teachable than the older ones.”

He hadn't thought of it that way. Not that he was entirely convinced.

But she was moving on to another subject. “For our practice sessions, I was thinking it would be best to start with one song and practice it until they get it down right before moving on to the next. But do you think we should introduce them to all three songs when we get together tomorrow before we settle down to practice the first one? Or would that overwhelm them?”

How would he know? But she was waiting for his answer. “It seems to me that introducing them to all three songs first would give them something to look forward to. And if we sing each of them at the beginning of each session, it would get them used to that last song that they are probably not already familiar with.”

“Good point. So you and I will sing them for the group first, and then we'll settle in to practice ‘Jesus Loves Me.'”

“You're assuming these children actually can sing. Not everyone has an ear for music, you know.”

“True. But if nothing else they can make a joyful noise. And, as you told Robbie, they'll manage okay if we help them.” She met his gaze, her expression earnest. “I don't want any of these children to feel they are any less important to the choir than any of the other members.”

He gave a short nod. “Of course. A joyful noise it is.”

“I was wondering...” She paused, her fingers plucking at her collar.

“What is it?”

“Well, that song you sang for me yesterday—‘Down to the Valley.'”

Had she changed her mind about using it? “If you prefer to substitute something else—”

“No, no, I love the song. It's just that, if I'm going to teach the children, then someone really needs to teach it to me first.”

Teach her? Watch her learn the words and melody, make them her own? It was very tempting.

But he wasn't sure he was much of a teacher.

Chapter Eleven

V
erity saw his hesitation and wished she could take the question back. Had her request been out of line? Her cheeks warmed as she realized the spot she'd put him in. He had shut his shop to accompany her this afternoon, and now she'd asked for more of his time. He was undoubtedly trying to find a polite way to say no.

Before she could withdraw her request, however, he nodded.

“All right. Where would you like to do this? It's performed a cappella so we don't need a piano, but I'd prefer not to break into song right here on the sidewalk.”

She appreciated his self-deprecating humor. And also his generosity. “Thank you, but I just realized you probably need to get back to your shop. Why don't we plan to meet a little early before practice starts tomorrow instead?”

But he shook his head. “Today is fine.” By now they'd reached the corner of Schoolhouse Road and Second Street. He waved toward his shop. “As you can see, there's no line of customers waiting for me to open my doors. And the work I already have scheduled can wait a little longer without endangering any schedules.”

Was his business slow, then? “I'm sure you'll get more customers as more people become aware of your work.”

He merely nodded and changed the subject. “So, where shall we go?”

“We could go down by the church. It should be fairly quiet there today.”

They turned their steps toward the church but hadn't gone far before they encountered Eunice Ortolon, Belva's aunt.

Verity intended to just exchange greetings and keep moving, but Eunice apparently wanted to have a conversation.

“Well, hello, Verity, Mr. Cooper. It's a fine afternoon for a walk, isn't it?”

Mr. Cooper nodded. “That it is, ma'am.”

Verity could see the woman's mind working as she studied the two of them. Surely she didn't see this as anything other than what it was. But the woman was a notorious busybody—she loved speculating about anyone and anything she knew, or even thought she knew. And she didn't mind sharing those speculations with anyone who would listen.

Eunice gave Mr. Cooper an arch smile. “I hope your injuries are healing well. We've been missing you around the boardinghouse.”

Mr. Cooper smiled politely. “I thank you for your concern, ma'am. And I certainly hope my absence hasn't caused you any inconvenience.”

“We're getting by.” She glanced at Verity and then back to him. “I understand you'll be helping Verity here with the children's choir. That's very kind of you. There's not many a gentleman who'd agree to step in for the church piano player, much less teach songs to a group of youngsters.”

Verity's spine stiffened. Did Eunice think that such actions were beneath him?

“If that's true, then it's their loss,” Mr. Cooper said easily. “I enjoyed playing for the church service. And I just met some of the children who'll be in the new choir and I'm certain I'll enjoy working with them, as well.”

“It sounds like Verity here is lucky to have someone as enthusiastic as you are to help her.” Eunice's tone still carried an edge of patronization

Verity lifted her chin, but kept her smile relaxed. “It's Turnabout that's lucky Mr. Cooper moved here, don't you think?”

Eunice's smile slipped momentarily, then came back in full force. “Of course. Well, I won't keep you from, well, from wherever you were headed.”

Verity ignored Eunice's not-so-subtly buried question and moved on.

For a moment neither she nor Mr. Cooper said anything. What was he thinking? Had he been put off by Eunice's clumsy comments?

“It strikes me that Mrs. Ortolon is nothing like her niece.”

Verity swung her gaze around to meet his. The words had been uttered in an idle tone, as if he'd been remarking on the weather, but there was a definite glint of amusement in his eyes.

She matched his impassive expression. “You mean she's shorter and has a brassier voice?”

“Exactly.”

They shared a grin, and for a moment Verity felt an unfamiliar emotion tugging at her, an emotion she decided not to examine too closely.

When they reached the churchyard, Verity swept a hand out. “Will this do?”

“It seems quiet enough.”

By which she knew he meant there was no one around to hear him sing. This little touch of insecurity, and the vulnerability that it lent to such an otherwise strong man, actually seemed quite endearing.

“Would you like to sit on the steps?” he asked.

His question brought her thoughts back to the here and now. “Actually, this may sound strange, but what if we stroll through the cemetery?” She could see she'd startled him. “I promise I'm not being morbid. I've just always thought it was such a peaceful, beautiful place, especially on a bright spring day like today. But if it makes you uncomfortable—”

“Not at all. Lead the way.”

* * *

Nate strolled beside her, wondering again at her unexpectedness, at how she could so enchant him without any obvious effort. The man who'd been her husband had been a lucky fellow.

She led him through the gate and then around the perimeter until they came to a large oak. There were two simple wooden benches, one on each side of the tree. She turned to him with a smile. “How's this?”

“It'll do.” Actually, with her smiling at him like that, he would have agreed to sing in the middle of Main Street.

She took a seat on one of the benches, then looked up at him expectantly. “Well, then, teach me.”

He cleared his throat and launched into the song, singing the first verse and chorus at a respectable volume. His reward when he was done was an absent, inwardly focused glance from his pupil.

“I think I have it,” she said. “If you'll go over it again, I'll try to sing along.”

With a nod he started again. She immediately added her voice to his. The sound of their voices together both startled and pleased him.

When they were done, she grimaced. “I mangled a few notes. Let's try it one more time.”

He hadn't noticed her mangling anything, but he decided he could do this all day. He started again and this time when she joined in her voice was stronger, surer. And to his surprise, rather than copying him this time, she sang harmony, playing with some of the notes, making it up right there on the spot. And it sounded amazing. The beauty of their joined voices was something he could listen to forever.

When they were finished this time, she clapped her hands in pure joy. “Oh, that was fun. The kids are going to love this song.”

Right now, it was his favorite, as well.

“I'll definitely need your help teaching it to the children, but at least now I feel like I can hold my own with it.” She straightened. “Now, I'm sure you're eager to get back to your shop.”

Not particularly, but he knew a dismissal when he heard one.

She led him out a different way than the one they'd taken earlier. Rather than following the perimeter, she silently led him on a winding path between the headstones.

Then she paused and placed her hands lightly on a pair of side-by-side headstones. “These are my parents,” she said softly. “I like to stop by and say hello whenever I'm here.”

He studied her bittersweet expression. “Have they been gone long?”

“They passed when I was five. Uncle Grover and Aunt Betty raised me.”

“It was good that you had someone to take you in.”

She removed her hands from the headstones and smiled up at him. “They were great substitute parents—I never doubted I was loved.”

But she was still studying her parents' graves pensively.

“Do you remember them?” he asked.

She nodded. “Not a lot, of course, but images, emotions. I loved my mother, but I adored my father.”

He could tell be the faraway look in her eyes that she was remembering another time and place.

“He was bigger than life, always full of energy, and he seemed to live to make me and Mother happy.”

“Sounds like quite a man.”

“He was. He had a way of making everything we did seem like fun. And he liked to take Mother on what he called adventuring—take hikes, camp out in the woods, canoe on water rapids, climb peaks—anything that seemed new or exciting. I have great memories of the two of them laughingly setting off on what looked, to my five-year-old self, like really fun excursions.”

Her smile had a faraway quality to it. “They included me occasionally, in what I now know were the tamer of these outings.” She touched the little scar near her lip. “I got this on one of the camping trips. Father said it was my badge of honor, the proof that I was an adventurer like him and mother.”

“Did their death occur on one of these adventures?”

She nodded. “It was a hot air balloon.”

Realizing what must have happened, Nate immediately held up his hand. “There's no need to tell me the details.”

She seemed not to hear him. “I stood on the ground with a family friend and watched the balloon go up with them in the basket below. They both blew me kisses and then turned and kissed each other. They looked so happy and my only thought was that I wanted very badly to be with them.” She paused a moment. “Then, when they were so far up that I could no longer distinguish them, the balloon caught fire in a big whoosh. It was over almost before the woman who was holding my hand fainted and hit the ground.”

He quickly reached for her hand, wanting to offer her what comfort he could. “Verity, I'm so, so sorry that happened to you. That must have been horrific to see.”

Her gaze slowly lost its unfocused quality and she smiled at him. “As you yourself said, Uncle Grover and Aunt Betty were really wonderful. Uncle Grover blamed my father's reckless, impulsive nature for getting my mother—his sister—killed, but he never held that against me. And anyway, I'm nothing like my father. I lack his thirst for adventure.”

And then she seemed to suddenly realize he was holding her hand. Her cheeks pinkened and gaze dropped.

He gave her hand a quick squeeze and then released it. But he didn't apologize. Mainly because he wasn't sorry.

Did she also realize he'd called her by her first name? Because she certainly hadn't objected.

Then he struck an idle tone as he prepared to do a little more probing. “Is your former husband buried here, as well?”

She didn't seem put out by the question. She merely shook her head. “Arthur is buried in Kansas, beside his first wife.”

So she had been the man's second wife. “Do you mind if I ask you what sort of man he was?”

She started walking again, and for a moment he thought she wasn't going to answer. He didn't blame her—it was something he had no right to ask.

Then she spoke up. “I don't mind. In fact, Arthur deserves to be remembered and spoken of from time to time.”

There was a fondness in her voice, and some sense of reflection, as well.

“Arthur was a fine, decent man,” she continued. “He was a good doctor, and a respected member of the community where we lived. And he absolutely adored Joy.”

“Did he have an adventurous streak like your father?”

She smiled at that. “I'm afraid not. For one thing Arthur was somewhat older, nearly fifteen years my senior. And he had a more analytical approach to life, a trait that served him well in his work as a doctor.”

But how had it served him in his role as a husband? Had he been dispassionate and analytical there, as well?

Nate didn't press her any further. But he did find it odd that she never once spoke of loving him.

* * *

Verity lay in bed that night staring at the ceiling, going over the events of the day. Singing a duet with him had been such an amazing, exhilarating experience. It had felt...exciting. And fun. And, oh, so right. Almost as if their voices had been created specifically to complement each other.

Which was a totally ridiculous, fanciful thought.

Was that why she'd told him about her parents? A lot of people around here knew the story, of course, but she'd never spoken of it to anyone before.

The way he'd taken her hand, and looked at her with that sincere sympathy in his compelling blue eyes had been both comforting and affirming. His hands holding hers—strong, callused hands, hands that belonged to both a craftsman and a pianist—had made her feel both safe and empowered.

Which she supposed was why she had spoken so freely about Arthur today. Strange, but, except for the conversations she sometimes had with Joy, she'd spoken of her former husband more in that short discussion with Mr. Cooper than she had since she'd returned to Turnabout.

But even without Mr. Cooper's questions, she'd found herself ruminating on her marriage. Because telling him about her memories of her parents had had her making some comparisons with her own life.

Arthur had been a good husband to her and she'd been quite fond of him. She'd admired him, too. He'd been predictable, responsible and even-tempered. He was everything she'd told herself she wanted in a husband.

But thinking today of the all-encompassing, zestful love she'd witnessed between her own parents, she realized that she and Arthur had never shared anything like what her parents had. And she wondered now what it would be like to experience such a love.

She rolled over on her side and hugged her pillow. Arthur had never shared her love of music, either. Singing together with Mr. Cooper today, however, had been a surprisingly emotional experience. The way their voices had blended and intertwined, the look in his eyes as their gazes locked together—she'd never experienced that kind of connection before. It had been altogether addictively exhilarating.

Had Mr. Cooper felt the same thing?

And he'd called her by her first name. That had to mean something.

Didn't it?