Want Read Free

hymnal.
    ***
    It’s the second full week of lessons, and Isaac drills me until my finger joints ache. All that work and you’d think we’d be over the awkward stage by now. You’d be wrong.
    “So why did you come back to Mobile?” I ask for the hundredth time. While I wait for an answer that won’t come, I twirl a cinnamon-colored strand of hair around my finger. He only talks about music-related stuff. Ask him a personal question and he turns into a verbal mason. The brick wall goes up, and he changes the subject.
    To my surprise, he actually addresses my question, if only a little.
    “Didn’t so much come back to Mobile as leave Boston. Now, why don’t you — ”
    “Oh, c’mon, didn’t you play with the Boston Symphony? The Pops? I mean, how could you give that up?” I shake my head in disbelief. “I don’t get it. I can’t wait to get out of here.”
    A small smile escapes his lips.
    Score one for Juli!
    “You sound like me ten years ago. Couldn’t wait to get out and then couldn’t wait to come back. But giving me the third degree isn’t going to help your audition.” There’s a hard edge to his voice. He smiles to let me know he’s not being ugly, but I can tell his patience is wearing thin. “Let’s go back to the fugue.”
    Ugh. Shut down .
    I try a couple more times to broach the subject of his mysterious return, but he deflects my questions every time. I suppose I’m being rude — okay, there’s no supposing about it — but I’m curious. I spend hours a day with him. He’s hiding something, and I bet it’s juicy.
    I let my imagination run wild. I’d rather make up stories about his life than look too closely at mine. Maybe he’s involved in a love triangle, and he’s the loser; maybe he’s secretly a drug dealer and got chased out of Boston; or he’s on the run from the mob. Rumors are rampant, and I’ve got to know his story. Knowledge is power, Mama always says.
    Then one day, an ordinary Wednesday morning, something changes. I find a chip in his brick wall.
    “So, Mr. Laroche — Isaac — did you murder someone in Beantown? In the library with a candlestick?” I smile sweetly. “Was Colonel Mustard there?” He stares at me like I have three heads , then recognition spreads across his face. The result is another small smile.
    That’s two! Not that I keep track.
    He leans on the piano with his arms crossed and looks down at me from his impressive height. Today he wears khaki cargo shorts with a white-collared shirt. The sleeves are rolled up to reveal tanned, muscled forearms.
    Not that I notice.
    “Hardly,” he says. “It was Miss Scarlet in the foyer with a wrench. Since when do you know about Clue?”
    I flutter my eyelashes. “I downloaded an app with a bunch of old-school games. Plus, I used to play it with my granny.”
    “That’s funny. I used to play that with my gran, too.” He smiles. This is the most I’ve seen him smile in the weeks he’s been here. “Beat me every time. She’d never let us grandkids win; had to earn it. You probably never met her, huh? She sat in the section right by Uncle Robert at church when he played.”
    And just like that, the storm moves in, his face clouds over, and I know he’s done. I turn back to the music and pick up where I left off.
    Several hours later, I try my best to sleep, but it’s sticky as a swamp in my room. The air conditioner can’t keep up with the humidity, made worse by the summer thunderstorm that pounds outside. I give up and kick off the twisted sheets. My bedside clock says it’s after midnight, though lightning flashes so frequently that it might as well be broad daylight.
    When I can’t sleep, I sit in my window seat and read with a flashlight. I’ve done this since…well, since I’ve been able to read, I guess. I grab my paperback off the dresser and settle in so Mr. Darcy can propose again.
    Between the streetlight outside and the lightning, I barely need the flashlight. One look out the