Invisible, as Music Page 5

  “You’re the one my sister told me about. Beverly,” Bonnie added when Ryn simply stared.

  “Beverly DiSorbo is your sister?” Ryn laughed. “That’s why you looked so familiar to me.”

  “She said you’re trying to shake up that department.”

  Ryn wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or not. Bonnie must have read her mind, because she quickly said, “In a good way.”

  Ryn combed her fingers through her damp hair. “Well, it’s not easy. The men there have been doing the same thing forever. They don’t see any need to change.”

  Henrietta, who had been eating her sandwich but saying nothing, now asked, “You’re working for Jerry Talbert?”

  “Yes,” Ryn said. “You know him?”

  “Oh, yes. Jerry and his wife are club members. We play bridge occasionally.”

  Ryn quickly replayed anything she might have said that could be misconstrued as an insult to Talbert.

  Henrietta studied her. “What have you been shaking up?”

  “Well,” Ryn felt she was walking on delicate ground. “The department teaches history—and I mean every single course—purely from the perspective of men. There’s not one single offering that focuses on women. I minored in women’s studies in my undergrad degree, and I was able to include an emphasis on women’s history in my masters. I’m trying to get Dr. Talbert to approve a course on the history of American women. If we can start there, maybe I can get him to sign off on others. European women—in art, politics, music—we could do ten courses there alone. Africa and Asia. There’s so much. We could create an entire major focusing only on women’s history.”

  Ryn realized she was getting carried away. She stopped and sipped her tea.

  “And he’s not willing?” Henrietta asked.

  “He and Geary—that’s Bradley Geary, the other history faculty—don’t think there’s enough interesting material for a semester’s course, but there’s more than enough.”

  From the stove, Bonnie harrumphed.

  Henrietta shifted in her seat. “What?”

  “That one, Geary. Beverly’s told me about him.” Bonnie’s chopping of the carrots became more staccato. “He’s deflowered more than one poor girl.”

  Henrietta turned back to Ryn, who was trying not to laugh at the old-fashioned term. “Is this true?”

  Ryn shrugged. “I’m brand new, so I can’t say for sure. But from what he’s been trying with me, I can believe it.”

  Bonnie abandoned the carrots for a moment, brandishing her knife. “And what’s he tried with you?”

  “Nothing I can’t handle,” Ryn said quickly. “Keeps asking me out, trapping me in my office. That kind of thing. But Beverly keeps an eye out for me as much as she can.”

  Bonnie huffed again, scraping the carrots into the pot.

  Ryn changed the subject. “Bonnie said you went down to the pond to sketch, Miss Cochran—sorry I interrupted that, by the way. Are you an artist?”

  “Is she an artist?” Bonnie spoke up before Henrietta could reply. “You walked past her work. And it’s in galleries all over the state!”

  “Bonnie,” Henrietta said.

  Ryn glanced out into the living room where she now noticed several framed paintings on the walls. “May I?”

  Henrietta nodded. Ryn padded out to the living room, moving from one painting to the next, mostly landscapes—views from this house: the woods, the pond, the golf course. She recognized a few renderings of the village square with its statue and storefronts. Hanging over the piano in the corner was a landscape of a lake Ryn didn’t recognize. She knew next to nothing about art, but she liked these.

  “You’re really good,” she said, going back into the kitchen. A distant beep signaled the end of the dryer cycle.

  “That’ll be your clothes,” Bonnie said. She disappeared and came back into the kitchen a moment later, flapping Ryn’s jeans and T-shirt to shake the wrinkles out. “I could iron these.”

  Ryn cracked up laughing at the thought of ironing jeans. “These are already way better than they usually look after the dryers at the Laundromat.”

  Henrietta looked up at her. “Where are you living?”

  “Mrs. Middleston’s. Do you know her?”

  Henrietta and Bonnie shared a knowing glance.

  “We know her,” Bonnie said, still eyeing Henrietta.

  “You get dressed,” Henrietta said. “I’ll drive you to your car.”

  Not sure what that reaction was about, Ryn accepted her clothes from Bonnie. “You don’t have to drive me. I can row to that dock.”

  “Yes,” Henrietta said wryly. “Your slithery friend would probably appreciate a ride back.”

  Ryn rolled her eyes. “If that snake is waiting for me to row it home, then it’s a darn lazy snake. It’s probably hiding at the dock, waiting for me to bring its boat back.”

  She went into the bathroom to change, leaving her robe on the hook behind the door. When she returned to the kitchen, Bonnie was pulling wadded-up newspaper from her sneakers.

  “These are still damp, I’m afraid.”

  “No problem.” Ryn sat down to lace her high-tops up. “Thanks so much, Bonnie. It was great meeting you.”

  “You, too. I’ll be sure to tell Beverly we met.”

  Henrietta and Bonnie led the way to the back of the house. This time, Ryn noticed the art studio and let out a low whistle.

  “Wow. You really are set up nicely here. That view is something.”

  “We like it.”

  Bonnie tutted. “Like it. Miss Cochran pretty much lives in here, creating her art.”

  Ryn slid the screen door open. “Well, it was nice to meet you. Again.” She plucked at her T-shirt, now smelling of Downy. “Thanks again.”

  She gave a wave and trotted down the path to the pond where the boat was waiting—and empty of any uninvited stowaways. She pushed it into the water and hopped in to row back to the dock where her guitar and backpack were just where she’d left them. She slung the pack over her shoulder and reached for her guitar. Straightening, she peered through the trees in the direction of Henrietta’s house. Not sure if they could see her or not, she gave one last wave.

  Up at the house, Bonnie and Henrietta watched Meryn’s progress.

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Bonnie asked.

  “I doubt it.”

  “Don’t you take that ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about’ tone with me. You know perfectly well, she could be the answer to your prayers.”

  Henrietta scoffed. “That’s a bit dramatic. She’s like a human tornado. She would drive me crazy.”

  “Hmmm.” Bonnie pulled a cloth from her pocket and dusted as she moved around the studio. “Or she might blow some fresh air into this place.”

  Chapter 4

  Thursday morning, as did most Thursday mornings, found Henrietta playing bridge at the country club. Bridge was serious business among this crowd, and conversation tended to be sporadic and light, usually of the gossip variety, something all ears could be attuned to without distracting from the game.

  When the cards were cleared away to make room for luncheon, Henrietta carefully maneuvered to sit next to Genevieve Talbert.

  Genevieve, in the midst of lighting a cigarette, looked displeased at the seating arrangement, and extinguished the flame on her silver lighter, slipping the unlit cigarette back into the matching case. It was an unspoken courtesy that no one at Henrietta’s table smoked due to her delicate lungs. Henrietta suspected it was spoken of plenty when she wasn’t about, and the smoke from neighboring tables still bothered her, but one could only expect so much.

  “I hear Jerry hired a new professor,” Henrietta said conversationally as their waitress served her an iced tea and Genevieve a gin and tonic.

  Genevieve took a sip of her drink before replying. “How did you hear that?”

  “My housekeeper is sister to Jerry’s secretary.”

  “Oh, yes. I forgot. Yes. He had a
hard time finding anyone qualified and this girl’s advisor—where was it? Philadelphia, I think. Anyway, the advisor is an old friend of Jerry’s, so he put in a call to Jerry and recommended her. Said she’s working out all right but, like all the young ones brandishing their new degrees, they think they know everything. He’ll get her in line. Or she’ll leave. One or the other.”

  Henrietta waited until the salad plates had been passed out. “But surely, if she’s good, he’ll want to hang onto her.”

  Genevieve shrugged. “I don’t think he really cares. Word is…” She looked around, but everyone else was busily chatting. She leaned near and whispered, “Jerry is expecting to be promoted to dean next year, so staffing the history department will be Bradley Geary’s worry.”

  Naturally, as soon as her voice dropped to a sibilant tone, all the other women were immediately listening.

  Henrietta frowned. “Bradley Geary would become chair? Automatically? Wouldn’t they do a search?”

  Genevieve took another drink. “I doubt it. And who cares, really? It’s just history.”

  She deliberately turned to speak to the woman on her other side, leaving Henrietta to eat her salad. From the little Henrietta knew from Bonnie, if Jerry moved up and this Geary fellow became chair, Meryn Fleming would most likely not be sticking around.

  If Henrietta decided to ask the girl if she was interested in becoming her companion, it looked as if this might be another short-term situation. Still, it had been nearly a month since Amanda had left. She really needed someone and soon.

  An hour later, she made her way out to her car—driven up to the clubhouse for her by the club manager, as the parking lot was some distance away—and drove into the village. She pulled up in front of a familiar Victorian and parked behind a small station wagon whose back end was plastered in bumper stickers: Pass the ERA, Re-Elect Carter, Young Democrats. There were Goddess stickers and one with a pink triangle, another with a two-bladed axe. Henrietta had no idea what those meant, but she had a feeling her country club friends would frown if they saw them.

  “Dear God,” Henrietta muttered. She’d only caught a glimpse of an outline of a car among the shadows yesterday at the pond but, somehow, she was certain this was Meryn Fleming’s car.

  For a moment, she considered simply driving home. But there was something so genuine about that young woman. Her open face, her easy laugh—including at herself—her kindness. Even if she was rather… radical.

  Henrietta clambered out of her car and made her way up the walk to the porch steps. As she stood there, pondering how to climb them, Sally Middleston emerged from the front door.

  “Henrietta.”

  “Hello, Sally.”

  “What brings you here?” Mrs. Middleston flipped her dishtowel over her shoulder and stared down at Henrietta.

  Henrietta had wondered if Sally would make this hard or easy. Apparently, she was opting for hard.

  “I wanted to speak with you about one of your renters, Meryn Fleming.”

  “What about her?”

  “You may have heard, but my companion left to take care of her grandmother. I’m in need of someone else to live-in. I’ve met Miss Fleming and am considering her as a candidate. But I wanted to ask you for a reference.” Henrietta ground her teeth for a moment. “And, if satisfactory, ask your permission to offer her a position. I realize this could inconvenience you if you lose a boarder.”

  Sally Middleston planted her fists on her hips. “Since when have you cared if you inconvenienced anyone? Always thought the world revolved around you just because of those braces and crutches. You and your parents. Well, it doesn’t. My Gilbert was a good man. Your father had no cause to fire him.”

  Henrietta’s hands clenched on the handles of her crutches, but this did not seem to be the time to argue that Gilbert Middleston had been fired after being found drunk on the job, not once, but five times. And that he had drunk himself into an early grave.

  “I’m sorry you feel that way, Sally.” Henrietta struggled to keep her voice even. “Of course, the girl is neither your prisoner nor your property. I’m here as a courtesy. If she and I come to an agreement, naturally, she’ll give you proper notice. Thank you for your time.”

  Henrietta turned to make her way back to her station wagon. From behind her, Sally called, “Don’t think I won’t warn her what she’ll be getting into!”

  In the car, Henrietta started the ignition, wondering if all of those bumper stickers reflected the independent thinker she hoped Meryn Fleming really was.

  When Ryn dismissed class, a small knot of students lingered, waiting for her to gather her books and notes. This little gang of five—three women and two men—had become their own history club, wanting to engage more deeply. They also gave Ryn extra protection from Geary, a fact she gave silent thanks for when they accompanied her to her office and she saw Geary there, prepared to ambush her. He turned on his heel and stalked away as she retrieved her backpack and locked her office, arguing with them about what might have happened to North America’s course if the Iroquois had allied with the French rather than the Dutch and British.

  The day was chilly but clear, a gorgeous autumn day. Across campus, the bells rang at the chapel, signaling the daily noon Mass. Ryn excused herself, leaving them to continue the argument, while she made her way through the quad to the chapel. She’d promised her mom she’d attend Mass weekly. She figured Friday was as good as Sunday.

  The chapel was simple and small, built to hold maybe a hundred people arranged in an intimate circle around a central altar. She took a seat in a middle row, joining about a dozen others. She saw a few familiar faces, including three of the young nuns she’d seen around campus. She wasn’t certain if they were students or faculty, but they always nodded hello when she happened to meet them.

  Ryn didn’t think of herself as a religious person, and the male dominance of most churches—especially the Catholic church—drove her crazy. But there were times when she felt something bigger and kinder wrapping around her like wings, protecting her. That was what she prayed to—funny how it always took a feminine form.

  Not funny at all, she realized as she gazed at the stained glass windows. Her comfort had always come from women.

  When Mass was over, she was starving. She sat on the granite steps of Rayburn Hall, enjoying the sun while she ate a peanut butter and banana sandwich. She had one lecture that afternoon—the last one before the first exam in that class, so she was fairly certain the students would all be there, hoping for any last minute hints as to what she’d be testing them on. The sandwich was good, but she needed something to wash it down with. She folded and stuffed her wax paper back into her backpack and zipped it shut.

  Upstairs, she found Beverly at her desk. Talbert’s office was dark. Dangling a couple of teabags, she went in and set her pack on the floor.

  “Ready for some tea?”

  “Of course.” Beverly had her kettle warming on her hot plate and poured two mugs of water for them. “Sit down, Meryn. I need to speak with you.”

  “Okay.” Ryn took a chair opposite Beverly’s desk. “Am I in trouble?”

  Beverly’s mouth twitched. “Perhaps. But not the way you mean.”

  “In what way, then?”

  Beverly didn’t answer immediately, allowing the suspense to build as she let her teabag steep for precisely four minutes—Ryn had started counting.

  “I understand you met my sister.”

  “Bonnie. Yes. She and Miss Cochran helped me out after I fell into that pond below the house.”

  “Did they say anything to you about Miss Cochran’s situation?”

  Ryn thought for a moment. “I know she’s an artist, and she obviously has leg braces and crutches, but…” She raised her mug to drink, feeling she was better off letting Beverly fill in the gaps.

  “Miss Cochran had polio when she was a girl. Since her parents passed—I think her mother died nearly eight years ago—she has needed a live-in comp
anion. Someone to be there at night, in case something happens, maybe do some light cooking—although my sister always makes a big batch of some dish to provide leftovers when she’s there on Wednesdays—maybe some light chores. In return, Miss Cochran offers a private room and bath at no charge.”

  Ryn choked on her tea. “No rent?” She frowned. “That sounds too good to be true. What’s the catch? Why doesn’t she have a waiting list of people?”

  Again, Beverly didn’t reply immediately. She delicately took a sip of tea and cleared her throat. “Miss Cochran is… particular. Obviously, she has to be cautious about whom she invites to live in her house. And she can be… difficult.”

  “Difficult.”

  Beverly met her gaze through her glasses, and Ryn was struck again by the similarity between the sisters. “Miss Cochran is not the easiest person in the world to get on with. Bonnie has been with her longer than anyone. Companions have tended to leave after a few months, which begins the process all over again.”

  Beverly set her mug down. “I don’t wish to speak ill of anyone, but you need to know what you’d be in for.”

  “In for.” Ryn felt like a parrot, repeating Beverly’s words again as she tried to see where this was leading.

  “Miss Cochran has decided that she would like to speak with you about this position. I’ve been asked to pass along a message that she is inviting you to have lunch with her to discuss it. Tomorrow, if you’re available.”

  Ryn slumped back against her chair. “Wow. Really?” She raised her mug and drank. “Sure. I’ll have lunch with her. What’s the worst that can happen?”

  Henrietta made one last tour of the guest wing of the house—the part that used to be her parents’ until their deaths—to make sure everything was in order. The two twin beds were freshly made, and the bathroom was clean and neat. Bonnie had seen to it on Wednesday as she always did, but after Meryn’s unexpected visit, she had given the rooms a little extra polish. Henrietta smiled at the artistic arrangement of pillows and towels. Bonnie wasn’t exactly subtle.

  Out in the kitchen, the table was laid with two place settings of the nicer china. Henrietta couldn’t recall the last time she’d used it. She tended to use the Corelle dishes for everyday. They were more forgiving when dropped.