Invisible, as Music Page 8

  “It was fine.”

  A definite chill filled the space in the kitchen.

  “Meryn, are you upset about something?”

  Ryn bit her lip for a few seconds. “That’s supposed to be my question to you.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  Ryn turned around. “Have I upset you? Are you angry at me for calling you Hank? Have I done something else that bothers you?”

  Henrietta blinked a few times. “No. Why would you ask that?”

  Ryn felt her throat tighten. Dammit. She turned back around, unable to speak for a moment. She did not want to cry in front of Henrietta Cochran, especially when it was only half-tied to her.

  “You’ve been different this week,” she said when she could talk. “Cool. Distant. So I wondered if I’d done anything to make you angry. If I have, I’m sorry.”

  The silence stretched on so long, she wondered if Henrietta had managed to leave the kitchen without making any noise.

  “No.”

  Ryn froze. What did that mean?

  “You haven’t done anything wrong. I’m…” Henrietta paused. “I’ve been… distracted.”

  Ryn sniffed. “Do you want me to leave?”

  “No.”

  She faced Henrietta. “Do you want me to address you as Miss Cochran, like Bonnie does?”

  Henrietta’s mouth opened and closed a couple of times as she seemed to struggle to find words. “I want us to go back to the way we were. I’m… I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings.”

  Ryn stared into her eyes for a few seconds and then smiled. “Thank you. And I’m glad you feel that way.” She stirred the chicken and dumplings again. “Dinner will be ready in a few minutes.”

  Only later, lying in the dark and thinking about everything, did Ryn realize that Henrietta’s gray eyes looked as bruised and guarded as hers felt.

  Chapter 6

  Too much yellow. Impatiently, Henrietta dabbed a bit more ochre into the mix on her palette and tried again. Sitting back, she tilted her head. Better.

  The fall flower show had given her ideas for new still lifes. She’d stopped at a farm market to purchase a selection of colorful gourds, and had arranged them artfully around a basket filled with anemones, chrysanthemums, goldenrod, celosia, some purple Michaelmas daisies, a few cheerful pansies.

  The vibrant colors stirred her. Almost against her will, her eyes flicked toward a draped canvas leaning against the wall—the unfinished painting of the pond. The feelings it had roused—things Henrietta hadn’t felt for years—were just too much. Better to put them away, push them back down where they belonged. It was harder to stop the dreams, but she would. She could control this. She had to.

  Her brush lowered. She wasn’t sure she’d survive if she allowed herself to remember too clearly the disappointment—it was too mild a word, but she couldn’t think of a word strong enough—of coming home at long last to find Una gone, without a word, without a good-bye. Even now, every memory of Una—the way she looked, her smell, the touch of her hands, the sound of her voice and her accent—they were all like knife wounds, straight to Henrietta’s heart. Most people didn’t think she had one. Even she wasn’t so sure some days, but the way it hurt right now proved them wrong.

  Speaking of hurting hearts, the look on Meryn’s face last evening…

  “Oh, posh,” she muttered in exasperation, setting her brush and palette down.

  She’d never meant to hurt the girl. She hadn’t thought her efforts to put some distance between them would even be noticed. Evidently, she was wrong about that, too. The girl saw everything. And she felt everything.

  Henrietta stared out the windows, wondering what it would be like to simply show what one was feeling, without censoring, without weighing consequences or the probability of being the target of gossip afterward. She shook her head. It was too risky, in too many ways.

  Still, she’d hurt the girl’s—call her by her name, a voice inside scolded—Meryn’s feelings, and she felt she needed to make up for it.

  She put a few finishing dabs of dark brown on the rattan strips of the basket in her painting, deepening the shadows and enhancing the contrast with the colors of the flowers.

  She had everything cleaned up by the time Meryn got home.

  “Sorry I’m so late. Gave an exam today, and I was trying to get started on grading.”

  “Would you like to have dinner at the club tonight?” Henrietta asked as Meryn hung her jacket on the hall tree.

  Meryn looked at her in surprise. “Uh, sure. If you’d like.”

  “I know it’s a little on the early side, but the club gets busy later on the weekend evenings, so we could go in a few minutes, if that’s all right with you.”

  Meryn gestured at her teaching clothes. “These are the best I have. Is this acceptable?”

  “You look perfectly fine.” Henrietta sat on the sofa and reached for the phone. “Take your time. I’ll call them.”

  “I can drive,” Meryn said over her shoulder on her way back to her room to deposit her bag.

  “I’ll drive,” Henrietta said quickly.

  Meryn’s head reappeared around the corner. She just looked at Henrietta with a knowing quirk of an eyebrow.

  “It’s just that the club staff park my car for me,” Henrietta stammered. “They’re familiar with my vehicle.”

  “I’ll pretend I believe that.”

  Henrietta wasn’t certain, but she thought she heard muffled laughter.

  A half hour later, they were seated in the club’s dining room. Meryn had been fascinated by the hand controls in Henrietta’s station wagon.

  “It’s ingenious,” Meryn had said, leaning over to study the scissor mechanism attached to the steering column that allowed Henrietta to push on the handle to press the accelerator or pull on it to push on the brake pedal.

  “This allows for regular foot operation of the pedals also,” Henrietta said. “When anyone else has to drive.”

  As Henrietta had predicted, one of the staff hurried out to hold the car door for her and park the car.

  “I could have done that, you know,” Meryn said.

  “I didn’t think of that,” Henrietta admitted. “This is just what I usually do.”

  Inside, they were greeted by the hostess, who ushered them to a table near the wall.

  “I prefer to be out of the stream of traffic,” Henrietta said. She leaned her crutches against the wall, where they weren’t in anyone’s way.

  A server immediately showed up to pour water. “Anything else to drink tonight, Miss Cochran?”

  “Just iced tea for me.”

  Meryn waited just a beat, and then said, “I’ll have the same, please.”

  Henrietta picked up the menu as he left to get their tea. “You could have ordered a drink.”

  “I rarely do. I don’t really like beer, and wine goes to my head.”

  When the waiter returned with their drinks, Henrietta was still perusing the menu, but she heard Meryn say, “Thank you, Jeremy.”

  “You’re welcome, miss. Are you ready to order?”

  After he took their orders and left, Henrietta asked, “Do you know him? Is he a student?”

  “No, why?” Meryn squeezed a wedge of lemon into her tea.

  “You called him by name.”

  Henrietta never forgot the look Meryn gave her at that moment.

  “I called him by his name because he’s wearing a name tag. I say please and thank you because it means a lot when you’ve been waiting tables all night, and someone acknowledges that you’re a real human being, not some nameless servant unworthy of even being seen.”

  She hadn’t said one word in direct rebuke, but Henrietta’s face burned as she realized she’d done to that boy—and countless others—exactly what people did to her.

  Meryn gazed around at the huge wooden plaques emblazoned with the men’s and women’s golf champions, going back years, surrounded by photos of club members at various functions.

&n
bsp; “Are you in any of these?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure. I never checked.”

  “Is it okay if I do?” Meryn scooted her chair back. There were no other diners in the room. “It’s not against the rules or anything?”

  Henrietta gave her a droll smile. “I don’t believe there’s a rule against looking at photos.”

  Henrietta watched her as she wandered along the wall, perusing the photos, and wondered again how this girl could have turned her carefully structured life upside down in just a few short weeks.

  “You are in a few,” Meryn said when she returned. “Playing cards?”

  “My bridge group.”

  “Henrietta?”

  Meryn jumped to her feet as Jerry and Genevieve Talbert approached their table. “Dr. Talbert.”

  “Professor.” Jerry glanced from her to Henrietta and back. “I’m surprised to see you here. I didn’t realize you knew each other.”

  “Is this your new live-in?” Genevieve asked, her cigarette held in one hand and exhaled smoke issuing from her mouth in puffs as she spoke.

  “Your…” Jerry Talbert’s eyes narrowed a little. “Dear, this is also my newest faculty member. Meryn Fleming, my wife, Genevieve.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Meryn said, extending a hand.

  Genevieve took it, studying Meryn from head to toe. Henrietta knew that sly smile, and could see the wheels already turning in Genevieve’s brain. The news of this would spread through the club’s gossip machine before the bar closed tonight.

  “Have a nice dinner,” Genevieve said in a sickeningly sweet voice as they moved to the bar.

  Meryn sat back down just as the waiter brought their dinners—fried fish for her and salmon for Henrietta.

  “Thank you… Jeremy,” Henrietta said.

  The boy beamed at her.

  Meryn murmured her own thanks to him. When he left, she said in a low voice, “We don’t have to stay here. We can take this to go and eat at home.”

  Henrietta noted the downcast eyes as Meryn stared at her plate. “We’re not going anywhere. Enjoy your dinner.”

  She tried to ignore the furtive glances from the bar as they ate. “I was thinking of taking a drive tomorrow. The leaves are nearing their peak, and I’d like to paint. Would you like to go along?”

  Meryn looked up at that, considering. “That sounds nice, but I have that stack of exams I really have to finish grading this weekend.”

  “Next weekend would do just as well. I know a quaint inn with a wonderful restaurant and a beautiful view of Owasco Lake.”

  Meryn brightened. “That would be perfect. I’ve never been there.”

  She tucked into her dinner and, to her surprise, Henrietta found the salmon suddenly tasted much better.

  The following week was the week from hell for Ryn. She did manage to get her exams graded and returned to the students, with a firm resolve to make her exams simpler to grade in the future—no more essay questions. It didn’t help that five of her students had failed the exam. Of course, there were nearly a dozen excellent papers, but it still felt like a reflection on her teaching that so many had done so poorly.

  On top of that, Dr. Talbert seemed to be avoiding her. Every time she tried to catch him to ask if he’d had a chance to look at her proposal, he was busy or with Geary. Even Beverly couldn’t give her any idea if he’d read it or what he was thinking.

  Discouraged, she went to the chapel on Friday for the noon Mass and plunked herself down in a middle pew, sitting with her elbows on her knees. She’d gone to St. Rita’s the previous Sunday with Henrietta, but the ornate décor, the ostentatious stained glass, and the engraved plaques of church donors set in prominent places—it all turned her off. Not to mention the craning of necks to see who was accompanying Henrietta Cochran. Ryn had a creepy feeling that some bizarre game of “telephone” had been initiated after their dinner at the country club. This chapel suited her much better.

  She looked up in surprise when the three young nuns slid into her pew to join her.

  “Hi,” whispered one.

  “Hi.” Ryn sat up and shifted over.

  A few minutes later, their friend, the athletic blonde that Ryn had seen with them before, entered the chapel and, after a moment’s hesitation, sat with them.

  The one sitting beside her leaned over and whispered, “We’ve seen you around campus. I’m Roberta Salvecchio.” She pointed to the others. “Francine, Steph, and our friend, Tamara.”

  “Meryn Fleming.”

  “We—”

  But the priest entered the sanctuary at that moment, cutting off any further conversation. Ryn felt self-conscious, sitting next to nuns. She was very aware of the blonde casting furtive glances down the pew in her direction.

  When Mass was over, she followed them outside.

  “Are you a student?” the tall, lanky nun asked. Ryn thought she was the one called Francine.

  “No. Teacher. History. What about y’uns?”

  Roberta pointed to the three in habits. “We’re with the Sisters of St. Joseph. Tamara is an aspirant. She’ll be joining the order next year.”

  “We’re having a potluck Sunday to watch the game,” said the third nun, Steph.

  Ryn looked at her blankly. “Game?”

  “Buffalo Bills,” Steph said. “We’d love to have you join us.”

  It was hard to imagine a bunch of women in habits meekly cheering on a football team. Something of her doubt must have shown in her face.

  Roberta grinned and held up the corner of her veil. “We won’t be in these. Civvies on weekends.” She dug into her purse and pulled out a scrap of paper and a pen. “Here’s the address. One o’clock is when most people will start showing up. We’d love to have you join us if you can make it.”

  “Thanks.” Ryn accepted the slip, and watched them walk away. Again, Tamara turned once to look back. Ryn felt a little flutter somewhere in the vicinity of her stomach. “What are you getting into?”

  The trees were indeed just about at their peak—the maples were a brilliant mix of reds and oranges, while the birches and ashes and elms threw in their yellows and golds. Behind them, the dark green of pines provided a gorgeous contrast. The leaves on the road swirled in little whirlwinds as cars flew past.

  This time, Henrietta did allow Ryn to drive. “It’ll free you to watch the scenery more,” Ryn had pointed out. “Besides, Nelly needs some exercise.”

  “Nelly?”

  “Sure. Don’t you name your cars?”

  “No.”

  Ryn had patted Nelly’s fender hopefully.

  “All right,” Henrietta consented. “But I insist on buying lunch and filling your tank when we get back.”

  “Deal.”

  They packed a bag of painting and sketching supplies for Henrietta, along with a few books for Ryn—“no textbooks,” she promised. “This is a fun day.”

  The drive to Owasco Lake took them through state forest territory. They spotted a few hikers and fishermen.

  “Have you ever been to the Finger Lakes?” Henrietta asked from the passenger seat.

  “No. We went to Niagara Falls when I was a kid, but that’s as far as I ever made it into New York until now.”

  “I think you’ll like it.”

  Henrietta gave directions as they followed mostly small two-lane highways, and they listened to Ryn’s music. She popped cassettes into the player: Dan Fogelberg, Holly Near, Creedence Clearwater Revival.

  “You have an eclectic taste in music,” Henrietta commented.

  “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” Ryn asked.

  Henrietta didn’t answer immediately. “Good,” she finally decided.

  Ryn turned the volume up.

  They drove on for a while, enjoying the scenery and the music. It was nice to be with someone who didn’t need to talk all the time, very unlike Ryn’s last road trip with Vanessa.

  The inn was ideally situated on a bluff that gave an incredible view of the lake
down below.

  “Wow,” Ryn breathed. “Are all the Finger Lakes this pretty?”

  “I think so.” Henrietta stood beside her on the inn’s porch. “They’re long and narrow, and very deep.”

  “Like Scottish lochs.”

  “Yes.” Henrietta glanced at her. “Have you been to Scotland?”

  “Not yet. How about you?”

  “No.”

  Bewildered, Ryn watched Henrietta’s face change as if someone had pulled a shutter over a window. She disentangled herself from the grip of her crutches, and sat down on one of the chairs on the porch. Ryn set her art bag beside her, leaving her to unfold her easel and pull out what she needed while Ryn went farther down the porch. She dragged one of the rockers into a patch of sunlight and sat with her books.

  The inn’s owner came outside to greet Henrietta. “Miss Cochran, I was delighted to get your call. It’s been too long.” She turned to Ryn. “And I see you’ve brought a friend. How nice.”

  Henrietta introduced them. “Meryn Fleming, Phyllis Vann. She makes the most wonderful apple pie I’ve ever had.”

  Phyllis laughed. “The secret’s to use our New York apples. It’s a little chilly to work outdoors. Would you like some coffee or tea?”

  She brought them both large mugs—coffee for Henrietta and hot tea for Ryn—to ward off the autumn bite in the air. “I’ll have your table ready for you whenever you’re ready to eat, Miss Cochran.”

  She left them to enjoy the view. A steady stream of other guests came and went, pausing on the porch to enjoy the beauty of the lake on their way in or out of the inn for lunch. Ryn glanced up and nodded at a few of them, definitely feeling underdressed in her faded jeans and hooded sweatshirt. Henrietta hadn’t suggested she change, though she was wearing a heavier flannel skirt and a wool sweater.

  Ryn read for a while, but the sunlight glinting off the trees and the lake were too distracting. She lowered the book to her lap and rocked, watching the people wandering the gardens around the inn. After a while, she found herself studying Henrietta.

  Perhaps it was the leg braces, perhaps it was her intense focus on her canvas, but people really did avoid her. Where normally, Ryn would have expected people to stop and watch or chat with an artist who was painting, they gave Henrietta a wide berth.