Unfinished Business - Nora Roberts Page 0,27

to walk in it. “It’s about time you came home. You staying?”

“Well, I haven’t—”

“About time you gave your mother some attention,” she interrupted, leaving Vanessa with nothing to say. “I heard you playing when I walked to the bank yesterday, but I couldn’t stop.”

Vanessa struggled with the heavy umbrella, and with her manners. “Would you like to come in, have some tea?”

“Too much to do. You still play real nice, Vanessa.”

“Thank you.”

When Mrs. Driscoll took the umbrella back, Vanessa thought the little visit was over. She should have known better. “I’ve got a grandniece. She’s been taking piano lessons in Hagerstown. Puts a strain on her ma, having to haul her all that way. Figured now that you’re back, you could take over.”

“Oh, but I—”

“She’s been taking them nigh on a year, an hour once a week. She played ‘Jingle Bells’ real well at Christmas. Did a fair turn on ‘Go Tell Aunt Rhodie,’ too.”

“That’s very nice,” Vanessa managed, beginning to feel desperate, as well as wet. “But since she’s already got a teacher, I wouldn’t want to interfere.”

“Lives right across from Lester’s. Could walk to your place. Give her ma a breather. Lucy—that’s my niece, my younger brother’s second girl—she’s expecting another next month. Hoping for a boy this time, since they’ve got the two girls. Girls just seem to run in the family.”

“Ah …”

“It’s hard on her driving clear up to Hagerstown.”

“I’m sure it is, but—”

“You have a free hour once a week, don’t you?” Exasperated, Vanessa dragged a hand through her rapidly dampening hair. “I suppose I do, but—”

Violet Driscoll knew when to spring. “How about today? The school bus drops her off just after three-thirty. She can be here at four.”

She had to be firm, Vanessa told herself. “Mrs. Driscoll, I’d love to help you out, but I’ve never given instruction.”

Mrs. Driscoll merely blinked her little black eyes. “You know how to play the thing, don’t you?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Then you ought to be able to show somebody else how. Unless they’re like Dory—that’s my oldest girl. Never could teach her how to crochet. Clumsy hands. Annie’s got good hands. That’s my grandniece. Smart, too. You won’t have any trouble with her.”

“I’m sure I won’t—I mean, I’m sure she is. It’s just that—”

“Give you ten dollars a lesson.” A smug smile creased Mrs. Driscoll’s face as Vanessa rattled her brain for excuses. “You were always quick in school, Vanessa. Quick and well behaved. Never gave me any grief like Brady. That boy was trouble from the get-go. Couldn’t help but like him for it. I’ll see that Annie’s here at four.”

She trundled off, sheltered under the enormous umbrella, leaving Vanessa with the sensation of having been flattened by an antique but very sturdy steamroller.

Piano lessons, she thought on a little groan. How had it happened? She watched the umbrella disappear around the corner. It had happened the same way she had “volunteered” to clean the blackboard after school.

Dragging a hand through her hair, she walked to the house. It was empty and quiet, but she’d already given up on the idea of going back to bed. If she was going to be stuck running scales with a fledgling virtuoso, then she’d better prepare for it. At least it would keep her mind occupied.

In the music room, she went to the gracefully curved new cabinet. She could only hope that her mother had saved some of her old lesson books. The first drawer contained sheet music she considered too advanced for a first-year student. But her own fingers itched to play as she skimmed the sheets.

She found what she was looking for in the bottom drawer. There they were, a bit dog-eared, but neatly stacked. All of her lesson books, from primer to level six. Struck by nostalgia, she sat cross-legged on the floor and began to pore through them.

How well she remembered those first heady days of lessons. Finger exercises, scales, drills, those first simple melodies. She felt an echo of that rush of emotion that had come when she had learned that she had the power to turn those printed notes into music.

More than twenty years had passed since that first day, that first lesson. Her father had been her teacher then, and though he had been a hard taskmaster, she had been a willing student. How proud she had been the first time he had told her she’d done well. Those small and rare words of praise had driven her to work all the harder.

With