Blue Heart Blessed Page 8

  Dad: “Does it?”

  Daniel: “Doesn’t it?”

  Dad: “Marriage isn’t about what makes sense, Daniel. It’s about what completes you. If you and Daisy complete each other, then marriage is not what makes sense. Marriage is that which seals what is already whole.”

  Daniel: “You think?”

  Solomon finds me on the stairs on my way back to my apartment. He is wearing his usual attire: twill pants, a Mr. Rogers sweater, loafers, plaid bow tie. He is holding sheet music in his hand. I see a lot of black squiggles on the paper. Lots of notes. Plenty of opportunities to really butcher a song.

  “Daisy! There you are. I need you to practice this with me. I’m leaving in a little while to go watch my grandchildren play soccer so I haven’t much time.”

  “Solomon, I’m not good enough to practice with you,” I begin, but he thrusts the music in front of me.

  “Of course you are. It doesn’t have to be perfect.”

  I look down at the paper and moan.

  Chopin. “This looks hard.”

  “Nonsense. I have all the hard notes. You’ll be fine.”

  “Isn’t there someone else you can practice with? You must have friends who play better than me.”

  “Yes, of course I do, but they don’t live in this building. You’re right here. It makes sense.”

  Ah, yes. It makes sense.

  “Your piano or mine?” I ask.

  “Have you had yours tuned?”

  Now there’s a reason my dad’s old upright hasn’t been tuned in four years. The last time he played it was the day he left Mom and me for glory. Figure it out for yourself. “No.”

  “Mine, then.”

  “Give me a minute or two, okay, Solomon? I need to run something by Father Laurent.” I start to move past Solomon to head up to Father Laurent’s apartment.

  “He’s not there,” Solomon says. “He’s in the chapel.”

  I stop, turn and start to go back down. “I won’t be long, Solomon, I promise. Ten minutes tops. Go rosin up your bow or whatever it is that you do.”

  I am down the stairs and sneaking into Something Blue in mere seconds. I hope no one sees me. I don’t usually come onto the sales floor in cut-offs and a faded T-shirt. I open the door leading to the boutique and am relieved that Cassie, one of my student workers, hasn’t even unlocked the front door. It’s not quite nine o’clock yet.

  “Hey!” Cassie is smiling, but an eyebrow is cocked. It’s one of my rules that my workers “dress up” when they’re on the sales floor.

  “I won’t be here but a minute,” I call out to her as I head to the chapel door.

  I open the door quickly but quietly and step inside, closing it behind me. Father Laurent is kneeling at the little altar with his hands folded in prayer. The morning sun is caressing the little red, blue and yellow stained glass window in front of him—a circle of skinny, crystal parallelograms all pointing toward the center—and the light that falls on Father Laurent hints of pink, candle flame and watery azure.

  I slip into the back pew as quiet as I can. But he has heard me. He crosses himself and I hear him whisper “Amen.” Father Laurent takes his time getting to his feet. I wonder if I should assist him. By the time I decide I will, he is up. He turns to me.

  “Good morning, Daisy.” He starts to walk toward me.

  “Father, I didn’t mean to cut your prayer time short.”

  “You didn’t. Liam is coming early today. We’re going to pick Ramsey up from the airport at ten-thirty.”

  He is at my pew now.

  “Do you need a ride?” I can’t imagine the Horn Blower taking them to the airport. And Father Laurent sold his car when he moved into the apartment.

  “Max is taking us.”

  Good ol’ Max.

  Father Laurent starts to walk toward the door and then stops. “Did you come in here to talk to God? ‘Cause he’s in a good mood today.” He winks.

  “Actually, Father, I came here to talk to you.”

  “Oh?”

  “I… It’s… the thing is…” I have no idea what I’m trying to say.

  “What is it, Daisy?”

  I slump in the pew. “I don’t know.”

  He motions for me to scoot over and he sits down beside me.

  “Something’s bothering you.” It’s not a question.

  “Yes.”

  “You afraid I won’t understand?”

  My eyes fall shut. “Oh, no. I’m sure you will. It’s just . . . I’ve discovered something very not nice about myself.”

  Father Laurent laughs. “I’m pretty sure whatever it is you have to say I’ve heard it before. And Daisy, I’ve good news for you. God has heard it, too. And loves you nonetheless.”

  You can’t help but smile when you’re around Father Laurent. Even when you’re confessing to harboring a monster.

  “I’m bitter, Father. I’m a bitter person. I resent other people’s happiness. I want men to want me so I can brush them off.” I can’t believe I just said that. It’s true but I can’t believe I’ve said it.

  I peek at Father Laurent. He doesn’t appear to be shocked. I’d say affection shines in his eyes rather than alarm.

  Father Laurent takes my hand. “Daisy, when we are hurt, it’s instinct to cover the wound and hold back anyone from brushing up against it. And I don’t need to tell you wounds don’t heal if they never see light, if they’re never exposed to fresh air. If you want your wound to heal, and it sounds to me like you do, you need to stand up straight, pull your arms away, and let the light and breath of God work its cure on you.”

  “How do I do that?” My voice is little more than a whisper. “I don’t know how to do that.”

  “You need to let go.”

  “Of Daniel.”

  “Of your unmet dream. You were not meant to have Daniel for your husband. You must trust that God was looking out for you, Daisy.”

  I lean my head back on the pew. Father Laurent squeezes my hand and lets go.

  “If I could just sell that dress . . .”

  “Oh, I disagree with you there. I think you should keep that dress until it no longer matters to you. The day it doesn’t matter is the day you realize your wound is nothing but a scar. And the day you find that you are no longer bitter.”

  I pull my head up to look at him. “You don’t think I should sell it?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  “You don’t think having it keeps me tied to the past?”

  “I think it’s how you feel about that dress that keeps you tied to the past. You get rid of the dress but not the feelings and you’ll be no better off.”

  I let out a monstrous sigh. “What if I can never be free of it?”

  Father Laurent leans back, reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out one of the little blue hearts we sew into Something Blue wedding dresses. He holds it out to me and I silently reach for it. When our hands meet, he drops his head in prayer.

  “Father God, Lord and Master, fill your daughter Daisy with the light of your presence, the peace of your spirit and the joy of your all-sufficient love. Help her trust you for what you have allowed to take place in her life. Silence the enemy who seeks to keep her bound to her sadness. Show her the path you wish her to take. Bless that path. Make it beautiful. In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.”

  He opens his eyes and transfers the little blue heart to me. My fingers close around it like it is a priceless diamond.

  “Keep that close to your heart. Let it remind you that today was a turning point for you.”

  “Thanks.” Two tears escape my eyes, one on either side. I finger the tiny heart, blessed so beautifully by Father Laurent. It is so soft. And little. No bigger than a quarter. Insignificant, size-wise. “I still feel like it’s going to take a miracle for me to get over this,” I mumble.

  Father Laurent stands up. “Well. All the more reason not to rush it, then.”

  The minute he says this, I begin to
giggle. He stares at me. I must look insane, giggling as tears glisten on my cheeks. But I simply can’t help it. I laugh louder.

  “And you know what happens when you rush miracles.” I wipe away the tears. “You get lousy miracles.”

  New tears spring forth but they are tears from laughing too hard. Father Laurent continues to stare at me, half-amused and half-confused.

  It’s obvious he’s never seen The Princess Bride.

  Seventeen

  I am tripping my way across the black keys, trying very hard to play “Berceuse for Piano in D-flat Major” without making Solomon grimace in pain.

  My fingers touch an unflatted A key by accident and he swivels to face me. The polished violin under his chin is already making him hunch his shoulders. Add a little facial contortion and he surely seems to have just been stabbed with a dull blade.

  “Sorry!” I resist the urge to remind him he forced me to do this.

  We continue and I whisper the count in my head—one-two-three, four-five-six.

  I flat an F and Solomon cocks his head. “Five flats in D flat major, Daisy. F’s not one of them.”

  “I know, I know,” I mutter, willing my hands to stay on those black keys.

  Would it really have stopped the world from turning if Chopin had written this thing in D major instead of D flat? I mean really. One, tiny little half step up.

  “He should’ve written this in D!” I say impulsively.

  And Solomon turns toward me again, his bow still caressing the strings. He doesn’t miss a note. “It wouldn’t have been the same.”

  “It would’ve been easier to play.”

  “Easier isn’t necessarily better.”

  He sounds just like my Dad. My dad would’ve said changing a key does indeed change a song. There is only one way to play a piece of music; and that is the way it blossomed out of your head and heart when you wrote it. Only that one way.

  And I would’ve said, “But you transpose songs all the time.”

  And he would’ve said, “But the transposed version is never as beautiful as the original. There is just the one way a piece of music is meant to played. Every other way, even if it is easier, is inferior. You don’t want to settle for mediocrity, Daisy.”

  We are nearing the end.

  Solomon has eyes closed as he wraps it up. “Retard a little here,” he says and I obey.

  Ta da.

  We are finished.

  I look up and see that Father Laurent and Liam have poked their heads through Solomon’s open doorway. Father Laurent looks perfectly relaxed as usual. Liam looks unimpressed.

  “Come in, Miles.” Solomon sees them, too.

  Miles is Father Laurent’s first name. I can’t call him that. He is Father Laurent to me and always will be.

  “That was very nice.” Father Laurent walks in and Liam follows. “Don’t you think, Liam? Liam’s learning the piano, too.”

  “Well, maybe someday you can play for me, Liam.” Solomon places his violin back in its case.

  “I’m sure anyone would be an improvement over me,” I announce as I stand up from the bench.

  “You’re weren’t that bad, Daisy.” Solomon surely thinks it will make me feel so much better to hear I wasn’t that bad.

  “I thought it was beautiful.” Father Laurent turns to his grandson. “Didn’t you think so, Liam?”

  The boy shrugs. “She hit some wrong notes.”

  Leave it to a kid to tell it exactly how it is.

  Father Laurent smiles. “Oh, well, not very many of us can hit all the right notes all the time.”

  Okay, I’m ready for a second mocha and another hour on the roof. “Good luck at the wedding, Solomon, I’m sure you’ll do great.” I start to ease my way around the trio of men when Father Laurent stops me.

  “Actually, Daisy. I was wondering if you’re still open to giving Liam and me a ride to the airport to pick up Ramsey.”

  “Where’s Max?” I answer.

  “I don’t know. He’s not here. I think maybe he forgot. Your aunt said she saw him leave early this morning with all his camera equipment.”

  Max.

  “When do you need to leave?” I ask as I yank out the scrunchy in my hair. I must look like the bride of Frankenstein.

  “We really should be leaving now, but as soon as you could take us would be fine.”

  It’s not like I have a lot of things going on this morning. I wish I looked a little more put together, though. Oh well. That’s life. “Let me change real quick.” I head for the door. “I’ll meet you downstairs in the parking lot in ten minutes.”

  “Thanks, Daisy,” Father Laurent says.

  I dash out, yelling a goodbye to Solomon.

  He calls out after me. “Thanks, Daisy! And I meant what I said. You really weren’t that bad!”

  I sprint down the stairs with his words in my head. I suppose it’s better than hearing, “You really weren’t that good!”

  In my apartment, I grab a pair of khaki capris and a pink silk T-shirt that is nearly dry from being hand-washed the night before. I slip my feet into rose-hued espadrilles and run my fingers through my hair. I stop in the bathroom long enough to put mascara on the top lashes and a dab of peach-colored blush on my cheeks. A spritz of sweet pea body spray and I am out the door.

  Mom meets me on the stairs. “What’s up?”

  “Max forgot he was supposed to take Father Laurent and Liam to the airport this morning to pick up Liam’s dad.” I say this as I hurry past her.

  “Oh,” she says, in a kind of peculiar, thoughtful way.

  But I don’t have time for a conversation about Max’s shortcomings. I continue on my way and am through the door that leads to the back entrance of the building. Moments later, Father Laurent, Liam and I are headed east toward the airport.

  Baggage claim at Minneapolis-Saint Paul is one long hallway of carts, wheeled suitcases, happy people embracing each other, and bored people holding up signs inscribed with last names. It’s just after ten-thirty in the morning, but the expanse of wide walkways and luggage carousels is bustling with activity. Liam and I are sitting on plastic chairs joined at the hip while Father Laurent checks the monitor for arrival information for his son’s flight.

  I learned on the way over here that Ramsey’s car is at a friend’s house here in Minneapolis, but that the friend and his wife are in Chicago for five days. All I have to do is take Father Laurent, his son and his grandson to this friend’s house and they will be off on their own. And I will be off on mine.

  Maybe I will pop over to Shelby’s and see how her date last night compares with mine. I turn to Liam sitting next to me.

  “So, you must be really glad your Dad’s coming home.” I know full well how lame that sounds. Of course he’s glad.

  “Yep.” Liam doesn’t elaborate.

  “Did you hear much from him while he’s been gone?”

  Liam swings his head around in Father Laurent’s direction. “He emailed me everyday. And we talked on Skype.”

  Awkward silence.

  “So what was your dad doing in Tokyo?” I venture.

  “He builds gardens and stuff. He’s a landscape architect.”

  “Wow. That sounds cool. You must have a nice yard at your house.”

  “Which one?”

  I hesitate. Does he mean which yard or which house? “Um, where you live when you’re with your Dad.” I hope I’m right.

  “Yeah. It’s pretty nice, I guess.”

  More silence.

  “So you like playing the piano?”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Ever play any wrong notes?”

  A smile creases his face. “Sure.”

  “Your mom make you practice?”

  Liam looks up at me like I’ve said something very strange. “No. She never hears me play. I have a keyboard with earphones, ‘cause she and Vic don’t have a piano. I play on my dad’s piano, though, when I visit him on weekends. He plays. He’s teaching me.�
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  “Oh. Must’ve been kind of hard to practice then while your dad’s been gone.”

  Liam nods. “Yeah.”

  “So did you?”

  He smirks. “Sometimes.”

  Father Laurent returns to us. “Ramsey’s flight landed ten minutes early. It looks like he’ll be heading for carousel fifteen.”

  We are sitting near carousel seven.

  “I’ll just stay here and let you guys reconnect,” I say.

  “If you’re sure you’ll be all right?” Father Laurent’s tone is kind and endearing.

  I wave a hand.

  “Okay, then. We’ll be back soon, I think.” He and Liam head down the busy corridor.

  I spend the next ten minutes watching the flow of humanity move past me. I watch young lovers who’d been separated press their lips together as if never to part again. I watch grandmothers leaning down to hug the grandchildren they probably wish they saw more of. I watch executives whiz by with tiny remote, cell-phone mouth pieces attached to their faces, talking as if to no one.

  An elderly woman takes a seat next to me and settles her belongings all around her. I smile a wordless greeting.

  “I think my daughter might be running late.” The woman looks over her shoulder and back around again. “At least I hope that’s all it is. I hope she hasn’t been in an accident or anything.”

  “Traffic can be a little troublesome depending on where she lives.” I don’t know what else to say.

  “It’s just not like her to be late,” the woman continues in a worried voice. She checks her watch. “I said I’d wait right by the carousels for Delta so she wouldn’t have to park. But I keep watching the street outside and I don’t see her.”

  This woman is not in the right place.

  “The carousels right here are for United. She might be waiting for you a few exits down.” I point to the other doors that lead to the outside world.

  “Oh! Oh, dear!” The woman stands and starts to collect her things. An overnight bag she’d placed on her shoulder falls to the ground. “Oh,” she says again. She picks it up, grabs her purse, shopping bag and suitcase and then drops it again.