14. Chapter 14
A tangy salt breeze blowing off the bay cooled the air as Zane and Muriel strolled past the iron works foundry toward a narrow wooden bridge that led to Lufkin's Wharf.
Her da worked mainly on the Central Wharf, but at this time in the evening, he'd be home, so she needn't fear running into him.
Though she'd not have minded catchin' a glimpse of him from a distance. It seemed an age since she'd seen him.
Halfway across the bridge, Zane stopped and leaned his back against the wooden railing.
The breeze ruffled his hair as he reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a flute of some sort.
Not a fife, like the ones played in the drum corps during parades, but one with a whistle-shaped mouthpiece and a body that pointed downward.
Zane set it to his lips and arranged his fingers over the holes.
He inhaled, and then the sweetest music filled the air.
Gentle, pure tones, clear and bright. It took only a measure or two of him playing for her to recognize the melody.
"Jesus, Savior, Pilot Me." The hymn she'd been singing the day of his accident.
He remembered. More than that, he'd taken the time to learn the song. His fingers moved with confidence to shape the notes as he breathed through the instrument.
Her throat ached to join the song. To voice the lyrics running through her mind.
To meld her voice to Zane's music. But she'd trapped herself in silence.
Denied the gift the Lord had given. Yet the gift was not hers alone.
Zane had it too. His music entreated and cajoled, bringing delight to her heart despite her vocal banishment.
He played with a natural ease that had her closing her eyes and swaying with the gentle rhythm as the melody wrapped its sweet arms around her soul.
She sang the words in her mind until the first verse came to a close. He didn't start the second verse, just let the final note diminish into the evening air. Muriel opened her eyes and met Zane's gaze.
"It's called a recorder." He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the mouthpiece then held it out for her inspection.
"Some call it an English flute. My Grandpa Clem taught me to play.
He learned from his father, who learned from his.
We aren't sure how far back the tradition goes, but it seems to be a rite of passage for the Erickson men.
My father even learned how to play, though I haven't heard him make music in years. "
He wiggled the instrument in front of her, his smile growing. "Want to try it?"
A chance to make music? Oh, yes! Muriel bounced on her toes as she searched his face to ensure he wasn't teasing. He extended it closer to her, and she accepted, soda bubbles shooting geysers through her midsection.
The wood warmed in her hands, the polished maple finish gleaming in the low light of evening.
She tried to replicate how he'd held the recorder, but she must not have done it correctly for Zane came alongside and helped her position her hands, the left covering the upper holes while the right covered those below.
Heat flooded her face as he gently arranged her fingers, scooting close to her side as he did so.
Heavens, but her pulse was thumpin' like she'd just raced Fletcher to the end of the pier and back.
"There's a hole on the back side . . . here . . . for your thumb." He adjusted her grip, his cheek nearly touching hers in the process.
She really should be paying attention to what he was showing her, but all she could think about was how close he stood, and how wonderful it would be to lean ever so slightly to the left and brush her cheek against his.
Once her thumb found its place, Zane dutifully stepped back, allowing Muriel the space she really didn't want but probably needed. Her eyes followed him, though, as did her chin and entire face, twisting away from the instrument to maintain whatever connection she might finagle from his gaze.
His eyes crinkled in a smile, and her belly flipped like one of Alana's pancakes, dangling in midair for a heartbeat before finding its way to the platter.
"Give it a try."
Muriel smiled, set her mouth upon the whistle, and gave a mighty blow. A dreadful screech blasted from the recorder, startling a group of sleepy seagulls from the roof of a nearby warehouse.
Zane lurched backward, and his face contorted as he jiggled a finger against his ear. His good-humored laughter came next, though, and soothed her embarrassment.
"Sorry," he said. "I should have warned you.
You don't need to blow hard. Just use a steady stream of air, like when you sing.
Try covering the top two holes and thumb hole.
That's an A. You can use the thumb on your right hand to balance the recorder while your other fingers hover loosely above the holes. "
Determined not to imitate a tortured seabird this time, Muriel concentrated as she rested the mouthpiece against her lower lip and blew into the whistle. A note emerged! A little shaky and not terribly beautiful, but it was a note.
She released the mouthpiece and grinned up at Zane, exulting in the pleasure etching his face.
"Great job!" He reached into his pocket and pulled out a second flute then demonstrated some basic fingerings.
They practiced for a few minutes, and Muriel managed to pick up the first few bars of "Three Blind Mice.
" It helped that adding one finger at a time moved the notes down the scale.
Of course, when they got to the trickier bit about the farmer's wife, Zane took off, adding intricate flourishes, until returning to the simplistic melody where she could join.
It was ridiculous how much she loved it. Making music with Zane. Even silly nursery songs about doomed rodents. She could have stood on that bridge serenading the gulls all night. They must have played that tune at least ten times before Vanessa called a halt to their concert.
"We really ought to be heading back, Miss Quinn."
Muriel enjoyed a fleeting pied piper fantasy, where a blow on her flute would mesmerize the gulls and send them squawking down upon Vanessa's head in protest. Imagining the young woman shrieking and dashing about as she tried to swat birds out of her hair made it a little easier to accept her unwelcome interruption, though disappointment still tugged hard on Muriel's heart as she handed the recorder back to Zane.
"Why don't you hold onto it for a while?"
Muriel shook her head, thinking she must have misheard. This was a family heirloom. She couldn't keep it. What if something happened to it? She thrust it toward him. He pressed it right back toward her, his gaze warm and kind and so heart-stoppingly tender that her will to fight evaporated.
"It's all right. That one's mine. I'll hold on to Grandpa Clem's.
" He held up the one he'd been playing. "I figured you might enjoy a different way to make music.
Until you're able to sing again." He shrugged and his expression turned a bit sheepish.
"But if you really don't want it, I'll take it home with me. "
She hugged the recorder to her chest and twisted sideways to protect her prize. There was no way she would let him think she didn't want it. Not when the gift had been so thoughtfully given. She'd play it every day and think of him with every note.
His eyes brightened, and she couldn't help but smile in response. Until she considered his motive. He thought to restore music to her since he believed her voice lost. Such a beautiful gesture. And completely unnecessary. Her voice wasn't lost, merely trapped inside a box of her own making.
With the sun dipping low on the horizon, Zane escorted her back to the Ursuline Academy via the most direct route.
He offered a few comments here and there, but one-sided conversations were hard to maintain when your partner was distracted, and Muriel could think of little more than the letter in her pocket, and the fear that once he read it, their time together would end.
When they reached the academy door, Zane turned to face her. "I enjoyed our time together this evening, Miss Quinn. Would you permit me to call on you again?"
Muriel nodded eagerly, praying he'd not change his mind.
His smile brightened the shadowy street and gave her the courage to reach into her skirt pocket.
"My mother would be honored to host you for dinner tomorrow evening. I could come get you around six?"
Dinner in his home? Muriel's stomach tightened. Mrs. Underhill would expect her to search for the journal. Maybe even pick a lock.
Muriel hid her worries behind a smile and another nod.
Then before she could lose her nerve, she pulled the letter from her pocket and pressed it into his hand.
His brows raised, but he took the note and slid it into his coat pocket.
She dipped her chin to bid him good night then followed Vanessa inside the academy.
Zane whistled his way home, the tune of "Three Blind Mice" earning him more than one raised eyebrow from passersby. Not that he cared in the slightest. It was his new favorite song. When he reached his house, he skipped up the front porch steps.
"Went that well, did it?"
The creak of a rocking chair and a whiff of tobacco smoke drew Zane's attention to where Grandpa Clem sat in the shadows, enjoying his evening pipe.
"It was perfect." Zane sauntered over to his grandfather and leaned against the whitewashed railing. "Thanks for loaning me your recorder." He pulled the flute from his coat pocket and held it out. "She loved the music, by the way."
Grandpa Clem's eyes twinkled as he claimed the instrument. "I thought she might. A person with music in her soul needs an outlet. The way you talked about her singin', I knew she had more than just technical skill. She has the heart."
"Enthusiasm, too," Zane said with a chuckle. "She woke all the gulls with her first attempt."
"Did she, now?" Grandpa Clem stretched his legs out in front of him and crossed them at the ankles, a grin stretching his weathered cheeks.
"She doesn't do things by half measures."
Grandpa Clem's expression morphed into something more serious as he met Zane's gaze. "A fact I thank the Lord for every day. You'd not still be among the livin' if that little lady lacked gumption."
A sobering thought, yet one that only served to deepen his appreciation for Miss Quinn.
"She was actually interested in my architecture babble, too.
" He wagged his head, still amazed at how well the evening had gone.
"She pointed out different buildings and asked questions.
" With her eyes, at least. Such expressive eyes.
Changing like the sea. Adventurous. Playful. Shy. Bold.
Secretive.
Zane's euphoria dimmed a bit as he recalled the odd look that had crossed her face when she handed him that letter outside the academy. Her mouth had been smiling, but her eyes had been rife with apologies.
"There's something special about her, Grandpa. About the way I feel when I'm with her. I can't explain it. It just feels . . . right."
Grandpa Clem took a drag on his pipe then blew out a line of smoke in a long, slow exhale.
"It works like that sometimes. A fella recognizing his mate the first time he sees her.
'Course sometimes a man is swayed by a pretty face and all the hot blood that starts pumpin' through him so that he thinks she's the right one, when she ain't.
That's why the Good Lord gave man a head as well as a heart. Be sure you're usin' both."
"Yes, sir." He'd never been one to be carried away by emotion, but then he'd never met a girl who tempted him to throw caution to the wind, either.
He couldn't imagine Muriel Quinn being anything other than what she appeared. Kind, genuine, joyful. She had such zest for life and a heart for family. Reading the little bits she'd shared with him at the ice cream shop had made that clear.
So why the shuttered look when she'd given him the letter?
Reaching into his coat pocket, Zane fingered the envelope, a sudden craving for privacy hitting him.
"Think I'll turn in." Zane pushed away from the railing.
"'Night," Grandpa Clem said around the stem of his pipe.
Zane thumped the man's shoulder and headed toward the door.
"Hey, Zane?"
He turned. "Yeah?"
Grandpa Clem leaned forward in his rocker, his gaze pensive and penetrating. "Just because a woman is perfect for you, don't mean she's perfect. Best not expect her to be."