exactly since she had stopped playing the piano. Her nine-year-old brother, Philip, had begged her to play for him as she once did. But every time she sat down on the bench she went cold inside. The music was frozen somewhere within her.
I have to get past this block. Ivy thought as she pulled her car into the garage behind the house.
The Stonehill Arts Festival was two weeks away, and Suzanne had registered her as a performer. If Ivy didn't practice soon, she and Philip would have to do their famous 'Chopsticks' duet-Ivy paused outside the garage to watch Philip play beneath his tree house. He was so involved in his game, he didn't notice her.
But Ella did. It was as if the cat had been waiting for her, her green eyes wide and staring expectantly.
She was purring even before Ivy rubbed her around her ears, her favorite spot, then she followed Ivy inside, Ivy called hello to her mother and Henry, the cook, who were sitting at a table in the kitchen. Henry looked weary, and her mother, whose most complicated recipes were copied off soup cans, looked confused. Ivy guessed that they were planning another menu for a dinner entertaining benefactors of Andrew's college.
'How was the party, dear?' her mother asked.
'Good.'
Henry was busily scratching items off Maggie's list. 'Chicken a la king, chocolate pie with whipped cream,' he said, sniffing with disapproval.
'See you later,' Ivy said. When neither of diem looked up, she headed for the back stairs.
The west side of the house, where the dining room, kitchen, and family room were, was the most-used section. A narrow gallery lined by pictures connected the family room to the wing occupied by Andrew's office on the first floor and Gregory's bedroom on the second. Ivy took the small staircase that ran up from the gallery, then crossed through the passage that led back into the main part of the house, into the hall with her room and Philip's. As soon as she entered her room she smelled something sweet-She gasped with surprise. On her bureau, next to the photo of Tristan in his favorite baseball cap and old school jacket, were a dozen lavender roses. Ivy walked toward them. Tears rose quickly in her eyes, as if the salty drops had been there all along without her knowing.
Tristan had given her fifteen lavender roses the day after they argued about her belief in angels — one for each of her angel statues. When he saw how much she loved their unusual color, he'd bought her more, giving them to her on the way to a romantic dinner the night of the accident.
There was a note next to these roses. Gregory's jagged handwriting was never easy to decipher, and less so through tears. She wiped her eyes and tried again.
'I know these have been the hardest four weeks of your life,' the note said.
Ivy lifted down the vase and laid her face lightly against die fragrant petals. Gregory had been there for her, looking out for her, since die night of die accident. While everyone else was encouraging her to remember dial night and talk about die accident — because, they said, it would help her heal — he'd let her take her time, let her find her own way of healing. Perhaps it was his own loss, his mother's suicide, that had made him so understanding.
His note fluttered to die floor. Ivy quickly leaned over and picked it up. It fluttered down a second time.
When she tried to pick it up again, the paper tore a little in her fingers, as if it had caught on something.
Ivy frowned and gently smoothed the note. Then she set it back on die bureau, slipping one corner under die heavy vase.
Despite die tears, she felt more peaceful now. She decided to try playing die piano, hoping she'd be able to find the music within her. 'Come on, Ella. Upstairs. I need to practice.'
The cat followed her through a door in the bedroom that hid a steep flight of steps leading to the house's third floor. Ivy's music room, which had a sloping roof and one dormer window had been furnished by Andrew as a gift to her. It was still hard for Ivy to believe she had her own piano, a baby grand with gleaming, un-chipped keys, kept perfectly in tune. She still marveled at the sound of the CD system, as well as the old-fashioned phonograph that could play the collection of jazz records that had belonged to her father.
At first Ivy had been embarrassed by the way Andrew lavished expensive gifts on both her and Philip.
She had thought it angered Gregory. But now it seemed so long ago, those months when she'd thought that Gregory hated her for invading his life at home and school.
Ella scurried ahead of her into die room and leaped up on the piano.
'So, you're sure I'm going to play today,' Ivy said.
The cat still had her wide-eyed look and stared just beyond Ivy, purring.
Ivy pulled out music books, trying to decide what to play. Anything, anything, just to get her fingers going. For the festival she would do something from one of her past recitals. As she sorted through classical scores she set aside a book of songs from Broadway musicals. That was the only kind of old, soft music that Tristan, a rock fan, had known.
She reached for Liszt and opened the score. Her hands trembled as they touched the smooth keys and she started her scales. Her fingers liked the familiar feel of the stretches; the repetitive rise and fall of notes soothed her. She glanced up at the opening measures of 'Liebestraum' and willed herself to play.
Her hands took over then, and it was as if she had never stopped playing. For a month she had been holding herself so tightly; now she gave in to the music that swirled up around her. The melody wanted to carry her, and she let it, let it take her wherever it would lead.
'I love you, Ivy, and one day you're going to believe me.'
She stopped playing. The sense of him overwhelmed her. The memory was so strong-him standing behind her in the moonlight, listening to her play — that she could not believe he was gone. Her head fell forward over the piano. 'Tristan! I miss you, Tristan!'
She cried as if someone had just now told her that he was dead. It will never get easier, she thought.
Never.
Ella crowded close to her head, nosing her. When Ivy's tears stopped flowing, she reached for the cat.
Then she heard a sound: three distinct notes. Ella's feet must have slipped. Ivy thought. She must have stepped down on the piano keys.
Ivy blinked back the wetness and cuddled the cat in her arms. 'What would I do without you, Ella?'
She held the cat until she was breathing normally again. Then she set her gently on the bench and got up to wash her face. Ivy was halfway across the room, with her back to the piano, when she heard the same three notes again. This time the identical set of three was struck twice.
She turned back to the cat, who blinked up at her. Ivy laughed through a fresh trickle of tears. 'Either I'm going crazy, Ella, or you've been practicing.' Then she descended the stairs to her bedroom.
She wanted to pull the shades and sleep now, but she didn't let herself. She didn't believe the pain would ever lessen, but she had to keep going, keep focusing on the people around her. She knew that Philip had given up on hen He had stopped asking her to play with him three weeks ago. Now she'd go outside and ask him.
From the back door she saw him performing some kind of magic cooking ritual beneath two large maples and his new tree house. Sticks were arranged in a pile and an old crockpot sat on top.
It's only a matter of time. Ivy thought, before he decides to light one of these piles and sets fire to Andrew's landscaped yard. He had already done chalk drawings on the driveway.
She watched him with some amusement, and as she did the six notes floated back into her head. The repeated triplets were familiar to her, from some song she had heard long ago. Suddenly words attached themselves to the notes. 'When you walk through a storm…'
Remembering the words slowly. Ivy sang, 'When you walk through a storm… keep your head up high.'
She paused. 'And don't be afraid of the dark.' The song was from the musical Carousel. She couldn't recall much about the play except that at the end, a man who had died returned with an angel to someone he loved. The title of the song floated into her mind.
' 'You'll Never Walk Alone,'' she said aloud.
She put her hand up to her mouth. She was going crazy, imagining Ella playing certain notes, imagining music with a message. Still, Ivy found some comfort in remembering that song.
Across the lawn Philip was chanting his own soft song over a pot of weedy greens. Ivy approached him quietly. When he looked up and waved a wand at her, she could fell he was making her a character in his game. She
