Sing Sweet Nightingale by Erica Cameron Read Free Book Online Page B

in while the house is in that condition?”
    They keep talking about the house, speculating on whether Mr. Lawson will do the work himself or hire out. My father throws out ideas for the redesign, the directions he’d take with restoration and furniture, and which contractors he’d hire to do the actual work. He’s nearly wistful when he says, “But chances are he’s going to handle the whole project himself.”
    “You never know,” my mother says as she clears the table. “Doesn’t hurt to introduce yourself.”
    “He’s a world-renowned architect!” My father and I both pick up our plates and follow her into the kitchen. “What’s he going to want with a small-town firm?”
    “Well, he’s moving to a small town, isn’t he?” she asks. “There must be something bringing him here.”
    My father laughs. “Somehow I doubt it’s Teagan Designs.”
    My mother turns and kisses him as she takes the plate from his hands. “Maybe it will be after he meets you. The worst he can say is no, Frank.”
    The smile that comes onto my father’s face tells me it’s time to escape. They’re about to start cooing at each other, and they won’t realize I’m gone if I go now.
    At the top of the steps, I stop and sit. There’s a corner where you can hear everything said downstairs because of the acoustics of the vaulted ceiling. For a while, I sit with my fingers in my ears, singing songs in my head to give them some privacy. After a few minutes I release the pressure, checking to make sure they’re done.
    “How was she today?” my father asks.
    I know how much my silence bugs them, but it’s been part of our lives for so long they rarely talk about it anymore.
    My mother sighs. “She’s the same. It hasn’t gotten any better, but…I don’t know. I guess at this point I’m glad she hasn’t gotten any worse either.”
    “Mari always was a determined little thing,” he says. “She takes after you.”
    “I guess we should be happy she doesn’t take after your sister.” My mother laughs, and I hear the scrape of her piano bench sliding against the floor. “Can you imagine raising another Jacquelyn?”
    My father groans. “I’m going to forget you suggested that. I talked to Julian yesterday. The way he tells it, my sister is a model of parenthood. I can’t tell if the kid is lying or delusional.” There’s a second of silence. “Can you believe he’s going to be a sophomore?”
    I barely remember my Aunt Jacquelyn—she lives in Vegas with her son Julian, and though my father goes out to see them a few times a year, they rarely come to visit us in New York. If half the stories they’ve told me are true, I can understand their relief. She’s in her mid-thirties and still going through a rebellious teenage phase.
    There’s a plop and a sigh as my father settles into his armchair. “Are you going to play it again?”
    “Of course.” A few notes fill the air, and I breathe easier. This is what I’ve been waiting for. Closing my eyes, I lean my head against the banister and listen.
    When my father renovated this house twenty years ago, he paid special attention to the acoustics because of my mother’s love for music. My ears have been spoiled by the perfection of my opera hall, but the slight echo of my mother’s performance space isn’t a flaw. It adds a sort of ethereal quality to her songs. Especially this one.
    My fingers move across my knees, mimicking hers on the ivory keys of our antique piano. This composition is deceptively simple, but there’s strength in the bass line and resonance in the high notes. It is the most moving piece of music I’ve ever heard, and it’s one I’ve never been able to sing for Orane. Every time I try, something stops me. This song isn’t like all the others. It’s not mine to share. This one belongs to my mother.
    My promise to Orane has already taken too much from her. I can’t take this, too.
    The song fades, and my father asks, “Does it help?