Chapter 14 - The Song That Sent People Home
The café was busy with parents buying muffins for school and people working on laptops. Adrian arrived early in an ordinary jacket and chose a table where Wren could see the door. He didn't order for her. When she arrived, he stood and then sat again, unsure what she preferred.
She ordered a tea and placed a crumpled newspaper clipping between them. The headline described her as a transformation worth ninety thousand dollars.
"Do you still think that's what happened?" she asked.
"No."
"You spent ninety thousand dollars because you were worried about me?"
"I spent it because I thought paying a ridiculous amount would make people listen. I wanted them to help you immediately."
"And to impress me."
Adrian looked at her. "Probably."
"I wasn't impressed. I was scared. I thought you were buying me."
"I know that now."
"Jo helped because she was willing to listen when I said stop. Théo helped when he agreed to let a doctor do what the salon couldn't. A social worker helped because she wrote down options. Evelyn helped because she didn't make me prove my name before she offered a cinnamon roll." Wren moved the clipping aside. "You helped too. You brought me in from the cold. But the money isn't the part I remember."
Adrian watched her set the empty sugar packet into a little triangle.
"I kept thinking I'd fix what happened at the fire," he said. "If I could find Iris, if I could get you home, I wouldn't have to be the man who didn't make a phone call when Celia needed me."
"You are that man," Wren said.
"Yes."
"You're also the man who left the door open at the salon when I wanted to go. Both things happened."
He looked down at his tea. It had gone cold while they talked.
"I can't make you forgive me," he said.
"I'm not here to decide that."
"What are you here to decide?"
"Whether I want to keep knowing you."
That was the first offer he'd received from her that didn't come wrapped in a need for food, shelter, or safety. It left him more uncertain than any demand.
"What did you decide?" he asked.
"I haven't finished my tea."
For ten minutes they talked about ordinary things. Adrian said Marco had changed jobs. Wren told him Marcus still rushed his eighth notes. She admitted the community center's kettle was broken and the cheap replacement made an unpleasant screaming noise. Adrian offered to buy a new one; she gave him a look. He laughed, and for once she laughed with him rather than despite him.
When they left, Wren stopped at the corner.
"I think we can have coffee again," she said. "Sometimes. But if you start checking up on me without asking, we stop."
"That's fair."
"You don't have to agree with everything I say."
"Good," Adrian replied. "Your taste in coffee places is terrible."
"I chose it because the owner doesn't know who you are."
"Then it's perfect."
Spring arrived in fits. The weather warmed and then turned cold enough for scarves again. Wren worked at the music program two afternoons a week. She attended counseling sessions that sometimes left her exhausted and sometimes left her annoyed that healing involved so much talking. She received an updated identification document in the name Iris Vale and kept the little phone that still identified her as Wren. Her attorney advised her on the next steps to access the estate through the ordinary legal process. Wren asked whether she could use part of it later to help pay for the music program without anyone naming a room after her.
"You can consider that once the paperwork is settled," the attorney said. "You don't have to decide today."
At the annual memorial concert Evelyn put out a folding table with cookies and mismatched paper cups. Somebody had brought lilies, though Celia had always preferred carnations because they lasted longer. A former student set up a framed photograph of Celia beside a small card listing the people lost in the fire. Below that was a separate note: Iris Vale was missing for ten years. We are grateful she is alive.
Wren stood in front of the note for a long time. It didn't call her rescued. It didn't mention an inheritance. It didn't mention Adrian, or the hair, or the money. It was a fact, simply written.
Evelyn came up beside her. "I can take it down if you want."
"No," Wren said. "It's true."
"Are you going to play?"
Wren shook her head. She'd tried the piano at home, but her fingers still rushed. "Not tonight."
"You can sit with us."
"I know."
The concert started badly. One child forgot where to stand. The pianist dropped a page of music. Marcus began half a beat early and glared at the drummer as if it were his fault. Evelyn rolled her eyes, which made the children giggle. They began again.
Wren sat near the aisle. She wore the inexpensive blue dress she'd bought for the event, with the little brass bell hanging from a cord inside her sleeve. Her hair touched the tops of her ears now. Nobody would have mistaken her for the girl in the old photograph, but Evelyn had long since stopped expecting that.
At the end the choir performed Celia's closing song. It wasn't the most beautiful music Wren had ever heard. A soprano sang flat, and someone coughed through the quiet part. But when the familiar ending arrived, the whole room softened into the two lower notes Celia had added so many years ago.
Wren sang them under her breath.
After the last applause, Evelyn reached for the pile of chairs. Wren intercepted her.
"Go talk to your friends," she said. "I'll do it."
"You shouldn't have to work tonight."
"I know. I want to."
The children gathered their coats. Marcus asked whether she would still be there next Thursday.
"Six o'clock," she told him. "And bring your own pencil."
He made a face and ran off.
While she stacked the chairs, Adrian entered quietly. He had come without bodyguards, kept his distance during the concert, and left a small bunch of carnations near Celia's photograph. Evelyn saw them and said nothing. Wren waved at him once from across the room. He waved back and did not approach.
When the center was nearly empty, Evelyn found Wren beside the rear exit. Wren had been checking the new push-bar lock that the building manager installed after a routine safety inspection. It opened easily. She pressed it once, stepped into the cool evening air, and returned.
"Working?" Evelyn asked.
"Works."
Evelyn looked at the bell in her niece's hand. "What's that?"
"Something I kept when I didn't have much else. It doesn't ring."
"Does it need to?"
Wren considered the question. The bell had been useful because it made no sound. She'd kept it through places where being noticed could mean trouble. She still liked the weight of it, the chipped brass, the little knot in the cord.
"No," she said. "Not tonight."
She tied it to the hook beside the exit where staff hung the keys, a place she would see on Thursday when she returned. Then she took her coat off the chair and went to help Evelyn carry the leftover cookies downstairs.
Outside, the city was noisy with traffic and late buses. Evelyn complained that somebody had taken all the good cookies and left the oatmeal ones. Wren opened the bag, found one with a chocolate chip, and handed it to her.
"You missed one," she said.
They walked to the corner together. At the crosswalk, Evelyn asked, "Do you want me to call you Iris?"
Wren adjusted the strap of her bag. "Sometimes," she said. "Wren is still good too."
May you like
"All right."
The light changed. They crossed with the other pedestrians, carrying a bag of cookies neither of them particularly needed.
