Folly Beach - Dorothea Benton Frank [88]
I watched as the men groaned under the weight of the piano, pulling it up the steps on a heavy plywood ramp they carried for just these kinds of occasions and then as they lowered it onto a heavy quilted mat they used to slide it across the floor and put it in position. You could keep that job. My back hurt just watching them.
They unbuckled and pulled the canvas belts from around the piano and lifted the quilted blankets away, folding them as they went. She sure was yar. (I’ve always wanted to use that word ever since I heard Katharine Hepburn say it referring to a boat in The Philadelphia Story. It’s probably a nautical term.) Anyway, I was thrilled with the glossy patina of the cabinet and the fact that they had not retouched the cunningham piano co. gold-leaf signature that was slightly faded from the years. Cunningham Piano Company, coincidentally also from Philadelphia, has been building pianos for symphonies, academies, and concert pianists since the 1890s and they were treasured by those who played them. Considering my rudimentary skill level, I was humbled to own one.
Every ivory and ebony key was immaculate and, miraculously, the bench still held all my old sheet music under the seat, which in the haste and tumult of that horrible day Tina had forgotten to remove. I couldn’t wait to sit down and play, even though the sound of my playing would surely send all the neighborhood cats screaming up the trees.
“Can you sign here?”
“Sure! Wait just a minute.” I ran upstairs and got my wallet to give them a tip. Fortunately, I had just made a withdrawal from the ATM, so I could give them a twenty. Now, I know, twenty dollars sounds like a lot of money for a widow of greatly reduced circumstances to be throwing around but it was to be divided among three men and when was the last time I tried to pick up a piano?
“Here we go.” I signed the receipt and handed the man with the clipboard the money.
“Thanks a lot, miss,” he said and went to join the others, already waiting in the truck.
I closed the door behind him and looked at my beautiful Cunningham, standing there all shiny and new-looking and wondered if I should give the room a fresh coat of paint. This is what happens when you start redecorating—you bring in new throw pillows and then you want to throw the old sofa out the back door. Ah well, I told myself, maybe it was because the piano was new to the room, still a stranger, and I should give my eyes a few days to get used to it and then decide. But one thing was certain, I wasn’t going to let the memory of Addison Cooper’s death spiral of insanity sully the regard I felt for my most important heirloom. The piano was washed clean of any sign of him and maybe in time I, too, would remember only the good things from the good years. One could hope.
I decided to call Patti and let her know that it had arrived in mint shape.
She picked up on the first ring.
“So, missy?” Patti said in a sassy, merry voice. “Just how long am I supposed to wait to hear from you? Do I need to go find a new best friend now that you’re gone?”
“Don’t you dare,” I said. “I’d die.”
“I don’t knoooow . . .” she said in a singsong warning.
“Oh, please,” I said. “We can’t replace each other anyway. Who’re we kidding?”
“I guess you’re right. So what’s going on?”
“Well, first of all . . .” I told her about the piano’s arrival in such perfect condition and thanked her profusely.
“Don’t thank me. Thank old Ebenezer! I still can’t believe he prepaid the shipping. But, he did take that wine.”
“And