Shadows on the Lane Read Online Free Page A

house.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    Mrs. Livingston walked to the piano and gestured for Jessie to join her. “Make yourself comfortable on the bench and we will get to know each other.” The teacher sat on a chair next to Jessie.
    “Have you always wanted to play?” asked Mrs. Livingston. “I ask because usually there is one reason, one actual reason, that inspires a person to go through the work of learning a musical instrument.” She smiled reassuringly. “Do you think you could share that secret with me? I promise never to divulge it to anyone.”
    Jessie considered the question. “I have a friend who plays the violin.” She could feel her face get hot. “I’ve been listening to him.” Now she was getting nervous. Could she trust this woman to not repeat what she said? “Anyway, it made me think maybe I could play music too. Not like him—he’s so good—but at lease try.” She flipped her braid over her shoulder and looked at the keyboard.
    “But not the violin?” asked the teacher. “I also teach that instrument.”
    “Oh no. I really love the sound of the piano,” Jessie said. All of a sudden, she realized that she really did love the sound of the piano, and always had.
    “I think you have answered my question,” said Mrs. Livingston. “Very often a pupil becomes committed to playing because she loves the sound of a certain instrument and wants to create that for herself.” She rose smiling, retrieved a book from the shelf and returned to her chair. “So your friend’s playing put the idea into your head and now you are here! Let us begin.”
    Whew, I don’t think she knows I was talking about Bryce . Jessie could hardly believe it when the hour was up. By then she had learned the names of the keys and how the octaves repeated themselves up the keyboard. Mrs. Livingston supplied her with workbooks and asked her to practice what they had studied for a half-hour each day.
    As they walked down the dark hallway, the teacher said, “Now, Jessica, you must practice every day. Not all at once before your lesson.” She switched on a light. “Practicing each day conditions your hands, as well as your brain, to the material. Do you understand?”
    “I will. I’ll practice every day.” The determination in her voice even surprised Jessie. Just before they came to the front door, Jessie glanced into the living room on her right. It was a dismal space with shabby furniture and faded wallpaper. A woman sat on a straight-backed chair near a window. Her hair was gray and pulled into a bun at the back of her head. She wore old jeans and a black sweater. She didn’t seem to be doing anything except sitting and staring.
    Jessie glanced up at Mrs. Livingston. “That’s my daughter, Rita. She lives here with me,” the teacher explained as she opened the door. “There’s your mother waiting for you. Better run along.” Before she closed the door she said, “I’ll see you next week at the same time.”
    “So, how’d it go?” asked her mom as Jessie buckled her seat belt.
    “Great! I like her a lot and I already can play a scale and read some notes.”
    Her mother started the car. “Good. I wondered if the look of the place might spoil it for you.”
    “Good, good, good,” chanted Phillip from the back seat.
    “Well it is pretty bad, except for her studio,” said Jessie. “And her daughter lives there and seems very odd.”
    Her mother drove down the gravel drive and signaled to turn onto the country road. “Did she introduce her to you?”
    “No. In fact she seemed in a hurry to get me out of there once I spotted the woman—Rita. That’s her daughter’s name.”
    “You didn’t say anything, did you?” Her mother turned to Jessie. “I should have mentioned this before you went there.”
    “Why? asked Jessie. “What’s the deal?”
    “Rita Livingston has been in and out of hospitals all her adult life. I’m not quite sure what is wrong with her, but I know her parents spent all the money