“Not at all. The lock on that door’s so flimsy, it opens with a jiggle.” He smiled, still puzzled.
“I was so busy bringing the shop manager up to date on my routine, I didn’t see you’d left without your paycheck,” Jordan said. “You’re lucky I had your address on file, and didn’t mind a detour on the way home.” Handing the check over, she turned to call Ruth, mind already racing ahead to the open afternoon beckoning now that the capable Mrs. Weir had returned to manage the shop—not just today but for the rest of the summer. Jordan could finally sink into those rolls of film waiting to be developed, the bakers at Mike’s Pastries, all those shots of white aprons and kneading hands . . . But then Jordan saw Ruth’s face and stopped short.
How long has it been since you’ve smiled like that?
The older man had lowered his violin, clearly answering some question of Ruth’s. His voice was deep, grave, crisply English. Ruth erupted into more questions, face alight. This was Ruth the happy chatterbox, Jordan thought, not the miserable, silent child she’d become since their father died. The child who woke up whimpering every other night muttering half-asleep fragments of German, refusing to be soothed. “I don’t know about leaving in the fall,” Jordan had confessed to Anneliese two nights ago, worrying. “Ruth’s going to take it so hard.” To which Anneliese in a burst of unusual frustration exclaimed, “Ruth will be fine. Make your plans and go, Jordan, it’s best for both of you.”
Jordan couldn’t deny it was also what she wanted, more and more every day. But to leave Ruth so unhappy . . .
Ruth didn’t look unhappy now, as she showered the stranger with questions.
Jordan caught her hand, caught at her manners too. “I’m sorry if my sister is bothering you, Mr. —?”
“Ian Graham—a friend of Tony’s from Vienna; he’s been good enough to put up my wife and me on a visit. I’d introduce my wife, but she’s out.” The Englishman shook hands: keen eyed, dark haired, lean as a whip, not quite forty. Jordan thought his name sounded familiar. Before she could place it, Ruth reached up—Ruth, so shy around strangers—and pointed at the bow in Mr. Graham’s other hand.
“Please?”
Tony smiled. “Princess Ruth wants a tune.”
“If you like,” Mr. Graham said. “I warn you, I don’t play particularly well.” Lifting the violin to his chin, he played through the slow melody again. Ruth inched across the floor as if the music was pulling her, eyes fixed on his long fingers on the fingerboard, and Jordan’s heart squeezed. She heard Tony moving some papers on the table behind her, but ignored the rustling, raising her Leica. Click. Her sister’s small rapt face . . .
“I heard that on the radio,” Ruth burst out as the final note sighed away. “It sounded different. Um—darker?”
“Quite right. That Saint-Saëns piece is written for a cello.”
“Is that a bigger violin?”
“They’re related, shall we say. Played between the knees rather than under the chin—” The Englishman demonstrated.
She mimicked him, babbling questions. Jordan took another snap, thrilled. Soon Ruth had Mr. Graham’s large instrument in her small hands, and he was showing her how to tuck it under her chin and support it on her shoulder as he held her body steady. “You need a half-size violin, but try this anyway. A whole tone, A to B, like so—”
Tense with concentration, Ruth tried. “It doesn’t sound right!”
He corrected her grip on the bow. “There. Now, first finger B, second finger C sharp on the A string . . .” He explained what those names meant, a tiny violin lesson in five minutes—Ruth barely blinked she was concentrating so hard. Jordan just stood there enjoying it.
“Ruthie,” she said when the violin was finally handed back. “I’m finding you a teacher.”
Ruth’s eyes lit up as she looked up at the Englishman. “Him?”
“No, cricket. He was very kind to show you, but he’s not a teacher.”
“I want him,” Ruth said.
“Ruth, that isn’t polite. You don’t know Mr. Graham—”
“I could give her a lesson or two, if you liked.” The offer seemed to come out of the Englishman before he could consider it. He looked as surprised as Jordan.
“I couldn’t possibly presume. You don’t know me, or my sister.”
“I don’t mind showing her a few scales and basics. I’m no professional, mind.” The Englishman looked down at Ruth, gazing covetously at his instrument, and grinned. His grin was something special, a quick flash of sunshine lightening that austere English face. “One does like to encourage the young toward culture.”
Taking a favor from a complete stranger wasn’t the kind of thing either Anneliese or Jordan’s father would approve of. Jordan didn’t care. Ruth never responded to new people like this—look at her tugging on the Englishman’s cuff, spilling questions. For whatever reason, she liked this man. “Thank you so much, Mr. Graham.” Beaming. “Of course I’ll compensate you for your time.”
“Never mind that. Can you get her a half-size violin?”
“Yes.” Jordan thought of the instrument at the shop, the nineteenth-century copy of a Mayr. “It shouldn’t leave the shop, but it’s insured to be played.” Anneliese would kill her for suggesting it, but Anneliese didn’t have to know.
“The Mayr,” Ruth breathed, thrilled. Mr. Graham raised an eyebrow, remarking, “You know Mozart played a Mayr?” By the time Jordan finished arranging a lesson and bid good-bye to the Englishman, Ruth was nearly levitating.
“I’ll walk you out, Miss McBride.” Tony followed, shutting the apartment door. On the other side, the violin started up again. Ruth’s head turned, tracking the music, but all Jordan had to say was “Tuesday evening, that’ll be you,” and Ruth danced down the first flight of steps.
Jordan caught her hand. “Don’t tell your mother, Ruthie.” Anneliese meant well, but in this case she was wrong. “Our secret, all right?” Ruth was already nodding, smile flashing.
“I like to see her smile,” Tony said. “You too, Miss McBride.”
“Jordan.” Impulsively. “I owe you a favor now, for introducing me to your friend. How did you meet?”
“Nothing too interesting . . .” They chatted about offices in Vienna and mountains of dull paperwork, as Ruth hopped from step to step, humming the Saint-Saëns melody in perfect tune.
“Why stay in Europe after you were out of the army?” Jordan wanted to know.
“Because I wasn’t ready to hear my mother nag me about settling down with a nice girl. And because it’s what I do—drift. I lack purpose, or at least that’s what disapproving aunts and high school football coaches have always told me. I drifted out of the army without much purpose, I drifted around Vienna working for Ian, then I drifted home.”
“Where you drifted into the antiques business?”
“Exactly. Who knows how long I’ll drift along after you?”
Jordan grinned. “I’m moving too fast for anyone who just drifts.”