Playing by Heart by Anne Mateer Page B

a schoolteacher when I met your mama, you know,” he told me. I nodded, having heard the story a hundred times from Mama’s lips. “But all my children took after her. ‘I don’t need more schooling,’ they told me time and again. But you.” His eyes lit with a pride I’d never seen him direct toward me. “You are my last chance. My only hope. You could make me proud.”
    I’d scrunched up my face in confusion. Wasn’t he proud of Don and his ranch? Or Ben owning a store in Texas? And both Janice and Jewel had husbands who loved them and provided well for their families.
    He looked at my test again. “Yes, you could be the one.” He sat down beside me, outlined a plan for my education. Not just high school, but beyond.
    â€œBut Daddy, girls don’t go to college!”
    â€œThe smart ones do. We’ll make sure you’re one of them. After college, a master’s degree. Then a doctorate. The first woman PhD in the state of Oklahoma!”
    I held my breath, not sure I wanted to follow his plan. Or did I? I searched his weathered, wrinkled face. He’d not paid much attention to the child of his old age. Until now.
    That day, I quit music. And painting. And parties.
    It took longer to leave off boys, but they soon made it clear they had no interest in a girl with ambitions such as mine.
    I’d thrown myself into my education to deal with the ache in my heart over Mama. What could distract JC from his grief? I squatted in front of my nephew, took his shoulders gently between my hands. “I know you miss your daddy. Your mama and sisters do, too. But they need you sometimes. And even if you don’t think so, you need them, too.”
    He looked away. “You play piano better than Mrs. Wayfair.”
    I huffed out a long breath. “Do you really care about that, JC? Or is it just an opportunity to argue?”
    â€œI care.” His lips clamped shut.
    I reached over, took his hand in mine. “Tell me why.” The soft, coaxing tone I’d often heard in Mama’s voice layered my own.
    â€œDaddy liked good music. Especially at church.”
    I let the silence hold his words. They lingered between us, poking at the roots that tethered me to my carefully constructed plans. “Are you saying you’d like me to continue to play the piano at church?”
    He nodded. “I heard Mama tell you Pastor Reynolds said you could.”
    â€œIf I play the piano at church, will you promise to stay at home more and tell us—or at least me—when you feel sad or mad?”
    His eyes narrowed, as if seeing through me to judge the sincerity of my proposition. Then his head dipped. Once.
    With a heavy sigh, I guided him toward the stairs. “I’ll talk to Pastor Reynolds tomorrow. Happy?”
    His skinny arms snaked around my waist, and I hoped to heaven he wouldn’t ask me to take the position of music teacher, as well. Because for him, I’d do almost anything.

8
    C HET
    â€œLeland and the others are heading to Dilly’s Café for lunch. You coming, too?” Brian Giles, girls’ basketball coach and German teacher, stood at my desk, the characteristic grin absent from his round face.
    Something was wrong. I glanced at the papers I’d been correcting. They could wait. My friend could not. I tossed aside my pencil and grabbed my jacket from the back of my chair, shoving my arms into the sleeves as I followed him out of the building.
    But at the top of the stone steps, he stopped. I ran into his back as I straightened my collar. “Why’d you—”
    My gaze slammed into Lula, whose face intruded on my thoughts more often than I cared to admit. I swallowed hard, watching her watching us.
    Her small booted foot rose to the first step. Then the next. And the next. Bringing her nearer. Pumping my heart faster. I pushed Giles aside, reached for the door that had shut behind me, and held it