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Ursula opened her mouth about to answer in the affirmative, but—no, much better. She’d permit someone else to shine. “My playing is only rudimentary. However, Mr. Truitt is quite talented.”
Jay gasped. “I, um, I—I mean I can play, but just as a piece of amusement at parties.”
He was even more charming when attempting modesty. She jostled him with her hip. “You’re quite a bit better than that.” She turned to Lydia and Rachel. “Mr. Truitt can accompany anything. He has an ear, a fantastic, astonishing ear.”
“Oh, goodness, that is wonderful. Please, Mr. Truitt, come and assist me?” Lydia’s smile was real.
Ursula turned to Jay who gave a helpless shrug but stood and conferred with Lydia. She slid next to her cousin, who nodded. Their counterparts performed as they watched, in rapt silence.
Lydia’s voice floated and rose as Jay lifted her, matching her tempo, her tone, her key, complementing her with his playing instead of showing his own skill.
“Not everyone who is quick with his words is talented at finding every single one. Actions can sing just as loudly.” Rachel’s soft voice, only a decibel above a whisper, interrupted her thoughts.
Ursula reached forward for a cookie and stuffed it in her mouth. Cinnamon. She spit it into a linen napkin. Why didn’t her relatives use more chocolate?
“Showing can be more effective than telling.” Rachel lifted her brow again, a teasing smirk evident.
Was that a saucy joke? Perhaps there really was more Nunes than Levy there. Maybe Jay was right and she’d enjoy having her as a friend. And tolerate Lydia, provided she kept the Emerson nonsense to a minimum.
“Isn’t there a saying about being short on speech and long on wisdom? Though not my strength, it’s often most prudent to remain in the background.” Like you, perhaps? Ursula tilted towards her cousin. Maybe they had more in common than blood.
Rachel paused, her black eyes, like her father’s, steady and unyielding, digging inside Ursula’s. When she spoke again, her voice was louder, despite the music.
“For some of us. For some, it’s against their very nature,
their very being. I was reading a story the other day, Daedalus and Icarus. You know it?”
Ursula nodded, as her mind spun.
“What if the sun came to Icarus, not the other way around? If that happened, all lessons and warnings from his father would’ve been for naught.” Rachel opened her mouth and frowned. “Your father didn’t... Ursula, what did your father teach you?”
Ursula’s brows pinched. Her father? Was this some sort of metaphor? Why couldn’t people just say what they meant?
“He taught me how to do the books, the different facets of the business,” Ursula stammered.
“But who taught you who you were?” Worry flashed in Rachel’s onyx eyes.
Ursula ran her tongue over the edge of her teeth. In what sense? As a Jew? “My mother taught me how to pray and to light candles. The little bit of Hebrew, I picked up on my own. And I read the bible and a few histories.”
Rachel brought her fist to her mouth, a pained expression on her face. She sucked in a breath and grasped Ursula’s hand.
“What’s wrong?” The hairs on the back of Ursula’s neck stood at attention, despite the gentle, comforting gesture from her cousin. Something was amiss, something important.
“You need to speak with your father, Ursula. It isn’t right to permit you to fly without warning of the dangers. I don’t pretend to know the full story, but you need to speak with him before it’s too late.” Her cousin’s lips trembled.
Ursula glanced back at Jay, long fingers still skipping over the keys, and her eyes grew wide. Right. Isaac enlisted Rachel’s help regarding the rumors. She must have guessed the other secret.
Well, her cousin was wrong. She could never speak to her father about Jay. He’d never understand. An image of her mother lying in bed flashed before Ursula’s eyes. Worse, he might understand—too well.
The velvet cushioned back of the settee stroked her bare skin as Jay’s rhythms and Lydia’s voice carried through the room, low and lush, and melancholy. The key was minor. How Jay could just fill the space between Lydia’s tune and listen, that was a gift. The way he really listened and understood, and transformed that knowledge into music was a blessing. Almost a miracle. The droplets threatened again.
Rachel laid a soft hand on her arm.
Ursula dabbed with Jay’s handkerchief before she faced her cousin again, her thumb burrowing into the center “T” of the monogram. Hers. The object was hers—forever—no matter what. She wound the cloth around her fingers.
Her cousin’s fingers clenched her wrist—warning notes, as forceful as the deep forte chords vibrating from Jay’s left hand.
“I know you’re a very strong swimmer.” The younger girl’s eyes were so, so, so like her father’s now, almost as haunted, if that was possible.
