A Timely Concerto Read Online Free PDF Page A

on rainy days?
    More letters rev ealed additional information in snippets from Margaret’s pen. Howard’s land deal must have gone through because Margaret referred to “the fruit farm” and the harvest in subsequent letters. Details about the building of Seven Oaks were part of the letters, sandwiched between the descriptions of a new silk gown with matching hat and messages from another cousin. Some of the letters were written after Seven Oaks was built and others before. The letters were not in chronological order so random dates yielded clues that Lillian strung together. For whatever reason, the letters stopped in late February 1905. Although she searched for another packet of letters, Lillian turned up nothing more.
    Dust caked, bare feet filthy, and warmed by the late afternoon sun that heated the attic, Lillian packed the letters, and books back into the trunk. Dozens of questions begged for answers and she wanted to know more. First, though, she wanted a cool bath and fresh clothing so she dashed down the narrow stair to the bedroom. In the bathtub, she made a mental list of places where she might find more information about Howard Speakman, his fruit farm, and the house. If there was a local library, she could start there but there might be a county historical society or even a genealogy group.
    Later, with a balmy breeze tickling through her damp hair, Lillian jotted her ideas in a notebook. With her bottom sunk into a wicker chair, she sipped iced tea and let her imagination spiral. Margaret’s letters indicated that the house dated to 1904, the year of the World’s Fair or Exposition in St. Louis. Although she taught middle school history, a subject that did not delve into the World’s Fair and very little into the early 20 th century, the fair had fascinated her in her early teens and she was something of a geek expert about the event. Images of mustached men promenading down the Pike with a Gibson girl on their arms came to mind.
    How romantic it would have been, Lillian daydreamed, to visit the sights and sounds of the entire world in St. Louis, to ride to the top of the Observation Wheel to look out across the seething mass of humanity illuminated by electric lights or to visit Ancient Rome or Mysterious Asia. 1904 dated back to a time when John Phillips Sousa’s rousing marches were fresh and new, not old standbys or patriotic favorites. Ragtime was the new kid on the music block and Lillian wondered if any of Scott Joplin’s rag tunes played to the crowds at the Fair.
    As she had earlier, Lillian caught faint strains of music, happy music. Although it seemed to echo from within the house, she got up, wicker chair creaking, and cocked her head toward the street. Distant sounds filtered through the shade of the tall oak trees but nothing soun ded like ragtime music. A baby’s’ fretful crying, the theme music to Gilligan’s Island and the rhythmic thump of rap music floated from the neighborhood but nothing like those few notes.
    “If I’m imagini ng music, it’s time for a break,” Lillian said, and then grinned. “And even worse, I’m talking to myself.”
    On moving in, Lillian had realized that the house was accessible from either the front or rear, which faced on another quiet street. A frame garage sat to the side of Seven Oaks and she guessed it might have been the original carriage house. In search of diversion, she exited the kitchen and let the heavy wood framed screen door bang behind her.
    After trying several of the keys on a heavy ring found hanging in the kitchen, she found the one that turned the lock. Lillian stepped into the wide, almost empty space where at least two cars could park with ease and inhaled. Although the closed space was musty, a lingering smell of old automotive oil and gasoline was present. Beneath it, although she chalked it up to a flight of fancy, she thought she inhaled a faint aroma of hay and horses, an earthy smell. In one corner, a flight of narrow