A Timely Concerto Read Online Free PDF

stairs climbed to the second floor to a series of empty rooms. Once they might have been servant’s quarters or even apartments but few clues remained and she was not in any mood to sift through more closets or boxes.
    As she crossed the back lawn, she heard the music again but this time it was more than just a few random notes. As before, it was a ragtime piece, something that sounded to her untrained ear like Scott Joplin. Whatever the source of the sound, it was close. The music grew louder as she walked through the screen porch and slipped inside the kitchen.
    “It’s not a radio ,” Lillian muttered. “Someone’s here.”
    Some neighbor must h ave wandered over and made music to welcome her to town. Maybe it was some small town tradition, some weird welcome custom but that seemed like a stretch. At home, in Kansas City or any of the suburbs where she had lived, Lillian would have been afraid but she was not now, just curious.
    “Hello?” Her voice echoed in the big kitchen but no one answered.
    Lillian traced the sound through the downstairs rooms until she knew the music came from what she called the second parlor, the room with a piano. Someone was playing the old upright, someone whose fingers danced across the keys with skill. Music rose in bright crescendo with the power of live music, never recorded or played back. At such close range, she recognized the tune as The Entertainer . Although she knew it, only from The Sting, Lillian had no doubt that it was the old Scott Joplin tune.
    For the first time since entering the house, the door to the second parlor was not open. Outrage at such intrusive chutzpah overrode her curiosity and she pushed open the door with such force that it banged the wall. Despite the sound, the man seated at the piano did not stop playing but continue to move his fingers across the keys. He did not turn around, either, or act aware of her presence until she said,
    “What are you doing in my house?”
    The words came out shrill but it was anger, not fear that raised the level of her voice. She had not yet seen his face but he heard her because he stopped playing and silence rose like swift floodwaters in the room.
    Before he turned, she realized that something was very odd about her uninvited guest. His clothing was outdated; a heavy wool suit, dark brown, with high waisted trousers beneath a coat cut in an old-fashioned style. I do believe that is what they call a sack suit, Lillian thought, but where did he get it and why is he dressed up like 1900?
    “Forgive me, dear lady.” His voice was strong, deep, with a hint of sweetness, and brown like aged root beer. “Let me introduce myself since there is no one here to make proper introductions. I am Howard Speakman and this is my house. I built it.”
    Being speechless was a rare experience for Lillian but for the third time in her life, she stared and could not find anything to say. As she grasped to find the right words, she studied him. His light brown hair was short, parted in the middle in a way she had not seen since Buster Brown and for a long moment, she thought that she had come face to face with her mother’s ghost. Reality kicked in, however, and she laughed.
    “Is this a joke? It isn’t funny at all. Did you think you could scare me in that moth eaten old suit from an antique store?”
    “I assure you, it’s no joke. I am Howard Speakman and this is my house. I planned it, I had it built, and I lived it until I died. That was in March, 1905.”
    1905 was the year the letters stopped, Lillian realized and the name he gave was the one written in the books upstairs. As a non-believer, her notion of what a ghost might look like was vague but she rationalized that a decent ghost would be transparent if not all white or maybe glowing. Howard – if that was his name – was none of those things; he looked as solid as she was, his skin tones had color, and she would swear she could smell his cologne or soap. His eyes were