Chapter 6: Supper

The toast had cooled enough for the butter to sit on it in a pale ridge. Ada Mercer pressed with the knife until the bread broke, then fitted the pieces together on her plate. Beside it lay the envelope she had left on the table the night before.

She moved it out of reach of the crumbs.

The open tool bag was still by the door. She could see its handles from the kitchen chair, one upright, one fallen sideways. There was no reason to take the whole bag back for a piece of felt. She could put the mute in her handbag. She could ask for it to be mailed.

She ate the smaller piece of toast and left the larger one.

When she washed the plate, the butter took longer to come away than the crumbs. She ran her thumb over the glaze to check it. Then she dried the plate, put it away, and took out her phone.

She wrote that she had left a tool on the windowsill. Before sending the message, she removed the sentence saying she was sorry to cause trouble.

The answer arrived while she was wiping the knife.

“I’ve found it. I’ll keep it safe. Let me know when you’d like to come.”

Nothing about the piano.

She laid the phone facedown. The damp cloth left a dark print on the table, and she wiped that too.

By afternoon she had put the payment in the drawer. First she took the money out and counted it, although she remembered the amount. Her thumb paused on the edge of the last bill. There had been work. She had opened the instrument, made comparisons, adjusted strings, listened again. The finished note was not something she had imagined.

She returned the money to its envelope and slid it beneath a bill that would have to be paid. She did not feel better when the drawer closed.

The next morning, she brought the appointment book into the kitchen. Beneath the earlier entry, the small instruction about the middle note remained. She held her pen over it, then shut the book without crossing anything out.

She could remember her hand on the lever. That was enough to prevent her from rehearsing what she ought to have said in the hallway.

At lunchtime she warmed the covered bowl from the refrigerator and sat down before the food lost its heat. Afterward she answered the message. Tomorrow, late afternoon, if that was convenient.

Then she went next door.

Eli Finch opened with a pencil in his hand. He glanced down toward her feet, where the bag usually waited.