Page 134 of The Oscar Escape
Agatha folded her hands on the table, and her expression grew contemplative. “You stood right over there, on the other side of the hedge with your friends and your mom fifteen years ago to the day. That juniper bush wasn’t quite so tall back then, and we got a good view of you. We waved you over, and you played the violin for us after we laid my Anthony to rest.” A wistful smile bloomed on her lips. “I didn’t mention it when we last met, but Anthony and I loved music. We’d plan our vacations around music festivals. When we were at home, we’d listen to symphony performances and violin concertos on the record player. His favorite was Paganini’s Twenty-four Caprices for solo violin.”
“Paganini,” Aria whispered.
Agatha nodded. “After I lost Anthony, I wasn’t sure if I would ever be able to listen to music again. And then, on the day I had to say my final goodbye, music came out of nowhere and filled the air. And not just any music. The music my husband held dearest to his heart. It was a sign. It was Anthony telling me to continue listening to the music we loved—to honor our love through one of our greatest passions. You showed a widow great kindness when you agreed to play for us that day. My friends and I visit the cemetery on the anniversary of the days we buried our husbands. But it’s not a sad occasion. We toast to the memories of lives well lived.”
Agatha was the widow.
Aria stared at the woman. “How did you recognize me today? I was ten the last time you saw me.”
“I didn’t have to see you. I heard you playing the violin. Nobody plays Paganini the way you do, doll.”
Aria shook her head. “I never thought I made much of an impact.”
“Of course, we remember you,” Martha chided. “Your talent brought my friend Agatha great comfort on a very difficult day.”
“Still, fifteen years is a long time,” Aria replied.
“Oh, doll, time works differently when you get older. For you, fifteen years seems like a lifetime, going from childhood to becoming an adult. For us, it’s like going from tequila shooters to . . .” She held up her cup. “Wine spritzers.”
Aria chuckled and relaxed in the chair. The pain in her heart eased a bit in the company of the women. “I wasn’t with my mom that day. My aunt was the one who brought my friends and me here,” she corrected softly, still quite taken aback that her path had again crossed with the widow. “My mom is buried next to my dad.” She glanced toward the juniper hedge. “Over there. I learned the Paganini piece at school that day I played for you, and I’d wanted to play it for them. They were also musicians.”
Agatha leaned forward. “Why did you come to play the piece for themtoday?”
Aria sighed and studied her left hand.
“Ah, it’s about a boy,” Netti offered.
“Or a girl? Get with the times, woman,” Martha balked.
Agnes removed her floppy hat and smoothed her hair. “Or it could be about a boy and a girl.”
“Or two boys and a girl. After I bought the blue sweater, I saw an ad for a steamy romance with two guys and a gal. Hot stuff,” Martha added, then gasped. “You could also have two gals and a guy or two of each—but that might be considered an orgy?”
Netti nodded. “I agree. Any more than three is an orgy. Back when I was in college—”
“It’s a boy. It’s one boy—one man,” Aria blurted, closing the debate. There was no way she was about to let this convo with three widows dip into the orgy end of the pool.
“Let me guess,” Agatha mused. “It’s the same boy who was with you fifteen years ago. The one with the Polaroid camera around his neck.”
Aria stared at the woman, wide-eyed. “How would you know that?”
“I watched him watch you as you played for us. He couldn’t take his eyes off you. Anyone could see the boy adored you. I’m not surprised those feelings blossomed into something more.”
Aria touched the skin on her finger that had once been covered by the twisted bit of gold and silver. “His name is Oscar. I thought he was my match, but he lied to me. I think he thought he was protecting me.” She exhaled a heavy breath. “I don’t know what to do. He’s called and texted. I haven’t replied. I don’t know what to say. I’m stuck. I’m lost. I don’t know who we are to each other anymore. I don’t know who I’m supposed to be. I don’t know where my place is in this world.” She wasn’t sure why she was unloading her worries on these women. But she couldn’t stop the rush of words. “That’s why I stole a truck and came to see my parents. I thought it would—”
“Bring you clarity?” Agatha supplied.
“Yes.”
“And did it?”
Aria popped a chocolate into her mouth and shrugged. “Not yet.”
“You say you don’t know who you are, doll. Do you know who you are when you’re with your Oscar?”
Aria hummed a forlorn little sound as she recalled the warm embrace of waking up in Oscar’s arms that first morning on Havenmatch Island. And she’d never forget their second kiss. The frenzied crush of his lips meeting hers when they were in the lighthouse. She could smell the ocean and hear the notes from “The Ballad of Havenmatch Island” woven into the ebb and flow of the waves lapping against the shore. She pictured them sitting together, his hand resting on her thigh as they huddled around his laptop, crafting a video that captured the island’s magic.
Magic.
