Excerpt of The Piano Man by Marcia Preston

September 2005

Claire O'Neal switched off the car radio with an impatient flick of her wrist. After two straight weeks of temperatures above a hundred degrees, the weatherman was heralding a cool front tomorrow.

Don't count on it, she thought. Nothing in this world is predictable. Not even San Antonio heat.

She parked her SUV in the driveway of the Spanish-style four-bedroom in Terrell Hills. It was 8:30 a.m. and the clients were due at nine. Claire gathered her clipboard and stepped out onto the driveway, her linen slacks sticking to her legs.

Hotter than Hades,but at least it's humid, Nathan joked. His voice was a constant presence in her head, frozen forever in the self-assurance of seventeen.

She opened the tailgate of the bronze Lexus and pulled out a cardboard box that held a coffee service and Southwest- style mugs. The sellers had vacated a week ago, and the aroma of coffee would give the empty house a homey atmosphere and help dispel the lingering scents of cleansers and former lives. She set her clipboard on top of the box and carried it up the sidewalk to the front door.

The house had curb appeal — a cream-colored stucco exterior and tile roof, with landscaping that was appropriate and understated. Live oak trees shaded the sidewalk on the quiet street. This property should be perfect for the clients.

The incline wasn't steep, but Claire was panting by the time she set the box down to unlock. When Nathan was alive, she used to jog with him every morning to keep herself in shape. Nowadays she worked sixty hours a week, and that didn't leave much time for exercise.

What about midnight to three? Nathan said. You're awake then anyway. In the entryway she paused to catch her breath. She wanted to kick off her shoes and feel the cool Mexican tile beneath her feet, but instead she carried the box down a short hallway to the kitchen and set up the coffee ready to brew. With the box hidden beneath the sink, she carried her clipboard through the house, checking details.

The walls had been repainted, the almond-colored carpeting in the bedrooms freshly shampooed. Even the windows sparkled. Claire insisted on clean windows. Clients might not notice on a conscious level, but spotless windows gave a subtle impression of a well-maintained house. Such small details often sealed a sale.

In the family room, she stopped a moment and pictured herself and Nathan living here. It was a trick she'd learned when he was a baby. At first she'd done it as a fantasy, dreaming of the day they could live in a better house. Soon she learned that imagining it this way helped her understand which features to point out.

This house had a game room Nathan would have loved. She could see him there shooting pool with Kent, watching football on TV.

Her nose burned and she turned away, walking briskly to the kitchen where she switched on the coffeemaker.

At nine on the dot, she answered the doorbell, smiling. Showing houses was her favorite part of the job. She liked helping people see possibilities in the rooms. The process of buying a house was an affirmation of the future, and Claire needed to see that look in people's eyes.

Mr. Johnson removed his wide-brimmed hat. He stood over six feet, with thick white hair and a melted-butter Texas drawl. "Mornin', Ms. O'Neal. Gonna be another scorcher."

Claire had never figured out why some native Texans acquired that Southern inflection more than others. "It sure is. But it's nice and cool in here. Come in. And please call me Claire."

Nanene Johnson was already scanning the tile floors and gleaming windows. "The house sure makes a good first impression," she said. Mrs. Johnson was quieter than her husband but there was strength in her eyes. Claire had known at their first meeting which one of them would make the final decision on a house.

"Isn't it lovely?" Claire said. "I'll give you a quick tour and then you can explore on your own." For a moment Claire was twenty years old again, with a baby harness tugging on her shoulders. Where was her partner, her secret weapon?

Later, the Johnsons accepted coffee and wandered off to revisit the rooms and talk privately. Claire stood at the breakfast bar with her coffee mug and checked her electronic day runner. Her stomach tightened when she saw a notation for 3:00 p.m. — Dr. Reuben.

Just then something caught her eye and she glanced outdoors to the shaded patio. Her coffee cup stopped at her lips. Nathan was stretched out on a chaise lounge in the shade of the mesquite trees.

A pleurisy-like pain pinched her chest. She called her visions mirages. She never knew when or where he might appear, but when he did, it stopped her breath. She squeezed her eyes shut, her heartbeat tripping.

Not now. Please. Not while I'm working. She forced two deep breaths, and when she looked again, he was gone.

Gradually the fist loosened in her chest. With a paper napkin, she blotted perspiration from her throat and forehead. In the half bath off the kitchen, she ran cold water over her wrists and looked at her face in the mirror. She looked scared, the professional veneer melted like wax. She set her teeth and pulled herself together one nerve at a time.

When the Johnsons rejoined her in the kitchen, they didn't seem to notice the dark half-moons below her eyes. Mr. Johnson asked about plumbing and taxes and the neighborhood association, the kinds of questions serious buyers ask. Claire was grateful for questions that had factual answers.

It was after ten when she walked them to the door. "If you're seriously interested, you wouldn't want to wait too long to make an offer. It's such a nice property, I expect it will sell fast."

Mr. Johnson nodded. "We'll talk it over and call you this afternoon."

Claire cleaned up the coffee things and left them on the counter for the next showing. No sale was sure until the papers were signed.

Before leaving the house, she glanced again at the shaded patio. Nothing there but a pair of white-winged doves hunting for seeds.

Four cars prickled in the sun behind the offices of O'Neal Realty. Claire had moved her expanding business here five years ago, to a more visible location in a strip of retail businesses. She parked beside Janelle's white van and cracked the windows before getting out. The van's side mirror was beaded with water from a fresh car wash, which meant Janelle would be chauffeuring clients today.

Janelle was the sister Claire never had. They'd worked together for years, and Claire had wanted Janelle to be her partner when she bought out the agency. But Janelle had four kids. She didn't want the debt or the extra responsibility of a partnership. Most of all she didn't want to feel guilty when she took off for Little League games and piano recitals. "My work is not my life," she'd told Claire.

At that time, it wasn't Claire's life, either — Nathan was. And Nathan had convinced her to buy the agency on her own.

Claire let herself in the back door to her office and stashed her purse and papers in her desk. In the office up front, an open area divided by planters and half walls, only four agents were scattered among the dozen desks. It was Monday, when most of the agents took off after working the weekend. Of the four, everybody was on the phone except Irv Washington, whose desk sat nearest to the coffee bar.

She poured herself a cup. "Morning, Irv."

Irv gave her a smile and a salute. "Morning, boss." Every agency was required by Texas law to have at least one agent with a broker's license. Until Claire earned her rating that spring, Irv Washington had been it. He could have hung out his own shingle and collected the agency percentage himself, but this was Irv's second career after twenty years in law enforcement. He seemed content to stay here and not be in charge. Claire felt lucky to have him.

"You show the one in Terrell Hills this morning?" he asked.

"Yes. It looks great inside, and I think the clients really liked it."

"The couple I'm showing around this afternoon might be interested, too. They like that location."

"I'll get you a key."

"Did you crank the air-conditioning?"

She gave him a thumbs-up. "Arctic minus one."

The coffee was stale. She poured it out and took a bottle of water from the fridge, carrying it with her to Janelle's desk by the front windows. Janelle was still on the phone and Claire dropped into a chair to wait.

A new picture of Janelle's kids sat on the desk. They were all in swimsuits and mugging for the camera — except for Kyle, who was a high schooler and much too cool for mugging. The twins, Danny and Jill, showed off nearly identical smiles. Callie was the surprise baby, now a first grader with wild red hair like her mom. The mischief in her eyes looked just like Janelle, too. Claire smiled. Nathan had always envied a big family like that, but Claire had been content with her one lovable child.

Janelle saw her examining the photo and winked. When she hung up, she eyed Claire and frowned. "Pardner, you look like you've been rode hard and put up wet."

Claire shrugged. "No such luck."

Janelle laughed, but compassion softened the green eyes. "I know it's a rough day. Do we need to get together and drink tonight?"

Claire hadn't mentioned the third anniversary of Nathan's death to anybody; in fact, she'd done everything she could to pretend it was just another day. But Janelle remembered.

"No, I won't project my gloom on you. But how about lunch?" Janelle grimaced. "Can't. I've got clients any minute and we're doing three showings in a row. Sweat city. How about tomorrow?"

"Great. How'd Danny's game turn out?"

"Eagles win!" Janelle lifted a fist. Janelle's husband Les was a part-time PE teacher and full-time father, an arrangement that suited them both. "Danny had two tackles for a loss and an interception. We won't be able to live with him. As if we could before."

"Hey, he's in junior high. It's his job to be obnoxious."

The front door of the office opened with a gust of heat, setting off a wind chime that served as their doorbell.

"That's my client," Janelle said. "I'm showing the one in Olmas Park — again. Keep your fingers crossed." She gathered her clipboard and shoulder bag. "You have a phone message on your desk. From Winfield." She made a face.

Janelle had met Claire's ex-husband only once, the day of Nathan's funeral, but she knew their history and detested Win on principle. Claire had given up most of her bitterness toward Win, which seemed inconsequential compared to the loss of their son. Still, it irritated her that he called more often now than he had when Nathan was alive.

"Swell," Claire said. "Maybe I'll be out when he calls again." Janelle lowered her voice. "You have that doctor's appointment, don't you?"

"Umm," Claire said.

Janelle gave her a stern look before walking away. "Do it, honey. It might help."

Claire wandered back to her own office. Another Slim-Fast- atthe-desk Monday.

For two hours she did paperwork, avoiding the pink message slip with Win's Dallas phone number. If he was suffering remorse for his neglect, that was his problem.

Don't be so hard on him, Mom. He came around a lot when I was in high school, remember?

Yes, but he virtually ignored you for your first twelve years, she thought.

She glanced toward the corner table in her office, where Nathan's photo in his football uniform sat next to a vase of daisies. She got up to change the water in the vase, her eyes lingering on another photo, this one of her and Nathan together. He was fifteen then, a sophomore. She was thirty-four, her face still smooth and full of hope. She felt much different now, only five years later.

Irv's voice called from up front. "Line one's for you, Claire." Probably Win. Too late to pretend she wasn't in. "Do you know who it is?" she called back.

"A Mr. Johnson. And he sounds happy."

A fish on the line, Nathan said. Reel him in!