Compulsion

CHAPTER 39

Robin pulled an all-nighter and had the mandolin bound and varnished six hours before her patron was due to arrive.

She wrapped it in green velvet, carried it to the dining room table.

“Gorgeous,” I said.

“He just called, definitely sounded off.”

She’d showered, towel-dried her curls, avoided makeup, put on a brown knee-length dress I hadn’t seen in years.

“I know,” she said.

“Know what?”

“Not exactly something Audrey would wear.”

Fooling with her hair.

I brewed coffee.

She said, “Decaf, right?”

I tried to occupy her with a guessing game.

What Kind of Car Will He Bring?

I’d looked up Dot-com on the Internet he’d helped develop. He was thirty-three, a Stanford grad and a bachelor, with a net worth of four hundred seventy-five million dollars.

Robin said, “I figured it was in that ballpark.”

“So what kind of wheels?”

“Who knows?”

“How about you, Blondie?”

Blanche looked up and smiled.

Robin said, “Could be anything – one extreme or the other.”

“Meaning?”

“Ferrari or hybrid.”

I thought: Bentley or VW bus.

The coffee machine beeped. I fixed two cups. She took a sip, muttering, “I’m such a wimp,” got up and parted the living room shutters.

“Nice day,” she said. “Might as well wait outside.”

“Want to take your coffee?”

“Pardon – oh, sure, thanks.”

And the answer is: blue Ford Econoline van.

A large man in black jeans and T-shirt got out. Logo of Dot-com’s company on the shirt.

He saw us on the terrace. Studied the house. Walked to the rear of the van.

“Muscle,” I said. “In case you don’t want to give up the goods.”

“Not funny,” said Robin. But she smiled.

Large Guy opened the van’s rear doors. A ramp descended electrically. He reached in and guided out a wheelchair.

The figure in the chair was slight, pale, crew-cut, baby-faced.

Wearing a black sweatshirt with the same logo and blue jeans. Nothing much filled the jeans. As the chair rolled down the ramp, his body flopped. Held in place by a leather strap around his middle.

One of his fingers pushed a button. The chair rolled forward. Stopped.

He looked at the house, just as his driver had.

Taking in the steep, stone steps that lead to the terrace. On the other side, an acutely sloping grass and rock pathway.

Robin and I were attracted to the lot because of the slope. Joked about needing a lift when we get old.

The man in the chair smiled.

Robin rushed down.

She introduced me.

The man in the chair said, “Nice to meet you, Alex. Dave Simmons.”

Not sure what do with my hand, I half extended it.

Dave Simmons winked.

Robin said, “Dave, I’m so sorry about the lack of access.”

“Tom can always carry me.”

Tom rumbled, “You bet.”

“Just kidding, Tom. All I need is to see this masterwork.”

“I’ll bring it down.” Robin ran up the stairs.

Dave Simmons said, “Careful, don’t trip.” To me: “I didn’t want to shock her but I don’t usually talk about it. Last time she saw me, I was weak but maintaining, she probably didn’t notice. It comes and goes. Currently, it’s coming.”

“M.S.?”

“Something along those lines, but not exactly.” Simmons smiled. His face was unlined, his eyes wide and blue and merry. “I’ve always had a thing about being different, so now… oh, wow, that’s gorgeous.”

Robin held the instrument out to Simmons.

“Can’t,” he said. “Hands too weak.”

She moved it closer.

His breath caught. “Unbelievable, you’re a wizard – or whatever the female version of that is. Could you please turn it over… look at that maple. One piece, or am I missing the seam?”

“One piece,” said Robin.

“Must’ve been a great plank… got the fiddle-grain plus that vertical wave passing through it – like caramel.”

Simmons’s eyes closed briefly. When they opened, he strained, managed to get his head closer to the mirror-shiny surface. “Like a molten river flowing… where’d you find wood this spectacular?”

“An old violin maker retired. I’ve had it for years,” said Robin. “It gets better as it ages.”

“Sure, natural drying,” said Simmons. “Can’t replicate that with a kiln – I’ve been doing my research. It’s amazing, Robin. Thanks for creating it and thanks especially for having it ready so soon. My idea is to give it to a deserving musician. Run a benefit for something, have a raffle. No charge for the tickets, to qualify you’d have to play a classic bluegrass song at a certain level. We’d use virtuoso judges. Maybe Grisman or Statman, someone of that caliber. What do you think?”

“It’s a lovely idea, Dave.”

“I think it’s best, Robin. I really did intend to learn how to play, had a teacher all lined up.” A flicker of arm movement stood in for a shrug. “Best-laid plans.”

“I’m so sorry, Dave.”

“Hey, stuff happens. Then it un-happens. I’m staying positive.” He gave the mandolin another long, dreamy look. “Absolutely masterful, I’m blown away. Okay, Tom, we’d better get going. Nice to see you again, Robin. Keep it here until I get the details worked out. If you get any other ideas, let me know. Great to meet you, Alex.”

Tom took hold of the chair and began pushing it toward the ramp.

Robin ran to catch up. Placed her hand on Simmons’s arm.

He said, “Oh, one more thing. Could I ask when you see yourself finishing the rest of the quartet?”

“I’ll start today on the mandola.”

“Nine months seem reasonable?”

“Sooner, Dave.”

Simmons grinned. “Sooner is better.”