Songs without Words (18 page)

And there were her feelings about Chelsea, even if Chelsea’s feelings were unknown. One thing she knew about herself with certainty was that she wanted Chelsea. She had never stopped wanting her.

The snap of a twig caused her to jump. She had forgotten Wilona, who now stood a few paces behind her, watching her with an inquiring gaze.

“Is there something on your mind, Harper?” Wilona asked. “You seem distracted.”

Harper turned to face her. “Chelsea called,” she said. “I think she wants to see me.”

Wilona frowned, causing deep furrows to appear in her forehead. “Oh, girl, you can’t let her do that to you. If you do, you’re some kind of masochist.”

“I have to listen to my gut,” Harper said.

“Your gut?” Wilona shook her head. Her dark eyes were troubled. “You’re going to do it, aren’t you, no matter what anybody says?” She took a small camera from her jacket pocket. “Hold still there. I want a picture of you before that girl destroys you for good.” She snapped the picture.

When they got back to the house, Harper sat on the back porch near the copper birdbath, turned on her cell phone and dialed Chelsea’s new number. She had already memorized it, she realized. She also noticed that her hands were trembling. The phone rang three times and then the voice mail message began, Chelsea’s cheerful voice instructing her to leave a message. Harper hung up, disappointed. She would try again later. Now that she had finally decided to call, her desire to talk to Chelsea was fierce.

Chapter 14

SUMMER, TEN YEARS AGO

Using a heavy-duty staple gun, Harper covered an exterior wood-framed wall with moisture barrier material. This was her job for the next couple of hours. Eliot was working on the other side of the house, mixing cement for the front steps. There were about a dozen volunteers today, and the little house was going up fast. This was Harper’s first time working with Habitat for Humanity, and she was loving it. The camaraderie among the crew was energizing.

This was the perfect thing to do with a few weeks of summer vacation. It would change someone’s life for the better. Harper had assumed that you had to go to Africa or South America to do this sort of thing, like the summer she had spent in Oaxaca, but it turned out that there were destitute people everywhere, even in California. Still, it was too far from home to drive every day, so they were staying in a hostel along with some of the other volunteers. Eliot came by to look at her handiwork, his UCSC T-shirt filthy with concrete dust and splatter. “Very neat,” he announced, then laughed. “Your tidy rows of staples.”

“Yes,” she said, standing back to admire her work.

“You do realize that nobody will ever see them. I mean, siding goes on top.”

“Yes, I know that.”

A shock of brown hair fell over his forehead. “So you don’t have to be quite so uniform is what I mean. Just so it’s tacked on thoroughly.”

“This is how I do it,” she said, and then more precisely, “This is how I
prefer
to do it.”

“Okay.” He shoved his hands in the pockets of his shorts, still grinning. “Maybe we should put you on some of the finish work, like painting or baseboards or something. You’re such a perfectionist!”

“And maybe you should go back to mixing cement.”

“All right,” he said, leaning in to give her a kiss on the cheek.

When the van arrived with lunch, Harper took a break and sat in the shade of the house with a hot dog and beans on a paper plate and a plastic cup of Pepsi. Wilona Freeman, a sturdy black woman in stretch pants and sandals, lowered herself with care beside Harper, holding a similar plate and cup. A woman of about forty-five, she had volunteered with Habitat several times before.

“Thank God,” she said as her butt hit the ground. “My feet are killing me.” Wilona grinned broadly. “Harper, that’s your name, right? First or last name?”

“First. My mother’s maiden name is Harper.”

“Well, how do you do, then, Harper. I’m Wilona.” She nestled her cup down in the grass securely. “From Placerville. You know where that is?”

“Sure. Been through it lots of times. Seems like an interesting place to live. What do you do there?”

“I’m a photographer.”

“Really,” Harper said, putting down her hot dog. “Is that what you do for a living, then?”

“Yes. I’ve been lucky. Had some good breaks. Some fairly steady work for a couple of magazines.” Wilona told her about her photographs and her two published books. Harper made herself a mental note to see if the books were in the library when she got home. If they weren’t, she assured Wilona, they soon would be.

She asked Wilona a lot of questions about her craft, her technique, her subject matter. Wilona seemed happy to talk about her work and about her travels, journeys around the globe in search of material. She had been practically everywhere, and she had lots of intriguing tales, more than enough to keep Harper enthralled for the duration of their project.

“Yes, I’ve traveled a lot,” Wilona said. “But one of the best things about photography is that you can find something interesting just about everywhere, even in your own backyard. All around my house, I have bird feeders hung in the tree branches. I like to take pictures of birds, especially hummingbirds because they’re always in motion. The precious little things are just a blur or a flash of light to the ordinary camera lens. They can be quite a challenge. I like a challenge.”

“I’d love to see some of those,” Harper said.

“If you find those books, you’ll see them. There are a couple of hummingbirds in there, both of them taken right outside my house.”

“Do you live alone?” Harper asked.

“Yes, just me and my birds. Don’t need anybody else.”

“Never married then?”

Wilona shook her head, wrinkling up her nose in distaste. “Not for me. I never wanted a man around telling me what to do.”

“You mean you wanted to maintain your freedom, your autonomy?”

“Exactly.”

“But you had lovers?” Harper only realized after she asked it that it was an extremely personal question. But Wilona didn’t seem to notice.

“Oh, the men have come and gone over the years. Some of them stay around a while. Who’s keeping track?”

Harper gazed admiringly at her lunch mate. Here was a free spirit, she thought. This woman was living her special, unique life, perfectly suited to her artistic temperament. She did what she wanted to do, on her own and fearlessly.

For the remainder of the project, Harper sought Wilona out at breaks and sometimes after the day’s work was done and listened to her talk. She seemed so secure about her place in the scheme of things. She didn’t seem to have any unfulfilled longings or regrets. Harper had always been drawn to women who lived that way.

Wilona’s home was close enough that she could drive in each day. In addition to working on the house, Wilona was also taking photographs, chronicling its progress.

The official record for Habitat for Humanity, it would be presented to the homeowner. She also took a flattering photo of Harper, hammer in hand, nailing a railing in place on the back stairs.

“Now you have a memento,” Wilona said, presenting the framed print to her on the last day of the job.

By the time the house was finished, they had become good friends.

Chapter 15

JUNE 22

Harper and Wilona set out Tuesday morning to find Carmen Silva. They drove north through the Sierra foothills with the windows down, enjoying the cool morning air.

“Thank you, Wilona,” Harper said. “I really appreciate your help on this. I think my weak area all along has been the visuals. Your contribution here is going to make this one much more professional.”

“Oh, it’ll be fun,” Wilona answered. “By the way, how did you hear about this woman anyway?”

“My first encounter with her work was an accident. I was visiting a friend in the hospital, and I saw this fantastic rug hanging in the stairwell. It stopped me short. It was such a fine piece, you know, and so remarkable. There was a card on the wall with her name on it. At that point, I didn’t know anything about her, of course, not even if she was living. It took me a while, but I eventually tracked her down. I’ve seen two more of her pieces since then, both equally impressive.”

By asking directions from a boy on a bicycle, they finally found the little shack they had been searching for. It stood beside a dirt road, a tiny pink stucco house with a door of white peeling paint and two open windows facing the road. Lined up on wooden racks outside the house were several rows of colorful blankets for sale.

They got out of the car, Wilona loading herself up with camera equipment. Harper carried the tripod. She knocked on the front door, which was slightly ajar.

“Come in,” called a thick, commanding voice from within.

Harper led the way into a room that seemed to belong to another place and time. She felt transported. What she saw first was the old woman, sitting on a three-legged stool, squat and huge, Buddha-like, her face deeply lined, tiny eyes straining toward Harper, a rag wrapped around the top of her head, no evidence of hair. Next she saw the children, two boys and a girl, sitting on the floor facing the old woman as though they were students or disciples. The room held four looms and several woven blankets, including one in progress on the loom at which the old woman sat, a pattern of red, blue and purple. Along one wall were simple shelves of wooden planks crowded with spools of yarn in all imaginable colors.

“Hello, Mrs. Silva. I’m Harper Sheridan. This is Wilona Freeman. It’s so good to meet you at last.”

The old woman roused herself, but did not stand. “Okay, you kids, scat!”

“No, wait,” Harper said. “Are these children related to you?”

“No, they’re just kids from around here.”

“Let them stay,” Harper said. “Okay, first we’ll get set up, and then we’ll have a chat. How’s that?”

The old woman shrugged. “Okay with me. You can talk to me, but don’t try to change me. Just don’t try.”

“I wouldn’t think of it.” Harper watched the old woman for a moment, then said to Wilona, “Set up your equipment. When you’re ready, we’ll start.”

Carmen Silva turned back to the work on her loom. She passed the shuttle through rapidly, her feet, clad in scuffed leather sandals, working the treadles, her hand pulling the reed with a thwack against the yarn. She worked in a regular rhythm, the clack of the pedals and thwack of the loom creating a kind of music with a predictable beat. The children sat watching her, one of them holding a calico cat. Harper, anxious to preserve the scene, whispered to Wilona, “Get a couple minutes of this, just as it is now.”

Wilona nodded and quietly began filming. Harper started to create the story in her mind— an old woman who wove beautiful textiles of excellent quality, a woman who did nothing but weave, whose passion for decades had been weaving. Even if there had been no video series to perpetuate, Harper decided, she would have come to see this woman and listen to her life story.

Wilona filmed the scene before them, sweeping across the room to where the mesmerized children sat, then back to the loom and the methodical rhythm of the weaver. Harper sat on a stool near Mrs. Silva, studying her face. Gently, so as not to disrupt the mood, she said, “Mrs. Silva, we’re ready.”

The old woman stopped weaving and turned her attention to the camera.

“Why don’t you just tell us about yourself, about how you got interested in weaving and how you live.”

Like most people, Mrs. Silva seemed pleased enough to be the subject of interest.