Younger Than Springtime by Greeley Andrew M

Author:Greeley, Andrew M. [Greeley, Andrew M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Romance, Mystery
ISBN: 9781429912211
Amazon: 1429912219
Goodreads: 8860400
Publisher: Forge Books
Published: 1999-01-01T08:00:00+00:00

22

After supper, as the sun went down, April played her Irish harp and sang on the terrace in front of the clubhouse.

Almost everyone was there. No movie theater, no TV (though a transatlantic television broadcast had taken place that year), no taverns, no transportation for many of the guests: April was the only show in town.

She wore a plain white blouse and skirt and looked like an angel come down from the empyrean.

I fell completely in love with her while she played and sang. Her voice was sweet, clear, and pretty—not quite good enough for a concert stage, but wondrous in the fading twilight of a Wisconsin Memorial Day. She was a wonderful actress, putting herself into the various roles her show demanded.

And she was marvelous with the Irish harp.

All right, she didn’t have to know about Jelly Roll Morton or ever hear of the “Dead Man Blues.”

I sat on a stone bench near her and fantasized about a painting of a bare-breasted harpist, now bathed in the colors of twilight.

Her program was ingenious. She began with a medley from RoseMarie, then did “One Alone” from The Desert Song. Then she sang the Irish American songs that everyone expected—“Irish Eyes Are Smiling,” “My Wild Irish Rose,” “Mother Macree,” and (not strictly Irish American) “Danny Boy.” Then she did a lovely ballad in Irish that made you want to cry, as do most Irish-language songs, regardless of their content. Then she turned to an aria from the final act of Figaro, and finally, just to prove she could sing anything, she offered a Gershwin medley, ending with a raucous, honky-tonk, speakeasy rendition of “Lady Be Good.”

I told myself that she sang that just for me.

Afterward I carried her harp back to the Drake for her.

“You’re a swell singer,” I told her.

“Good enough for parish musicals and family concerts,” she said firmly. “Not much more.”

I considered denying that statement and decided that with April Cronin denial of the truth would not work.

“You could be a concert harpist.”

“In an orchestra, maybe. But Dr. Thomas already has more harpists than he needs. It’s all right, Vangie, I don’t mind. You do what you can do and enjoy it, instead of feeling sorry for what you can’t do.”

“You sound like a wise old woman.”

“Do I?” I saw her white face glance toward me in the dark. “By the way, you shouldn’t look at me that way when I’m playing the harp…. Well, it’s all right to look at me that way. But it shouldn’t be so obvious.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I was flattered. But it’s hard to sing and play when you’re wondering if everyone else knows what’s going on in a man’s mind.”

“Oh. I was only thinking of a painting.”

“An immoral painting.” She had made her point and was now teasing me.

“Not necessarily.”

“Yes it was.”

We had arrived in front of the Drake and were facing each other in the glow of the single pale streetlight.

“I don’t know whether I should ask about the painting,” she said.

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