“Who?” I ask, genuinely curious.
She laughs giddily. “Rachmaninoff, of course. And Schumann. Come.”
She leads me to the piano, and together we play Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 3 in D minor. Rachmaninoff was one of the first composers Mother taught me when I had the sufficient skill. She was thrilled to have a partner to play with because those massive hands of his made his pieces impossible for her to play alone with her dainty hands. Together, we muddle through his pieces, turning what were two-hand concertos into four-hand pieces. We’ve never played this piece with more joy. She feels lighter already. When I look down at her hands, their wrinkles and veins seem to disappear. The burden of her hard work evaporates, and I see what her hands must have looked like when she was just a young woman in love with a boy who was not my father, a boy who was, in my imagination, kind to her. A boy like the one I’m slowly realizing I might very well be falling in love with.
Oliver. Provincetown. May. 1920.
Shams has a surprise of his own up his sleeve. On our first evening on the Cape, as we stare out at the ocean quietly, I hear footsteps and turn to see him there, on the deck of our inn, holding a cup of tea. Thankfully, Mother is so lost in the flow of the water that she takes no notice of him. We’ve seen other guests wander by and said no more than a quick hello. Mother, it turns out, doesn’t want adventurous conversation with strangers. She just wants peace.
I open my eyes wide in shock, hoping to communicate an alarmed what-in-the-world-are-you-doing-here look to Shams. He just smiles coolly and addresses us like we’re strangers. “Would it bother you terribly if I sat here? It’s the best view and I don’t want to miss the sunset.”
“I—” I find myself unable to answer. My throat goes suddenly dry, like one of those mops Mother uses to clean after she’s wrung it out.
Mother turns toward Shams, her eyes warm and serene. “Of course you can sit here,” she says. “The sunset belongs to everyone.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” Shams sits next to me on an Adirondack chair. Mother and I are on a bench. I’m in the middle, nervouslyturning my gaze from one to the other, wondering what will come of this moment. We sit quietly for what feels like a century to me. Then Shams says, “I’ve traveled quite a bit in my life, and one thing that’s always given me hope is that no matter where you are on this earth, you’re staring at the same sun, the same moon.”
Mother turns to him curiously. Like me when I first met him, she must be wondering who this odd creature is, this boy who speaks like he’s already lived a thousand lives. “What a beautiful observation,” she says. “But I’m curious, why does it give you hope?”
Shams smiles. I can see he was anticipating this question. “Because it reminds me we are all connected, and that tells me that someday we might all live in peace with each other.”
Mother leans toward him. “Yes,” she whispers. “And may I add that on Decoration Day weekend, a wish for peace is well-timed.” She looks out at the ocean longingly. “Nothing fills me with more pain than young lives lost to war. God should take the old and spare the young.”
“Mother, don’t speak like that,” I plead. “God should take no one.”
She laughs. “And leave us all here forever! No, thank you. When my earthly job is done, I look forward to ascending to heaven.” Mother was never one of those mothers who imposed religion on the daily rituals of our lives. God was for Sunday mornings, and then we allowed Him to guide us through the week quietly. Realizing she may have been too morbid, she quickly lightens her tone. “Apologies. I suppose being here, by this glorious ocean, under this perfect sky, has made me feel closer to God than I’ve felt in a long time. It’s a good feeling.”
“Nature is God’s truest house of worship,” Shams says, shockingme too. He’s never spoken of God either. I don’t even know if he was raised with religion.
“I like that.” Mother flashes a bright smile toward him. “What brings you here? Are you with your parents?” she asks.
“Oh, no,” he says. “My parents are... far away.”
She nods solemnly. She seems to intuit that far away is a euphemism for dead. “My name is Margaret Doherty, but my friends call me Maggie.”
“May I call you Maggie?” Shams asks.
“Of course you can. And this is my son Oliver.” She runs a hand through my hair. “His hair is getting unruly, but he’s a beautiful son.”
“Mother, please.” I feel so embarrassed to be treated like a child in front of Shams. Our times together have been so grown-up. They’ve given me the illusion that I’m older than I am. A man, not a boy. But here with my doting mother, I worry that whatever spell I’ve cast that’s made me appear interesting to him will wear off.
“Well, it’s true.” The gin and tonic in her hand is almost empty, but its effects on her are starting to show. Her voice is brighter than usual. “This son of mine, this boy who sits next to you... he won this weekend getaway for us in a trivia contest because he’s so smart. And instead of taking his cousin Brendan or this mystery girl he’s falling for, he took me, his mother.”
“Mystery girl?” Shams raises an eyebrow. There’s no jealousy in his tone. He knowshe’sthe mystery girl.
“A mother knows these things.” Mother leans her head on my shoulder. This small movement changes everything. Suddenly, it’s her who feels like the child and me the parent. I hold her close. “He’s been glowing lately. He disappears for long stretches. Always says he’s studying, but a mother knows....”
“She’s a very lucky girl,” Shams says, his eyes locked on me. “I’m sure wherever she is, she’s thinking of him right now. Thinks of him constantly. And I’m sure that when she’s lucky enough to meet you, Maggie, she’ll be thrilled to know that his mother is as kind and charming as he is.”
Mother doesn’t lift her head from my shoulder, but she does throw a grateful glance his way. “If I’m charming this evening, it’s the liquor and the breeze.”
“That’s not true, Mother. You are charming. And kind.” I feel her shake her head into the fabric of my wool sweater. “And beautiful,” I add. It suddenly dawns on me that I hope Mother finds love again. Or perhaps for the first time. Because Father didn’t know how to love.
“All right now, that’s enough of that,” Mother declares, sitting upright once more. “What brings you here...”
“Shams.” He holds his hand out and they shake. Because I’m between them, their hands grip each other above my heart. I close my eyes and freeze a mental image of this moment in my mind. “I’m here with a family, but not my own. I’m a tutor.”
“A tutor?” she asks. “But you look like a child.”
