Chapter 7: Lydia's POV: The Peonies

Lydia's POV

Forty peonies came up the stairs of my building at nine on Monday morning, in three boxes.

The man who carried them needed to sit down.

"Sign here," the man said.

"I'm teaching," I said.

Through the open door of my studio, a nine-year-old stood with a violin under her chin.

She was playing the first four bars of a song she did not like.

"Sign here, miss, or I have to bring them back," the man said.

I signed, and the card tucked into the largest box said: For the bride I'm leaning toward. D.

I did not lean toward him, because I had a rule against it.

I carried the boxes into the hall and gave a bunch to every parent who came for pickup that afternoon.

Forty went down to twelve by dinner, and the rest went to the neighbor's cat, which ate one.

On Tuesday morning there were forty more.

I gave those to the doorman, the mail carrier and a woman at the bus stop who asked if it was my birthday.

"It's a campaign," I told her.

On Wednesday there were no flowers, because Duncan came himself.

I was alone in the studio, tuning, when he knocked on the frame of the open door.

He wore a gray suit and a smile with several teeth in it.

"Lydia," Duncan said. "I wanted to see where you work."

"It's a room with a piano and a metronome," I said.

"It's so small," Duncan said.

"It's the right size," I said.

He sat on the student's stool, which was too low, so his knees came up near his ears, and he did not seem to notice.

"I'll be direct," Duncan said. "I'm leaning toward you."

"You said that on the card," I said.

"Avery's strong," Duncan said. "She's a brute. I like that in a rival, but not in a wife."

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