Melody of a Music Box
Summary: AU. Annabeth is the poor, but content, owner of a run-down coffee shop. Percy, whose mother has just died, is a struggling young man who walks into her shop on a rainy day. A sweet, simple vignette.
It's a dreary morning.
Rain plays piano on the sidewalk, dropping from the clouds in a thoughtful rendition of Chopin's Raindrop Prelude. The sky is painted grey.
Pedestrians, late to work, hurry past with umbrellas upturned and blooming like sleek black flowers. Annabeth ignores them, flipping the old wooden sign on her coffee shop door to OPEN: welcome to Coffee Promises! It's a small, rickety place; the walls, decorated with peeling old-fashioned wallpaper, have seen too many winters and the windows are cobwebbed with cracks. She would pay someone to fix the shop up, but there are too few customers and too little money. All the same, the cosiness is a bit of a haven. The customers who do come are well-known to her and she often sits down at a table and converses.
But today, she thinks, today will be a lonely one. A foggy sky is a spirit-damper. She knows that from experience.
So Annabeth isn't surprised when the unfamiliar man with a raincloud of his own walks in, bells tinkling as he pushes in the door. His head hangs low, one stuffed inside a deep raincoat pocket and the other toting a black briefcase. She can barely see his face, because the hood and collar are pulled so closely. But she can tell he's young, barely over twenty.
He is her first customer of the day, though, so she welcomes him gladly. Can I get anything for you today? A coffee? Tea? Lemon cake?
Just tea, please. Mint, if you have it.
She heats up the water, waiting until steam rises from the surface before pouring it into a cup. Then she puts the tea packet in, adding a few herbs and taking it over to the man along with a bottle of honey.
He's pulled a bunch of papers out from his briefcase and has them spread out over the table, poring over the too-small lettering. Occasionally he takes his pen and signs the bottom of a page.
Annabeth clears her throat, setting the tea down in a space in front of him not covered with paper. He looks up. Thank you.
He goes back to the paperwork, but Annabeth sits down across from him. What are the papers?
The man lets his hand holding the pen fall onto the tabletop. He pushes back his hood and runs a hand through black hair, sighing tiredly. Annabeth can see his eyes for the first time, the green irises dark from exhaustion. Documents. My mother's will.
Annabeth takes in a breath. Suddenly she feels awkward, inadequate. I'm so sorry.
He shakes his head. It's fine. I'm fine. I have to… get these done.
She can hear the distress, the agitation, the underlying sorrow. And she wants to help. But he's finished his tea now, not even bothering to add honey, and is packing up his papers. Thank you for the tea, he says, and pays, pulling up his hood again in preparation for the rain.
The sun shows up not two minutes after he leaves. Annabeth doesn't notice. She's too busy contemplating the two dollar bills in her hands.
The tea had only cost one.
The man shows up again a month later. It's a brisk autumn day, air fresh and sweet with elastic hopes. The maple trees have shot up red-and-gold firework branches, the leaves littering the ground in a gilt carpet.
He comes in the evening this time, just as Annabeth is about to flip the sign to CLOSED: we'll see you tomorrow. She recognizes him and abandons the sign, opening the door for him and ushering him inside. Tea again?
He gives her a funny look. You remember me?
Of course. But she doesn't say it, only fetches the hot water and begins preparing the drink. He sits down at a table and opens a book. From behind the counter, Annabeth can see the improvement of his mood today. His step is lighter, circles under his eyes nearly gone. A smile keeps tugging at the corners of his mouth.
She manages to read the book cover after some neck craning. The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane. She doesn't know it, even though she's read more books than cups of coffee she's sold.
When Annabeth brings the tea over, he thanks her and pours a good amount of honey in the cup. He stirs it and sips as she sits down across from him.
How's the book?
He looks up. It's good. Then he reads from the page: Open your heart. Someone will come. Someone will come for you. But first you must open your heart.
She smiles. That's a good quote.
He nods. The main character's a china rabbit, did you know that? My kid sister loves rabbits. Thinks they're cute.
A rabbit. That's an interesting character.
He agrees, draining the rest of his tea quickly. But he doesn't leave just yet, instead sitting back in the chair comfortably. Do you have a family?
She shakes her head. My stepmom used to own the shop before me. She and my dad died a little while back in an accident, which is why I had to run the shop so young. I like the job, though. I don't mind it at all.
Annabeth pauses. I think I have two half-brothers in San Francisco. But we don't keep in touch.
Suddenly she asks, what's your name, sir?
The man laughs. Oh, I'm no sir, believe me. My name's Percy. Percy Jackson.
He holds out a hand for her to shake. She takes it. Annabeth Chase.
Pleased to meet you.
And the same.
The next week he comes again. He orders mint tea and sits in the same spot as yesterday, at the small table next to the corner window. Annabeth joins him after delivering the tea, pleased that he's decided to come back so soon.
So, how are you today? She asks.
He shrugs. I'm okay. You?
Good. Hey, what's your favorite season?
Probably summer. I like to swim, used to be on the team in high school. Why?
Oh, just an interesting observation I had. People born in winter tend to like winter best, and likewise for all the other seasons. I'd draw up a chart and record my data and tell you exactly what percent of people that applies to, but I don't exactly have the- she breaks off when she realizes Percy is laughing. What? She asks, cheeks flushed.
Just- ah, nothing. You're such a wise girl.
Annabeth frowns, but she's trying not to smile. Her dream had once been to be an architect. That had never happened, but she was content with what she had.
Well, you're a- you've got a brain made of seaweed, you know that?
He only laughs harder. Where'd you get that from?
Because you like to swim and you called me a wise girl.
He shakes his head, amused. Way to prove my point.
Percy begins coming more frequently after that, visiting almost every weekend morning. Sometimes he comes on weekdays. His visits are a welcome surprise, a gift Annabeth waits for daily. They talk and laugh together over miscellaneous things, a bird's nest in the tree outside the window or the fantasies of a rich man. Often they say nothing at all. The silence is enough for both of them.
On his fortieth visit, he asks an odd question. Were you ever married?
No, Annabeth replies, laughing a little. Never. Were you?
Of course not! Percy says. I'm only twenty one, anyway. I've got time.
Twenty one! So am I!
Really? I thought you were, like, thirty! He says, eyes widening comically in shock.
She gasps, aghast. Thirty? Did you really think I was thirty?
Percy bursts into laughter. Of course not! I was messing with you.
Annabeth lets out a relieved, breathy laugh. Oh.
But he keeps laughing, and eventually she joins in too.
When they've both calmed down, she wipes at her eyes. It's the happiest she's been in so long. No one else seems to have such a power to make her smile.
I suppose none of the boys were really after me, anyway, she says thoughtfully.
This time Percy is genuinely surprised. Really?
She cocks her head at him. Yes, why?
Because you're pretty, he says bluntly, then immediately brings his hand to his mouth as if he's said something wrong. I'm sorry, I-
Annabeth cuts him off, laughing lightly. Her cheeks are flushed pink in embarrassment. No, no, don't take it back, she says. That was kind of you.
Percy looks down, but he's hiding a smile. Thank you.
She's about to object, because she's the one who should be thanking him, but she stops when she realizes that he isn't talking about just now. He's thanking her for everything.
What is everything? Many weekends of sitting in the seat across from him and talking? To Annabeth, it seems such a trivial thing.
"Perhaps," said the man, "you would like to be lost with us. I have found it much more agreeable to be lost in the company of others."
On the fifty-ninth day, a soft early winter evening, he brings her a book. The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane.
I had an extra copy, he admits, and you said you liked to read.
For a moment Annabeth doesn't know what to say, the gesture too sweet and simple. He misreads the silence.
I-if you don't, like it, I'll take it back, he offers shuffling his feet awkwardly.
She finds his nervousness adorable.
No! She says quickly. No, I love it! Thank you, Percy. Really.
That day they talk about family again. My mother died, he says, from a sickness. We couldn't afford good treatment. We all knew she was going to die. My stepdad, he's a good guy- actually, he teaches English at a high school, you'd like him- he never left her side. My half sister- she's only five, a real sweet girl- she couldn't understand what was going on. Kept asking me when mommy was gonna wake up. When we could go home. If mommy was writing books for the angels.
She wrote books? Annabeth asks.
He nods. She wrote books and baked the best chocolate chip cookies.
The rest of that day is a quiet one.
It is a horrible, terrible thing, the worst thing, to watch somebody you love die right in front of you and not be able to do anything about it.
On the seventieth day, he asks if she would like to go on a walk with him. She says yes, and they walk among the cherry blossoms. They don't say much. They breathe in the fragrant air, and are content.
As they walk, their steps match up. Tentatively, he slips his hand into hers.
She holds it gladly. His hand is rough and calloused, but she doesn't mind.
Did you ever read that book I gave you? He asks.
She nods. It was amazing. Thank you.
He smiles. You're welcome.
It was a singular sensation to be held so gently and yet so fiercely, to be stared down at with so much love.
On the eighty-first day, he brings her a rose. It's just barely opened, displaying its unfurling petals with a deep red blush of dignity. She thinks her heart will burst.
He offers it to her shyly. I thought your shop could use a little color, that's all.
Yes, she agrees, yes, it could. And this is perfect. Thank you, Percy, I love it.
I love you, she adds silently. But she doesn't dare say it. She hopes he'll say it first.
Indeed, they have slowly fallen into love.
And outside the window, the trees are changing color once more.
See? Edward told Pellegrina. I am not like the princess. I know about love.
On the ninety-seventh day, Percy seems worried about something.
He's distracted. He keeps biting his nails, eyes darting around the room as if afraid something will jump out at him. He's checking his phone constantly.
She asks what's wrong. He says it's nothing.
Silently, Annabeth doubts it.
He leaves earlier than usual that day.
You are down there alone, the stars seemed to say to him. And we are up here, in our constellations, together.
On the hundred and fourth day, Percy stops coming.
I have been loved, Edward told the stars. So? said the stars. What difference does that make when you are all alone now?
He does not come again for a very long time.
But answer me this: how can a story end happily if there is no love?
Annabeth wonders if he has died. No, she thinks, he hasn't died. She doesn't know how she knows. She just does.
She never closes the shop anymore. Every day she hopes that the tinkling bells of the opening door will be welcoming Percy back into her shop. Perhaps it's childish of her, perhaps she's waiting for something that will never come. But she does it anyway.
Every day, she waits.
Seasons passed, fall and winter and spring and summer. Leaves blew in through the open door of Lucius Clarke's shop, and rain, and the green outrageously hopeful light of spring. People came and went, grandmothers and doll collectors and little girls with their mothers. Edward Tulane waited. The seasons turned into years. Edward Tulane waited. He repeated the old doll's words over and over until they wore a smooth groove of hope in his brain: Someone will come; someone will come for you.
Someone will come for you, but first you must open your heart…
And on a rainy day two years later, Percy comes again.
It's another mourning day. The rain hitting the pavement is better compared with Beethoven than Chopin today. The thunder is a war cry. Lightning the flash of the sword of God striking the world. The umbrellas quail.
Annabeth thinks about closing her shop today, taking the day off to drink hot chocolate and read books. Something stops her. Habit, maybe. But it might be a better guess if we call it fate.
So she opens the shop.
The bells chatter.
Annabeth doesn't look up. Welcome to Coffee Promises. Can I get anything for you?
Just tea, please. Mint, if you have it.
Yes, she says automatically. I know.
Then she stops.
She keeps her eyes down. She doesn't dare to hope.
Slowly, Annabeth looks up.
A familiar face is there, smiling at her, sea green eyes glinting. He isn't wearing a raincoat, so his dark hair is dripping and he shivers as he stands before her. But she doesn't care.
She doesn't care at all.
She's throwing her arms around him, crying with happiness, she can feel him laughing quietly as he hugs her tightly back. I'm here, he says. I'm here now. I'm sorry it took so long.
Percy, she sobs. Percy. You came back. You came back. Percy, I love you. I love you, I love you. Percy. You came back.
I love you too. I always will.
The thunder claps. The lightning rips through the air. But Annabeth is oblivious.
Edward knew what it was like to say over and over again the names of those you had left behind. He knew what it was like to miss someone. And so he listened. And in his listening, his heart opened wide and then wider still.
He holds her for a long, long time.
The absence of quotation marks is purposeful, it serves to blur the lines and soften the edges of a story; it gives the vignette a more hazy, dreamlike feel. Sometimes it's difficult to tell whether or not something was spoken aloud or if it was part of the narration. It sort of reminds me of an old woman recalling events that happened when she was young; she can't quite remember all the details, but enough is there to bring back the emotions she'd felt back then. As I wrote this, to me, the storyline felt like an old-fashioned music box plinking out a solid, simple melody, hence the title.
Thank you for reading Melody of a Music Box, I hope you check out my profile!
-Quotations from The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane by Kate DiCamillo