Organizing get-togethers was not Dietre’s forte. The fact that this was going to occur at another person’s home, his employer’s specifically, made it more awkward. In the end, his ‘arranging’ consisted of simply sending everyone Caspar’s address along with the date and time. He did not feel comfortable making decisions beyond that, unwilling to tell his boss what to do in his own home. It would have been better if it’d been at Hugh’s, and Dietre couldn’t help but feel annoyed that Jamie did not want to have anything to do with the man. He was civil, though, for Hugh’s and Hannah’s sake.
Dietre arrived in his usual attire, black and grey, sleeves kept long to hide the hand shaped bruise Liam’s ghost had left. With Caspar he was professional, with Hannah friendly but still shy, with Jamie cool and aloof. He was too nervous to eat, and so hung on the edges of the group until it was time to fit the clock together.
He and Hugh had a theory that if you thought about the memory you wanted to experience prior to the event then that would be the one the clock would give you. Dietre focused all his thoughts on his mother, tried to see her in his mind's eye instead of his hands sliding the clock pieces into place, her bright green eyes and dazzling smile, piano notes drowning out the voices of the other three people in the room.
And wouldn’t you know, it worked.
A beautiful young woman, vivacious, her hair a sea of elegant golden waves, not one strand out of place. She was laughing at the seriousness of her son, at the somber look in his eyes (which were a muted, grey tinted version of her own) as he asked her if she would play the piano that stood gleaming by the window.
This child version of Dietre had worked up his meager store of bravery to ask. The piano fascinated him, he seemed to be the only one who noticed it existed, it was a forgotten thing, like he was, and he often would stand on tip toe to stroke it's keys in secret. He never pressed down, never. He wasn’t allowed to touch it, and did not dare coax a sound from it lest he give himself away. So that was why he had to, finally, ask his mother; an enchanting, graceful being mostly watched from a distance as she prepared for an endless procession of trips and dinners and galas.
“I’ll play it for you, darling. But learning to play it would be better, don’t you think?”
Dietre nodded mutely, his eyes big as he absorbed details he’d forgotten over the years, like the sparkle of his mother’s earrings and the scent of her perfume wafting from her hair as she reached down to take his hand and lead him to the piano room. Her grip was soft and warm, her fingers long and slim the way his would be one day. She had to lift him onto the bench, he was too small to climb it on his own.
She played him Für Elise, and his adult mind could hear all the little mistakes he couldn’t as a boy, but they only endeared this moment to him all the more. Her imperfectness made her perfect. This was the best memory he had of his mother, and it had been the best memory of his life until recently. The way her eyes lit up and she clapped her hands when his clumsy short fingers attempted to pick out a brief stumbling echo of the melody she played had made him feel like the king of the world.
He had noticed the piano and so in turn, the piano made him noticed. Somehow he’d managed to get his mother to forget the trivial things that ruled her life and instead focus her attentions where they were most needed. His obsession with playing piano was born of his subconscious forever chasing this moment. This moment where he had made his mother smile and laugh, her kiss on his cheek and the sweet bell of her voice in his ear calling him amazing.