MARCH 1994
29.
Jade
“Are you Jade?” the woman asked.
Jade sat on a chair in the hallway of the music building, her violin in its case. She’d gotten there early, excited and nervous for the audition that would let her change her major from education to music education. She’d become a realist about how far she could take her playing this last year. She knew she couldn’t be a soloist again, and she had to let go of the Carnegie Hall fantasy she’d had all her life. She wouldn’t even dare to play in a symphony orchestra. But she could teach music. She’d thought about it a lot. She could help kids live the dream she’d lost.
She’d watched the other students waiting for their auditions as they sat in the hallway. Most of them looked like high school seniors and they appeared so nervous she felt sorry for them. She was every bit as jittery, but for a different reason. They worried they wouldn’t be good enough to get in. She worried about finding the balance between being good enough to get in, but not so good that she’d draw attention to herself. And she was good. In the year since she’d bought her violin, she’d played for hours every night. She missed Caterina Thoreau’s guidance more than she could say, but she taught herself—she drove herself—well. She bought reams of sheet music. She played all night long, sometimes, shutting her cottage windows no matter how hot it was outside, or she played in the practice rooms at school, even though she had to be sneaky about it, since she wasn’t yet a student in the school of music. With any luck, soon she would be.
The violin had amazing sound for a relatively inexpensive instrument. It had opened up under Cara’s playing, and it could be bright when the music demanded it as well as warm and mellow when that was what she wanted. It wasn’t Violet—no violin could compare to Violet—but it was by far Jade’s most treasured possession.
“Yes, I’m Jade,” she said to the woman, getting to her feet. She followed her into the classroom where a panel of three men and two more women sat, ready to judge her. She thought of all the times she’d imagined her audition for Juilliard. The people in front of her were not Juilliard professors, but they still took themselves seriously. She could tell by the lack of smiles, and the way they stared at her made her uneasy. Could they see Lisa MacPherson in her face? Her father had warned her against doing this, and for a moment she was afraid he’d been right.
She played Kreisler’s “Sicilienne” and the second movement of “Aus der Heimat,” and she thought it went okay. She stayed emotionally detached from her playing, knowing from experience that was the ticket to mediocrity.
“Very nice,” the woman who’d led her into the room said when she’d finished, and a few of the others nodded.
“With whom did you study?” one of the men asked.
“My father, actually.” She’d practiced the lie and was pleased that it slipped out easily. “He never pursued the violin seriously, but he was well trained and he taught me.”
“That’s remarkable,” the man said. “And you’ve had no other instructor? No concert experience?”
She shook her head. She knew she was drawing attention to herself by her very effort not to. It was unusual to play as well as she had with no formal training. They stared at her. Oh, God, she thought. Did they think they’d discovered a diamond in the rough? A musical freak of nature? She needed to offer more of an explanation. “I played as a hobby, really,” she said. “My father and I played together around the house, just for fun. I never considered music as a career, though. I’d always wanted to be a teacher. But last year, while I was an education major, I really missed playing. And then I realized I could have both. Music and a teaching career.” She smiled uncertainly.
They still stared. “All right,” the woman said finally. “We’ll contact you in two to four weeks.”
She left the room. She knew they would talk about her once she was gone. She couldn’t lift a violin without attracting attention. It had been that way her entire life. As long as no one looked into her story—called her mythical father in Maryland, for example—she’d be okay. She should have said he’d died.
But then they’d be talking about her even more.
30.
Riley
The morning after my trip to Myrtle Beach, I finally got around to checking the external hard drive in my father’s office, reassuring myself that every speck of data from his computer had been saved. Then I began erasing the files on his computer, making good progress until I got to the e-mail. I was curious to see the last e-mail I’d sent him. I wanted to know that the last message he had from me had been loving and had left him with a good feeling the morning he went to the Food Lion.
He seemed to have no organization in place for his e-mails. The messages from collectors—and there were zillions of them—were mixed in with my e-mails and e-mail from Jeannie as well. I knew her e-mail name—Jlyons—and nearly every other message seemed to be from her. I found my last one, written the day before he died.
We can come down on the 24th and stay through the weekend, if that works for you.
It took me a minute to remember what I’d been referring to—Bryan and I had planned to visit my father for the Memorial Day weekend. That seemed so long ago now. I sighed at the impersonal message. I wished I’d signed every single e-mail “Love, Riley.” Would that have been so hard to do?
The next message was from Jlyons and I couldn’t help myself. I clicked on it.
How about I make your favorite and I’ll pick up a Redbox movie? Love, your Little Genie.
I cringed. Was that his pet name for her? I had no idea what it meant, nor did I ever want to find out.
I clicked on the next e-mail, feeling nosy now.
Frank, I have the beautiful meerschaum pipe you’re looking for. Excellent condition. The carving of the woman is a rich even-toned amber color. Let me know if you’d like a picture. I’d ask $150, as I have no real need to part with it.
That was the type of e-mail I expected to see in my father’s in-box. I clicked on the next one.
That is the best birthday card ever. You are amazing! Love you, Celia.
I stared at that one. Who the hell was Celia? And did Little Genie know another woman was sending “love you” notes to my father … who may have had a more interesting life than I’d ever given him credit for? This last year, he’d gotten into creating cards online for every occasion, but I couldn’t remember any I’d received that I would have called “amazing.”
“Hey, Riley.” Christine appeared in the doorway. “Can you come down to the kitchen for a minute? I’m pricing things and I need to talk to you about the stuff in the cupboards.”
I glanced up at her, then back at the screen. “I’ll be there in a minute,” I said. “I just have to do a couple more things here.”
“It would be great if you could come down now,” she said. “I’m making good progress today and you don’t want to stop me when I’m on a roll.”
Go away, I thought to myself as I listened to her footsteps clicking down the hall.
I tried to return my attention to the e-mail, but I could hear Christine clattering around downstairs in the kitchen and decided to get whatever she wanted over with. With a sigh, I shut down the computer and went downstairs. I walked into the kitchen to see that she had nearly every plate and glass and pot and pan out of the cabinets and stacked on the countertops and the table.
“Wow.” I stood in the doorway.
“Oh, great, you’re here,” Christine said. She waved her arm through the air to take in the mess she’d made. “So I’m in the middle of pricing everything in here,” she said, “and once I have all the kitchen stuff organized, I don’t want you moving things around. So you should probably get some paper plates and plastic silverware and, you know, plastic cups to use for the rest of the time you’re here. Unless there’s something you desperately need me to leave out for you.”
I stared at her in disbelief. “Christine! I’m going to be here at least a few more weeks.”
“Well, the sale’s set for July twentieth, regardless,” she said. “Are you really going to want to stay here when the house is emptied out?”
“Yes, I am going to want to stay here!” I spotted the Franciscan Ware plates that reminded me so much of my mother. The plates I loved and Danny hated. “Look,” I said to Christine. “I need you to leave out at least four of these plates and four glasses and four bowls and sets of silverware so I have things to use.”
Christine let out her breath in frustration. “I’ve asked you and asked you to let me know what you want to keep,” she said, “and you haven’t told me anything.”
I had to admit she was right. “I’m sorry about that,” I said, “but I need to be able to live here for a while after the sale, all right?”
She was looking behind me, and I turned to see Danny in the living room. He stood awkwardly, hands in his pockets, motioning me into the room with a nod of his head.
“I’ve got to go,” I said to Christine. “Leave me a medium-sized pot and a frying pan, too. Please.” I turned away from whatever else she might say and followed Danny out the front door to the porch.
I shut the door behind us. “That woman is making me crazy,” I said.
“I don’t like the way she looks at me.”
“She thinks you’re hot.”
He rolled his eyes as he sat down in one of the rockers.
“How come you’re here?” I asked, sitting down myself.
“I want to talk to Tom Kyle about this whole ‘two sets of footprints’ thing,” he said. “It’s bugging me. Something’s fishy and I want to find out how he knew. You should come with me.”
I didn’t answer right away. I wanted to talk to Tom again myself, but how would I explain knowing that the information about the footprints hadn’t been released to the media? And if I did find a way to talk to him, I didn’t want Danny there. I didn’t trust my brother’s motivation. I was afraid he’d run wild with anything he learned. “You haven’t talked to Harry about this, have you?” I asked.
“There’s nothing to talk to him about,” he said. “Not yet, anyhow.”
“How would you explain to Tom Kyle what you learned about the footprints?”
“I’ll figure it out.” The determination in his face was rare to see. Danny lived day to day. He hung out on his computer. He drank. He smoked. I remembered my father saying, “I wish he’d find some sort of project.” It seemed he’d found one now.
“You really want to punish her, don’t you,” I said.
He scowled as he got to his feet. “Leave the psychoanalysis out of this, okay?” He looked down at me. Crammed his hands into his pockets. “I’m going to talk to him with you or without you,” he said. “Do you want to go or not?”