I laid out each photo on my coffee table and stared at them as I thought back, reliving all the memories with her. Did I tell her I loved her? Did I know I loved her? What happened?
It was eight thirty and I hadn’t eaten all day. I was sick, disgusted by what Elizabeth had done. It all started to make sense—the way Grace had acted, so guarded on the phone. She had tried to reach out to me.
I hopped onto my computer and did a reverse phone number search. I found the name G. Porter on West Broadway. She was married? Even though I had been married, too, the realization stung. I Googled “Grace Porter musician nyc” and found a link to the high school where she taught music. I clicked through several more links and found out her department was having a special performance that night at the high school gymnasium, but it had started an hour before.
Without even looking in the mirror, I was out the front door. I just couldn’t leave things at an awkward phone call.
Once I arrived at the school, I took the stairs two at a time down to the gymnasium. I could hear the sound of applause, and I prayed I wasn’t too late. There was no one manning the double doors, so I slipped through and stood in the back, my eyes scanning the room for Grace, but all I saw were four chairs arranged at the far end of the gymnasium—three occupied, one empty. The crowd quieted as a man approached a podium set up off to the side of the incomplete quartet.
“Ms. Porter has something very special she would like to share with you all.” My timing was perfect, if not fifteen years too late. “This is indeed a treat, and a rare performance, so let’s put our hands together for her talented quartet.”
Grace approached the podium, and I couldn’t catch my breath. What I had loved about her all those years ago was still there: her unique mannerisms; how unaware she was of her beauty; her hair, still long and blonde, draped over one shoulder; her lips, a full, natural pink. Even at this distance, I could see her spectacular green eyes. She was dressed from head to toe in black—a high-necked sweater and pants, so striking against her light skin and hair.
She tapped the microphone and smiled as the thumping sound echoed off the walls. “Sorry about that.” Then a giggle. Jesus, how I missed that sound. “Thank you for coming out tonight. I don’t usually perform with the students, but we have something very special to share with you. Our first and second chair violinists, Lydia and Cara, and our first chair violist, Kelsey, will be performing with the New York Philharmonic next weekend.” The crowd erupted in cheers and whistles. Grace looked back at the three girls, who smiled at her, poised with their instruments. “This is a very proud moment for me, so tonight I would like to join them in a performance of ‘Viva La Vida’ by Coldplay. I hope you enjoy.”
Still my modern girl.
Grace walked to the farthest chair on the right and placed the cello between her legs. With her head down, she began the count. She had always played for herself, and as I watched her now, I could see that nothing had changed. I didn’t have to see her eyes to know they were closed, the way they always were when she played near the window in our old dorm.
I watched, enraptured, my eyes never leaving Grace as the song filled the gymnasium. At the end, right before the last pass of the bow, she looked up at the ceiling and smiled. The crowd went wild, the place shaking with thunderous applause.
I waited through the rest of the performances, starving, tired, and wondering if it was all in vain. The crowd cleared out a little after ten thirty, and I waited, my eyes still trained on her. Finally, she made her way toward the double doors, where I had stood the entire time. When I made eye contact with her, I could tell she had known I was there all along. She walked toward me with purpose.
“Hi.” Her voice was light and friendly, thank God.
“Hi. That was a great performance.”
“Yeah, those girls . . . lots of talent there.”
“No you, you’re so . . . you play so”—I swallowed—“beautifully.” I was a bumbling fool.
She smiled but her eyes were appraising me. “Thank you.”
“I know it’s late, but . . . would you like to get a drink?” She started to answer but I cut her off. “ I know that phone call was awkward. I just want to talk to you in person. To”—I waved my hand around,—“clear the air.”
“Clear the air?” She was testing the words.
“Well, catch up. And yeah, clear the air, I guess.”
“It’s been fifteen years, Matt.” She laughed. “I don’t know if ‘clearing the air’ is possible.”
“Grace, listen, I think some things might’ve happened that I didn’t fully understand at the time, and—”
“There’s a little dive around the corner. I can’t stay out late though. I have something in the morning.”
I smiled at her gratefully. “Okay, no problem. Just one drink.”
God, I was desperate.
“Let’s head out, then. This way.”