Alice and her late husband, Oskar, had both been world-renowned violinists, and had retired to New York City when Oskar became sick. He had died only a year after Etta started taking lessons from Alice, but at five, she’d been old enough to form a true impression of his warmth and humor. While Alice hadn’t played professionally in years, and hadn’t had the heart to try after Oskar passed, she was still worshipped in certain circles for a breathtaking debut performance she’d given at the Vatican.
“She’ll be back,” Etta promised as they made their way to the green room. “Will you introduce me to everyone? I’m sorry I couldn’t make the dress rehearsal.”
“Evan couldn’t make it, either. You’ll be fine—we’ll get you situated.”
The green room’s door was open, and a current of voices, pitched with excitement, rolled out to meet her. The other violinists studied her with blatant curiosity as she walked in.
They’re wondering why you’re here. She squashed the voice down and sized them up in return as Gail went around the room and rattled their names off. Etta recognized two of the three men present—they were older, near retirement age. Evan, of course, was still onstage. The organizers had balanced out their number with three women: an older woman, herself, and another girl who looked to be about Etta’s age. Gail introduced her only as “Sophia,” as if no last name were necessary.
The girl had tied her dark, nearly black hair back from her face and pinned it up into an old-fashioned twist. She wore a plain white shirt tucked into a long, dark skirt that fell to her ankles, but the outfit wasn’t half as severe as the expression on her round face when she caught Etta studying her, trying to place whether they’d crossed paths at a competition.
“Mr. Frankwright, you’re up,” Gail called as Evan made his way in and introduced himself. One of the old men stood, was handed a gorgeous Strad, and followed.
No one seemed in the mood to talk, which was fine by Etta. She put on her headphones and listened to the Largo all the way through once, eyes shut, concentrating on each note until her small purse accidentally slipped off her lap and the lip gloss, powder, mirror, and cash she’d shoved into it went scattering across the tile. Evan and the other man helped her scoop it all back up with faint laughter.
“Sorry, sorry,” she muttered. It wasn’t until she began to replace everything that she realized there was a small, cream-colored envelope tucked inside.
It can’t be, she thought. There was no way…her mother hadn’t done this for her in years. Her heart gave a joyful little bump against her ribs, flooding with the old, familiar starlight as she tore the envelope open and shook its contents out. There were two sheets of paper—one was a rambling letter that, to the casual eye, was filled with chatter about the weather, the museum, the apartment. But there was a second, smaller piece of paper included, this one with the shape of a heart cut out from its center. When laid over the first, the message changed; the heart gathered the rambling, nonsensical words into a simple phrase: I love you and I am so proud of who you are and what you’ll do.
She used to leave Etta notes like this every time she had to travel for work, when Etta had gone to stay with Alice—little reminders of love, tucked inside her overnight bag or in her violin case. But the longer she looked at it, Etta began to feel herself drift away from that initial burst of happiness. Her mom wasn’t exactly a sentimental person when it came down to it; she wasn’t sure what to make of this, especially on top of the earrings. Trying to thaw their relationship after freezing it over in the first place?
Etta checked her phone. A half hour until the concert.
No texts. No missed calls.
No surprise there.
But also…still no Alice.
She stood up, setting her purse down on the chair and slipping out of the room to check on her. Her instructor had seemed almost confused earlier, or at least startled. It was entirely possible someone had trapped her in conversation, or she was having a hard time getting ahold of whoever she was trying to call, but Etta couldn’t turn off the panic valve, the prickle of something like dread walking down the back of her neck.
The auditorium was empty, save for the ushers being briefed on the evening by an event coordinator. Etta hustled up the aisle as fast as she could in her heels, catching the last few notes from the violinist onstage. She’d be up soon.
But Alice wasn’t out in the hall, cell phone pressed to her ear. Neither, for that matter, was her mom. They weren’t loitering in the museum’s entrance, the Great Hall, either—and when she checked the steps, all she found were pigeons, puddles, and tourists. Which left one possibility.
Etta turned back toward the steps up to the European paintings collection and slammed into someone, nearly sending them both tumbling to the ground.
“Ah—I’m sorry!” Etta gasped as he steadied her.
“What’s the rush? Are you—” The man stared down at her through silver-rimmed glasses, lips parted in surprise. He was older, edging into middle age, or already there judging by the streaks of gray in his otherwise jet-black hair. Etta took one look at him and knew she’d nearly mowed down one of the Met’s donors. Everything about him was well-groomed; his tuxedo was immaculate, a dark red rose tucked into the lapel.
“I wasn’t looking where I was going,” she said. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”