I smiled blankly, three-quarters posed, answered loudly, “My stylist is Jules Russo,” and watched, exultant, as reporters scrambled to type her name into their phones. “She’s here with me tonight!”
Jules sputtered a series of silent obscenities, then pivoted confidently and joined me in front of the cameras for a few poses, tossing her hair every time we shifted.
Jules had just started giggling silently, making me catch it too, when another woman arrived, jewel-encrusted and chic—a middle-aged Manhattan heiress I recognized from nearly every music event I’d ever gone to. Before the tide of interest could shift to her, Jules walked us away from the photo line, neither of us turning back while the photographers shouted after us for one more.
An usher held the glass door open. We swept inside and I turned to Jules, allowing myself a giddy breath. One hurdle down.
A crowd stood clustered in the lobby. Gorgeous, cheery, well-rested—one bright red bob in the center, holding court.
The next hurdle.
I headed straight for her.
42.
nora’s face went still when she saw me cut through the crowd, bewilderment lingering in her eyes like she’d been drugged. It wasn’t until a man in a light gray suit turned to me with a jovial, “Anna! It’s been ages,” that I understood why.
Nora laughed, recovering with visible effort. “That’s not Anna, Stephen, it’s her daughter. Christ, you need your vision checked.”
He wasn’t the only one. For the second time, I’d failed to recognize him as Nora’s husband—not that he would be her husband for long. She’d brought him tonight, though. And her smile was brazen.
Nora leaned up for a double air-kiss, which I supplied, beaming along.
She touched my shoulder, face falling. “How is your father?”
I remembered his words. “Better than ever.”
“Oh thank God, we were all so worried!” She touched her chest. “Ruby, I should have realized. I feel sick about it. He hadn’t been himself for weeks, he was beyond anxious, kept throwing out these wild accusations. I should have told someone—warned you about it. Do you forgive me? Please say you forgive me.”
She didn’t know what I’d heard. Or if she had any suspicions, she’d locked them all up in a mental vault. Probably the same place she stored her guilt.
“What sorts of accusations?” I cocked my head, turning toward Stephen to include him in the conversation.
“Oh.” Nora’s chest went red against her blue dress. She laughed. “Everything you can think of, short of alien invasions.”
“That doesn’t sound like Dad.” I watched, silent, as she squirmed.
“I’m . . . so glad you made it tonight. I’m sure Oscar is thrilled. Can I get you a glass of wine?”
Stephen snorted. “Jesus, Nora, she’s seventeen. What’s gotten into you tonight?”
I drifted politely away, working my way back through the crowd. That was enough of that.
Jules stood at the edge of the lobby, picking hors d’oeuvres off a captive waiter’s tray. She turned, delighted, a mini-quiche in one hand and a caviar cone in the other.
I nodded behind us. “Want to come backstage?”
“Depends. Is there delightfully tiny food there?” She took a bite of quiche. “I am sneaking a champagne, by the way.”
I stuck a ticket in her leather clutch with a wink. “See you inside.”
The back stairwell to the rehearsal rooms was empty. I hurried past the rooms where Amberley kids were gathered and drank in the sounds of normal teenagers, instruments set aside for the moment, cracking jokes to dilute their stage fright—then I continued to Oscar’s space, a new one, smaller, unblemished by the panic of the past few weeks.
I opened the door, seeing a line of lights over a broad mirror, two bouquets—one I knew Alice and Danny had sent, the other probably from his parents—and then Oscar.
He’d just finished tying his bow tie. He was dark, bright, princely, perfect.
He saw me through the mirror and gawked. “Wow.”
“Weird, right?” I twirled so my tea-length skirt became a whip.
“That wasn’t the word I was thinking.” He turned to catch me mid-spin and touched my dress with the tips of his fingers.
I glanced in the mirror at the two of us, together—tuxedo and white dress—and nearly burst out laughing.
“I really want to kiss you,” Oscar murmured. “But I don’t want to mess up your lipstick.”
It was blood red, perfectly applied. He had a point. Jules would kill me.
“We’ll kiss when this is done. Like . . . so much kissing.”
Oscar’s forehead pinched. “How’s your dad?”
“Fine.” I smoothed Oscar’s sleeve. “Resting.”
“It’s weird not having him here.”
“I know . . . but this is your night. He’s rooting for you from home.” I looked back at the clock. Twenty to eight. “Do you feel ready?”
He drew a long breath. “I do.”
“Good.”
“How about you?”
I nodded with more confidence than I felt. “I’ve got this.”
“This is your symphony too, you know. We should share—”
“Oh blah.” I put my finger to his lips.
“Seriously, Ruby. What would the music have been about if I’d never met you?”
“Trees. Forks. The poor guy who choked to death at the next table while you made musical notations about it, you bastard.”
Oscar laughed so hard he started coughing.
“Sorry! Don’t you choke! I’m going.” I stepped back toward the door. He really did need to concentrate.
And I just needed to say one more thing. “I love you, Oscar Bell.”
He closed his eyes in reply, absorbing the words like they were a magical incantation. In a way, they were.
I slid the door shut behind me, eyeing those two bouquets. Dad’s greenroom before premieres always looked like his bedroom right now, a flower shop on load-in day. Had Oscar gotten even one bouquet from Amberley? Did Nora forget?
Something about that simple misstep struck me hard. She’d always prided herself on cultivating musicians, managing the talent, boosting, pacifying—but with Oscar, she hadn’t even thought that far, too busy scrambling to get out, to pull this off, to escape.
She should have left before tonight.
In the corridor, the end of a long line of young musicians headed off to the Lilly Hall stage, instruments in hand. In my head, I wished them luck with the same elaborate handshake routine we used to practice at Wildwood. Then I slipped down a different stairwell, passed through the cacophonous lobby and into the empty house, presenting my ticket to be checked.
Dad’s section of seats was as close to the stage as you could get without crawling on. Alice always joked that Dad would sit in the middle of the orchestra for every performance if they would let him, and she wasn’t far off base. He preferred to be part of the action—and tonight, so did I.
Hardly anybody was seated yet, apart from a few older folks, and a small man in the third row wearing press credentials. Simon Wilkerson.
As I walked to Dad’s seat in the front row, his eye caught mine, and he shot me a barely perceptible nod. It could have just been a hello. But it did strike me as interesting that he wasn’t out there in the lobby, interviewing Nora and guests, almost as if he had his story already and was waiting to see how it would play out.
He wouldn’t be disappointed.
The orchestra filled the stage like the tide sweeping over a beach, then sounds began to percolate, small adjustments before the big tuning. Somehow, those notes pierced me more than composed music.
The choir filed in, taking their seats along the side of the stage, and the sight of them cut me like a brand-new wound. It was silly t
o have hoped. But I had hoped—recklessly, fully, with every part of me.
I mourned belonging to this. I probably always would . . . unless there was still another role I could play. I thought of the tech people, the ticket takers, the back-office staff, the hit-the-ground fundraisers, the people who made the instruments, the people who built the talent.
I thought of Mrs. Swenson, all those years ago, helping me position my hands over the keys like clouds—Let the rain fall, drip-drop, one finger at a time.
I missed her. I owed her a visit.
Chatter joined the instrumental din as the audience took their seats. Someone behind me was going to a wedding at Elon Musk’s house. Another was deeply concerned about a real estate deal in Arizona. Another was so busy, never a moment to rest, insane really . . .
I tuned them out. Breathed. Waited.
A couple passed me in the front row, then sat in the two seats to my right. I heard an “Oh” and turned to see that it wasn’t a couple at all—it was Liz Trombly and Emil Reinhardt.
Liz looked mortified to be next to me, but got out, “You look lovely tonight.”
“You too,” I said, trying to put her at ease. “I’m so excited to hear the piece.”
Emil Reinhardt leaned over her to shake my hand. “Everybody’s in for a treat.”
A flash of blue and blond dropped into the seat next to me. Jules’s cheeks were flushed with excitement. “This is my first classical music experience, do not let me fall asleep.”
“I promise. You won’t.”
The orchestra quieted, house lights dimming but not all the way—enough to cue the audience to wrap up chitchat. Nora walked onstage, shimmering in her long blue dress. Everyone applauded. She pressed her hands to her face like she was blushing, then waved for everyone to stop.
“It is my great honor as chairwoman,” she said, “to open this season of Amberley concerts with . . . something extraordinary.”
The entire hall went perfectly silent.
“A new voice. And a new era for our school.”
Applause, everywhere, a smattering of whistles. I clapped along, smiling through my panic. How was I going to do this with Liz and Reinhardt right next to me?
“Diversity is not just a buzzword,” she went on. “It is a reflection of life—exactly what the greatest works of classical music strive for. So tonight, I hope you will join me in opening, not just your wallets . . . !” She paused for laughter, and was rewarded. “But your hearts and minds as well.”
I tasted something sour. Kept clapping.
With a grand gesture to the orchestra, she started offstage.
This was it. My moment.
Think about the cause. It really is everything.
I stood and turned toward the audience, purse raised high like Nora at the park tea. I remembered that one quick lesson with Odile, drew a breath from the diaphragm, and let my voice ring out loud and clear.
“I’d like to pledge twenty thousand dollars to Amberley’s diversity fund.”
A gasp rippled through the audience—not at the amount, a modest sum to many of them—but at who I was, whose child, how young, the breach of decorum I’d committed in talking cold, hard cash before a cultural event. The gesture was still enough to bring forth a round of applause, and to draw Nora back center stage, hands clutched eagerly together.
She sought me out, mouthing thank you, and I could tell from the triumph in her eyes that she was actually moved right now. She saw my mother in me—and herself. I’d become all she’d hoped I would be.
But I wasn’t done.
“Just as soon as they establish a diversity fund.”
The audience went quiet, apart from a near-silent “Suh-nap!” from Jules. I kept my eyes on Nora, watching as her face locked solid and a thought-bubble appeared above her head: “RUBY KNOWS.”
Then I turned away, heart pounding so hard I swore it was going to knock me over. Amid the dizzying crowd, I saw Simon Wilkerson leaning forward. I trained my eyes on him, refilling my tank of courage.
“As soon as I’ve seen paperwork establishing the fund, along with the rest of this year’s financials, I’ll be glad to carry out my pledge. In the meantime, I’ve donated an additional ten thousand dollars to the Sphinx Organization, which works to develop the talents of young black and Latino classical musicians.”
I was met with confused applause. This would be over soon.
“And tonight, I also bring Amberley one more donation . . .” I reached into my bag, brandishing a printout from an online gift confirmation. “From the parents of Oscar Bell, in the amount of twelve thousand dollars.”
Now the applause was even more scattered, low conversation rumbling underneath. Somehow, nobody had realized he even had parents, let alone ones with means. Amberley’s PR campaign had been remarkably effective.
I turned back to Nora, so she could see the page too.
“Should be enough to cover Oscar Bell’s tuition. Plus a little extra. For emergencies.”
I’d decided emergencies was subtler than, say, the lawsuit that’s about to hit your desk. Amberley would hear from the Bell family’s attorney soon enough. And judging by Nora’s wild laugh, she already knew exactly what I meant.
She clapped her hands. “Thank you very much. The next generation, ladies and gentlemen!”
Her face started to crumple, that shield of a society smile finally failing her, and for a moment I felt sharp regret that I was the cause of it. But she hurried off the stage before her composure deserted her completely, and I remembered the way she’d run yesterday too, right after Dad’s heart attack.
To the far left of the front row, I saw a man slowly, robotically open a fire exit door and glide through it. Bill Rustig.
If somebody told me tomorrow that he’d been spotted fleeing with Nora to the Bahamas, I wouldn’t be at all surprised. Despite it all, I clung to that image—Nora and Bill, in some dingy tropical bar, in permanent exile—instead of her being led away in handcuffs. But why? Shouldn’t she face justice? People like her were born with a heaping stack of free passes. This should be the moment those passes ran out.
Still . . . I couldn’t pinpoint how I felt. Criminal or no, caring, phony, she was someone I’d known all my life. Someone who’d at least been present, holding my hand when others didn’t. Some part of me would always care what happened to her.
I melted back into my seat as the orchestra started its last tuning, disparate rivers of sound converging into one clear A.
“Congratulations,” Jules whispered. “You are officially a badass.”
Liz leaned forward to shoot me a nod. “Brava,” she said, while beside her, Reinhardt coughed to cover his wild giggles.
I relaxed, finally, and all of me crumpled, arms and legs shaking, teeth chattering, in physical shock at what I’d had the guts to do. But I no longer cared how I looked, even to my apparently approving seatmates.
My part was played, that final hell no delivered, the lights were dimming to nothing, and the great Oscar Bell was finally taking the stage.
43.
oscar’s arrival induced an instant standing ovation, the kind given to living titans, even though he was as of this moment an unknown entity, a human question mark.
He stood before the podium, hands pressed in thanks as he took a bow, gestured to the audience. Then he faced the orchestra—and froze.
No. He was locking up. Taking too long to get going. Losing his momentum at exactly the wrong time.
I racked my brain for a way I could communicate to him what this was, not a wave of pressure, but one of support. The glass wall was there, yes—the patrons in full regalia, here to gawk—but cracks were spreading all over it, and not just because of my speech. This room, filled as it was by some of the toughest, most sophisticated music aficionados in the city, felt warm as a family gathering as we
stood applauding what he was about to do. A seventeen-year-old kid. It really was amazing.
I willed him to turn—look at me—but then my eyes drifted to the students in the orchestra, the choir. They were grinning up at Oscar with sparks in their eyes, primed and ready, and I started to laugh. I’d thought I was infallible, that I knew what he was feeling, but I was wrong, completely wrong. He wasn’t losing his mojo. He was sharing it.
He turned, finally, and the last of my fears evaporated. There was his foppish posture, his grin, his charm, his stately elegance, the maestro fully merged with himself.
His eyes scanned the front row and found me—and at his tiny wink, my hands laced themselves together and dropped.
He waved for the audience to sit, but didn’t turn back to the orchestra. First, he had something to say. Even I wasn’t sure what it would be.
I clutched the velvet of my seat while Oscar beamed at the crowd.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I know your program advises everyone here to turn off their cell phones during the performance.” He gestured to a woman in the crowd holding one such program. “But . . . I’m going to ask you to do something different.”
The audience started rumbling. In the row behind me, I saw people leaning forward, taking out their cell phones and turning them over in their hands as if they were brand-new tech.
“First of all—let’s keep the ringers off, that was a good plan.” Oscar raised his hands, laughing, the audience chuckling back. “This is not a ringtone symphony, sorry to get your hopes up.”
That joke got a full guffaw out of Reinhardt. I grinned at him, liking the man better by the minute.
“No, here’s what I’m going for.”
Oscar drew a breath, glanced back at me, then kept going without a hitch.
“Amberley wants tonight to be an exclusive event. I get that. You fine people—and have I mentioned how lovely you’re looking tonight?” They laughed louder this time. “Seriously, take a selfie while you’re at it. No shame at all.”
He took his own cell phone out of an inner pocket of his tuxedo jacket. Where was he going with this? I had no idea!
Night Music Page 33
