“Yes, well . . .” Lillian began, but before she could say more, Estrella returned with a tray of covered dishes and her medical kit.
“Time to check your vital signs, Dr. Ezra.” She took his wrist in one hand, found his pulse, and focused on her watch.
Lillian sat silently, watching. After a moment, Estrella marked his heart rate on her chart. “Eighty-five,” she said.
“A little fast,” he noted.
“Yes, it is,” Estrella agreed.
It had been lower in the morning, Ezra recalled. He would bet his pressure was higher, too, he thought as Estrella put the cuff around his arm. He had Lillian to thank for that—Lillian and her mood.
“What’s the pressure?” Lillian asked curtly as Estrella completed the test.
“One hundred forty over eighty,” she reported.
“That’s too high,” Lillian said. “You’re putting too much salt in his food. Maybe he needs a water pill . . . or some change in his medication.”
“I’ve been cooking salt-free for Dr. Ezra, Mrs. Elliot,” Estrella said politely. “And preparing only foods that are naturally low in sodium. I don’t think it could be that . . . and I don’t think he needs a medication change right now. But I will tell Dr. Newton what you said this afternoon when he calls.”
Dr. Newton called every day to check on Ezra’s condition and was due to visit at the end of the week. All of the visiting nurses had spoken to him, reporting Ezra’s pulse and blood pressure and other vital signs. Ezra knew that Estrella wasn’t trying to overstep her authority, but he could tell Lillian didn’t see it that way.
“I’ll speak to Dr. Newton myself,” Lillian insisted.
“Yes, of course you will,” Ezra chimed in. “I want to talk to him, too. But Estrella has to report her chart. You know that, Lily. They all do it,” he added.
Lillian pursed her lips, her eyes focused on Estrella, who had taken out an electronic thermometer and slipped a fresh cover on it.
“What are you doing with that thing?” Lillian asked.
“Taking his temperature,” Estrella said.
“He doesn’t have a fever,” Lillian huffed.
“The incision is still healing. It’s important to check and make sure there’s no infection,” Estrella said calmly. She had stuck the end of the instrument into Ezra’s ear a moment, and when it made a beeping sound, drew it out.
Ezra wasn’t used to the gadget and rubbed his ear. “Did that hurt your ear?” Lillian asked quickly, her tone laced with concern.
“No, dear, but it did tickle,” he replied honestly. He glanced at Estrella, trying not to smile, and could see she was doing the same. If they shared a laugh at Lillian’s expense, it would be like tossing oil on a flame.
Estrella concentrated on the thermometer. “Your temperature is ninety-seven point five. A little low, but nothing to be concerned about.”
“No fever, you mean. See, I told you. I can tell when he has a fever. I can just see it in his eyes,” Lillian insisted.
Estrella didn’t reply. She didn’t even react as she put her instruments away, Ezra noticed. She had a remarkable temperament. She was so centered, she didn’t let anyone throw her off balance, not even Lillian. Not so far, anyway.
She looked up and smiled at both of them. “It’s time for your show, Dr. Ezra. Would you like me to turn on the TV?”
Ezra was following a show on the History Channel about the US presidents. Lillian had been watching it with him. “I think it’s Ulysses S. Grant today, dear. Care to watch with me? It should be a good one.”
“In here? How utterly depressing. We’ll watch in the living room, like the healthy, able-bodied adults that we are. This TV is just for drifting off,” she insisted. “Has she been encouraging you to lie abed like a couch potato all day and watch TV?”
“No, not at all,” Ezra insisted. “What a thing to say.”
“Really?” Lillian looked as if she didn’t believe him. “The next thing you know, she’ll be feeding you through a straw,” she grumbled.
Ezra was about to argue that he was not particularly healthy, nor able-bodied. Having broken weight-bearing bones, he couldn’t be hopping up and down from the bed all day. Even in that infernal chair his wife had rented for him.
But I could be in a lot worse shape, he reflected, and getting out of bed for a while was necessary for his recovery. Especially to keep his lungs clear and keep his metabolism moving. He knew that well enough. It was just the way Lillian put it that irked him.
Before he could say a word to counter her, she turned to Estrella. “Are you trying to weaken him even further?”
“Of course not, Mrs. Elliot. Dr. Ezra always watches his show in here,” Estrella replied.
“Since you’ve arrived, you mean. He needs to get out of bed and sit in his chair. You should know that better than I,” Lillian insisted.
Ezra had been out of his bed that morning while Lillian was upstairs doing her hair. That’s why he was tired now.
Estrella cast a questioning glance his way, but he waved his hand. “I think I will join Mrs. Elliot in the living room for a while, if you’ll be so kind as to fetch my crutches,” he said. “Maybe we’ll have a hand of gin rummy afterward, eh, Lily?”
He tried to catch his wife’s eye, hoping to soften her up. She was feeling displaced by this new helper and just needed some attention.
Lillian deigned to glance his way. “Maybe . . . if you’re not too tired and weak to hold up the cards,” she added in a sardonic tone.
“I shall gather my strength,” Ezra promised, but his wife did not smile at the jest. It was, Ezra realized, going to be an even more difficult recovery than he had expected.
* * *
THAT EVENING, EZRA WAS ALONE WHEN ESTRELLA CAME IN TO GIVE him his nightly medications. Lillian had just left him, heading upstairs to bed. Flaring up all afternoon had worn her out, and she was ready to turn in a little earlier than usual.
“Here are your pills, Dr. Ezra. I spoke to Dr. Newton about your blood pressure spiking up today. He doesn’t want to change the medication dosage until he sees you tonight.”
“That makes sense.” Ezra held the three pills on his palm then tossed them back. Estrella quickly gave him a glass of water. “I think it was just a fluke,” he said after he had swallowed them down. A fluke named Lillian Warwick Elliot, he might have added.
Estrella nodded. “Yes, sir. Could be. But we need to watch it. I want to take your pressure again, if you don’t mind.”
Ezra offered his good arm. “Be my guest. I’m sure it’s gone down.”
Estrella wrapped the cuff and pumped it up, then watched the gauge.
“Estrella,” he began, not sure of what the right words might be. “Please don’t be upset by Mrs. Elliot’s comments. She’s very glad to have your help. It’s just that this is a hard time for her, with my injury and convalescence. And it’s difficult for her to allow anyone she doesn’t know well to come in here.”
Estrella nodded, then marked a notation on her chart. “I understand, Dr. Elliot. I am not taking this personally. She’s frightened,” she said simply. “That why she acts angry, no?”
“Yes, that’s it exactly.” He was relieved that she was so perceptive and understanding.
“My little girl, Marta, sometimes acts like that,” she said quietly.
“Really? How old is she again?” He knew she had children, but realized that so far he had never really asked about them.
“She’s six years old, in the first grade. She can read very well,” Estrella said proudly. “Sometimes corrects my English.”
“Keep her reading, that’s important. And how about your boy, how old is he?”
“Jorge is eight. He’s a good student, too, but had some trouble in school last year.”
“Oh, why was that? Too interested in sports or video games?”
Estrella shook her head and looked down at the chart again. “When my husband died. A hard loss for both of them. He
still doesn’t really understand why his papi is gone.”
Ezra felt as if he had been punched in the stomach. She’s a widow? He had not imagined that. “I am so sorry. I had no idea. You didn’t mention your husband. But you wear a ring,” he added.
She nodded, her pretty smile now a tight, thin line. “Yes, I wear my ring. I am not ready to take it off.” She paused and took a breath, composing herself. “It’s not your fault, Dr. Ezra. I didn’t tell you.”
“I know, but—”
She shook her head. “I didn’t tell you or Mrs. Elliot or your daughters on purpose. I want to be hired for my skills. Not out of your sympathy.”
“Of course.” Ezra nodded. He understood perfectly. “That’s why we did hire you . . . and we have not been disappointed,” he insisted. He paused, wondering if he should say more. Now he was curious about her home life. “So, can you tell me a little more about your family? You said you were from El Salvador. Is that where your husband was from, too?”
Estrella smiled and shook her head. “No, my husband was American. But we met in San Salvador. He was visiting there with a teaching organization. We were married and came back to the US, and I became a citizen. He traveled for his work, back and forth to Latin America,” Estrella explained. “But on a trip to Nicaragua he contracted an illness. By the time he came home and had treatment in a good hospital here, it was too late. The infection overwhelmed his body.”
“Oh dear, how awful for all of you.” Ezra thought of her young children and how she had been left all alone in this strange country.
“We’re managing, day by day,” she said evenly. “My mother was able to move up here. She’s a big help to me.”
“What about your husband’s family? Are they from New England?”
Estrella shook her head. “No. He grew up in Minnesota. His father is still there, but we don’t hear from him much. My sister-in-law lives in Philadelphia. We see her from time to time.”
Ezra nodded. It was a pity she didn’t have any close family ties to help her. “You have a lot on your plate, young lady, a lot on your plate.”
“It has been very difficult at times. But it gets better every day. I have my children, and they are a joy to me. No life is . . . smooth,” she said finally, after searching for the word. “Sí?”
“That’s right. There are always challenges, big and small. Is there any way we can help you?” he asked sincerely.
Estrella finally smiled again. A small smile, but to Ezra it shone like the sun peeking through clouds on a rainy day.
“You are kind to ask, Dr. Ezra. I am happy to have this job. That’s plenty.”
“We’re happy to have you here,” he assured her.
I am, at least, he added silently. Lillian would have to make the best of it, especially once she heard this young woman’s story.
Chapter Six
THE SANCTUARY WAS THE PERFECT PLACE TO PRACTICE THE cello. The church was empty and quiet. Reverend Ben and Mrs. Honeyfield were gone for the day, and the nursery school had let out a few hours ago. Amanda knew she had several hours to practice before the choir arrived for the Thursday night rehearsal.
She had to make do for dinner, heating herself a can of soup in the church kitchen. But it was worth it. She would not be interrupted here, unlike in her room at home, which was theoretically private, but was not really sacrosanct, especially to her little sister, Betty. The sanctuary, with its domed ceiling and high stone walls, provided a much fuller sound and was much more like playing on a stage in a large concert hall. Much more like an audition would be . . . if she ever got a call.
Amanda sat with the instrument in the center of the altar, and the notes reverberated from every wall, up to the high arched ceiling and back.
She was practicing a piece by Vivaldi, the Cello Concerto in F Major. The piece started with slow, sweeping notes, then built in intensity, with great tension and counterpoint. She came to a section marked allegro, and played fast and furiously, her strong fingers nimbly moving up and down the slim neck of the instrument, her bow working the strings to bring out just the right tone. She felt herself begin to perspire, beads of sweat on her hairline and forehead.
She didn’t pause to wipe it away. She wouldn’t be able to do that in a real audition. She wouldn’t even be aware of her body—sweating with effort or trembling with fear—she would be so focused on the music flowing through her fingertips, flowing through the strings of her instrument.
While one part of her mind followed the intricate notes that she knew by heart, another reviewed again the email she had found on Monday morning. A note from the director of a symphony orchestra in Austin, Texas. One of her teachers, Professor Sloan, had recommended her for a seat that was about to become vacant. Could she send her résumé and audition tape ASAP? Amanda had left the church, run home, and brought everything to the post office and sent it by overnight delivery.
She had called Professor Sloan yesterday to thank her and, as politely as possible, ask what her chances were of getting the job. She knew there had to be other candidates.
“I don’t want to get your hopes up, but I’d say your chances are very good. I know someone on the search committee. He said they listened to your tape as soon as it arrived, and it made a real impression. I put in a good word for you, too,” Professor Sloan added.
Amanda felt so elated, she thought she was going to float away. When she told her parents about it at the dinner table last night, she had tried to be low-key and not get everyone’s hopes up—including her own—but that was impossible.
“What great news, honey!” Molly said at once. “When will you hear?”
“Professor Sloan said they’re going to pick two finalists and have them come in for a live audition.”
“Oh, wow . . . dueling cellos,” her mother quipped.
“That will be tough,” her father agreed.
“I know they’ll pick you, honey. I just have a feeling about this.” Molly had gotten up from the table, carrying plates with one hand and giving Amanda’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze with the other.
“It sounds like you have a very good chance,” her father said, in a more reasonable tone. “We’ll just have to wait and see, right?”
Don’t count your chickens before they hatch was what he was really saying. Amanda knew that, but as she furiously tore through the remaining notes to the first section, putting all of her pent-up hopes and dreams into the rising and falling notes, she couldn’t help but believe, down in her soul, that this was it. She was going to get this seat. It was meant to be, and very soon. Just after the New Year, she would be practicing like this up on a professional stage in a real concert hall.
She swept the bow across the strings one last time, drawing out the final chord, a hauntingly beautiful sound that echoed through the dark, empty sanctuary.
Then, nothing. Her bow hand dropped to her side. Her chin dropped to her chest. She sat in the silence, listening to the sound of her own deep breaths and feeling her heart pounding.
Then from up in the balcony, she heard the sound of someone clapping wildly. She was startled and frightened. She had thought she was alone in the building. Who was in here? Had one of the choir members come in early?
“That was awesome. You’re a total genius!” Gabriel Bailey came to the edge of the balcony and looked down at her. “You should be in Carnegie Hall,” he said.
“Gabriel, you nearly scared me to death.” She was happy to see him, but he had practically given her a heart attack. She’d had no idea he was at the church today and had not caught sight of his truck or any of his equipment. In fact, despite their lovely outing on Sunday, she had only caught sight of him once this week, and they had barely said hello before Mrs. Honeyfield pulled her away for a phone call. She had been wondering if maybe he was avoiding her.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” He made a charming face. “I was going to say something, but I didn’t want to interrupt you.”
; “Interrupt me next time. It’s really okay.” She really didn’t like anyone listening when she was practicing. It was sort of unnerving. But as he came down the steps and walked toward her, her irritation dissolved.
He looked handsome as ever in a fisherman knit sweater, down vest, and his usual stained jeans. “I just stopped by to check one of the windows. I had to reshape a piece I used to repair it. I didn’t mean to scare you, honestly.”
She nodded, pushing her long hair to one side. She felt the moisture at the back of her neck and thought she must look a sweaty mess, as if she had just finished an aerobics class. “That’s all right. I didn’t mean to snap at you . . . Thanks for your good review.”
“I rarely listen to classical music,” he admitted. “But maybe I should start. That was beautiful. What was the name of it?”
“Vivaldi’s Cello Concerto in F Major.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “That’s a mouthful. They really knew how to name them in the old days, didn’t they?”
Amanda laughed. “The piece itself is actually quite long. I only played a section. I can burn a CD for you if you really like it.”
She wondered then if he was just trying to be nice, saying he wanted to listen to classical music. She didn’t want to force it on him.
“I’d like that a lot. I’d like to hear the whole thing. But it won’t be you playing on the recording, I guess?”
“Oh, no . . . I meant a recording of someone famous. Yo-Yo Ma or maybe Pablo Casals,” she said, naming two of the most towering artists in the world of classical music.
Gabriel shrugged. “I’m sure I’d enjoy that but, honestly, I’d rather hear you,” he said, making her blush. “Are you going to play your cello in church Sunday, as special music?”
Amanda had been a soloist in church a few times when she was in high school. It hadn’t even occurred to her to offer to perform with the cello here. She realized she had been keeping her church work and her “real” work in two separate compartments.
“I’m just practicing, to keep in shape for auditions,” she told Gabriel.
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