“Meaning mind my own business. Well, I suppose you’re right,” Alvirah agreed cheerfully.
She glanced across the street again. The young woman was walking rapidly away, headed west. Alvirah squinted to get a good look at her classic profile even as she admired her regal carriage. “She looks familiar,” she said flatly. “I’ll have to put on my thinking cap.”
4
They’re talking about me, Sondra thought as she hurried away. The townhouse she had been standing in front of was no longer under repair, as it had been before. There was no scaffolding to shield her today as she tried to decide what to do.
But what could she do? Certainly she couldn’t buy back that moment seven years ago when she had crossed the street, opened the stroller and left her baby on the rectory stoop. If only. If only, she thought. Then: Dear God, where can I turn? What happened to her? Who took my little girl? She fought back tears.
A cab with its light on was stopped in traffic. She raised her hand to signal the driver. “The Wyndham, on West Fifty-eighth between Fifth and Sixth,” she said as she got into the backseat.
“First visit to New York?” the cabbie asked.
“No.” But I haven’t been here in seven years, she thought. Her first visit had been when she was twelve and her grandfather brought her here from Chicago to a Midori concert at Carnegie Hall. He had brought her twice again after that. “Someday you will play on that stage,” he had promised her solemnly. “You have the gift. You can be as successful as she.”
A violinist whose hands had been limited by arthritis, cutting short his career, her grandfather had made his living as a music teacher and critic. And supported me, Sondra thought sadly-when he was sixty years old he took me in.
She had been only ten when her young parents had been killed in an accident. Granddad devoted himself to me, taught me everything he knew about music, she reminded herself. And he used every spare penny he could find to take me to hear the great violinists.