Hope, Levy, Marc [good summer reads TXT] 📗

like that.”

“Are you kidding me? Jeans and a sweater?”

“I think it’s pretty.”

“It’s scruffy . . . Anyway, what are you talking about? You’ve never worn anything that ugly!”

“Well, now I want to.”

“At your age?”

“Now you must be kidding me!” Melly laughed.

Harold frowned, his bushy eyebrows slanting in.

“This is a joke, right?”

“Look, you wanted to treat me, but since I have such poor taste, let’s forget the whole thing.”

Betsy’s shadow loomed large over the table, and Harold jumped up as the waiter sidled over to take their order.

“Come on. Let’s do this!”

Harold grabbed his daughter’s hand and rushed her toward the car.

“Quick, we’re going to lose her!”

“What’s the big rush?”

“You want me to get you old stuff? Okay. But we need to know where to find it. Who still wears jeans these days, apart from that hippie girl?”

They ducked into the car, and Harold pointed their quarry out to Walt as she disappeared onto the streetcar.

Walt overtook it, driving up to SoWa, south of Washington Street, and screeching to a halt in front of the Vintage Market.

As she browsed the market, a surge of happiness washed over Melly. She hadn’t felt this way since waking up at the Center.

“That.” She pointed to a navy-blue sweater folded on one of the shelves. “I’d like that.”

Harold rolled his eyes. He’d raised his daughter to become a thirty-year-old woman who liked to dress in rags. But Harold Barnett was on a mission, and there was no way he was going to disappoint Melly, let alone her mother.

And there was more. By the time they left SoWa, Melly had four bags full of things, and to make matters worse, she had categorically refused Walt’s offer to help carry them.

Betsy arrived home the next day. She was surprised not to hear the tinkling of the piano and knocked on Melly’s bedroom door. Her daughter was wearing a long chiffon skirt with a sleeveless blouse, a camel pashmina draped over her shoulders.

“How do I look?”

“Gorgeous,” Betsy replied.

“I’m not sure about the pashmina.”

Betsy moved behind her and slipped it off her shoulders.

“I think the blouse doesn’t quite go with the boho feel of the skirt. I have a shirt that would look stunning on you. Follow me.”

Betsy led her daughter into her rooms and rummaged around in her closet before holding up a T-shirt and a cardigan embellished with a woven Indian pattern.

“Here. This is even better. It’ll pull the whole look together.”

“You really wore this?”

“I was twenty.”

“I’m thirty.”

“All the more reason to finally start dressing your age.”

Melly removed her blouse and pulled on her mother’s T-shirt and cardigan. Inspecting herself in the mirror, she was thrilled with what she saw.

“Where are you going, all dressed up like that?”

“To see Simon.”

“Is he coming on to you?”

“I don’t think so.” Melly smiled.

“I do. He’s a good-looking man. Where is he taking you?”

“We’re meeting at the concert hall.”

“Did you father put you up to this?” Betsy asked.

“No, this time he had nothing to do with it. I called Simon. After all, there’s no risk in giving it a try. It’ll just be the two of us.”

“There’s more to life than piano, Melly.”

“Why are you saying that?”

“What did you do with your youth, other than tour the country? You’ve never been in a real relationship with a man, although I’m sure you probably had lovers along the way. Just before your accident, you told me something that terrified me.”

“What?”

“That you’d never felt heartache.”

“And that’s a problem?” Melly frowned.

“If that’s true, it means you’ve never been in love.”

“And what about you, Mom? Have you ever felt heartache?”

“Of course! Incredibly painful! Men who make you feel as if the world has stopped turning. Months spent choking on loneliness, begging the phone to ring as if your very life depended on a single call, as if the entire rest of your life stretched before you like an endless winter. And then spring returns, just as it always does. All it takes is a single look for you to learn to love again. And there was your father,” Betsy added.

“How did you meet Sam?”

“Sam?”

Betsy could see how upset Melly was.

“Are you all right, Melly? You’ve gone pale.”

“It’s nothing. It’s just a dream I had last night. It’s been on my mind all morning.”

“What was the dream?”

“It was like a childhood memory,” Melly started. “I was in my room, and I got up in the middle of the night to sit by the window. I was shaking with cold, and I was calling Sam to come and help me.”

“But who is Sam?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you sure it’s a good idea to go and rehearse with Simon?”

“Anything that gets me out of this house is a good idea.”

Betsy tugged at Melly’s T-shirt and adjusted the cardigan’s shoulders. She gazed at her daughter.

“I can’t believe you managed to convince Harold to buy you these clothes.”

“I didn’t give him a choice.”

“Your father isn’t a bad man, you know. He’s just a man. Behind the excessive pride is a worried, fragile soul. He’s bossy; he has high standards, yes. But deep down inside, he’s generous. I despair of him just as much as I love him. Back when we met . . .” Betsy hesitated. “I’ll save that story for another time. You’re going to be late.”

She pulled Melly toward her, and the two women hugged.

“You go ahead. We’ll have lunch together another time, and I’ll tell you the story.”

Melly jumped in a cab, but along the way, she spotted a streetcar heading for where she was going. She decided to take it instead, just for fun. She spilled out onto the sidewalk outside Symphony Hall’s imposing turn-of-the-century building, designed by one of Pei’s apprentices.

Inside, Simon was alone onstage, tuning his violin. He looked up as Melly walked in. The piano stood in the center of the stage, its lid lifted and ready. She greeted Simon and sat down on the stool. She looked just right.

Simon suggested they start with the second movement of the last