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

concerto they had played together, and as a troubled expression darted across Melly’s face, he added that the sheet music was on the stand.

He started by letting her practice alone first, joining in as soon as the first few notes of “Young Dancers in the Moonlight” rang out.

George Rapoport stepped out of his office to listen, hiding behind the stage. Half an hour later, he sighed and returned to his business.

As the afternoon drew to a close, Simon decided they had practiced enough for a first session, and he took her to eat at a nearby restaurant.

As soon as they left, Rapoport took out his phone and called Harold.

Melly took Simon to Mimi’s. The restaurant was packed, and so they decided to grab lunch at the bar. Simon ordered two glasses of champagne.

“That was interesting for a first attempt,” he said, clinking Melly’s glass.

“Not good enough?”

“We’ll need to rehearse some more to get you back in the game, but I promise, you coped very well. We started with a pretty tricky piece.”

“You’re a bad liar, which is a shame, because I have to take your word for it.”

“Don’t exaggerate.” Simon smiled. He was teasing her.

“No, seriously. I read the music, and my hands do the work without me thinking. It’s a strange feeling. Almost disturbing.”

“I know a lot of pianists who would love to be as disturbed as you. You’re as talented as you ever were.”

“So what’s the problem?”

Simon handed her the menu.

“I’m absolutely starving. What would you like? My treat.”

Betsy was surprised not to find Harold in the dining room. He was always unfailingly punctual when it came to meals. She called down the corridor, stuck her head into his office, ventured up to the bedroom, and called Walt to check whether her husband was home. The driver said he was, but didn’t know where exactly he might be.

With a growing sense of niggling worry, Betsy scoured both wings of the mansion. Wondering whether she had missed anything, she retraced her steps and headed for the music room. Harold was slumped in the armchair he always sat in when listening to his daughter play, holding his head in his hands. He hadn’t even heard Betsy come in.

“Harold? What’s wrong?”

He looked up. His face was crumpled with sorrow, and a shot of anxiety rushed through Betsy.

“Has something happened to Melly?”

“No,” he sighed.

“Do you swear?”

“She’s fine. She’s having lunch downtown.”

Betsy looked at him worriedly.

“Were you having an affair? Has she left you?”

“Don’t be silly . . .”

“Then tell me what’s wrong, Harold.”

“Rapoport!”

“Is George unwell?”

“No. He’s highly perceptive, with a taste for cruelty that I never would have suspected.”

“Is he cheating on Nina?”

“Betsy, stop with the affairs thing. You’re beginning to annoy me!” Harold sighed. “He called me earlier to tell me our daughter has lost her talent. He said, ‘Her hands move perfectly, my dear Harold. That’s the least you’d expect after all these years. But the feeling, Harold. Where has her feeling gone? Melody has lost her artistic soul, Harold.’ The moron felt he needed to use my name with every sentence, like a hammer striking in a nail and hitting it over and over, even once it’s disappeared into the wall. ‘We can’t have her back in the orchestra, Harold,’ he said. ‘I can’t tell you how much it pains me to say’ . . .”

“To say what?”

“I don’t know. I hung up on him.”

“You were right to do so.”

“I should buy the orchestra and have him fired.”

“You should think of how you’re going to break the news to Melody, instead.”

“Something happened. Melly’s not herself. Have you seen how she dresses, now?”

“Harold . . .”

“Oh please, don’t you start too! I know my own name, goddamn it!”

“Please, calm yourself and listen to me. We nearly lost her. The miracles of modern medicine brought her back to us. But the time has come for us to grieve the person she was before the accident. It’s true; she’s changed,” Betsy conceded. “She’s more carefree now, less obsessed with her music. Sometimes she seems somewhere else. She speaks a little differently. She’s interested in other things. And in other people, which she never used to be. Her tastes have changed, and although her career might be over, one thing hasn’t changed: she’s still our daughter, Melly.”

“Well, I don’t recognize her anymore! She doesn’t look at me as if I were a monster. Sometimes, it’s like she’s not even there. Her answers don’t make sense, or they feel wrong. When we talk about the past, she says the wrong thing when she tries to convince us that she remembers what we’re talking about. It’s more than that.” Harold reflected. “It’s as if she’s never lived in this house at all. It’s as if she’s never shared anything at all with us. Don’t say anything.” He held up a hand. “I can see it in your eyes. I know what you’re thinking. Okay, so I’m a monster, and you’re a saint. But I’m a monster who sees things for what they are. You’re in denial.”

Harold strode across the room and went to shut himself in his office.

That night, Betsy couldn’t sleep. A storm was rumbling across the region. The rain battered the windowpanes as lightning flashed, illuminating the bedroom. Betsy wasn’t scared of the thunder, but the wind that howled through the estate’s treetops made her shiver, plunging her back into that night when everything had changed. She tossed and turned on her pillow, and thought back to Melly’s nightmare. It hadn’t been the first. One night before, she had walked past her bedroom, and heard her whimpering through the door.

At half past five in the morning, Betsy went down to the kitchen. The staff wasn’t up yet, but she didn’t care. She relished being alone. She made herself a cup of tea and sat down at the table. She needed to think.

When the clock struck six o’clock, she gathered her courage in both hands and left Melly’s