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

followed behind her, excited to hear all about the weekend.

“Would you like a cup of tea? It must have been chilly in that convertible.”

She set about making the tea, and Melly sat down at the table and watched her mother busy herself. The time was right for a heart-to-heart.

“I think my memory is coming back,” she said. “I caught glimpses of things. I couldn’t really make them out, but they came back to me in flashes. It’s the first time it’s happened.”

Betsy placed the teapot down and took Melly in her arms.

“I am so happy for you. I can’t thank that doctor enough. Whatever you do, don’t forget to take your medication.”

20

During Melly’s stay at Longview, her PT had suggested sorting through her emails to find her friends. They must have been asking for updates.

She had been shown how to blink three times into the tablet screen to activate the facial recognition software, which instantly logged her into her in-box.

Instead of displays of genuine friendship, all Melly could see were vague messages of sympathy, best wishes from musician colleagues and fans, mainly in the days immediately following the accident. And then there had been silence, apart from a handful of invitations sent by PR agencies, unaware of what had happened to her.

Faced with this gaping void, Melly could only conclude that her life had been about nothing more than music. It must have been a lonely existence.

Her PT had insisted she stop thinking like that: true friends didn’t limit themselves to virtual communication.

In response, Melly had asked him if any of her friends had called or stopped by to see her, but the PT hadn’t known what to say in reply.

So Melly hadn’t bothered logging into her in-box since she had been back at her parents’ house.

The prospect of Simon writing to her changed everything, and as soon as she climbed into bed each night, she logged in to read the emails he sent from city to city.

Simon told her how the concerts had gone. He recounted the applause the audiences offered up, and sometimes described the people he met in the restaurants where he went for dinner, the atmosphere, the menus. He often promised her they would return together.

Before she fell asleep, Melly always replied, even if her own anecdotes weren’t the most exciting.

One night, as she turned on her tablet, she found herself greeted by a strange, anonymous message:

Don’t take the drugs.

From someone who cares.

She forwarded it to Simon, who swore up and down that it wasn’t him.

So who was this mysterious writer who cared? Why were they telling her this?

Simon threw himself into the investigation, and they texted back and forth through the night, spending the evening together despite the miles that separated them.

Does anyone know about the drug therapy?

Other than my parents? Nobody.

Could someone have found the box of pills in your things?

Dolores, maybe? When she packed my travel bag? But why would she write that?

I don’t know! Ask her!

Oh, awesome idea! Hey, Dolores, quick question: Did you go through my stuff and write an anonymous email? And by the way, what’s for dinner tonight?

How’s Toronto? What’s your room like?

Like the one I slept in last night, and the night before, and the night before the night before.

Are you stopping off in Boston before the end of the tour?

Maybe at the end of the month.

Are you going to take me out to dinner?

Um, it’s the only reason I’d be coming back?

That’s so sweet of you. You didn’t answer my question: How’s Toronto?

Look, I don’t want to stick my nose in your business, but . . . What are those drugs for?

My memory.

Has it improved since you started taking them?

Since I started taking what? Honestly, I’ve never felt as good as I did those two days we spent at Pia’s. And I wasn’t taking them then.

That’s because I’m the best drug there is.

Must be that. That weekend really was great.

We’ll go back. Promise.

Where are you playing tomorrow?

Reread last night’s text.

I know . . . St. Louis.

So why ask?

Because I don’t want you to hang up.

I don’t think you can hang up over text . . .

Well, you can now, Dr. Dictionary, since I just said so. Hey, look. It’s late, I’m going to let you go. You need to be fresh for tomorrow.

I’ll log on around midnight, as soon as I get to my room.

Where will you be again? Good night, Simy. Speak to you tomorrow. Love you.

Melly put her phone down on her bedside table and switched off the light.

Ten minutes later, the screen lit up again.

I’m naturally vain, you know. So I’d love nothing more than to believe that your feeling good that weekend was all my doing. Although Pia’s cooking probably helped . . . (don’t tell Dolores I said that). But thinking about it, I really believe you should stop the treatment for a few days and see how you feel. Dr. Dictionary’s orders. Anyway, on that note, now I really am going to bed.

The next day, Melly was sitting at her piano when she heard a rustling behind her. She tried to focus on the sheet music, but she couldn’t help turning around to see.

Somebody had slipped an envelope under the door.

She walked over and ripped it open.

Miss,

You are expected in my kitchen.

Your devoted Dolores, who has better things to do than play the messenger girl!

Melly reread the note and rushed to the kitchen through the left wing of the house to avoid the dragon’s lair.

Dolores, bent over the stove, simply pointed to the door to the garden without looking.

Outside, Simon was leaning against the back door of a cab.

“Please, whatever you do, don’t ask me why I’m not in St. Louis,” he called, walking toward her.

“But how come you’re not in St. Louis?”

“You won’t believe it, but the concert was canceled! There was a fire at the opera house last night. Luckily, they warned us all just before we boarded the plane.”

“And so you came to see me?”

“That’s enough. You’ve had your two dumb questions