Chapter 8 - Richard Came To A Public School Recital
Six months later, Richard Vale sat in the back row of an elementary-school auditorium.
Nobody recognized him.
That was good for him.
Metal folding chairs.
Bad acoustics.
A paper snowflake still taped to one wall from December.
He had received the invitation from Mara.
Not Sophie.
That mattered.
Claire sat beside him.
“You look terrified.”
“I’ve negotiated hostile acquisitions.”
“Seven-year-old piano recital.”
“Exactly.”
Mara was three rows ahead.
She turned once.
Saw him.
Nodded.
Nothing more.
The recital was not about Beatrice.
Sophie played a short piece by Clementi.
Missed one note.
Kept going.
Richard smiled.
Afterward, children swarmed the lobby with cookies and parents.
Sophie found him.
“You came.”
“You invited me.”
“Mom invited you.”
“Correct.”
She looked pleased he remembered the distinction.
Then:
“I have something.”
She pulled a clean sheet from her folder.
The coda.
Photocopied.
At the top were both names exactly as the corrected archive now carried them.
Richard stared at it.
Sophie said:
“Don’t rip it.”
Claire choked on her coffee.
Richard nodded solemnly.
“I won’t.”
Sophie handed it to him.
“Mom says the old one was just a copy anyway.”
“I know.”
“So you got really dramatic for nothing.”
Claire laughed out loud.
Richard looked at Mara.
She was trying not to smile.
“Apparently.”
Sophie took the page back.
Then:
“Can I ask you something?”
“Yes.”
“Did Mrs. Vale like this ending?”
Richard looked at the music.
“She loved it.”
“Did she like my mom?”
“Yes.”
“Did you?”
That was harder.
“Sometimes.”
Sophie frowned.
“That’s rude.”
“It was complicated.”
“Adults say that when they don’t want to explain.”
Claire nearly applauded.
Richard sighed.
“I liked your mother when she made Beatrice happy.”
Sophie waited.
“I disliked her when I thought she was making things harder.”
“Was she?”
“Sometimes.”
Sophie nodded.
Fair enough.
Then Richard added:
“And sometimes I blamed her because I didn’t like what was happening.”
Sophie looked at him.
“That makes more sense.”
It did.
Mara walked over.
“Ready to go?”
Sophie nodded.
Then held the music up.
“Can I play the ending for him?”
Mara looked at Richard.
He immediately said:
“Ask your mother.”
Sophie rolled her eyes.
“I just did.”
Mara smiled.
“Yes.”
They returned to the auditorium.
No crowd.
No gala.
No champagne.
Only a janitor stacking chairs near the back.
Sophie sat at the school piano.
Richard stood several feet away.
Not beside the bench.
She began the coda.
It was slower than at the gala.
Less impressive.
Better.
Halfway through, Sophie stopped.
Richard’s body tightened automatically.
“What happened?”
“I forgot.”
He almost told her the next note.
He knew it.
So did Mara.
Neither spoke.
Sophie tried again.
Wrong note.
She frowned.
Mara asked:
“Want help?”
Sophie thought.
“No.”
She started the phrase again.
Found it herself.
Then finished.
Richard felt something loosen inside him.
For twenty years, he had treated those twelve bars as a monument that had to be protected from incorrect interpretation.
Sophie treated them as music.
Something you could forget.
Restart.
Change tempo.
Learn.
When she finished, Richard clapped once.
Sophie glared.
“You’re supposed to wait.”
He lowered his hands.
“Sorry.”
“Now.”
He clapped.
Claire laughed.
Mara did too.
Later, while Sophie packed her folder, Richard said quietly to Mara:
“I’m sorry I made you disappear from Beatrice’s story.”
Mara looked at him.
“That’s better.”
“Better than what?”
“Than saying you’re sorry for everything.”
He nodded.
“I’m sorry I told Claire you wanted her distance.”
Mara’s face changed.
“That one matters more.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
He did now.
Not because the music credit had cost Mara money or fame.
It had cost something stranger.
For years, Claire had remembered Mara as a woman who tried to take from her dead mother.
Mara had remembered Claire as a girl who rejected her.
Richard had protected himself from one uncomfortable relationship by poisoning another.
That could not be fixed by changing a title page.
Mara said:
“I don’t forgive that yet.”
Richard nodded.
“I know.”
She studied him.
“You’re doing better.”
“At what?”
May you like
“Not deciding the ending.”
For once, Richard let somebody else have the last sentence.
