No One Knows Us Here(59)

The picture on the screen switched to Leo. To Leo and me, larger than life. Leo was smiling and waving, revealing all of his evenly tiled teeth. I was there, cowering next to him, my eyes wide and scared, like someone emerging from captivity. The audience was applauding, and Leo whispered into my ear, “Smile,” and I widened my lips into the semblance of a smile. He kissed my temple again and, finally, the screen flashed back to the musicians on the stage.

As I watched the musicians play, I tried not to focus on Sam, tried not to pick him out of the sea of faces on the stage. I closed my eyes and tried to hear him, just him, a dark little voice in the background, harmonizing with the higher, brasher voices of the violins. He must have seen me there, up on the screen, seen Leo Glass kissing my temple, squeezing my shoulder. Seen my mouth open wide in that jack-o’-lantern grin.

The after-party—of course there was an after-party—took place in a room that rivaled the concert hall in elegance. A big, open space with shiny floors and gold and crystal chandeliers. Waiters circulated with trays of hors d’oeuvres and glasses of champagne. I grabbed a glass off a tray as a waiter passed by and began drinking at once, finishing it in three greedy gulps.

None of the musicians appeared to be here. Maybe they weren’t coming. Leo and I were the youngest people in attendance by about thirty years. The crowd was a sea of gray hair and sequined gowns and dark suits.

Then they arrived, all together. The musicians—only about a dozen of them, not the whole orchestra—stood together in a semicircle around the conductor, who raised his baton. They lifted their instruments, the baton went down, and they began to play.

I recognized this one, too. It was a part of Sam’s repertoire. A lively piece, one that got everyone smiling and clapping and migrating toward the source of the music so they could be a part of it, a part of something amazing, an encore just for us.

Sam was there. He was tapping his foot to the beat, dipping his head, his hair messed up and flopping like it did in all the Ferguson videos.

Leo was concentrating on the music, his head bobbing in time with the beat. Was it my imagination, or was he focusing on Sam in particular? Leo bent down and whispered in my ear, “He’s good, isn’t he?”

Before I could open my mouth to answer, Leo started making his way to the bar on the other side of the room. I followed him mutely. I second-guessed myself again. Maybe he had no idea. I just needed to play it cool.

At the bar, Leo presented me with a dry martini. When I sipped, alcohol fumes bubbled up my nose. A good stiff drink. Okay. That was how I was going to get through this.

I turned around with my drink, but Leo was no longer by my side. No, he was ten feet in front of me, an animated look on his face, talking to someone. Through the crowd, I couldn’t see who it was, but I knew. I knew before I sidled up next to him and saw with my own eyes. He was talking to Sam.

I linked my arm through Leo’s and gave Sam a cool smile. “Hello,” I said, interrupting their conversation. I hadn’t heard anything either of them were saying. I’d decided to jump in, the way you needed to jump into an ice-cold pool, all at once.

I extended my hand for Sam to shake. He had to shift his viola to his other side to offer me his hand. We locked eyes, and I gave him a steely stare as we shook. I prayed that he’d get it, this silent communication. “I’m Rosemary,” I said. “We’ve met a few times. You’re my next-door neighbor.”

“Of course,” Sam said.

In that moment when our hands were touching, I could feel something between us, like an electric shock. He felt it, too, I could tell. He recovered, though. “Leo was just telling me that.”

“My sister, Wendy, is a big fan,” I said.

“It’s always nice to meet a Ferguson fan. It’s not like there are that many of them.”

Leo chuckled at this. He asked Sam about Magdalene Heiss, the teacher. “I saw her perform once, in Vienna. She is remarkable.”

“Excuse me.” I slid my arm out of Leo’s and dipped my head in a demure way, the lady’s method of announcing she needed to retire to the restroom.

I slipped into the crowd. I walked slowly at first, moving my hips back and forth like a model on the catwalk, in case Leo was watching. When I got out of their eyesight, I sped up, pushing past waiters and the gray-haired ladies. My heart was pounding in my throat, and my vision dimmed. I was still holding the martini glass in my hand. It was empty. I set it on a small table I passed by on my way out of the main room and into a long hallway. It was quieter in there. My footsteps echoed down the polished stone floors.

The restroom was large, one of those old-fashioned lounges with a seating area complete with makeup tables and upholstered chairs. It was empty, and for that I was grateful. I bent over, resting my hands on my knees, and breathed in and out rapidly. I was hyperventilating. I was wheezing, the air stuck in my throat. I closed my eyes and tried to focus. Breathe, I told myself. Breathe.

Just hours before, I had told Leo Glass I was up for anything. He made me sit inside my apartment for four days for my own personal safety, I had convinced myself. Threw away my old coat because I deserved a beautiful new one. And he took me to the symphony because he loves classical music. Sure. Maybe.

After a moment, I stood back up and smoothed out the skirt of my dress. A woman entered the restroom and beelined straight toward the stalls. I examined myself in the mirror and adjusted my hair. I looked fairly decent, my face flushed but not terribly so. I reapplied my lipstick and gave myself an approving nod.