The Silent Sister(62)

“Yes, I’m Jade,” she said to the woman, getting to her feet. She followed her into the classroom where a panel of three men and two more women sat, ready to judge her. She thought of all the times she’d imagined her audition for Juilliard. The people in front of her were not Juilliard professors, but they still took themselves seriously. She could tell by the lack of smiles, and the way they stared at her made her uneasy. Could they see Lisa MacPherson in her face? Her father had warned her against doing this, and for a moment she was afraid he’d been right.

She played Kreisler’s “Sicilienne” and the second movement of “Aus der Heimat,” and she thought it went okay. She stayed emotionally detached from her playing, knowing from experience that was the ticket to mediocrity.

“Very nice,” the woman who’d led her into the room said when she’d finished, and a few of the others nodded.

“With whom did you study?” one of the men asked.

“My father, actually.” She’d practiced the lie and was pleased that it slipped out easily. “He never pursued the violin seriously, but he was well trained and he taught me.”

“That’s remarkable,” the man said. “And you’ve had no other instructor? No concert experience?”

She shook her head. She knew she was drawing attention to herself by her very effort not to. It was unusual to play as well as she had with no formal training. They stared at her. Oh, God, she thought. Did they think they’d discovered a diamond in the rough? A musical freak of nature? She needed to offer more of an explanation. “I played as a hobby, really,” she said. “My father and I played together around the house, just for fun. I never considered music as a career, though. I’d always wanted to be a teacher. But last year, while I was an education major, I really missed playing. And then I realized I could have both. Music and a teaching career.” She smiled uncertainly.

They still stared. “All right,” the woman said finally. “We’ll contact you in two to four weeks.”

She left the room. She knew they would talk about her once she was gone. She couldn’t lift a violin without attracting attention. It had been that way her entire life. As long as no one looked into her story—called her mythical father in Maryland, for example—she’d be okay. She should have said he’d died.

But then they’d be talking about her even more.





30.

Riley

The morning after my trip to Myrtle Beach, I finally got around to checking the external hard drive in my father’s office, reassuring myself that every speck of data from his computer had been saved. Then I began erasing the files on his computer, making good progress until I got to the e-mail. I was curious to see the last e-mail I’d sent him. I wanted to know that the last message he had from me had been loving and had left him with a good feeling the morning he went to the Food Lion.

He seemed to have no organization in place for his e-mails. The messages from collectors—and there were zillions of them—were mixed in with my e-mails and e-mail from Jeannie as well. I knew her e-mail name—Jlyons—and nearly every other message seemed to be from her. I found my last one, written the day before he died.

We can come down on the 24th and stay through the weekend, if that works for you.

It took me a minute to remember what I’d been referring to—Bryan and I had planned to visit my father for the Memorial Day weekend. That seemed so long ago now. I sighed at the impersonal message. I wished I’d signed every single e-mail “Love, Riley.” Would that have been so hard to do?

The next message was from Jlyons and I couldn’t help myself. I clicked on it.

How about I make your favorite and I’ll pick up a Redbox movie? Love, your Little Genie.

I cringed. Was that his pet name for her? I had no idea what it meant, nor did I ever want to find out.

I clicked on the next e-mail, feeling nosy now.

Frank, I have the beautiful meerschaum pipe you’re looking for. Excellent condition. The carving of the woman is a rich even-toned amber color. Let me know if you’d like a picture. I’d ask $150, as I have no real need to part with it.

That was the type of e-mail I expected to see in my father’s in-box. I clicked on the next one.

That is the best birthday card ever. You are amazing! Love you, Celia.

I stared at that one. Who the hell was Celia? And did Little Genie know another woman was sending “love you” notes to my father … who may have had a more interesting life than I’d ever given him credit for? This last year, he’d gotten into creating cards online for every occasion, but I couldn’t remember any I’d received that I would have called “amazing.”

“Hey, Riley.” Christine appeared in the doorway. “Can you come down to the kitchen for a minute? I’m pricing things and I need to talk to you about the stuff in the cupboards.”

I glanced up at her, then back at the screen. “I’ll be there in a minute,” I said. “I just have to do a couple more things here.”

“It would be great if you could come down now,” she said. “I’m making good progress today and you don’t want to stop me when I’m on a roll.”

Go away, I thought to myself as I listened to her footsteps clicking down the hall.

I tried to return my attention to the e-mail, but I could hear Christine clattering around downstairs in the kitchen and decided to get whatever she wanted over with. With a sigh, I shut down the computer and went downstairs. I walked into the kitchen to see that she had nearly every plate and glass and pot and pan out of the cabinets and stacked on the countertops and the table.