After looking at the expression on Ezra’s face, one that contained the understanding that his father saw his accident as a failure, Emily realized that it hadn’t been easy for him to grow up in that house, the sole focus of two hypersuccessful parents. She was glad they hadn’t seen this miscarriage as a failure, even though that was how it felt to Emily.

—

The four Golds walked into the fund-raiser together and started circulating, chatting with the people they knew, getting drinks, visiting the food stations for pasta or freshly sliced pastrami or charcuterie or cheese. Emily wandered over to the silent auction area and bid on a week at a vacation home in East Hampton that she knew Ezra would like, donated by a man named Darren Maxwell, and a dinner at the chef’s table at Daniel, donated by the chef himself, which, if Ezra didn’t want to go to, Ari certainly would.

“Hey, Emily,” a woman said. Emily turned around. It was Hala, one of the doctors who worked with Ezra.

“How’s Ezra doing tonight?” she asked.

“Fine?” Emily replied, her answer more a question than she meant it to be, as she remembered their conversation before he got into the shower, his puffy eyes.

“I’m so glad,” Hala said. “I was afraid he would take it personally.”

“Yeah,” Emily answered, not wanting to ask what Hala was talking about. It couldn’t be the miscarriage. It must be something else entirely. Something work-related. Clearly something she should have known about. It was easy to fall back on her therapy training: “How are you doing?” she asked.

Hala shrugged. “Well, it wasn’t my patient, but I think we’re all a little shaken.”

Emily nodded. “Understandable,” she said, running her finger around the rim of her wineglass, hoping again nothing had happened to Malcolm.

Hala looked over at the silent auction. “I heard there’s a ski weekend in Vermont in the offerings. Did you see it?”

“I did,” Emily said, finishing the last of her wine and handing the glass to a server who was coming by to collect the empties. “Over in the right corner, I think.”

“Thanks.” Hala walked over, leaving Emily to wonder what in the world happened to Ezra today at work. What could have left all the doctors shaken?

As she was wondering, the pianist who had been playing jazz all evening started the “Maple Leaf Rag.” Emily was drawn toward the piano. She stopped a polite distance away and watched the musician’s fingers fly over the keys. Soon Emily’s fingers were playing an imaginary piano, mimicking what the pianist was doing exactly. The music was still inside her; it had always been inside her, she just hadn’t let it out for years.

xix