As I hesitated in the hall, I reached for my cell phone to turn it off. Then, my nerves already firing at level ten, I quickly clicked to Mom’s number and shot off a text. My first attempt at contact in months.

I’m about to have a voice lesson with Odile Michaud!

Then I turned my phone off, pocketed it gingerly like a live grenade, and knocked on the door.

Odile took a long time to answer, but as soon as the door swung open, she leaned in to kiss my cheeks.

“My goodness, you are a woman now.” She walked away, motioning me to follow.

I peeked at doorways we passed, a small kitchen, a dusty sitting room piled with books, until we reached a dim living room with a piano filling half the space, a faded velvet sofa taking up most of the rest. A white Persian cat was asleep, purring loudly. He opened his eyes when I walked past, then shut them again as if unimpressed.

The whole place smelled like potpourri. Nobody else seemed to live here. I wondered what her life must be like.

She sat on the piano bench, her thick pearl necklace clattering against her silk blouse. “I did not know you were a singer, Ruby.”

“Well, I hope I am.”

She pointed a bent finger at me. “That is a good answer. Let’s find out.”

I’d prepared a simple aria from Don Giovanni that I’d heard a gazillion times, watching from my child-of-the-conductor seat in the pit. But Odile started me on scales and warmups.

“Hmmm,” she hummed, between each one. Then, after a series of arpeggios, she stood. “How long have you been singing, darling?”

“Forever, on my own. This is the first time I’ve—oh.”

She was touching my stomach, the way Liz had. “Let’s work on your breathing.”

We sang through some exercises together, her fingers pushing my abdomen, her own voice ringing out through the parlor with astonishing power.

Then she walked away. “Yes. Right.”

Her eyes crinkled as she looked at me.

“I brought a song,” I said, to fill the sudden silence. “Um . . . ‘Vedrai Carino’?”

“Non. Deceptive, that piece, although the range is certainly . . . hmm. I think this is a good start. I’ll give you exercises to work on at home and we’ll take it from there.”

“So . . .” I clenched my toes, gathering courage as she led me to the door. “Am I a singer?”

Her mouth fell open, then she smiled. “You are a Chertok. You have that drive to succeed, I can see that in you. Tell your papa we’ve made a good start.”

“Thank you!” I grinned, then blurted, “Merci,” like a goon, and she gave a grandmotherly wave as she slid the door shut, the click-click of locks following after.

On the elevator ride down, I turned my phone back on.