Something about that simple misstep struck me hard. She’d always prided herself on cultivating musicians, managing the talent, boosting, pacifying—but with Oscar, she hadn’t even thought that far, too busy scrambling to get out, to pull this off, to escape.

She should have left before tonight.

In the corridor, the end of a long line of young musicians headed off to the Lilly Hall stage, instruments in hand. In my head, I wished them luck with the same elaborate handshake routine we used to practice at Wildwood. Then I slipped down a different stairwell, passed through the cacophonous lobby and into the empty house, presenting my ticket to be checked.

Dad’s section of seats was as close to the stage as you could get without crawling on. Alice always joked that Dad would sit in the middle of the orchestra for every performance if they would let him, and she wasn’t far off base. He preferred to be part of the action—and tonight, so did I.

Hardly anybody was seated yet, apart from a few older folks, and a small man in the third row wearing press credentials. Simon Wilkerson.

As I walked to Dad’s seat in the front row, his eye caught mine, and he shot me a barely perceptible nod. It could have just been a hello. But it did strike me as interesting that he wasn’t out there in the lobby, interviewing Nora and guests, almost as if he had his story already and was waiting to see how it would play out.

He wouldn’t be disappointed.

The orchestra filled the stage like the tide sweeping over a beach, then sounds began to percolate, small adjustments before the big tuning. Somehow, those notes pierced me more than composed music.

The choir filed in, taking their seats along the side of the stage, and the sight of them cut me like a brand-new wound. It was silly to have hoped. But I had hoped—recklessly, fully, with every part of me.

I mourned belonging to this. I probably always would . . . unless there was still another role I could play. I thought of the tech people, the ticket takers, the back-office staff, the hit-the-ground fundraisers, the people who made the instruments, the people who built the talent.

I thought of Mrs. Swenson, all those years ago, helping me position my hands over the keys like clouds—Let the rain fall, drip-drop, one finger at a time.

I missed her. I owed her a visit.

Chatter joined the instrumental din as the audience took their seats. Someone behind me was going to a wedding at Elon Musk’s house. Another was deeply concerned about a real estate deal in Arizona. Another was so busy, never a moment to rest, insane really . . .

I tuned them out. Breathed. Waited.