I understood why. It was the quality of the music, the inventiveness, but the audio wasn’t the only reason this had gone viral. It was the visual.

Oscar Bell, jaunty shirtsleeves and a loosened polka-dot tie, natural hair haloing an ecstatic face as he conducted with passionate strokes. His baton wasn’t tidy. He looked like he wasn’t sure what to do with his left hand. He needed work.

But Nora was right. He was music. No separation between him and the piece. It flowed from him, flooding the orchestra, the audience, me in this backseat, staring at a tiny screen—wishing I could grasp it somehow, that invisible element, that perfect confidence. That joy. I wanted to steal it for just an hour, a minute, a heartbeat . . .

“Finally.” The car stopped with a jolt and Nora took back her phone. “Tea time for me time!”

I got out of the car a little shakily, thanking the driver before stepping out onto familiar red bricks. We’d arrived at Bethesda Terrace—a vast, sweeping patio bustling with tea-goers in sundresses, sprinkles on a red velvet cupcake.

Nora pulled one side of her dress straight, nearly falling over in the process. “I should warn you—there are always photographers at these things. Vanity Fair, Vogue, city papers. You don’t mind having your picture taken, do you? It can be a little much.”

“Oh.” I was suddenly mortified by my dress. “Do I look all right?”

“Ruby! You could wear a potato sack!” She winked at a young man holding a clipboard, then cut a line for us through the clustered crowd. “That’s an expression, of course, but do you know—I tagged along to the spring Chanel show and what do you think I saw coming down the runway? Lydia!” she hollered into the distance. A tall woman with buttercup-blond hair swiveled to wave back. “There’s someone you’ve got to meet.”

Lydia’s eyes widened into perfect circles, a little girl spotting a fairy. “That’s not.”

“It is!” Nora beamed, then stood on her tiptoes to whisper to me, “See? Everyone likes you already. Sarah?” She pirouetted to touch the wrist of someone passing. “I thought you were in Malta! Don’t tell me that fell through?”

A glance around the party as Nora’s many friends descended was all it took to explain Dad’s comment about drinking. For a tea party, there sure was a lot of champagne being passed around. A huge banner of sun-dappled oaks competed with the park itself, Bethesda Fountain splashing happily, the mossy lake napping beyond. Everyone here was laughing or on the verge of it, languid bodies, cheery cheeks, like today was the first day of a long-awaited vacation. Conversation rose in waves and—