“You don't know?” he was incredulous. “And you're Lu Law-son's granddaughter.” He led her closer to the painted wall. “The Gypsy Robe, my infant, is a glorious Broadway tradition designed to acknowledge the kids of the chorus. You do know that the chorus kids in a musical are known as the gypsies—right?”

Carrie didn't, but she nodded.

“Thank God. At least you have a grasp of the basics,” he said fervently. “The robe ritual has been around since the fifties. Each time a new musical opens on Broadway, one member of the chorus—usually the one who has worked the most shows and has the most credits—is given the Gypsy Robe. On opening night that chorus member dons the robe and officially becomes the king or queen of Broadway. He or she parades around the stage in a circle and each member of the cast touches the robe for luck. When another musical opens, the robe is passed on. The chorus ponies in each show stitch a memento onto the robe while it's in their possession. The chorus of The Sound of Music sewed a nun's headdress to it—that was one of the more famous ones.”

“So it was an honor for your …” Carrie stopped herself from saying “partner.” “For your lover.”

“It meant everything to him.” George looked down at the cuff on his wrist. There was an inscription on it, and he traced it with his finger. “Davy was a dancer,” he said. “He never wanted anything more. Just being in show business was enough for him. It was for me too. I never had any big ambitions.”

“But you were a conductor—isn't that big?”