My dreams? Alternately wonderful and nightmarish. Linney turning into Gail, Gail turning into Martha, Martha turning into Nancy. In one much-too-vivid vision, Pacifica came to life and, humming the discordant notes of Gail’s composition, tore away from her pedestal and walked with eyes closed down the Court of the Seven Seas until she stood alongside the Tower of the Sun. Then, horrendously, her eyes opened . . . but the sockets were empty and black. She reached through the similarly empty and dark arches atop the Tower and plucked a screaming woman from amid the carillon bells, then hurled her to the ground below, into the Court of the Moon. But whether the woman was Marie Prasquier or one of the other women who now held dominion over my life, I couldn’t say.

My hours with Gail were maddening. I wanted to let her know how proud her father was of the woman she’d become, how admiring he was of her engaging personality and daring creativity. She continued to be wounded by the way I quarantined any of her attempts at playful sparring. I knew I was hurting her feelings, but that was the goal: to impair and impinge any emotions she might have that might border on romantic, until she regarded me the way she regarded the Uncle Joe of whom she’d spoken so fondly, the one who’d helped her through life and shepherded her into music.

The work itself was progressing well. I’d never had an assistant, not to mention someone who knew the piece I was arranging better than I did. Having another person to take care of the secondary tasks dramatically accelerated our pace.

On Saturday the weather cleared, and with Martha Prentice home for the weekend and policing the hall outside Gail’s bedroom for any frivolous laughter or conversation, we got a lot accomplished. But I was miserably aware that once we were done, I would not be seeing Gail again for a long time, perhaps forever. I loved simply being in the same room with her, hearing the sound of her erasing a mistake and sweeping away the dottles of rubber with a swipe of her forehand. It seemed nearly criminal that if I were to have only this short time with her, we couldn’t enjoy it more, that I had to be this dour stone-faced statue in the corner.

When I left for that evening’s stint at the Claremont, a sadness overtook me. I’d see her again the next morning, but this collaboration would last only a few days longer. I reminded myself that losing someone because she was far away or shut out of my life would be a far different sadness than losing someone to death. I’d at least have the solace of knowing Gail was out there somewhere, living a life, having adventures. Perhaps I might become Gail’s unknown benefactor, leaving presents at her doorstep on her birthday, attending her concerts—