I made a mental note to mention this to Gail when I next saw her. I fancied she’d pay me a visit by the bandstand that evening, this being our first “night off” from the task of orchestrating Swing.

That evening, no Gail.

The next day went by for me in jittery aimlessness, and every time I looked up from my music that evening, I saw her not standing there.

She’d told me in her note that she had a big student recital to prepare for and that she was woefully behind, owing to the time we’d spent on Swing, so there was a logical explanation, of course. But still it seemed odd that she hadn’t called. I feared the obvious: that with my arrangement of Swing completed, I was no longer important to her.

I was also growing increasingly restless with the fact that I would likely never know if Gail was my daughter or not. I would have to be stoic about this, possibly forever.

I can manage stoic for about three days.

If science couldn’t assist me, how else might I better judge if Gail was my child? I found myself wishing I had some hereditary trait, like an attached earlobe or a webbed hand, the kind of “clew” in a Gothic novel indicating that the peasant girl is really the lost Princess of Gastonia. I wondered if a police expert, looking at photos of our faces, would be able to detect any common features.

Then I had what I thought was a very bright idea. And even if it wasn’t, the idea would give me an excuse to drop by the Berkeley Women’s Independent Collegiate Club the next afternoon.

The switchboard operator buzzed Gail on the intercom to let her know she had a guest. She greeted me in the lobby six minutes later. She was wearing a long black dress, and her hair was pinned back. She had many sheaves of classical music under her arm. “Hey there, Ray, I’m just leaving. What’s the story?”

It was not quite the greeting I had imagined, but she was cordial enough. I told her that although the orchestra parts wouldn’t be ready until Friday, I wondered if she’d like to have lunch with me tomorrow. I said I thought it would be nice to just get together without having to think about the chart.

I said I also wanted her to meet a friend of mine who lived in the area.

I didn’t seem to have her full attention. “Lunch. Um, sure, I suppose. I have a carillon concert on Treasure Island at three tomorrow. The new fellow who was covering for me last week expects me to return the favor. That’s one of the reasons I’m spread so thin right now. Where would you like to meet?”