Chapter 13: Dress Rehearsal

The Arts Hall called on Friday, and the director sounded as if she were reading from a card held by someone else.

"The guest pianist has refused to touch any instrument not prepared by you," she said.

"It's in her rider. Mrs. Wexler has agreed to a one-day exception."

"Mrs. Wexler asked for me?"

"Mrs. Wexler said you would be most welcome."

I could hear the knife in it from across the city.

Cecily wanted me in the room.

She wanted me in a nice dress at her Steinway while three hundred donors ate their salmon.

She wanted me close enough to reach when she spoke.

I said I'd be there at two.

On Saturday I let myself in through the stage door with my tool roll under my arm.

The Providence Arts Hall is a gold-and-cream ballroom with a coffered ceiling and a stage at one end.

On the stage, alone under the work lights, stood a nine-foot concert grand with its lid propped up.

I loved it on sight.

It had a bad middle octave and a high register.

I slid onto the bench, set my lever on the first pin, and began to work.

For forty minutes I forgot every person in Rhode Island.

I was bringing a sour G down to true when the wing curtain moved behind me.

I didn't turn around.

I knew the cologne.

"They said you'd be here," Preston said.

I struck the key again.

"The stage is closed."

"Then I'll be quick."

He came around the piano into the light.

He wore a navy suit with his honey hair parted to the millimeter.

His smile was the one he had used on my grandmother at Christmas.

"You got my message," he said.

"I got a voicemail."

"I meant every word. Mother told me about the, ah, Reno business. It's frankly the best thing that could have happened."

"Is it."

"It proves you didn't know what you were doing. You were confused, grieving."

He leaned an elbow on the piano's rim.

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