“Probably very good.”
“For Mr. Blackstone?”
She glanced across the room.
“Probably not.”
Emma almost laughed.
Richard stood at his table speaking urgently into his phone.
His lunch remained untouched.
The same lunch he said was getting cold.
Emma wondered if he noticed.
Hartford’s phone rang.
He answered.
“Yes?”
He listened.
Then looked toward Emma.
“You need to come down.”
Another pause.
“No.”
“I’m serious.”
“Meridian Grand.”
He hung up.
Emma frowned.
“Who?”
Hartford smiled.
“Someone who needs to hear you.”
Emma shook her head.
“I can't play again.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“Good.”
“Today.”
She almost smiled.
Within forty minutes, the restaurant became impossible.
People entered from the lobby asking about the pianist.
Hotel security tried preventing crowds.
Employees whispered.
Phones rang.
Emma sat in a quiet private room the manager offered.
Food rested in front of her.
She had eaten more than she should have after going so long without a full meal.
Her body felt heavy.
Her mind felt worse.
She looked at the backpack beside her.
Everything she owned.
Still there.
Nothing had actually changed yet.
The door opened gently.
Hartford entered with a tall man around sixty.
“Emma.”
“This is David Richardson.”
The man extended his hand.
“New York Philharmonic.”
Emma blinked.
She did not take the hand immediately.
David lowered it.
“No pressure.”
That helped.
Emma finally shook.
“I heard part of your performance through James’s phone.”
“I’m sorry.”
David stared.
“For what?”
“It wasn't my best.”
Hartford laughed.
David looked toward him.
“She’s serious.”
Hartford nodded.
“She is.”
Emma looked embarrassed.
David sat.
“I’m not going to offer you anything ridiculous today.”
Emma relaxed slightly.
“I want you to rest.”
“Eat.”
“Sleep somewhere safe.”
“Then, if you’re willing, come play for me tomorrow.”
Emma’s pulse changed.
“An audition?”
“A conversation with a piano.”
She looked down at her hands.
A small blister had opened on one finger.
David noticed.
“How long since you've played?”
“Eight months.”
He stared.
“Eight months?”
“Yes.”
Hartford leaned back.
“I hate young people.”
Emma almost laughed.
David smiled.
“Do you want music back?”
The question was too large.
Emma looked toward the wall.
Her reflection in a framed print.
The girl staring back still wore the faded jacket.
Still tired.
Still scared.
“I don't know.”
David nodded.
“That is an acceptable answer.”
Emma looked at him.
“You're not going to tell me I was born for it?”
“No.”
“Music is a career.”
“Not destiny.”
“You get to decide.”
Those words settled somewhere deep.
For years, adults had called her talent a gift.
Then responsibility.
Then destiny.
Her parents had been more careful.
They loved music.
But they loved Emma more.