Wildalone (32 page)

                     
then slips and starts over.

                     
Crowned with leaves
,

                     
I become black, green.

                     
Who else would love you like me

                     
if you changed my heart?

                     
The fig tree calls to me, comes.

                     
Frightening. Multiplying.

I shut the book. What was all this? Moon. Stalking. Fig trees. And these poems—first Orpheus, now Dionysus . . .

“Happy Thanksgiving, babe.”

The voice made me jump from the bed. My window was already sliding open, letting the cool air in and with it—cigarette smoke. A figure emerged from the darkness outside.

“Rhys?”

“You've been gone all day. I was starting to think I'd need more of these—” An empty pack of Marlboros landed in the wastebasket. “Odd, isn't it? I'm so wound up you'd think I'll be the one bringing the house down tomorrow night.”

“Let's not talk about tomorrow night.”

He came in, leaving the window open. “You are still upset with me.”

“It's been two weeks, and not a word from you. Did you think I would somehow, miraculously, talk myself out of being upset?”

“Distance isn't always a bad idea. Things between us were getting tense, and that's not what you needed before the concert.”

“No, what I needed was your support. But I've been out of luck there lately, so . . . what do you want now?”

“I want you to come with me.”

“Of course, that's how you get away with everything: by taking me someplace nice afterward. Spoil her a little and she'll forget, right?”

“It's not like that, Thea. Trust me on this one, even if you don't on anything else.”

I decided not to argue, but just go see what he had come up with this time. The ride was quick. He drove as if we were being chased—up to Palmer Square and what looked like an upscale bed-and-breakfast. An American flag hung above the entrance, while all around, in the festive spirit of the season, every shrub or tree was covered in electric lights.

“What is this? Are you taking me to a hotel again?”

No answer. There never was. I had been told long ago that the guy didn't like his surprises ruined.

We walked in, and my already plummeting mood dropped even more.
Nassau Inn
. A gel-haired, eager-to-oblige receptionist greeted Rhys (“Welcome back, Mr. Estlin!”), inquired about our evening, and, with superbly rehearsed discretion, handed him a key.

“Rhys, what do you think you're doing?” It was probably not the best idea to make a scene in public, but at this point I no longer cared. “You book us a room for the night and that's supposed to make up for the last two weeks? Or for being a no-show tomorrow?”

He smiled, took my hand, and slipped the key in it. “I didn't book us a room for the night. Nor am I the one you'll need most at the concert.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Miss, I believe you are expected.” The receptionist was now smiling too. They were both looking at me. “You will want to go to the Rockwell
Suite, one level up and across the hallway. The lady and the gentleman arrived earlier this afternoon.”

I stood there in shock, as a suspicion began to take shape in my mind.

“Rhys, this can't be . . . Who has arrived?”

“I told you: trust me on this one.” His entire face was beaming. “You didn't think I'd let Carnegie slip by without your family here, did you?”

Nothing I had experienced until then—not even getting into Princeton or finding out about my sister—compared to what I felt at that moment. I wanted to run upstairs, hug my parents, jump to the sky and laugh and scream, but I also wished this lobby could become an isolated bubble, with just Rhys and me in it, so I could apologize to him, say a million other things (for none of which I seemed to find words), or at least kiss him—which was what I did—and stammer something incoherent, hoping that he would know, as he always did, everything I meant, felt, needed.

The rest of the details I would find out later. How he had done something that had been on his mind for years: establish a scholarship—the Isabel Ríos Music Prize, named after his mother—awarding $5,000 annually to the student with the highest achievement in music. In exchange, the Dean's Office had agreed to let him stipulate how my grant would be spent, and to send everything to my parents on school letterhead (the invitation, the visa paperwork, an entire prepaid trip courtesy of Princeton). Then Rita had helped coordinate the surprise, making sure Rhys could remain invisible. Why go through all this trouble?
Because the reason they are here is your talent, not my money. They shouldn't feel that they owe this to anyone but you.

“Come upstairs with me, I can't wait for you to meet them!”

He shook his head. “This is your time with them; let's not complicate things. I'll meet them eventually, I promise.”

“Does that mean you're still not coming tomorrow night?”

“I want to come, I really do. But I'm supposed to be somewhere on Saturday, and if I go to New York with you, I might not make it.”

“You continue to talk to me in riddles.”

“I know. That's because it has to do with . . . let's just say it involves a health issue.”

“Whose health? Yours?” I remembered Carmela's story. Could he be sick and not telling me?

“We can talk about all this on Sunday, once your parents leave. After that, it will be up to you.”

“What will be up to me?”

“Whether we stay together or not.”

“Rhys, if what you have to tell me is that bad, I'd rather know it now.”

“Bad or not will depend entirely on you.” He gave me one last kiss. “If I get my wish, it won't be bad at all.”

THE HALLWAY ON THE SECOND
floor was brightly lit, almost eerie as I walked toward the Rockwell Suite, still in disbelief, afraid that this would turn out to be a bad practical joke or hallucination. Finally I reached the door. Knocked. Waited a few seconds, then used the key and walked in—

And there they were, both of them. Incredible as it was to see my parents in a hotel room at Princeton, Rhys had made it happen.

T
HE UNAPOLOGETIC, DELIRIOUS
red of Carnegie's main hall erupted from the floors, from the seats, and bled along the crescents of the white balconies as if a giant creature had just opened its veins, ready to absorb the music.

Seconds earlier, my name had been called. Someone had held the side door to let me pass. Then the audience had caught sight of a girl and burst out in applause—for a hundredth time that night, welcoming one more teen prodigy to the legendary stage.

Now from that same stage, as I played, a different legend was already taking shape. The soft maple floor had blistered up into a cobbled town square. Red roofs were popping all around. Houses stacked their pale façades on top of one another. Balconies exploded with geraniums. Neighbors peeked out, behind white-laced curtains. It was noon. A chandeliered sun had perched itself in the middle of the sky. And under it, baked in the summer heat, rows of seats had coiled around café tables. People chatted. Glasses clinked. The air buzzed with the anticipation of a spectacle.
A death? Affair? Quarrel? Any pinch of gossip before the day's siesta. Finally, a girl begins to cross the square. All in black, sweeping the ground with the ruffles of her dress. Her walk has the rhythm of a dance, while far across, hidden in the shadow of the darkest wall, a man's eyes flash their fire, follow her every move, watch . . .

The applause came even before the last sounds had died off. A sea of hands clapping, people rising up in waves. Somewhere in the audience, Mom and Dad were probably beyond themselves. Donnelly and Wylie too, savoring their overdue tour de force. But that dark figure watching me from the back—it was no longer there.

Then I saw him. Right in front of me, in the first row where he must have been the entire time. He dropped a white flower at my feet. Or was I imagining this too, just as I had imagined Spain?

“Tesh, that was terrific!” Rita and Dev rushed over as soon as they saw me come out from backstage. The crowds had already left, and those with special invites had stayed behind for a cocktail reception in Carnegie's famous marble-colonnade lobby. “No wonder they saved you for last. Although why didn't you tell me Rhys would be here?”

“Because he isn't.”

“The balcony is high, but not
that
high. I saw him leave the flower for you. And front row too—well done!”

The same mistake. I wondered if a single person (except maybe their own mother) had ever known them both without confusing one for the other at least once.

“The flower is not from him, Rita.”

“No? But if Rhys isn't the guy dropping roses onstage, then . . . Oh, I see!” She had noticed something behind me and, for a moment, looked transfixed. “I have to say, the clone is just as perfect!”

“Can I join the Thea fan club?” Jake had finally found us and either hadn't heard that last comment or was too polite to acknowledge it. “With a performance like this, you'd think she has Spanish blood.”

Rita couldn't help herself: “And with a performance like the one in September, you'd also think she has Polish blood, right?”

He met her eyes, calmly. “Chopin is amazing. Hers, especially. But what she played tonight is often considered impossible to pull off.”

“Which is why she had to practice so much. From what I hear, the entire fall break was spent on technique. Day and night.”

I was mortified. He smiled—a perfectly controlled smile that almost fooled even me.

“However fall break was spent must have been worth it. Now, before Thea passes out on us, we'd better find her something to eat. Would you like to join us?”

They wished they could, but Dev had to be back at Princeton by eleven. Next we talked to Wylie and Donnelly, then two other professors from the music department, then a few students—everyone came and went, stopping by to congratulate me. Everyone, except the two people I wanted to see the most.

“Jake, I need to find my parents. I've no idea where they are.”

“Sure, let's go look for them and then I'll take the three of you out to dinner.”

“Weren't you and Rhys supposed to keep your distance? From my family, I mean. He didn't want to complicate things.”

“Rhys can decide for himself. I have no reason to keep my distance from anybody.”

My heart sank a little, as it did each time I was reminded that Jake might have been the guy for me. Tonight more than ever. We weren't even together, yet he acted more like a boyfriend than Rhys ever had.

Luckily, a man wearing a familiar tweed jacket interrupted my thoughts:

“I don't know who Rhys is, but he certainly missed out. Your performance was truly magnificent.”

“Thank you, Professor Giles! I am so glad you came.”

“How could I not, after such a thoughtful invitation? And signed in Greek, no less! But just out of curiosity, that piece you were playing—did you choose it yourself?” He seemed surprised when I told him I hadn't. “It's quite astounding, then. I suppose coincidences do happen.”

“What coincidences?”

“I suggest you peruse this—” He handed me his playbill. “Once things cool down, of course. You might find the note on
Asturias
most . . . beguiling.”

At that moment I didn't care about historical notations, beguiling or not. My parents were coming through the lobby, and although they both looked happy, I could tell my mother had been crying.

“There you are! We didn't think you'd be out so quickly.” Dad squeezed me into his signature extra-tight hug that meant he was proud of me.

“Where did you guys go? I was getting worried.”

He mumbled something about the restrooms being hard to find, while Mom took her turn for a hug with the biggest smile I had seen on her. I introduced everyone. My parents seemed more nervous than usual, probably because their English wasn't perfect and made them feel out of place. Jake was impeccably polite, charming them both. But when I mentioned Giles's name and that he was my professor, Dad's smile froze in the middle of the handshake.

“So . . . Greek Art? The one class Thea doesn't talk much about.”

Actually, it was the class I
never
talked about. Careful not to evoke in their minds any parallels with Elza, I had been referring to it vaguely as “my art history class.” Yet if my father knew exactly what Giles was teaching, this meant he still remembered not only Elza's classes but even her professors by name.