Felicia held the fragrant wood in her hands, light as a bird. “Oh, Harold.” She took the bow from the case and tightened the horsehair strands and plucked the keys, which she found perfectly tuned and at concert pitch.
She turned to thank him again.
But he was gone.
After ten minutes of practice, she was aware of the houselights dimming again. The orchestra walked on stage and then the conductor. Finally Felicia, the soloist, entered to even louder applause.
She bowed to the audience and then to the conductor and the other players and took her place stage left.
The conductor tapped his baton, leaned forward and the concerto began. As she counted the measures, waiting for her cue, Felicia surveyed the hall.
Finally she saw them, two dozen rows back. Charley, Harold, and Nora Tesla, whose hand he was holding. She gave Harold a slight smile and, despite the spotlight in her eyes, she believed he smiled back.
Then the orchestra’s part grew softer, signaling the approach of hers. She lifted the priceless instrument to her chin.
At a glance from the conductor, Felicia closed her eyes and began to play, abandoning herself completely to the music, which flowed over the audience like a gentle tide.
Jeffery Deaver
