She had wanted to be backstage with her daughter, but Emma had clasped her hands between hers and said, “You know it makes me nervous when you’re here, Mama. I know you don’t understand that, but it’s true. Please, you need to be with Dad tonight. He’s really tense, and I know his chest hurts. It’s the Christmas season, Mama, Dad is here, and everything is wonderful.” And Emma had hugged her tight and smiled up at her.
My incredible daughter, Molly thought. She knew at that moment she needn’t be worried for Emma. Her piano teacher, Mrs. Mayhew, would be there in any case to keep her calm and grounded. She kissed her daughter, held her small face a moment between her palms, kissed her again and made her way back up to the box to the right of the stage with its perfect view. She knew she had to suffer through a Dvorák and a Mahler before Emma played, and dug her fingernails into her palm. At least she didn’t have to worry about the twins, who were at the Sherlocks’ house, stuffing themselves with kettle corn and hot chocolate. As for Ramsey, he looked stoic, but she knew his stomach was roiling with nerves, and she could see the low hum of pain he still felt on his face. He looked thin, she thought, but still a sex god, she’d told him when she’d stood back and looked at him in his formal tux. Both Savich and Harry had helped him dress, a slow, laborious process, with Molly standing in the corner of the bedroom watching, trying not to show how terrified it made her that he was still hurting.
She squeezed his hand. He grinned at her, whispered, “Emma will be superb, you know it.” Molly knew he was saying that as much for himself as for her. She forced out a smile and for a moment leaned her face against his shoulder.
The orchestra finished the Tchaikovsky, and Rossini turned to bow and accept applause. Molly turned to smile at Dillon, who had Sean on his lap, and Sherlock and Eve and Harry sitting next to him, and they nodded back at her. She whispered to Ramsey, “We’ve never had such perfect seats in the hall. It was nice of the Vincents to lend us their box so all six of us could sit together.”
Ramsey nodded, knowing the Vincents were in Paris, where they would most like to be, despite the cold December nights. He remembered squeezing into Notre Dame with them one Christmas Eve years ago along with thousands of other people, and then walking along the Seine to the Pont Neuf, where they’d stopped to buy a bag of chestnuts roasting on an open grill. Perhaps his family could do that together next year.
Rossini’s baton came down, and Dvorák’s incredible Symphony No. 9, “From the New World,” filled the hall. Ramsey settled himself in to listen. He would have a next year now, to go to Paris if he wished. He was so grateful to be alive, here in Davies Hall ready to hear Emma play that he wanted to shout with it.
Molly was fidgeting. Ramsey whispered, “Stop worrying. Emma’s a pro, she’ll be great.”
Molly drew in a deep breath. “You’re here, that’s all that’s really important to Emma, and to me.”
The orchestra moved on to play Mahler’s Symphony No. 5 in C Sharp Minor, and it seemed to go on forever. Molly would have kicked poor Mahler if he’d been there. Why was he so long-winded? Then it was over, finally. When the applause died down, Rossini turned his charismatic smile on the audience. He said in his charming Italian accent, “We are proud to present Miss Emma Hunt. She will play George Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue. We are also proud and very pleased to see her father, Judge Ramsey Hunt, with us tonight. I was told he said he’d be helicoptered in if need be.” Rossini bowed toward their box bringing every eye in the audience to them.
“Miss Emma Hunt.” Giovanni Rossini held his hand out to welcome Emma as she walked toward him in her Christmas-red velvet dress, her beautiful glossy dark hair held back by two gold clips, like shiny silk beneath the lights. She wore black ballet flats on her small feet. Her only jewelry was the locket Ramsey had given her for her last birthday, a photo of her and her mother on one side, Ramsey and the twins on the other.
Molly could never adequately describe her feelings when her daughter walked onto a stage. Usually it was a strange mixture of so much pride she could burst with it, and such throat-clogging terror she thought her face would turn blue. And such elation, she thought, that she knew she could leap off the box railing and fly, and finally, utter blank-brained amazement that she’d given birth to this incredible being. She watched Emma take Rossini’s hand and smile up at him, then turn to walk to the Steinway grand piano, shoulders straight, lightly running her fingers over its glossy black finish. She sat down in front of the keyboard, moved the bench an inch to the left. Before Emma lowered her hands to the piano, she looked directly at their box and smiled.