She took one look at my face and set her violin case down without opening it.
“They withdrew me, didn’t they?”
“Somebody tried to.”
“Was it because of the recording?”
I stopped writing.
“What recording?”
Sophie pressed her lips together.
“Celeste asked for a private video of the piece I composed.”
“You composed something?”
“I told you about it in February.”
She had told me about working on a piece called The Blue Room, which she said was inspired by the sound of rain against her bedroom window.
I had thought the composition was an ordinary school project.
Sophie now explained that the trust allowed applicants to submit an original piece for a separate fellowship.
The award included tuition, individual lessons, and a public performance at the Boston summer festival.
Celeste had offered to help polish Sophie’s entry.
“She said the music wasn’t ready,” Sophie whispered.
“Then she asked me to send her the final recording anyway.”
“Did you?”
“I sent it from my school account.”
“When?”
“The night before the deadline.”
Sophie watched the rain begin again outside the kitchen window.
“She told me nobody would take me seriously,” she said.
“She said I should be grateful just to play in the youth orchestra.”
The next afternoon Celeste came over carrying a lemon cake in a white cardboard box.
She wore a blue coat and an expression that made me think she had practiced looking sympathetic in a mirror.
“I heard about your mailbox,” she said.
“What a terrible thing to happen on such a lovely street.”
I stood in the doorway without inviting her inside.
“How did you hear?”
“People talk.”
“I haven’t told anybody except the carrier and the police.”
Her smile stiffened.
“Well, I’m sure Sophie mentioned it.”
“She didn’t.”
Celeste shifted the cake in her arms.
“Evan, there’s no need to turn a nuisance into a neighborhood investigation.”
“A letter was stolen.”
“It’s just mail.”
“It was addressed to me.”
She looked past my shoulder into the hall.
“Is Sophie here?”
“She’s practicing.”
“I wanted to remind her that Lila’s recital is next Friday.”
“She’s not performing.”
Celeste stared at me.
“I know that.”
For one second, something ugly escaped from behind her polite expression.
“I meant that she might enjoy watching someone who understands how the professional world works.”
I put my hand on the door.
“You should go home, Celeste.”
“You ought to teach your daughter not to burn bridges,” she said.
“I’ll teach her to recognize one when somebody sets it on fire.”
