“She’s my aunt, not my mother.”
Lila’s voice shook.
“She told me you gave permission for her to arrange the piece.”
Sophie folded her arms.
“Would you believe that if someone said it about your music?”
Lila lowered her head.
“No.”
She told us Celeste had promised to sponsor her application to a prestigious conservatory while her own parents struggled with debt.
The sponsorship required Lila to perform at several donor events, including the gathering in March.
Celeste had handed her a score with a different title and instructed her not to discuss where it came from.
“I recognized your style,” Lila said.
“But I wanted to believe there was an explanation.”
“There was,” Sophie answered.
“You didn’t ask me.”
Lila cried then, but Sophie did not rush to comfort her.
That surprised me until I realized my daughter was allowed to be angry without immediately caring for the person who hurt her.
Lila pulled a thin notebook from her coat.
It contained rehearsal dates, pieces assigned by Celeste, and notes about performances.
Beside one March date Celeste had written a title in heavy blue ink.
The Quiet House, original composition by Lila Caldwell.
Next to it was a reminder to secure signed releases from everyone involved.
“She told me I needed to sign a recording agreement,” Lila said.
“I refused because I didn’t write the music.”
“What did she do?” I asked.
“She said my parents would lose the scholarship assistance if I embarrassed her.”
She wiped her face with a sleeve.
“I brought the notebook because I don’t want Sophie punished for something I was too afraid to stop.”
Sophie looked at the pages for a long time.
“You should tell your parents,” she said.
“I tried.”
“Try again with me there,” Sophie answered.
The offer came carefully, without forgiveness attached.
Celeste learned about Lila’s visit before nine that night.
She called my cell phone six times and left a voicemail every time I refused to answer.
The first message was polite.
The second accused me of confusing a troubled teenager.
By the fourth, she claimed I had encouraged Lila to steal private teaching materials.
The fifth message said she knew my supervisor at the bus depot.
The sixth was short enough to frighten me.
“Evan, you may believe this is about a schoolgirl and a violin, but other people will suffer when you keep digging.”
I forwarded the messages to Evelyn Ross and to the trust.
Then I called Lila’s parents.
