THE SONG SHE NEVER FINISHED

THE LAST CALL — Love Is Never an Accident Alexandra Whitmore had spent nineteen years convincing herself that she was happy, twelve years convincing her husband that their marriage was perfectly satisfactory, and the last seven months secretly wondering whether the most successful decision she had ever made might also have been the greatest mistake of her life, although she had become sufficiently accomplished at concealing her emotions that nobody at the Beaumont Grand Hotel would have suspected anything unusual about the elegantly dressed woman sitting alone at the end of the magnificent marble counter. At forty-four, Alexandra was the senior vice president of a multinational investment company, owned a beautiful condominium overlooking Lake Michigan, drove a car that cost more than her father's first house, and possessed a wardrobe so carefully selected that she could attend an unexpected board meeting, a charity luncheon, or a formal dinner without ever appearing to have chosen the wrong outfit. Tonight she wore a beautifully tailored dark burgundy dress, black patent-leather pumps, a narrow diamond bracelet, and small matching earrings, while her long chestnut hair fell in smooth waves to her shoulders, framing a face that remained undeniably attractive despite the exhaustion hidden beneath her carefully applied makeup. She was supposed to be celebrating. Her company had just completed a complicated acquisition, the partners had congratulated her, the managing director had suggested that another promotion might be forthcoming, and three of her colleagues had invited her to an expensive restaurant where she would undoubtedly have spent the evening discussing investments, market conditions, and the extraordinary importance of things that had begun to mean remarkably little to her. Instead, she had excused herself, returned to the Beaumont Grand, and ordered a martini. "An excellent choice, madam." Alexandra looked up at the bartender, a beautiful woman with copper-red hair gathered into an elegant updo, wearing a crisp white shirt beneath a tailored black waistcoat, a small black bow tie, and a discreet gold nameplate. "Is it?" "A martini?" "Being here." The bartender considered her for a moment. "That would depend on where else you might have been." "At a dinner celebrating a corporate acquisition." "Then I suspect you've made a very sensible decision." Alexandra smiled faintly. "You don't know what we acquired." "Does it matter?" "Six hundred and eighty million dollars' worth of commercial assets." "How impressive." "You don't sound impressed." "My dear, I've never found six hundred and eighty million dollars particularly useful when determining whether somebody is enjoying herself." Alexandra laughed despite herself. "That's rather refreshing." "So I've been told." "What's your name?" "Mirelle." "Alexandra." "A pleasure." Mirelle placed the martini before her. "Would you like anything to eat?" "No, thank you." "Are you certain?" "Quite." Mirelle glanced toward the adjoining lounge, where a waiter was carrying a tray of small sandwiches between the tables. "Then perhaps later." Alexandra raised an eyebrow. "Do you always know what your customers want before they do?" "Not always." Mirelle smiled. "But occasionally." The Beaumont Grand's lounge occupied a magnificent room adjoining the bar, separated from it by three broad arches supported by polished marble columns, and at the far end stood an old black grand piano that had entertained generations of hotel guests, although few of them knew how many remarkable musicians had performed upon its keys. At precisely ten thirty, the pianist began playing a soft introduction, and a woman stepped into the little pool of golden light beside the instrument. Alexandra barely noticed her at first. The singer was perhaps thirty-six, with long dark auburn hair falling in loose waves around her shoulders, warm hazel eyes, and a simple black velvet dress ending just above her knees, accompanied by elegant black heels and small gold earrings. She was beautiful in an understated way, without the exaggerated glamour Alexandra associated with nightclub entertainers, and when she leaned toward the microphone, she did so with the quiet confidence of someone who had spent many years learning how to make a room listen. "Good evening, everyone, and welcome to the Beaumont Grand, where I hope you've all had a considerably better day than the weather suggests, although if you haven't, I promise not to sing anything cheerful enough to make matters worse." A few guests laughed. Alexandra smiled into her martini. The singer exchanged a few words with the pianist, then began. Her voice was extraordinary. Not powerful in the theatrical sense, nor polished to the point of losing its personality, but rich, warm, and slightly smoky, with the ability to make even the most ordinary words sound like a secret being shared between old friends. Alexandra found herself turning toward the lounge. The first song was a familiar jazz standard, followed by another, and then a playful number that prompted a few couples to rise from their chairs and dance between the tables. The singer smiled at them, clearly enjoying herself, and Alexandra watched with growing interest, particularly when the woman laughed at a small mistake made by the pianist and effortlessly turned it into part of the performance. Then, shortly before eleven, the singer became unexpectedly serious. "I'd like to do something a little different now, if you'll indulge me, because I found an old piece of music recently, something I haven't performed in years, and although I'm not entirely certain I remember every note, I thought perhaps tonight would be a good time to try." The pianist nodded. A few quiet notes floated through the room. Alexandra stopped breathing. She knew that melody. Not merely recognized it, but knew it in the intimate, painful way a person sometimes knows a song that has become part of the architecture of her memories. She had heard it for the first time twenty-three years earlier, in a small university rehearsal room, played on an upright piano by a girl with freckles and a habit of biting her lower lip whenever she was concentrating. Alexandra slowly set down her martini. The singer began the first verse. And suddenly, for the first time in twenty-three years, Alexandra heard the song she had once believed would change her life. Her name had been Emily Sullivan. Alexandra was twenty-one when they met, studying business administration at a university in Boston, while Emily was a music student of the same age, with a scholarship, an uncertain future, and an almost alarming determination to become a professional songwriter. They had shared an apartment for eighteen months, beginning as friends, becoming inseparable companions, and eventually discovering one rainy evening that the affection between them had developed into something neither had expected and both were terribly frightened to acknowledge. Alexandra remembered their first kiss with astonishing clarity. Emily had been sitting at the piano, attempting to finish a song she had been working on for weeks, and Alexandra had leaned over her shoulder to read the handwritten lyrics, accidentally brushing a strand of hair away from Emily's face. Emily had looked up. Alexandra had looked down. And for a few breathless seconds neither had moved. Then Emily had whispered, "Are you ever going to kiss me, Alex, or am I going to have to write another song about waiting?" Alexandra had laughed nervously. And kissed her. They had spent the next six months gloriously, recklessly in love, sharing cheap meals, arguing about music, kissing in deserted corridors, and making plans for a future that seemed entirely possible because neither was old enough to understand how easily such plans could be destroyed. Alexandra even remembered Emily's younger sister, a lively thirteen-year-old girl who had occasionally visited them with their parents, insisted that the two university students were terribly boring, and delighted in interrupting Emily's piano practice by singing deliberately incorrect lyrics. What had her name been? Something beginning with C. Catherine? Charlotte? Alexandra couldn't remember. But she remembered Emily's laughter, the way she looked across the piano whenever Alexandra entered the room, and the little stars she drew on coffee cups and scraps of paper whenever she was supposed to be concentrating on something important. Their happiness had seemed so simple. Until Alexandra's parents discovered their relationship. Her father wanted her to join the family business, her mother expected her to marry someone respectable, and when Alexandra announced that she was considering moving to New York with Emily, where the young musician hoped to find work, the resulting argument had been so dreadful that Alexandra still remembered the sound of her mother's voice twenty-three years later. Emily had tried to persuade her to come anyway. Alexandra had promised she would. Then she had accepted a prestigious internship in Chicago. Emily left alone. There had been telephone calls, letters, promises, arguments, and eventually a silence neither woman had known how to break. Alexandra graduated, began working in finance, met a handsome young attorney named Richard Whitmore, and gradually built the carefully respectable life her parents had always imagined for her. Occasionally, during those early years, she had wondered whether Emily had succeeded in music, whether she had fallen in love with someone else, and whether she ever thought about the girl who had promised to follow her to New York and then failed to appear. But Alexandra had never tried to find out. She had always told herself that Emily deserved to be left alone. Now, listening to the unfinished melody drifting through the magnificent hotel lounge, she wondered whether that explanation had merely been another convenient way of disguising her own cowardice. "Madam?" Alexandra looked up sharply. Mirelle stood before her. "Are you quite all right?" "Yes." But her voice betrayed her. Mirelle followed her gaze toward the singer. "Beautiful, isn't she?" Alexandra nodded. "Very." "She has a remarkable voice." "Yes." "Do you know the song?" Alexandra swallowed. "I used to." "Ah." Mirelle said nothing more, but Alexandra had the uncomfortable impression that the bartender understood considerably more than she was saying. The singer reached the chorus. If tomorrow forgets us, let tonight remember me... Alexandra closed her eyes. She remembered Emily sitting at the upright piano in their apartment, her bare feet resting on the pedals, a pencil tucked behind one ear, and Alexandra leaning against the doorframe with two mugs of terrible coffee while Emily insisted that the chorus still needed something. And then came the line that brought tears to Alexandra's eyes. I'll be waiting in the music, where you left your little star. Emily had written those words after Alexandra drew a tiny star beside her name on a note promising that she would return home before midnight. Alexandra had forgotten the note. Emily apparently hadn't. When the song reached its unfinished final verse, the singer let the last words fade into the piano accompaniment, and the music ended upon a chord that seemed to be waiting for something that never arrived. The audience applauded warmly. The singer smiled. "Thank you, that one is rather special to me, although I suppose every musician has at least one song she never quite manages to leave behind." Alexandra looked toward Mirelle. "Do you know her name?" "Of course." "Who is she?" "Clara Sullivan." Alexandra went completely still. "Sullivan?" "Yes." "Clara Sullivan?" "Indeed." Alexandra stared toward the stage. The singer was speaking to the pianist, laughing softly about something, and suddenly Alexandra noticed the resemblance, the shape of her eyes, the delicate curve of her mouth, and the way she tilted her head when listening. "Good heavens." Mirelle regarded her calmly. "Someone you know?" Alexandra shook her head. "No." Then she paused. "Not exactly." Clara Sullivan had been singing professionally since she was nineteen, although she had never become particularly famous, which suited her reasonably well because she loved music considerably more than she loved the prospect of being recognized in supermarkets. At thirty-six, she performed at private functions, elegant hotels, small jazz clubs, and occasional festivals, supplemented her income by teaching voice, and had recently begun writing her own songs again after several years in which family responsibilities and the ordinary complications of life had left little time for anything requiring imagination. Her older sister, Emily, had died eighteen months earlier after a long illness. She had been only forty-two. And although Clara had known for some time that Emily would never recover, there were still evenings when she found herself reaching for her telephone to tell her sister something amusing before remembering that nobody would answer. Emily had been considerably more than an older sister. When Clara was little, Emily had taught her how to read music, helped her with homework, taken her to concerts, and defended her against their father's occasional insistence that singing was not a particularly sensible occupation. Later, when Clara began performing professionally, Emily had become her fiercest supporter, attending nearly every important concert and frequently offering criticism that was as honest as it was infuriating. The song Clara had performed tonight was one of Emily's earliest compositions. She had discovered it among her sister's papers while clearing out her apartment, tucked inside an old music folder beside photographs, unfinished lyrics, and a faded envelope containing a letter that had never been posted. Across the top of the manuscript were three handwritten words. For my Alex. Clara had remembered that name. Alex. The girl who had lived with Emily in Boston, who always brought Clara little presents when she visited, and who had mysteriously disappeared from her sister's life after graduation. As a thirteen-year-old, Clara had never fully understood the relationship, although she remembered Emily crying for weeks after Alexandra left, and she remembered her sister's furious response when their father suggested that the two girls had merely been going through a phase. It was only years later that Emily finally explained. "She was my first real love, Clara, and I think she'll always be part of me, although I suppose we were both too frightened to know what to do with it." Clara had asked whether Emily ever tried to find her. "Once or twice, but then I decided it was better to leave the past where it belonged." Now, almost two decades after that conversation, Clara had inherited the unfinished song, the letters Emily had never mailed, and a handful of photographs showing two beautiful young women who had once believed that love alone would be enough. She had spent weeks trying to complete the final verse, but every ending she invented felt wrong. Eventually she had decided to perform it exactly as Emily had written it. Unfinished. Perhaps, she thought, some things were simply meant to remain that way. At eleven thirty-five, Clara finished her final song and stepped away from the piano to warm applause, exchanging a cheerful goodnight with the pianist before disappearing through the little doorway beside the stage. Alexandra watched her leave. She had finished her martini nearly half an hour earlier, but had not ordered another drink, nor had she checked her telephone, answered the messages from her colleagues, or noticed that her husband had called twice. Mirelle returned. "Another martini?" Alexandra hesitated. "Perhaps." "Or something a little different?" "Such as?" "A glass of red wine, perhaps." Alexandra smiled faintly. "You seem determined to change my habits." "Only when I suspect they could use changing." Alexandra looked toward the stage. "Mirelle, may I ask you something?" "Of course." "Does Miss Sullivan usually come into the bar after her performance?" "Occasionally." "Would you mind telling her that someone would like to speak with her?" Mirelle tilted her head. "Someone?" Alexandra blushed. "Me." "Of course." Then she smiled. "Although I suspect she'd be more comfortable if you simply introduced yourself." Alexandra shook her head. "Oh, I couldn't." "Why ever not?" "Because I knew her sister." "How interesting." "Rather well." Mirelle regarded her for a moment. "Then perhaps you have something worth telling her." Alexandra looked down at her hands. "Perhaps." Mirelle moved away, carrying the empty martini glass, and Alexandra wondered why she suddenly felt like a frightened university student rather than a senior executive accustomed to addressing rooms full of important people. Clara entered the bar twenty minutes later, wearing a soft dark-green cardigan over her black velvet dress, her auburn hair loosened slightly from the performance, and carrying a small canvas bag containing sheet music. She smiled at Mirelle. "Evening." "Good evening, Clara." "Any chance of some tea?" "Certainly." "With honey?" "Naturally." Clara settled onto a stool near the center of the counter. "Lovely crowd tonight." "Indeed." "Although I nearly forgot the words to that last song." "You managed beautifully." "Thank you." Mirelle prepared the tea, then glanced toward Alexandra, who was sitting only a few stools away, apparently studying the contents of her handbag with extraordinary concentration. "There's a lady here who recognized your sister's song." Clara looked up. "Really?" "Apparently." "That's unusual." "Is it?" "Very, because Emily never published that particular piece, and I only found it last year." Mirelle placed the tea before her. "Then perhaps you should ask her where she heard it." Clara followed the bartender's discreet glance. Alexandra looked up at precisely the wrong moment. Their eyes met. Clara smiled. And Alexandra, who had negotiated contracts worth hundreds of millions of dollars without the slightest hesitation, found herself completely incapable of speaking. "Excuse me." Alexandra looked up. Clara stood beside her, holding her tea. "Mirelle mentioned that you recognized one of my songs." Alexandra swallowed. "Yes." Clara smiled. "Would you mind if I sat down?" "Please." Clara settled beside her. "I'm Clara." "Alexandra." "Lovely to meet you." "You too." Clara studied her curiously. "Did you really know that song?" Alexandra nodded. "Very well." "That's extraordinary, because my sister wrote it when she was quite young, and as far as I know she never performed it professionally." "She didn't." Clara blinked. "You sound very certain." Alexandra looked into her eyes. "I was there when she wrote it." For a moment Clara said nothing. Then she set down her tea. "You knew Emily?" "Yes." "How?" Alexandra hesitated. "We were students together." Clara's expression changed. "At university?" "Yes." "In Boston?" Alexandra nodded. Clara stared at her. Then, slowly, a look of astonishment spread across her face. "Alex?" Alexandra felt her heart stop. "What?" Clara leaned forward. "Your name is Alex?" "Well, Alexandra, but—" "Oh, my God." Clara put a hand over her mouth. "You're Alex." Alexandra stared at her. "Your sister told you about me?" Clara laughed in disbelief. "Told me about you? Alexandra, I remember you." Alexandra blinked. "You do?" "Of course I do, because I was thirteen and thought you were the most glamorous university student I'd ever met, and you once brought me a little silver bracelet from a shopping trip to New York." Alexandra stared at her. Then a memory surfaced. "A little bracelet with a butterfly?" Clara laughed. "Yes! And would you believe I still have it?" Alexandra stared at her. "You do?" Clara smiled, pushed back the sleeve of her dark-green cardigan, and lifted her wrist, revealing a delicate silver bracelet with a tiny butterfly charm that glittered beneath the golden lights of the bar. "I don't wear it every day, but I happened to put it on tonight, because I found it again while going through some of Emily's things, and it reminded me of how terribly grown-up I felt when you gave it to me." Alexandra reached across the counter and gently touched the little butterfly with her fingertips. "Oh, my goodness." "You remembered." "I remember a little girl who insisted that Emily's piano playing was interfering with her television programs." Clara burst out laughing. "That was me." Alexandra looked at her in astonishment. "Good heavens, you've grown up." "Twenty-three years will do that." They laughed together. Then Alexandra looked toward the manuscript folder Clara had placed on the counter. "How is Emily?" Clara's smile faded. For a moment she hesitated. "Alexandra, I'm afraid there's something you don't know." Alexandra felt a sudden uneasiness. "What is it?" "Emily died eighteen months ago." The words seemed to drain the warmth from the room. Alexandra stared at her. "No." Clara nodded gently. "She was forty-two." Alexandra looked down at her hands. For several seconds she couldn't speak, and when she finally managed to lift her eyes again, there were tears in them. "Oh, Clara." "I'm sorry." "No, please don't apologize." Alexandra swallowed. "I just never imagined..." Her voice broke. "I always thought there would be time." Clara reached for her hand. "I know." Alexandra looked toward the piano. "She was so full of life." "She was." "And so talented." "Yes." "And I never even tried to find her." Clara squeezed her hand. "Alexandra, you couldn't have known." "But I should have." For a long moment neither woman spoke. Then Clara opened her folder. "There's something I think you should see." Across the top of the yellowed manuscript paper were three handwritten words. For my Alex. Alexandra lifted a trembling hand toward the page. "Emily wrote that." "She did." Clara watched her. "And she kept it all her life." Alexandra closed her eyes. "Oh, Emily." Clara spoke gently. "Did you love her?" Alexandra looked up sharply. For a moment she considered denying it, offering some carefully worded explanation about youthful friendship, but Clara's expression contained neither judgment nor embarrassment, only genuine curiosity. "Yes," Alexandra whispered. "Very much?" Alexandra nodded. "More than I knew what to do with." Clara smiled sadly. "She loved you too." Alexandra looked down at the manuscript. "Did she tell you that?" "Not directly at first, although when I was older she told me everything, and after she died I found the letters she'd written to you." "Letters?" Clara nodded. "Dozens." Alexandra stared at her. "I never received them." "She never sent them." For a long moment Alexandra could hear nothing but the soft ticking of the clock above the bar. Then she whispered, "Why?" Clara shook her head. "I think she was frightened of discovering you'd forgotten her." Alexandra's eyes filled with tears. "I never forgot her." Clara reached across the small space between them. "I know." They talked for nearly an hour. Alexandra told Clara about the apartment in Boston, the upright piano, the dreadful meals she and Emily had cooked together, and the nights when Emily insisted that one day she would perform in Paris while Alexandra sat in the front row wearing something scandalously expensive. Clara laughed. "That sounds exactly like her." "She was impossible." "Oh, completely." "And wonderful." "Yes." Clara smiled. "She was." Alexandra looked at the manuscript again. "Did she ever find someone?" "A few people, yes, although nothing that lasted, and Emily always insisted she was perfectly happy living alone." Alexandra nodded sadly. "She deserved someone who loved her properly." Clara studied her. "Perhaps she had someone." Alexandra looked up. "What do you mean?" "Perhaps being loved doesn't always require spending the rest of your life together." Alexandra considered this for a long moment. "You're very wise." Clara laughed. "I'm thirty-six, Alexandra, not twelve." Alexandra smiled. "Forgive me." "Besides, you can't be that much older." "Forty-four." "Eight years." "Precisely." Clara shrugged. "Hardly an archaeological discovery." Alexandra laughed. And something about that laugh made Clara look at her a little differently. At twelve forty-five, Mirelle approached with a small plate of warm pastries. "Compliments of the house." Clara smiled. "Oh, thank you." Alexandra looked up. "You're very generous." "Not at all." Mirelle placed the plate between them. "I trust you've found something interesting to discuss." Clara laughed. "You have no idea." "How gratifying." Alexandra studied the bartender. "Did you know?" Mirelle raised an eyebrow. "Know what, madam?" "That Clara's sister and I—" "Oh, my dear, I make it a point never to pry into my guests' personal affairs." Clara smiled. "Really?" "Naturally." Mirelle's expression remained perfectly innocent. "Although I do occasionally notice things." She withdrew. Clara watched her go. "She's rather extraordinary." Alexandra smiled. "Yes." "How long has she worked here?" "I haven't the faintest idea." Clara laughed. "Neither do I, and I've been singing here for almost three years." By one fifteen, their conversation had moved beyond memories of Emily, and Alexandra discovered that Clara was considerably more interesting than she had initially imagined. She loved old films, disliked pretentious restaurants, collected vintage records, and had an unfortunate weakness for buying shoes she couldn't afford, while Alexandra confessed that she had never learned to cook properly, had once dreamed of owning a small bookshop, and secretly disliked the enormous corporate dinners she was expected to attend. "You wanted to own a bookshop?" Clara looked delighted. "Yes." "Why didn't you?" Alexandra shrugged. "Life." "That's not an answer." "It's the only one I've got." Clara considered her. "Are you happy?" Alexandra looked down at her wine. "That's rather personal." "Sorry." "No, don't apologize." She hesitated. "I'm not sure." Clara studied her. "With your work?" "Not really." "Your life?" "Sometimes." Clara waited. Alexandra sighed. "My marriage isn't particularly happy." Clara's expression softened. "I'm sorry." "So am I." "Does your husband know?" "That we're unhappy? I think so, although he prefers not to discuss anything that might require him to change his schedule." Clara smiled sadly. "That sounds lonely." "It is." For a moment neither spoke. Then Alexandra looked at her. "Have you ever been married?" "No." "Why not?" Clara laughed. "Well, partly because I haven't met anybody I wanted to marry, and partly because I've never considered marriage a particularly urgent requirement for happiness." "Are you seeing anyone?" "No." Alexandra felt a small, unexpected flutter in her stomach. "Really?" Clara smiled. "Really." "That's surprising." "Why?" "Because you're beautiful." Clara blinked. Then she laughed softly. "Well, thank you." Alexandra blushed. "I didn't mean to embarrass you." "You haven't." Clara regarded her with a curious expression. "Actually, I think you're rather beautiful yourself." Alexandra looked down at her glass. "Clara." "What?" "You're very kind." "I'm not being kind." Clara smiled. "I'm being observant." At one thirty-two, Alexandra's telephone rang. Richard. She glanced at the screen. Clara noticed immediately. "Your husband?" Alexandra nodded. "Are you going to answer?" Alexandra hesitated. Then she silenced the telephone. "No." Clara said nothing. Alexandra looked at her. "Is that terrible?" "Why would it be?" "Because he's my husband." "Does that mean you have to answer every time he calls?" Alexandra considered the question. "No." "Then perhaps you should stop worrying about whether you're allowed to enjoy an evening without his permission." Alexandra laughed softly. "You sound like your sister." Clara smiled. "I'll take that as a compliment." "It was." At one forty-five, the pianist returned to the grand piano for a final quiet selection, and Clara glanced toward the lounge. "Oh, I love this one." Alexandra smiled. "Do you?" "Very much." "Then perhaps you'd like to dance." Clara stared at her. "What?" Alexandra felt her cheeks warm. "I mean, if you'd like to." Clara smiled. "I'd love to." They rose from their stools, and Alexandra led Clara toward the small dance floor beneath the chandeliers, where they settled into a gentle rhythm, Clara placing one hand against Alexandra's shoulder while Alexandra rested hers at Clara's waist. For a few moments they moved rather awkwardly, laughing at their own uncertainty. Then Clara stepped a little closer. "Is this all right?" "Yes." "You're sure?" "Very." Alexandra became suddenly aware of the warmth of Clara's hand, the faint scent of her perfume, and the extraordinary intimacy of standing so close to a woman who had entered her life only a few hours earlier. "Clara?" "Yes?" "May I ask you something?" "Of course." "Did Emily ever finish that song?" Clara shook her head. "No." "Why not?" "I don't know." Alexandra looked toward the piano. "She used to tell me that every song needed an ending, but that sometimes the ending had to wait until life caught up with the melody." Clara smiled. "That sounds exactly like her." Alexandra looked into her eyes. "Perhaps she was waiting for something." "Perhaps." They continued dancing. Then Clara spoke softly. "Alexandra?" "Yes?" "I should probably tell you something." Alexandra's heart began beating faster. "What is it?" Clara hesitated. "When I first came over to talk to you tonight, I was curious about Emily, about her music, about the mysterious Alex who appeared in all those letters." "Of course." "But somewhere along the way I stopped thinking about my sister." Alexandra looked at her. "What were you thinking about?" Clara smiled nervously. "You." For several seconds Alexandra could not speak. Then she whispered, "Oh." Clara laughed softly. "That's not a particularly encouraging answer." "No, I'm sorry." Alexandra smiled. "It's just that nobody has said anything like that to me in a very long time." Clara's expression softened. "Well, perhaps somebody should." Alexandra looked into her eyes. "Perhaps." When the music ended, neither woman immediately released the other. Alexandra's hand remained at Clara's waist, while Clara's fingers rested gently against Alexandra's shoulder. Then Clara smiled. "Can I ask you something terribly forward?" Alexandra laughed nervously. "I suppose." "Would you like to kiss me?" Alexandra stopped breathing. For one astonishing moment she was twenty-one again, standing beside an upright piano in Boston while a beautiful young woman waited for her to find the courage to do something she had been dreaming about for months. But Clara wasn't Emily. And Alexandra wasn't twenty-one. She was forty-four, married, successful, unhappy, and suddenly terrified of making another decision that might change her life. "Clara, I'm married." "I know." "And I don't want you to think—" "I don't." Clara gently released her. "I'm sorry, Alexandra, I shouldn't have asked." Alexandra caught her hand. "No." Clara looked at her. "No?" "No, don't apologize." Alexandra took a deep breath. "I want to kiss you." Clara's expression softened. "But?" "But I need to be honest about what that means, because I can't pretend my marriage doesn't exist simply because I've met someone wonderful." Clara nodded slowly. "That's fair." "And I don't want to use you as an excuse to avoid making decisions I've been putting off for years." "Good." Alexandra smiled faintly. "Good?" "Yes, because I rather like you, Alexandra, and I'd prefer not to become another unfinished song." Alexandra laughed softly. Then she looked down at their joined hands. "Would you be terribly disappointed if I asked you to have dinner with me next week instead?" Clara smiled. "Not at all." "And perhaps we could talk some more." "I'd like that." "And perhaps I could finally decide what I want to do with my life." Clara squeezed her hand. "I think that would be a very good idea." Alexandra looked into her eyes. "Would you wait?" Clara considered her for a moment. "I'm not making any promises about waiting forever." Alexandra laughed. "Fair enough." "But I can certainly wait until dinner." Three weeks later, Alexandra returned to the Beaumont Grand. She wore a beautiful dark-blue dress, her chestnut hair loose around her shoulders, and an expression Mirelle had not seen upon her face during their previous encounter. "Good evening, Alexandra." "Mirelle." "How lovely to see you again." "Thank you." "The usual?" Alexandra smiled. "Actually, I think I'd prefer champagne." "An excellent choice." Mirelle reached for a crystal flute. "Celebrating something?" Alexandra hesitated. "Possibly." "How intriguing." "I've moved out of my condominium." Mirelle regarded her calmly. "Have you?" "Yes." "And are you happy about that?" Alexandra thought for a moment. "Terrified." "An understandable response." "And relieved." "An even better one." Alexandra smiled. "My husband and I have decided to separate." "I'm sorry." "Don't be, because we've finally had an honest conversation about our marriage, and I think we both realized that we'd been living separate lives for a very long time." Mirelle nodded. "Then perhaps you're both beginning something rather than ending it." Alexandra smiled. "I hope so." A familiar voice spoke behind her. "Well, that's a beautiful dress." Alexandra turned. Clara Sullivan stood a few feet away, wearing a dark-green silk dress beneath a tailored black coat, her auburn hair falling in loose waves around her shoulders. Alexandra's face lit up. "Clara." "Hello, Alex." For a moment neither moved. Then Clara smiled. "May I?" Alexandra stepped forward. "Please." Clara slipped her arms around Alexandra's waist, and Alexandra rested her hands upon Clara's shoulders. They looked at one another for a long moment. "Are you sure?" Clara whispered. Alexandra nodded. "Very." Then Alexandra leaned forward and kissed her. It was a gentle, unhurried kiss, filled with the extraordinary relief of two women who had finally stopped pretending that what they wanted was something they ought to fear. When they separated, Clara was smiling. "Well." Alexandra laughed. "Well, indeed." "That was worth waiting for." "Was it?" "Very much." Alexandra slipped her hand into Clara's. "Would you like to have dinner with me?" Clara smiled. "I'd love to." "And perhaps afterward?" "What?" Alexandra leaned closer. "Perhaps you could play me that song again." Clara laughed softly. "Only if you promise not to disappear before the final verse." Alexandra looked into her eyes. "I promise." Mirelle watched them leave together, Clara's arm around Alexandra's waist and Alexandra's head resting briefly against the younger woman's shoulder as they disappeared through the magnificent entrance of the Beaumont Grand. Daniel approached with a tray of clean glasses. "Another happy couple, Madame de Valcour?" "Perhaps." He glanced toward the doorway. "Wasn't that the singer?" "Indeed." "And the other lady?" "A woman who has finally remembered how to listen to her own heart." Daniel smiled. "That sounds rather poetic." "Occupational hazard." He laughed, wished her goodnight, and disappeared into the service corridor. Mirelle remained behind the counter, looking toward the grand piano in the adjoining lounge, where the last notes of the evening's music seemed almost to linger in the air. She remembered other songs, other women, other promises, and a particularly beautiful melody she had once heard in a candlelit room so many years ago that the language in which it had been sung was no longer spoken by anyone alive. Some melodies, she reflected, were never truly finished. They merely waited for the right people to hear them again. She extinguished the final lamp above the counter and smiled. "Well, Emily," she murmured softly, "I believe your song has finally found its ending." THE END