Chapter 10 - A Song with Room for Everyone
Six weeks after the gala, Arthur's violin returned to the workshop in a padded travel case. The restoration specialist had stabilized the damaged top and reconstructed portions of the rib where preservation alone wasn't possible. Fine seams remained visible beneath the varnish. It could be played cautiously after further adjustment, but its final sound would need testing over time.
Mara stood beside Ray as he lifted it onto the bench. The blue line under the chin rest was still there.
“You can see where it broke,” she said.
“Of course.”
“Dad would have hated that.”
Ray shook his head. “Your dad liked honest repairs. Remember the table in your kitchen with three different kinds of wood?”
Mara laughed. “Mom called it the quilt.”
“He said a thing that survives doesn't owe anybody the appearance of having had an easy life.”
Ray helped her put the instrument under her chin. She played an open string, then stopped. The tone was changed, thinner in one register, warmer in another. She could not tell yet what it would become.
“It's not the same,” she said.
“No. It won't be.”
She played again.
Her relationship with Brooke wasn't the same either. They had spoken three times without shouting. Brooke had resigned from the foundation's executive role pending the independent review, remained available to answer questions, and agreed to a written account of the instrument damage. She was selling jewelry and other personal assets to contribute toward replacement and repair costs, though Mara knew no check could buy back the afternoon she'd watched their father's work split in two.
Grant was no longer involved with the foundation. His conduct at the gala and library was being addressed through reports, the security review, and advice from counsel. The financial investigation continued. Mara didn't know which accusations would ultimately be substantiated, and she refused to announce a verdict on social media.
Diane's lender had accepted a short extension while a restructuring plan was assessed. The house wasn't magically free of debt. But Diane now had copies of every document, her own adviser, and a daughter who visited to eat soup without asking for the entire future to be settled before dessert.
The scholarship program reopened under an interim committee that included parents and teachers. Tessa's bridge held steady. Caleb won his first chair in the junior ensemble and still sent Mara voice notes asking whether a missed note counted as a disaster.
“It counts as a note,” she always told him. “Keep going.”
The piece itself had become more complicated to name and easier to understand. The corrected concert edition acknowledged Brooke's opening material and closing four measures, Mara's principal melody, and Arthur's development and orchestration. Diane confirmed her own rehearsal contributions without trying to claim authorship she hadn't established. Their attorney continued examining earlier agreements and other potential contributors; the revised credits were a documented step, not a declaration that all questions had ended.
Mara hated reading contracts. She read every page anyway.
At the workshop, Brooke arrived while Mara was testing the violin. She wore a coat Mara remembered from their mother's closet and held no flowers.
“Ray said you might be here,” Brooke said.
“I am.”
Brooke looked at the repaired seams. Tears brightened her eyes. “I did that.”
“Yes.”
“I don't expect you to say it's okay.”
“It isn't.”
Brooke nodded. She sat on the stool near the door, exactly where she used to sit when Arthur sharpened tools.
“I brought a check. It's what I can pay now. There's a schedule for the rest. Helen has a copy.”
Mara took the envelope and set it beside the receipts. “Thank you for making it specific.”
Brooke watched her tune the instrument. “Will you play the river piece again?”
“Eventually. When all the permissions are clear.”
“Could we play it together?”
Mara stopped turning the peg. “I don't know.”
Brooke nodded as though she had expected that answer.
“But,” Mara said, “Tessa needs someone to teach her arranging. She's been asking about the bridge. You used to be good at explaining why a phrase worked.”
Brooke gave a helpless smile. “I still am.”
“That isn't an invitation back into the program without the committee's approval. You'd need to earn their trust, too.”
“I know.”
For once, neither sister hurried to fill the silence.
Ray came in carrying a bag of fresh strings. He took one look at the two of them and asked, “Anybody want lunch?”
They ate sandwiches at the workbench while the street outside moved through an ordinary Tuesday. A delivery driver argued with the baker. Someone's dog barked at its reflection in the barber-shop window. No donors applauded. No secret benefactor appeared. The repaired violin sat between the sisters, imperfect and present.
After Brooke left, Mara opened the archived score box Helen had requested from the city music library. It was meant to confirm Arthur's earliest versions before finalizing the corrected edition. The librarian had included a photocopy of a concert program from 1996, long before Mara or Brooke began working on the piece.
There, beneath a grainy photograph of a church-basement orchestra, was a title Mara knew by heart:
RIVER STUDY — MUSIC BY EVELYN PRICE AND ARTHUR ELLIS.
Mara looked at the first four notes printed beside the title. They were the same notes that began THE RIVER BETWEEN US.
Her stomach tightened. The revised family credits were more honest than the old program, but what if the earliest melody had belonged partly to someone the family had never discussed?
She showed Ray.
His smile disappeared. “I haven't seen that program in decades.”
“You told me Evelyn went south.”
“She did.”
“Is she alive?”
“As far as I know.”
“Then I want to speak to her before we publish another edition.”
Ray nodded slowly. “That would be the right thing.”
The workshop telephone rang before Mara could ask another question. Ray answered, listened, and held out the receiver.
“It's a woman asking for you,” he said. “She says she knew your father before he ever made a violin.”
Mara took the phone.
“Hello?”
A low, steady voice answered, “My name is Evelyn Price. I hear you're trying to give everyone their name back.”
Mara looked at the repaired violin, the corrected score, and the 1996 program spread across the bench.
“Yes,” she said. “I'm trying.”
“Then there's a recording you need to hear,” Evelyn replied. “And I think your father meant for you to find it long before now.”
May you like
Outside, the bakery bell chimed as the afternoon customers came and went. Mara pulled a chair toward the phone and opened a blank notebook.
“I'm listening,” she said.
