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14
Savich House
Georgetown
Washington, D.C.
WEDNESDAY EVENING
Thanks to very vocal demands for pizza from Cal and Gage Hunt, age three and a half, and Sean, age five and a half, with Emma smiling benevolently in agreement, three now-empty pizza boxes were stacked on the coffee table in the Savich living room.
Molly and Ramsey Hunt sat side by side on the sofa, leaning into each other. Molly Hunt yawned, slapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh dear, excuse me. It isn’t even that late for us. I think that wonderful pizza brought it on.”
Ramsey hugged his wife closer. “I’m close to the edge myself. Look at the little heathens, still hyper, loud, and happy. I was hoping all that pizza in their bellies would have them stretched out on the floor sleeping by now, talk about unwarranted optimism.” They looked over to see Emma trying to supervise a loud and vicious battle between Dr. Whimsy and the evil Major Killjoy in their Lego village, no less than world domination in the balance. They knew Emma had been torn about overseeing the children or sidling up to the grown-ups since she was twelve now, but when her little brothers yelled out for her, she succumbed and got down on the floor with the twins and Sean and organized their game, a longtime habit. Sean announced he would help her take care of the twins and show them what was what since he was, after all, more than a year and a half older, and he knew lots of stuff they didn’t. Kindhearted Emma solemnly told him she appreciated his help, which made Sean beam at her.
Emma wondered if her parents and Uncle Dillon and Aunt Sherlock would be discussing the man who’d attacked her at Davies Hall three weeks ago. But maybe not tonight; everyone was too tired, except the twins, of course. She heard her mom telling them about the sea lion who came by and barked up from the base of the cliff below them off San Francisco Bay every evening, hoping for another bucket of leftovers from Chad’s fish farm.
She imagined Uncle Dillon and Aunt Sherlock already knew everything that had happened at Davies Hall. Even thinking about that terrifying few minutes still made Emma shake in reaction, until she made herself stiffen up and focus, just like she’d managed to do that afternoon. She’d kicked him, she’d tasered him. She’d beat him, put him on the ground. She shouldn’t ever forget that. Still, she wished she didn’t sometimes feel that fear rolling around like a peach pit in her belly.
“Time to get ourselves to bed,” Ramsey said as he gave Molly his hand.
Molly called out, “Emma? Are you ready to call it a night? Don’t forget, you have your first practice with the orchestra tomorrow.”
Emma nodded, told the twins it was bedtime, time to go back to their amazing beds at the Hay Adams. She was met with loud protests, then, predictably, louder yawns.
Sherlock watched Emma herd the boys, Sean beside her, helping her fetch their jackets. Unlike her mom who wore her red hair clipped behind her ears, Emma wore her thick dark brown hair, nearly the same color as her father’s, in a fat French braid. She had her mother’s eyes, only a lighter blue, nearly the same shade as Sherlock’s, and clear white skin, her mother’s dimples on each side of her mouth. She was wearing jeans, sneakers, and a San Francisco 49ers sweatshirt. People would look at Emma Hunt and see an attractive preteen, and no one would guess she was a prodigy.
Sherlock said to Ramsey and Molly, “We haven’t seen Emma for six months and she’s at least two inches taller and even more beautiful. And her hands, those perfect long fingers. You guys must be bursting with pride. She’s amazing, so patient with the twins and Sean.”
Savich said, “She’ll be taller than you, Molly.”
“She nearly is already. She’s always demanding to stand next to me on Saturday mornings so Ramsey can measure us.”
As Emma shrugged into her leather jacket, she looked toward Sherlock’s piano. Sherlock said, “You’ll have to tell me if you like playing their Steinway more than mine. I met the Kennedy Center’s music director, Gianandrea Noseda, last year, a charming man and a tremendous talent. I bet my top hat he’ll adore you. Do you know who’ll be conducting the Chopin Retrospective?”
Emma’s voice was reverent. “Leonard Slatkin. I couldn’t believe it when Mr. Slatkin actually called me. He told me he was looking forward to working with me—me!” She swallowed. “I don’t want to disappoint him but—”
Sherlock said matter-of-factly, “Are you well prepared?”
“Oh yes, but—”
“Do you love the music you’ll be playing?”
“Yes, but it’ll be a new piano and—”
“Do you like giving people a chance to hear that music you love?”
“Of course, but—”
“No more buts for you, Emma. No doubt in my mind you’ll be splendid, you’ve checked all the boxes. You probably won’t be able to hear me because of all the other loud clapping. I’m thinking two encores, maybe three. Now, I understand there’ll be one other young musician, an Italian boy?”
Emma’s eyes sparkled, no missing it. “His name is Vincenzo Rossi. He grew up in Corsico, a suburb of Milan. They call it a commune in Italy. He wanted me to call him Vinnie, he thinks that’s really cool, makes him sound like an American gangster. I told him absolutely not, his full name is far more professional and it rolls off my tongue so he’s got to stay Vincenzo.” She shot her dad a look. “We traded selfies. He’s taller than me, and dark like Uncle Dillon and Dad.”
Ramsey tried to keep his expression impassive, but Savich saw a flash of alarm. A daughter on the verge of being a teenager. He said, calm as a judge, which he was, “Selfies are okay, but nothing more, Em, not for at least fifteen years.”
Emma laughed. “Sure, Dad, at least fifteen years. I didn’t tell you Vincenzo’s studied with Madame Berlusconi since he was five years old. She’s as amazing as Mrs. Mayhew; both of them knew all the greats and they could play everything.”
Up went Emma’s chin. “We’ve been texting each other for the past three months. Vincenzo’s played several times at La Scala in Milan. He can’t shut up about the La Scala orchestra conductor, Riccardo Chailly; he worships him, says he’s the best in the world and of course I tell him that’s not true, it’s Esa-Pekka Salonen in San Francisco.”
