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I looked away.First Juilliard, then the Phil!
Her smile fell. “Just…nothing?”
“Mel, I just got settled in. Give me some time—”
“How much time?” Before I could answer, she tossed her selections over a rack and took me by the shoulders. “Give me a deadline. Give meone cluethat tells me you’re serious about your career, because honestly, I can’t tell. I hear you say you’re not done yet, but I’m really fucking worried that you’re lying. And you, my friend, cannot be done.”
I shrugged out of her embrace. “I’m not done,” I said, thinking of how the Mozart adagio had poured out of me in front of Noah. “But even if I were, it’s not the end of the world. There are a million other careers I can have.”
“Other careers…?” She pushed her glasses up her nose—the Melanie Parker equivalent of rolling up your sleeves in preparation for a fight. “Okay, the time has come. It’s clear I’m going to have to get allGood Will Huntingon your ass.”
“You have to what?”
“Remember that movie, when Will says it’s perfectly okay for him to squander his genius brainpower and be a bricklayer, or a construction worker, or whatever? And his friend, Ben Affleck, tells him that’s bullshit? Do you remember?”
I shrugged helplessly. “I guess…?”
“So that’s you and me. I’m whoever the hell Ben Affleck was, and I’m telling you that you have a gift and you’re wasting it. A gift that half the student body atJuilliard—for crying out loud—would kill to have. And you’re Will, and you’re telling me that, no, no, it’s totally cool for you to quit and become…what? A personal assistant?”
“There’s nothing wrong with that.”
Melanie sputtered. “That’s exactly what Will said! And just like Ben Affleck, I’m here to tell you that’s crap. It’s insulting to the rest of us who would give our left tit for a fraction of the talent you’re just throwing away.”
“Don’t do that,” I said, shaking my head. “That’s ludicrous. And unhealthy.”
“Just the facts, ma’am. You’recrazy-talented. You’re Mozart-level talented, and it just fuckingkillsme to see you neglect that.”
“You’re overstating it, to put it mildly. Mozart was a legend. To even compare me to him is…well, it’s almost blasphemous.”
“I’m not that far off the mark and you know it. Mozart wrote his first concerto at age four. Youplayedone of his concertos at the age of six. You played Sibelius’s No. 47 at age fourteen.Sibelius. You think that happens every day? That kind of talent…it’s amiracle.”
“A miracle? Do you even feel the weight of what you’re throwing on me?” I hefted my armful of clothing. “I’m doing my best, Mel. That’s all anyone can do, right?”
Melanie dropped her hands to her side. “Charlotte, you’ve been through some serious shit. You got knocked on your ass, and then that prick, Keith, kicked you when you were down. So you took some time off and if you need to take more, you should. But if you’re considering giving it up, I think that would be a tragedy.”
A tragedy. Losing Chris was a tragedy. Nothing else came close. I shook my head.
“Do you know how hard it is to practice every day and feel nothing? And I do. I practice every day now at the townhouse, and every day I feelnothing. I’m just making noise.”
“You have to go there. You have to dig in. If it’s not rising up like it used to then you have to go prospecting for it.”
“I’m trying, Mel. I really am.”
“So audition for the Philharmonic. You have plenty of time to prepare. Get your Mendelssohn in shape, and then get over there and kill it.”
“Melanie, I just signed a year lease to work as Noah’s assistant.”
“Leases can be broken.” Melanie quirked an eyebrow. “Are you trying or are you not?”
I sighed. “I’ll think about it. But don’t be surprised if I crash and burn because I sure as hell won’t be.”
“Ah, there’s that optimism!” Melanie hugged me. “I’m proud of you. And you’ll thank me someday. When you’re rich and famous and stealing all of Hilary Hahn’s gigs.”
I snorted a laugh but was secretly glad the topic was dropped. The idea of an audition didn’t thrill me or give me butterflies like auditions had in the past. Instead, I felt dread, like a phone was going to ring and a voice was going to tell me something horrible. It didn’t make sense, but my psyche had tangled everything up for me and I didn’t know how to unravel it all.
We continued perusing, and I found myself gravitating toward bohemian-style shift dresses in colorful patterns and billowy pants and blouses. I soon had an armful.
“Boho chic, are we?” Melanie commented.
