chin on my kneecaps. How is it that only a month ago I was scared of staying in Waterford? Afraid of staying and never belonging? Afraid I would never be like my friends? Afraid I could never have friends?
My mother knocks twice before pushing open the door. “Here.” She hands me her teacup and bends down to retrieve the ransacked silver tray.
“Emma and Charlotte are quite nice, Sophia. I see why you like spending time with them.” Her eyes are moist. Subtle wrinkles crease like butterflies in the corners of her eyes; she is more beautiful than ever.
Affectionately, she pats my knee and makes to leave the room. At the doorway, she pauses. “Did you choose one, darling?”
A row of garment bags now hang neatly in the armoire after Charlotte and Emma helped put them away.
However, I point to the far side of the room.
On the tufted chair in the corner, beside the little Russian doll, Katarina, is the same dull dress that has been there all night.
My mother narrows her eyes, walks toward it, and lifts it from the cushion.
She removes the plastic, revealing a gown with a high V-neck, beaded straps, and a fitted waist that cascades into an enormously full skirt that swirls when I move.
Without the plastic covering, the gown’s color is neither muddy nor dull, but rather a rich, shimmering, iridescent chocolate brown.
Recognition washes over my mother’s face. “You’re certain, honey?”
I smile. “Heck yeah.”
CHAPTER 31
Standing in my evening gown, with curled hair falling over my shoulders and feet bare on the wood floor, I know what to do.
My life here in Waterford is weaving together like a Belgian tapestry.
I grab hold of the tulle and chiffon fabric and squeeze into my familiar spot between the bench and the piano keys.
The small brass lamp is turned on, illuminating the sheet music that my mother must have taped back together. With my toes, I trace each pedal. Stretching my fingers, I see the conductor saunter forward in his white tie and tails.
My fingers grace the keys.
My thumb presses first. The sound echoes. My hands quiver. My pointer finger touches next. The note rings in my ears.
Closing my eyes, I stroke the shiny porcelain keys. Occasionally I glance at the paper, but I don’t need it. The music pours out of me like I am a storm cloud and it is rain.
Soon, my fingers are racing toward the finish line, each trying to get there faster than the next. Despite their race, they work in unison—in exquisite harmony—welcoming me back.
It isn’t until I finish the prelude that I hear feet shuffling behind me. I swivel to face them.
My mother is holding a dishcloth in one hand and a glass pitcher in the other. My father stands in his bathrobe, motionless.
I smile. And then we all start to laugh.
I have to maneuver my legs from beneath the layers of tulle to stand, but it feels right to be wearing this fluffy chocolate chiffon gown. After all, it was what I wore the last time I played, on that drizzly spring day in Vienna.
“You have your phone?” My father nods to the satin minaudière in my right hand.
I kiss his cheek. “See you at midnight,” I promise.
“You’re beautiful,” Aksel says as I gather my skirt in my hands to sit down in the Range Rover. I trace a seam of my gown and bite my lip to stop blushing.
Once Aksel has started the ignition and reverses onto the street, he takes my hand, letting go only to shift gears.
Dusk, transitioning swiftly into night, escorts us down the canyon to the city. Aksel looks handsome in his tuxedo, the muscles in his shoulders sculpted beneath his coat, his angular profile defined against the setting, rose-gold winter sun.
From the street, I can see the interior of the theater, freshly renovated to resemble its original 1916 appearance: heavy velvet draping around the doors, crystal chandeliers, and gold leaf banisters. With everyone dressed in Edwardian clothes—a few women look like they raided Downton Abbey’s costume department—we fit right in. Aksel in a tuxedo, me in my dress. Charlotte was right: this is romantic.
Inside, the seats are a plush crimson velvet. We sit in the fifth row, directly above the conductor. After a few minutes, the sconces dim; curtains ripple across the stage; the orchestra starts.
By the time the ballet finishes, I feel transported. I forgot how magical it is—the music, the intricate movements, the athletic fragility of the dancers. It has been so long