“Mrs. Parker.”
“What?”
“I forgot something.”
He pulled a folded sheet from his pocket.
She groaned.
“Please don’t tell me there’s another letter.”
“No.”
“Another hidden cabinet?”
“No.”
“Another eighty-year-old witness?”
“She’s ninety-one.”
“Owen.”
He grinned.
Then handed her the paper.
It was a copy of the completed score.
At the top, beneath Thomas Mercer’s original title, Owen had added another line.
Performed for Eleanor Parker, who finally heard the ending.
Mrs. Parker stared.
Then crossed out the final word.
Owen frowned.
“What are you doing?”
She handed the page back.
She had changed it to:
Performed for Eleanor Parker, who finally heard the beginning.
Owen looked at her.
“The beginning of what?”
Mrs. Parker put on her coat.
“That’s the nice thing about beginnings.”
She smiled.
“You don’t always know.”
Winter turned slowly toward spring.
The story of the concert traveled farther than any of us expected.
Former students began contacting the school.
