"Of course, Miss Cameron. At the Concertgebouw."
"Could you arrange a ticket for me?"
"It will be my pleasure."
As Lara entered her suite, the telephone was ringing. It was Howard Keller.
"Did you have a nice flight?"
"Yes, thanks."
"I thought you'd like to know that I've spoken to the two banks about the Seventh Avenue deal."
"And?"
His voice was vibrant. "They're jumping at it."
Lara was elated. "I told you! This is going to be a big one. I want you to start assembling a team of architects, builders - our construction group - the works."
"Right. I'll talk to you tomorrow." She replaced the receiver and thought about Howard Keller. He was so dear. I'm so lucky. He's always there for me. I have to find someone wonderful for him.
Philip Adler was always nervous before playing. He had rehearsed with the orchestra in the morning, and had a light lunch, and then, to take his mind off the concert, had gone to see an English movie. As he watched the picture, his mind was filled with the music he was going to play that evening. He was unaware that he was drumming his fingers on the arm of his seat until the person next to him said, "Would you mind stopping that awful sound?"
"I beg your pardon," Philip said politely.
He got up and left the theater and roamed the streets of Amsterdam. He visited the Rijksmuseum, and he strolled through the Botanical Gardens of the Free University, and window-shopped along the P.C. Hooftstraat. At four o'clock he went back to his hotel to take a nap. He was unaware that Lara Cameron was in the suite directly above him.
At 7:00 P.M. Philip arrived at the artists' entrance of the Concertgebouw, the lovely old theater in the heart of Amsterdam. The lobby was already crowded with early arrivals.
Backstage, Philip was in his dressing room, changing into tails. The director of the Concertgebouw bustled into the room.
"We're completely sold out, Mr. Adler! And we had to turn away so many people. If it were possible for you to stay another day or two, I would...I know you are fully booked...I will talk to Mr. Ellerbee about your return here next year and perhaps..."
Philip was not listening. His mind was focused on the recital that lay ahead. The director finally shrugged apologetically and bowed his way out. Philip played the music over and over in his mind. A page knocked at the dressing-room door.
"They're ready for you onstage, Mr. Adler."
"Thank you."
It was time. Philip rose to his feet. He held out his hands. They were trembling slightly. The nervousness before playing never went away. It was true of all the great pianists - Horowitz, Rubinstein, Serkin. Philip's stomach was churning, and his heart was pounding. Why do I put myself through this agony? he asked himself. But he knew the answer. He took one last look in the mirror, then stepped out of the dressing room, and walked through the long corridor, and started to descend the thirty-three steps that led onto the stage. There was a spotlight on him as he moved toward the piano. The applause grew thunderous. He sat down at the piano, and as if by magic, his nervousness disappeared. It was as though another person were taking his place, someone calm, and poised, and completely in charge. He began to play.
Lara, seated in the audience, felt a thrill as she watched Philip walk out on the stage. There was a presence about him that was mesmerizing. I am going to marry him, Lara thought. I know it. She sat back in her seat and let his playing wash over her.
The recital was a triumph, and afterward the greenroom was packed. Philip had long ago learned to divide the crowd invited to the greenroom into two groups: the fans and other musicians. The fans were always enthusiastic. If the performance was a success, the congratulations of the other musicians were cordial. If it was a failure, their congratulations were very cordial.
Philip had many avid fans in Amsterdam, and on this particular evening the greenroom was crowded with them. He stood in the center of the room, smiling, signing autographs, and being patiently polite to a hundred strangers. Invariably someone would say, "Do you remember me?" And Philip would pretend to. "Your face looks so familiar..."
He remembered the story of Sir Thomas Beecham, who had hit upon a device to conceal his bad memory. When someone asked, "Do you remember me?" the great conductor would reply, "Of course, I do! How are you, and how is your father, and what is he doing?" The device worked well until a concert in London when a young woman in the greenroom said, "Your performance was wonderful, Maestro. Do you remember me?" and Beecham gallantly replied, "Of course, I do, my dear. How is your father, and what is he doing?" The young woman said, "Father is fine, thank you. And he's still king of England."
Philip was busily signing autographs, listening to the familiar phrases - "You made Brahms come alive for me!"..."I can't tell you how moved I was!"..."I have all your albums"..."Would you sign an autograph for my mother too? She's your biggest fan..." - when something made him look up. Lara was standing in the doorway, watching. His eyes widened in surprise. "Excuse me."
He made his way over to her and took her hand. "What a wonderful surprise! What are you doing in Amsterdam?"
Careful, Lara. "I had some business to attend to here, and when I heard you were giving a recital, I had to come." That was innocent enough. "You were wonderful, Philip."
"Thank you...I..." He stopped to sign another autograph. "Look, if you're free for supper..."
"I'm free," Lara said quickly.