Jimmy was standing at the mail table glancing through a pile of papers when Lionel entered from the kitchen. “Welcome home, sir.”
“Thank you, Lionel.”
“Did you have a pleasant trip?”
“The usual, Lionel. Thank you for asking.” He glanced at the stairwell. “Is Misses Warburg in?”
“She’s gone to Paris, sir.”
Paris? Had she alluded to an upcoming trip to Paris, in any conversation? Not that he could recall. “Did she mention when she’d return?”
“Not to me, sir.”
Jimmy nodded. In the pile of letters and flyers he came across the monthly newsletter of his daughters’ school, announcing new teachers, ambitious projects and prizes, and faculty publications. He skimmed through it quickly, aware that its main purpose was to justify inflated tuition fees. But as he turned it over his eyes caught his daughter’s name in a list of talent show performers. The event would take place this very evening. He visualized little Andrea performing on the school stage, small and alone, searching for a familiar face among the parents and friends in the audience.
And Kay, up to God knows what in Paris.
He glanced at his watch. Barely enough time but he had no commitments this evening and knew he would never forgive himself if he failed to try.
The Finch School was a tony, forward-looking academy for girls that de-emphasized etiquette and spotlighted literature, the arts, and music. The small auditorium was packed. Jimmy stood at the back, his arms crossed as he endured a four-part chorale harmonizing Bruckner’s “Ave Maria,” a young violinist’s rendition of a Lully gavotte, and an amateur magician engaging a volunteer in a mind-reading game.
His thoughts veered to Kay. Her absence. Her unannounced voyage to Paris, probably to meet her lover. That she was enjoying an affair with Gershwin, Jimmy could understand. That she had fallen in love with him… well, that posed a challenge. Bedroom dalliances were one thing, emotional disloyalty quite another.
Normally, a tightening of marital bonds accompanied the process of aging. No honorable man would leave his spouse for his mistress, discard his children for a new brood, or neglect his duties in business because he was lovesick. Only vulgar, nouveau rich saps—and, God knew, Jimmy had encountered his share of those—would comport themselves in such an indiscreet manner.
And here Kay had run off to Paris and was missing the recital of their sweetest daughter. The one who would shake him when he fell asleep reading her stories; who was convinced a ghost lived in their guest room; who had rescued a kitten and brought it to the veterinarian. Kind, eager Andrea.
Yes, Gershwin and Kay shared a passion for music. That hardly justified neglecting their daughter. He advised himself nonetheless to keep his anger in check. Despite Kay’s dissatisfactions, despite her betrayal, his marriage—his family—remained all-important to Jimmy.
Finally, there she was, his daughter Andrea, bowing to the audience and then jazzing through George Gershwin’s “Liza.” Her performance impressed and troubled Jimmy, not just for its audacity. For a girl of only seven, Andrea possessed an uncanny sense of Gershwin’s harmonies, his melancholic and playful moods, his keyboard affectations. The bastard had left an imprint on Jimmy’s little angel. Well, I have only myself to blame, he lamented inwardly.
He applauded as he never had before. The public reaction was more restrained. Most of the audience, surmised Jimmy as he looked at the other parents, was not convinced this kind of music held a legitimate place in the Finch School.
In the lobby after the show Andrea seemed surprised and thrilled to see him. “Daddy!” She ran to his arms and hugged him. “Oh, Daddy. You heard it all?”
“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” said Jimmy. “It was masterful. I would wager a penny you will not say no to ice cream.”
“Let’s get a banana split, Daddy.” Andrea took his hand. “Oh, Daddy, I’m so glad you came.”
They walked out to the street. Whatever should happen between Kay and me, I shall always have this moment, thought Jimmy.