Chapter 20

For the next hour, everything seemed weird in its ordinariness. Here I was, alone with Olivia after a hiatus of nearly two decades, and the first main topic of conversation was my luggage. I had to get my suitcase and garment bag back to my hotel, and Olivia had her own mundane concerns. She was eager to avoid being recognized, and she swathed herself in her scarf again before we stepped outside.

“I hope I can get away without the sunglasses now that it’s dark,” she said. “What do you think, Ted? Would you know me if I passed you on the street?”

I looked at her. Even after nineteen years, even disguised with a scarf, I would have recognized her. How could that be? I wondered. I thought I had banished her from my thoughts so thoroughly, and yet—she must have been there anyway, somewhere beneath the surface.

“I don’t think your fans will have a clue,” I said. None of them knew her like I did, after all, and my own experience told me how easy it is to walk about unrecognized in public places. I wasn’t a magazine-cover celebrity like Olivia, but I was beginning to have a coterie from my recordings and solo concerts.

“I hope not,” said Olivia. “I would really like to keep the evening all to ourselves.” She echoed my feelings perfectly.

We didn’t have to put her disguise to the test as we left Carnegie Hall. The artists’ entrance is designed to shield performers from aggressive onlookers, and we vanished into a cab without incident. Olivia had a limousine at her disposal, and I could have called a car service, but we would attract less attention in a more plebeian vehicle.

We went first to the Warwick Hotel, where I was staying. I left my bag and suitcase with the doorman, and slid back onto the seat next to Olivia and my violin. I never leave my instrument in hotels, not even in a safe. When I travel, my violin stays with me.

This particular violin was new, at least to me. It was actually three hundred years old, a wonderful Amati I’d discovered in Austria just a few months before. I could have bought a nice house in a fine neighborhood for what it cost, but it wasn’t the price tag that made it valuable to me. Over the years, a good violin had become as necessary to my existence as my heart. I felt as though I’d need life support without one, and even that would ultimately fail. I truly believed I’d die without my strings.

The case was between us on the seat, and my left hand was resting on it. I was sorely tempted to move it, to remove the barrier between Olivia and me. I didn’t, of course. I was afraid it might seem too forward of me.

“I have all your recordings,” said Olivia, putting her hand next to mine on the case. “But they’re nothing like hearing you play in person.”

She had all my records?

“Thank you,” I managed to say. “I’ve been following your career, too. Ever since I first saw a picture of you as the ‘Chopper Chick.’ I still watch Gunther reruns whenever I’m in the States, and I just got the video of Blue Diamonds. You were terrific.”

We were silent again, but the space between us was warmer, closer. Suddenly I realized that the taxi wasn’t moving.

“Oh—we better decide where we want to eat,” I said. “Do you know a place, or should I go back and ask the concierge for advice?”

“I know a place,” volunteered the cab driver. It is probably the only time in my life I have been lucky enough to find myself in a New York taxi with a driver who not only spoke English but was also eager to be helpful. He suggested an establishment he was sure would be open late, a restaurant in the Theater District. “You’ll like Baccala,” he said, winking in his rearview mirror. “Very romantic.”

Olivia glanced at me with a little smile, and I felt color rise in my face. Damn! How could this be happening? She was married, and she was really little more than a stranger to me. That’s what quiet reason told me, but my heart and my soul were screaming a different story.

“I’ve heard of Baccala,” she said. “I hope we can get in without a reservation.”

“Don’t worry,” said the cabbie. “I’ll take care of everything.”

He was true to his word, and his advice was well worth the large tip I gave him. Within twenty minutes, Olivia and I were installed at a quiet table in a sophisticated restaurant finished in polished granite and decorated with bronze sculptures and abstract watercolors.

“We’re celebrating,” I said. “Shall I order champagne?”

We ordered dinner at the same time, and while we waited for a bottle of Veuve Clicquot to arrive, I gazed at Olivia in the warm light of the candle on our table. We didn’t speak for a few minutes, but the silence was far from empty. Somehow, communication was taking place without words. I couldn’t take my eyes off her face. She was so familiar, yet so mysterious. I felt so comfortable, and at the same time unbearably excited.

“To Guenevere and Lancelot,” I said, raising a flute when the waiter had filled them. Olivia raised her own, and we each took a sip.

“I have something else to celebrate, too, Ted,” said Olivia. “You know that call I made back at Carnegie Hall? That’s when I found out I’m finished shooting. I have to stay in New York for a few more days in case we need to redo a scene or shoot extra footage, but for all practical purposes, I’m done.”

“To finished films, then,” I said, and we drank again.

“And there’s something else,” said Olivia, pausing to look me square in the eyes. “When I go back to L.A., my husband and I will be announcing our formal separation. If everything goes smoothly, our divorce should be final by the end of the year.”

I didn’t know what to say. We just sat there staring at each other for a minute or two.

“Jay and I haven’t really lived together for almost three years now,” said Olivia. “We’ve been keeping up appearances to keep the tabloids at bay, mostly for Teddie’s sake—”

“Teddy?”

“Oh!” Olivia said, blushing. “My daughter, Theodora. We call her Teddie.” Olivia’s cheeks were hot with color now. Damn! Had she really given her daughter my nickname? I was shocked. I was flattered. I was—damn! What was happening?

Olivia opened her shoulder bag and extracted a small photo album bound in glove leather. Opening it to the first page, she turned it toward me. There, smiling in a pink leotard and tutu, was Teddie. Her dark hair was tied into two ponytails with lavender ribbons, and she was missing her two front teeth.

“This picture’s almost a year old now,” Olivia said, “but that’s Teddie. She says she wants to be a ballerina when she grows up.”

“She’s beautiful, Olivia,” I said. “She looks just like you. And if she is like you, I have no doubt we’ll see her name in lights one of these days.”

“Did you know I never graduated from Haviland?” Olivia asked suddenly. It seemed like a change of subject, but perhaps thinking of her daughter’s future had reminded her of her own past. My look of surprise was enough to give Olivia my answer.

“I left when you did,” she said quietly. “Moved to L.A.”

“Why?” I asked with astonishment.

“Because of you, Ted.”