Anja walked small circles over the plush carpet, nerves jangling. As she passed the large bay window for the twelfth time that morning, she caught a glimpse of the guests starting to arrive downstairs. Women with their shoulders naked and heads piled high with hair; men straight-shouldered and slickly sideburned.
The pictures on the wall didn’t help. One face in particular, depicted in a series of portraits, peered out from beneath polished glass panes. Anja had never met the woman in the gilt frame, but she was strangely familiar. She had a high, straight nose that bisected her face, cheekbones carved in improbable angles. Her hair was dark and her lips were darker still, as if stained by wine. She looked happy in the pictures, smiling in a cautious but genuine way, here receiving a trophy, there holding up a fish. The pictures only spanned her girlhood. She must have moved out after that, her parents keeping this room just the way it had been. Anja wondered what she had grown into, whether her features had sharpened or dulled with time, if she had kept her childhood haircut. Then Anja realized that she would soon be able to see for herself.
Her violin lay unopened in its case. She had told them she needed somewhere quiet to prepare, and they had looked at her with knowing eyes and hushed tones, showing her swiftly to this room.
But there was nothing to prepare. She’d done the preparation three days earlier, sitting on Lea’s sofa, letting the music flow through her. Now she remembered every crescendo and decrescendo, every rest and fermata. More than that, she remembered how the music felt in her gut, in her nerves, in her bones.
What she had really wanted was to avoid the crowd downstairs. It had just started to fill up when she’d arrived, but already she could smell the thick, heady scent of all those bodies simmering in the summer heat.
Anja sat down on the bed and opened the case in her lap. Nestled against dark velvet, the violin’s polished wood seemed to give off an invisible light. She picked it up, held it to her chin, and closed her eyes. She touched the bow to its strings, feeling the music trapped within, the tension of contact. Without playing a note, Anja began running through the piece in her head.
She was still sitting like this when the door clicked open, so quiet that at first she didn’t notice.
“What a lovely dress.”
Anja opened her eyes. The figure in the doorway was tall and slim, her hair gathered atop her head so that she appeared even taller.
“Mrs. Jackman,” Anja said, rising and stretching out her hand. “I’m sorry for—” She stopped. A warm flush spread across her cheeks. Was it a loss? Could she call it that?
But Mrs. Jackman was unfazed. She flashed a broad smile, revealing a set of blindingly white teeth. Her hands grasped Anja’s, warm and soft as her mother’s once were.
“None of that around here,” Mrs. Jackman said. “I don’t mind, but there are people who will, as you know.”
She cupped Anja’s waist. Her grip was warm and firm through the thin fabric.
“Such lovely material. Where did you get this?” she went on.
Anja flushed. “Oh. A shop back home. Sweden. I’ve had it a long time,” she lied.
Mrs. Jackman nodded, as if Anja had said something of grave importance. “And if you don’t mind me asking, what will you be playing later?”
“Bach,” Anja said. “Like we discussed.”
“Of course,” Mrs. Jackman said. She seemed to want to say more, but fell silent instead, turning to the pictures on the wall.
“It’s an honor—” Anja started to say.
“Shush. You’ve done great work for the Club. The videos—that was the best idea anyone could have come up with, worthy of Dominique herself. It’s too bad she didn’t live to see them, she would have been so impressed. But it’s really increased our reach. Public opinion seems to be changing, in earnest this time. It’s bifurcated, of course, since we’ve really riled some evangelicals. But even amongst the so-called life-loving, there are whispers that the tide is turning. And it’s all thanks to your idea.”
Anja nodded. She wondered what her mother would have thought of the videos, but then pushed the thought out of her mind.
“So. It’s an honor for us that you’ve agreed, really. There’s no one better placed to take over from Dominique.” Mrs. Jackman paused, reaching out to touch one of the photo frames. “I think she would agree.”
The woman in the photos watched from the walls, a younger, chubbier version of Mrs. Jackman. Given the opportunity, would her cheekbones have shifted beneath her flesh, to match the angles in Mrs. Jackman’s face? Or perhaps she would take after Mr. Jackman, who was softer, rounder, darker skinned. They would never know, Anja realized. She gripped the neck of her violin and followed Mrs. Jackman through the door.