“You’re putting yourself down again,” Alvirah said, interrupting. “I bet he was lonely before you came. I bet he took great comfort in having you with him.”

Sondra’s smile got wider. “Maybe, but the trade-off in having me as company was his freedom to come and go, all the little luxuries he had enjoyed.” The smile vanished. “I guess I did make it up to him in a way. I am a good musician, a good violinist.”

“Bingo!” Alvirah said. “You’re finally saying something good about yourself.”

Sondra laughed. “You know, Alvirah, you do have a way with words.”

“That’s what my editor says,” Alvirah agreed. “Okay, I get the picture. You felt the responsibility to succeed, you won the scholarship, you met someone attractive and gifted, you’d just turned eighteen and you fell for him. He probably told you how crazy he was about you, and, let’s face it, you were vulnerable. You didn’t have a mother and father, or brothers and sisters. Instead you had a grandfather who by then was starting to get sick. Have I got it straight?”

“Yes.”

“We know the rest. Let’s skip to the present. No one as pretty and talented as you are, lives in a vacuum. Have you got a boyfriend?”

“No.”

“Too quick an answer, Sondra, which means you do have one. Who is he?”

There was a long silence. “Gary Willis. He’s on the board of the Chicago Symphony,” Sondra said reluctantly. “He’s thirty-four, eight years older than I am, very successful, very handsome, very nice, and he wants to marry me.”

“So far, so good,” Alvirah volunteered. “And you don’t care about him?”

“I could. I’m just not ready for marriage. Right now I’m an emotional basket case-I know that. I’m afraid that if I do get married, I’ll never be able to look at my newborn’s face without knowing that I left its sibling in a shopping bag out in the cold. Gary has been very patient and understanding with me. You’ll get to meet him. He’s bringing my grandfather in for the concert.”

“I like the sound of him already,” Alvirah said. “And don’t forget, ninety percent of women today juggle husbands or families and careers. I know I did.”

Sondra looked around the tastefully furnished apartment and out over the spectacular view of Central Park. “What do you do, Alvirah?”

“Right now, my career is lottery winner, problem solver and contributing columnist to the New York Globe. Until three years ago I was a spectacular cleaning woman.”

Sondra’s chuckle indicated she wasn’t sure whether to believe her or to take what she said as a joke, but Alvirah did not elaborate. Plenty of time later for the history of my life, she thought.

They got up together. “I must get to practice,” Sondra said. “I’ve got a coach coming today who has a reputation that sends chills down the spines of performers like me.”

“Well, you go and give it your all,” Alvirah said. “I’m going to figure out a way to try to track down that baby of yours without anyone knowing who’s doing it. I’ll call you every day, I promise.”

“Alvirah, Granddad and Gary will be coming in the week before the concert. I know Granddad will want to go to St. Clement’s. He’ll be so sad to hear that Bishop Santori’s chalice is missing. But in case we should run into Monsignor Ferris when we’re there, will you talk to him first and explain that you and I have talked, and ask him please not to let Granddad know I’ve been hanging around the church?”

“Absolutely,” Alvirah said promptly.

When they walked through the living room, Sondra stopped at the piano, where John Thompson’s Book for Mature Beginners was on the rack, open to “All Through the Night.”

She stopped and played the melody with one hand. “I’d forgotten all about that song; it’s lovely, isn’t it?” Without waiting for an answer, she played it again and softly sang, “Sleep, my child, and peace attend thee, All through the night; Guardian angels God will send thee, All through the night.”

She stopped. “Sort of appropriate, isn’t it, Alvirah?” Her voice broke. “I hope my baby found a guardian angel that night.” She looked suddenly as if she might cry.

“I’ll call you,” Alvirah promised as Sondra rushed out.

17

“Are you all through with me, Cordelia?” Willy asked wearily. “Both toilets are working, but I would suggest you tell the kids not to throw wads of tissue in them. Think of those pipes as belonging in an old-age home. Which is where I feel I should be right now,” he added with a sigh.

“Nonsense,” Sister Cordelia said briskly. “You’re still a young man, William. Just wait till you get to be my age.” There was a ten-year difference between the siblings.

“Cordelia, the day you’re a hundred, you’ll still have more energy than a Rockette,” Willy told her.

“Speaking of which, I’m supposed to watch a run-through of the pageant. Come on, let’s get upstairs. The kids will be going home soon,” Sister Cordelia said, grasping Willy by the arm and propelling him toward the staircase. It was quarter of six, and the rehearsal for the pageant was in full swing. They had reached the final scene, in the stable. A solemn-faced Stellina was kneeling across from a merry-eyed Jerry Nunez, over the folded blanket that was substituting for the crib of the Christ child.

The wise men, led by José Diaz, were approaching from the left and the shepherds were gathering from the right.

“Slow down, all of you,” Sister Cordelia ordered. She raised, then lowered, her hands. “One step at a time, and don’t push. Jerry, keep your eyes down. You’re supposed to be looking at the baby, not at the shepherds.”

“Willy, play the closing song,” she said.

“I left the sheet music home, Cordelia. I didn’t think I’d be here this long.”

“Well, sing it then. God blessed you with a voice. Start to sing very low, the way you’ll do when you’re at the piano, then bring up the volume. The children will join in, starting with Stellina and Jerry, then the wise men and the shepherds, then finally the chorus.”

Willy knew better than to argue with his sister. “Sleep, my child,” he began.

“Jose, I’ll hang you out to dry if you trip Denny,” Sister Cordelia said, interrupting. “Go ahead, start again, Willy.”

At “Guardian angels God will send thee,” Stellina and Jerry joined in. Their young voices, sweet and true, combined with Willy’s tenor as they sang the next two lines together.

What a beautiful voice that kid has, Willy thought as he listened to Stellina. I swear she has perfect pitch. He studied her solemn brown eyes. A seven-year-old shouldn’t look so sad, he thought as the wise men and shepherds and then all the students joined in: “Soft the drowsy hours are creeping, Hill and vale in slumber steeping, I my loving vigil keeping, All through the night.”

At the end, Willy, Sister Cordelia, Sister Maeve Marie and the assorted volunteer aides applauded vigorously. “Just be this good two weeks from now at the actual performance, and we’ll all be happy,” Cordelia told the children. “Now put on your coats and hats and don’t get them mixed up. Your folks will be here to collect you, and they shouldn’t be kept waiting. They’ve been working all day and they’re tired.” She turned to Willy. “And I might add, so am I,” she said.

“It makes me feel good to know that even you have some limits,” Willy said. “Okay, since I’ve been here this long, I may as well hang around and help you clean up.”

Twenty minutes later, he and the two nuns were at the door, waiting for Mrs. Nunez to pick up Stellina and Jerry. When she arrived breathless and contrite, they waved away her apologies.

Sister Cordelia pulled her aside. “How is Stellina’s great-aunt doing?” she asked.

“Not good,” Mrs. Nunez whispered, shaking her head. “She’ll be in the hospital before the week is out, is my guess.” She crossed herself quickly. “Well, at least the father’s back. That’s something, I suppose.” She sniffed, as if to make it clear just how little faith she put in Stellina’s father.