A FEW DAYS later, Lily calls and asks if she can stop by because she wants to give me something.

When she arrives, she hands me a CD and says, “I hesitated for a long time . . . but finally I made this music for you. It’ll work only for you. It’s not something that most people should have. But in your case, maybe it’ll help.”

“What is it?” I ask.

“You seem unable to tolerate the blindness which we—as human beings—all have.” She pauses. “This music will enable you to know people’s true feelings. It’ll allow you to see into their hearts. Use it sparingly. Use it on Peter. Next time you’re alone with him, play this piece. Then you’ll know how he truly feels about you. And you’ll know what path to take.”

TWO DAYS LATER, Peter and I are in my living room, sitting on my couch, chatting. I cherish his dwindling visits.

The time has come. I get up and go to my stereo.

My heart pounding, I open the unlabeled CD case Lily gave me. I put the disk in the player. I stare at the Play button, my finger hovering over it. I wonder what the music will sound like, and what it’ll reveal.

And that’s when something incredible happens: I realize I already know—not what it will sound like, but what it will reveal. For the first time, something in me unblocks and I feel it, I know it—his love for me and the nature of it. And I realize I’ve known it all along, on some deep level, but just hadn’t known how to recognize it. It took being on the verge of discovering the truth to perceive it was already in me.

“What are you doing?” Peter inquires.

I turn toward him.

“Are you going to play a CD?” he asks.

“I don’t think so.”

I go back to the couch and sit next to him, close. He’s following my every move and puts down his glass. I lean toward him and we kiss for the first time. He seems hardly to believe it. He responds passionately.

I give myself to him, abandoning all reservations, all doubts. Perhaps tomorrow, I will have doubts again. But not now. If tomorrow I doubt, I can press Play.

BUT THE NEXT day, I don’t press Play. And the day after that, I don’t press Play.

ON THE FOURTH day, I get a visitor. It’s Derek Pearce, Lily’s old, persistent schoolmate. He’s here because when he phoned me yesterday asking me yet again for her number, and I asked him yet again why he needed to reach her, he said, “Please don’t ask me to tell you.”

I replied, “Then please don’t ask me for her phone number.”

As I was about to hang up, he said, “Wait. Okay, I’ll tell you. But I can’t just blurt it out over the phone; it’s too awkward. Could I meet you to make my case in person? Five minutes is all I need. I’d be so grateful.”

I caved in.

When he arrives, I realize right away that I’ve seen him before. Two things make him memorable. He’s strikingly handsome. And he played in the same recital as Lily a couple of years ago and was in fact the performer whose music Strad had admired so much, describing it as “music that beautifies the world”—those fateful words that led Lily to her path of unimaginable musical powers.

When Derek tells me that his very important reason for wanting to see Lily is “I like her very much,” I’m annoyed to no end that this ridiculously good-looking guy, who I’m sure didn’t give her the time of day back in school, is now seeking her out.

Feeling protective of her, I’m getting ready to dismiss him.

“The fact is,” he adds, “I would like to ask her to have dinner with me, to see if we might hit it off.”

“Why now? Why didn’t you ask her to dinner when you were in school?”

“Because I was in a serious relationship then. It only just ended recently.”

“How convenient. If you date her now, you’ll have all the perks of her fame, which I’m sure will be very useful to you.”

He looks aghast. “The timing is a coincidence. If I’d been single back in school, I would have asked her to dinner then. Even though I hardly knew her, I found her extremely appealing. I feel like an idiot explaining myself to you.” He huffs and looks down at the floor. “I always had it in the back of my mind that if I was ever single again, she was the one person I would want to get to know better.”

I’ve been far too disenchanted too many times to believe a word he’s saying. So I reply, “I’m sorry. We’re not allowed to give her number to anyone, including old friends. Strict instructions. No exceptions.”

After a moment of stunned silence, he nods sadly and takes out a piece of paper on which he scribbles his name and phone number. He puts it on my ottoman cube and says, “Please give her this and tell her I’d be very happy to hear from her if she wants to call me.”

“I sure will!” I snap. “But don’t hold your breath. I’ve already given her your number all those other times you’ve given it to me, and she’s not calling anyone.”

“Okay, I understand.” He thanks me for the meeting and heads for the door.

As he’s about to leave, I say, “Wait.”

He turns around.

I go to my stereo and press Play—not so much to test Derek as to witness his worthlessness. I need to be thorough for Lily’s sake and for my own peace of mind.

As soon as the music starts, I blink, taken aback. Like a strong gust of wind from a suddenly opened door, the truth hurls itself at me. I see such honesty and power in his soul, such genuine love for Lily in his heart, I can hardly believe it. His feelings for her are not only real, they are old, just as he claimed. They are not yet very deep, because he hardly knows her, but they are pure.

“That’s a beautiful piece,” he says. “I’ve never heard it before, though it’s obviously by Lily. Her music is unmistakable. I could listen to it all the time.”

I nod, too moved to speak. Finally, I manage to say, “Her number. Are you ready?”

He flips open his notebook, surprised, and I give him Lily’s number.

“Thank you so much,” he says. “I really appreciate it.”

I nod.

He heads back to the door.

Suddenly, I know what will happen. His beauty will blind Lily, just as it blinded me when he first arrived a few minutes ago. She’ll see nothing else about him—not his decency, not his gentleness, not his goodness. She’ll assume his interest in her can only be corrupt. And she’ll dismiss him without giving him a chance.

“Wait,” I say again, softly.

He turns and looks at me.

“When you call her, don’t tell her who you are. Just say I gave you her number.”

He doesn’t respond.

I go to the far end of my living room. “Let me also give you this.” I unhook from the wall my most darkly beautiful, mysterious mask.

I bring it to him. “Wear it when you’re with her. At least the first few times.”

He takes the mask and looks at it, perplexed. “Why don’t you want her to see me?”

I smile. “On the contrary. I do.”

THE END

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank my brilliant editor, Jill Bialosky, and my extraordinary agent, Melanie Jackson, for their advice, support, and enthusiasm.

For their encouragement, thoughtfulness, and, in some cases, help with special expertise, I am grateful to Sondra Peterson, Daniel Filipacchi, Katherine J. Chen, Rebecca Schultz, Martine Bellen, Allegra Huston, Louise Brockett, Angie Shih, Jennifer Cohen, Shelley Griffin, Kathleen Patrick Bosman, Bruce Champagne, Régis Pagniez, the team at Norton, and, everlastingly, to Richard Hine.

ALSO BY AMANDA FILIPACCHI