Chapter 13 - The Woman in the Front Row
Alexander’s mother arrived during the beginner class.
She did not interrupt.
That was the first thing I noticed.
She stood near the door wearing a gray suit and watched twelve children attempt a movement that looked easier than it was.
Ruby fell out of balance.
A little boy named Mateo copied the wrong arm.
Someone giggled.
I stopped the music.
“Again,” I said. “This time, imagine your shoulders aren’t trying to become earrings.”
The children laughed.
So did the woman at the door.
Only once.
Only slightly.
After class, she introduced herself.
“Evelyn Blake.”
I already knew.
There were photographs in Alexander’s study.
Most showed her beside podiums.
She extended a hand.
I shook it.
“Lena Rostova.”
“Yes. I’ve heard.”
The words were courteous.
They still managed to carry a distance.
Marisol collected the last attendance sheets and gave me a look that asked whether I wanted company.
I nodded.
She stayed.
Evelyn noticed.
To her credit, she did not ask her to leave.
“I wanted to see the school for myself.”
“Now you have.”
“It’s impressive.”
“The children work hard.”
“I meant what you’ve created.”
I looked at her.
“I know what you meant. The children still work hard.”
A faint smile touched her mouth.
“You’re not afraid of being difficult.”
“I’ve spent too much of my life being easy to overlook.”
Her gaze moved to the mirrors.
For a moment, I wondered whether the sentence had reached something human.
Then she turned back.
“My son is deeply attached to you.”
“So am I to him.”
“Attachment can make people careless.”
“Yes.”
Her eyes dropped to the ring.
“I assume you have discussed the practical arrangements.”
“We’re beginning.”
“A marriage involves more than feeling.”
“I’m aware.”
Marisol made a small sound behind her clipboard.
I loved her for not disguising it.
Evelyn’s expression cooled.
“I am not your enemy, Lena.”
“Then please stop speaking as though I arrived without a brain.”
Silence.
For the first time, her composure shifted.
Not into outrage.
Into attention.
“I see why Alexander finds you compelling.”
I almost laughed.
“I’m not an acquisition he found interesting.”
“No,” she said after a moment. “You aren’t.”
The admission did not make the visit comfortable.
It made it possible to continue.
Evelyn asked about my mother.
Where she taught.
Whether any recordings remained.
Who held her papers.
The questions sounded thoughtful until she mentioned a name.
“Vivienne Marchand may have relevant materials.”
I went still.
I had seen that name on old envelopes.
My mother’s management correspondence.
Letters that arrived thick and expensive while our cupboards became emptier.
“You knew her?”
“In the arts world, yes.”
“What materials?”
Evelyn hesitated.
“Performance archives. Agreements. Your mother’s career was complicated.”
“My mother was a person. Her career was something other people kept explaining.”
Evelyn looked toward Marisol.
Marisol did not move.
Then Evelyn reached into her bag.
She placed a business card on the desk.
Vivienne Marchand.
Cultural Management and Heritage Licensing.
The title made me think of museum labels.
Something alive turned into something catalogued.
“Why are you giving me this?”
“Because Vivienne contacted me after your performance.”
“Why not contact me?”
“She said she wanted to avoid distressing you.”
I stared at her.
“She knows nothing about what distresses me.”
That afternoon, I called Camille.
By evening, we had requested information directly.
Not through Evelyn.
Not through Alexander.
Me.
Vivienne replied the following morning.
Her message was warm.
She described my mother as brilliant, difficult, and dear.
I disliked the order.
She offered tea.
I asked for documents.
Then she sent a notice concerning a proposed performance of a work called The Glass Orchard.
My mother’s final unfinished ballet.
I had been rehearsing fragments of it privately.
No public announcement.
No ticket sales.
Yet Vivienne knew.
Her letter said any reconstruction or performance would require her authorization.
I sat on the studio floor with the page in my hand.
For fourteen years, I had believed the world had forgotten my mother.
May you like
Now it seemed some people had remembered her very carefully.
Especially the parts they believed they owned.
