“That would be stupid,” Lara said. “It would cripple the real estate industry.”
“I know. He’s against the bill.”
“A lot of people will be against it. It will never pass,” Lara predicted. “In the first place…”
The private phone on the desk rang. Lara stared at it. It rang again.
“Aren’t you going to answer it?” Keller asked. Lara’s mouth was dry. “No.”
Paul Martin listened to the hollow ring a dozen times before he replaced the receiver. He sat there a long time thinking about Lara. It seemed to him that lately she had been less accessible, a little cooler. Could there be someone else? No. Paul Martin thought. She belongs to me. She’ll always belong to me.
The flight on KLM was pleasant. The first-class seats in the wide-bodied 747 were spacious and comfortable, and the cabin attendants were attentive.
Lara was too nervous to eat or drink anything. What am I doing? she wondered. I’m going to Amsterdam uninvited, and he’ll probably be too busy to even see me. Running after him is going to ruin whatever chance I might have had. Too late.
She checked in at the Grand Hotel on Oudezijds Voorburgwal 197, one of the most beautiful hotels in Amsterdam.
“We have a lovely suite for you, Miss Cameron,” the clerk said.
“Thank you. I understand that Philip Adler is giving a recital this evening. Do you know where he would be playing?”
“Of course, Miss Cameron. At the Concertgebouw.”
“Could you arrange a ticket for me?”
“It will be my pleasure.”
As Lara entered her suite, the telephone was ringing. It was Howard Keller.
“Did you have a nice flight?”
“Yes, thanks.”
“I thought you’d like to know that I’ve spoken to the two banks about the Seventh Avenue deal.”
“And?”
His voice was vibrant. “They’re jumping at it.”
Lara was elated. “I told you! This is going to be a big one. I want you to start assembling a team of architects, builders—our construction group—the works.”
“Right. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” She replaced the receiver and thought about Howard Keller. He was so dear. I’m so lucky. He’s always there for me. I have to find someone wonderful for him.
Philip Adler was always nervous before playing. He had rehearsed with the orchestra in the morning, and had a light lunch, and then, to take his mind off the concert, had gone to see an English movie. As he watched the picture, his mind was filled with the music he was going to play that evening. He was unaware that he was drumming his fingers on the arm of his seat until the person next to him said, “Would you mind stopping that awful sound?”
“I beg your pardon,” Philip said politely.
He got up and left the theater and roamed the streets of Amsterdam. He visited the Rijksmuseum, and he strolled through the Botanical Gardens of the Free University, and window-shopped along the P.C. Hooftstraat. At four o’clock he went back to his hotel to take a nap. He was unaware that Lara Cameron was in the suite directly above him.
At 7:00 P.M. Philip arrived at the artists’ entrance of the Concertgebouw, the lovely old theater in the heart of Amsterdam. The lobby was already crowded with early arrivals.
Backstage, Philip was in his dressing room, changing into tails. The director of the Concertgebouw bustled into the room.
“We’re completely sold out, Mr. Adler! And we had to turn away so many people. If it were possible for you to stay another day or two, I would…I know you are fully booked…I will talk to Mr. Ellerbee about your return here next year and perhaps…”
Philip was not listening. His mind was focused on the recital that lay ahead. The director finally shrugged apologetically and bowed his way out. Philip played the music over and over in his mind. A page knocked at the dressing-room door.
“They’re ready for you onstage, Mr. Adler.”
“Thank you.”
It was time. Philip rose to his feet. He held out his hands. They were trembling slightly. The nervousness before playing never went away. It was true of all the great pianists—Horowitz, Rubinstein, Serkin. Philip’s stomach was churning, and his heart was pounding. Why do I put myself through this agony? he asked himself. But he knew the answer. He took one last look in the mirror, then stepped out of the dressing room, and walked through the long corridor, and started to descend the thirty-three steps that led onto the stage. There was a spotlight on him as he moved toward the piano. The applause grew thunderous. He sat down at the piano, and as if by magic, his nervousness disappeared. It was as though another person were taking his place, someone calm, and poised, and completely in charge. He began to play.