Yvette changed the pickup time in handwriting close enough to the coordinator's that nobody would look twice. Then she put the note back in the envelope with the travel directions and went to practice.
She had known Celeste for nine years. They had shared cheap rooms, spare tights and a piano with a sticking middle D. Celeste always arrived early, a habit Yvette once admired and had recently come to resent. The envelope would be delivered to Celeste's hotel desk while she was teaching. By the time she questioned it, the shared car would have left and the last useful train would be gone.
The residency offered a salary, an apartment and a piano that belonged to neither a bar nor a cruise ship. Yvette had read the terms so often that she could recite the heating allowance. At forty-two, she was tired of discovering what people meant when they promised accommodation.
Celeste was better. That was the part Yvette could not discuss with anyone who loved her. They would say it wasn't true, or that music wasn't a competition, and she would have to comfort them for having raised the subject.
She played well at the audition. There was nothing fraudulent about the playing. She felt the instrument respond beneath her hands and gave it everything she had kept for rooms where nobody listened. When the panel thanked her, she knew she had made it difficult for them to refuse.
Celeste arrived after the final decision, carrying her suitcase by its broken handle.
The coordinator apologized. The note said three forty, but the car had left at one forty. A terrible error. There would be a fee to cover the wasted journey.
"May I play now?" Celeste asked.
The panel had gone to a meeting. The offer had already been made. Yvette stood beside the piano with a glass of water she had not drunk.
Celeste looked at her, then at the note.
Yvette had a habit of closing the top of a three until it nearly became an eight. Celeste used to joke about it when they divided grocery bills.
"Could we talk?"
They went into the corridor. Yvette could hear the coordinator calling the driver, trying to determine who had made the mistake.
"You changed it," Celeste said.
"Don't be ridiculous."
"It's your three."
"A lot of people write like that."
Celeste held the note between them. Yvette wanted her to become loud, to say something cruel about her playing, to offer a reason for what had already been done. Instead Celeste asked whether the job included a place to live.
"Yes."
She nodded. She knew about the room Yvette had lost the previous month. Knowing seemed to make it worse for both of them.
The coordinator came into the corridor. There was another possibility. The pianist booked to play duets with the new resident had injured her wrist; they needed someone for the first six weeks of the season. It was temporary, but the fee was reasonable. The accommodation was in the attic, with a kettle in the hall. Yvette's apartment had a kitchen. Would Celeste consider staying?
Yvette watched her read the schedule. The opening program included the four-hand piece they had performed together for years. They knew where to move their elbows so they would not collide.
"Yes," Celeste said.
They rehearsed the following afternoon. Celeste put two separate stools at the grand instead of using the wide bench. Yvette understood the distinction and pretended not to. They divided the page turns with a pencil, just as they had when money was the only difficult thing between them.
During the concert, Yvette turned a page too soon.
Celeste's hands paused. A fraction of a second, enough to damage the entrance before she recovered it. Yvette kept playing. Her heart beat hard against the waistband of the dress bought with her advance.
She could not tell herself honestly whether she had meant to do it.
There had been a marked turn approaching. There had been the familiar wish to keep everything moving. There had also been Celeste's hands beside hers, certain and beautiful, reminding her what the panel would have heard if Celeste had arrived at the correct time.
The piece ended. They stood, bowed, sat for the encore. Celeste moved her stool closer so she could reach the score herself, and rested one finger beneath the page while Yvette began.
Afterward, someone from the board praised how well they listened to each other. Celeste thanked him. Yvette smiled until he left, then asked whether she wanted to get something to eat.
"I have another rehearsal tomorrow," Celeste said. "With you. Ten o'clock."
She wrote the time on a scrap of program and put it on the piano between them. Yvette left it there while she packed her music. She checked it before she went, although she had heard the time perfectly clearly.
