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with a trumpet player. Who finally lets go of my hand, walks out of the coffee shop, waves, smiles once more, and then heads north on Broadway.
    Yeats would probably want to write a poem about this sudden turn in my story. I tuck his book into the pocket on my violin case, leave money on the table, and hurry home to rescue my wilting daffodils. I’ve got to practice. And eat. And then practice some more.
    And I do all that, and the hour of playing before dinner goes well, and the hour after dinner goes even better.
    And that’s when I decide I deserve some recreation, some culture. Because it’s Friday night in New York City. I’m sure Yeats would approve. And Wordsworth.
    And so would Grampa. I’m sure he would.
    The desk clerk at the Empire Hotel speaks with a Japanese accent. He connects me to the right room, but the line is busy, so after the tone I say, “Robert, it’s Gwen, from the coffee shop today. I’ll be in the lobby at seven-thirty. Bye.”
    And then I hurry and shower and dress and dash for the subway. Because I’m going to Lincoln Center. On Friday night. With a trumpet player. Who has a nice smile.

chapter 5
    FIELD TRIP
    The concert on Friday night isn’t quite at Lincoln Center. And it’s not the New York Philharmonic playing, which is what I’d expected. The concert is in the Jazz at Lincoln Center complex at Columbus Circle. And the program features Wynton Marsalis and the Lincoln Center Jazz Orchestra.
    Robert’s parents don’t come with us, which seems a little odd. It’s just me and the trumpet player. And he actually has his trumpet. I ask why, and he says, “It’s a three-thousand-dollar horn, and it’s the only one I’ve got, and it’s either lock it up in the hotel safe, or carry it. So I carry it.”
    Jazz. I don’t avoid it, but I don’t seek it out. I grew up on bluegrass, and I’m in love with classical now, but I’ve never gotten into jazz. The next time someone offers free concert tickets, I need to ask for details.
    William Paterson University. That’s the tip I didn’t catch in the coffee shop when Robert listed his auditions. The specialty at William Paterson is jazz. Robert, he of the nice smile, is a jazz trumpeter first, an orchestra player second—but still good enough to get into the Tanglewood classical brass workshop, which is saying something.
    And I’m surprised at how much I enjoy the concert. There are fifteen or twenty amazing musicians in the group, and they open with a piece called “Big Train” that Marsalis wrote himself. It’s beautifully orchestrated, with a great range of sounds. Our house back home is only half a mile from the Norfolk Southern line, and I know those lonesome train sounds. And feelings.
    Some of the other stuff is a little too disjointed for my taste, but Robert loves all the tunes, clapping for every soloist, and he’s one of the first people on his feet at the end. The best part for me? I didn’t worry about Grampa once for almost two hours.
    When Robert first came into the hotel lobby without his parents, it was a surprise, but I don’t say anything until after the concert. We’re next door to the Empire Hotel eating ice cream—his choice—and it’s almost eleven o’clock, just the two of us at a table. Trying to sound casual, I say, “So, how do your parents like the city?”
    He shrugs. “They couldn’t come. My mom teaches college, and she has midterms, and my dad’s locked into a research project. My mom’s gonna try to come Thursday, or maybe meet me in Boston next week. They’re not real happy about me being a music major anyway.”
    “How come?”
    “Usual reasons—earning a living, job security. Stuff like that.”
    “Don’t they think you’re a good musician? I mean, you’ve got an audition at Juilliard.”
    “They know I’m talented, but they also know that lots of great musicians never make a good living. And they also know that a big-name school isn’t some magic ticket to success. So