It was noon on September 15th, 1928. Mary put down the telephone, her fingertips lingering on the brass receiver for a moment.
Shane's voice still echoed faintly in her mind: "Mary, you have remarkable potential."
Her gaze fell to her left hand, still struggling with the troublesome modulation in that Chopin étude. The E-flat note, in particular, felt like an insurmountable hurdle.
She glanced at the wall clock: 12:15. Three hours remained before her afternoon lesson, but that persistent E-flat had decided her course—she would leave early to practice.
In the kitchen, Linda arranged lunch neatly.
"Mary, today I made your favorite—cream of mushroom soup."
"Thank you, Aunt Linda," Mary murmured, her silver spoon idly swirling in the soup. Her left hand, however, traced the troublesome melody against the tablecloth, stubbornly refusing to cooperate.
By 1:20 p.m., Vic had parked the Cadillac Krassel in front of their brownstone.
As the car crossed the Brooklyn Bridge, Mary gazed out at the shimmering East River, her left hand resting on her lap as she silently ran through scales in her mind.
At 2:15 p.m., they arrived at 120 Clermont Avenue, Upper West Side, home to the prestigious School of Music and Arts.
The marble steps gleamed in the warm sunlight. Beneath the Gothic arches, students drifted in and out of practice rooms, their footsteps mingling with faint strains of piano music.
Vic opened the car door quietly. "I'll wait outside. If anything happens, send someone for me."
Mary clutched her sheet music and hurried through the archway, deliberately avoiding her previous path. She remembered a particular practice room with a Steinway piano that had an exceptionally clear, bright tone.
Pushing open the heavy wooden door of Practice Room 7, sunlight poured through stained glass, scattering multicolored patterns across the ivory keys.
She flipped to page 17 and positioned herself at the piano, posture perfect. As her fingers struck the first notes of the Revolutionary Etude, the room filled instantly with Chopin's passionate, defiant energy.
Her right hand flowed with effortless grace, but the left-hand modulation loomed again. "Not again," she muttered, biting her lower lip.
"Your wrist angle is off," came a clear, cheerful voice from the doorway. Mary looked up sharply. A girl in a lavender chiffon dress leaned lazily against the frame, sunlight dancing through her chestnut curls and highlighting pearl earrings.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to intrude," the girl said, stepping lightly into the room, her silk skirt whispering with each movement. Her gaze fell on Mary's fingers.
"Your right hand touches the keys beautifully," she paused, then added, "but that E-flat always gives you trouble, doesn't it?"
Mary's eyes widened in surprise.
"Barbara Hutton," the girl introduced herself, sitting gracefully on the opposite side of the piano bench. A faint scent of lily of the valley followed her.
"May I demonstrate?" Before Mary could respond, Barbara's fingers danced across the keys. The stubborn E-flat melted seamlessly into the melody.
"See the problem?" She gently adjusted Mary's wrist. "You're too tense. Imagine your fingers are feathers, lightly brushing the keys. Didn't Mrs. Samarov mention that?"
Mary flushed. "Last week… she just said, 'Not good enough.'" Realization dawned. "You're Madam Samarov's student too?"
"I attended a masterclass last year," Barbara said, smiling slyly. "Your struggle is very typical." She suddenly mimicked Mrs. Samarov's Russian accent: "The sound should be like a pearl, not a potato falling to the floor—thump!"
Mary laughed, tension evaporating instantly.
The bell outside rang. "I have to get to class," Mary said, gathering scattered sheet music.
Barbara knelt to help, then held up a page. "These variations… you wrote them yourself?" Her eyes sparkled. "They're captivating! I usually practice here on weekends. Want to try a duet?"
Mary smiled, a genuine grin lighting her face. "It's a deal."
From that afternoon onward, time in Practice Room 7 slipped by quietly, like notes flowing smoothly from Mary's fingertips. For two consecutive weekends, she arrived early to find Barbara already there, sometimes tuning, sometimes flipping through sheet music. The room became their private musical world.
Chopin's passion, Debussy's ethereal beauty, and the girls' lighthearted whispers filled the air.
Mary's Irish vivacity, her fiery red hair bouncing as she recounted Shane's antics or Mrs. Samarov's impossible assignments, contrasted beautifully with Barbara's composed demeanor. Yet beneath Barbara's poise, Mary sensed a thin layer of unapproachable aloofness, slowly melting under music and camaraderie.
When Mary exaggeratedly mimicked the nun's gestures in class, Barbara laughed, her smile bright and genuine. She shared boarding school anecdotes and tea-party boredom, her voice lightly weary yet inviting.
Their bond deepened through technique exchange. Barbara's knowledge impressed Mary, while Mary's vitality and intuitive phrasing refreshed Barbara's approach. They debated chords and dynamics, only to smile upon reaching agreement.
One Saturday, after completing a Mozart two-piano duet, Barbara spoke, her tone gentle and slightly formal: "Next weekend… the 6th… my aunt is hosting a small gathering at her Fifth Avenue home."
Mary's eyes sparkled. "A party?"
Barbara nodded cautiously, gauging Mary's reaction. "A few close friends and some cousins from Long Island. Would you like to come?"
"Really? Of course! But… what should I wear? Too formal?"
Barbara's last trace of hesitation vanished. "Don't worry. The social secretary will advise you. Afternoon tea attire—nothing extravagant. There'll be a Bechstein, and we can play light music. Much more comfortable than here."
"Great!" Mary clapped, grinning. "I promise not to sit on the piano keys!"
"It's settled." Barbara glanced at the golden autumn leaves outside.
The sentence felt like a promise—a small opening into a broader world for Mary.
She nodded vigorously, shadows from the afternoon sun stretching across the piano keys, intertwining the two girls' worlds in black and white.