The screen read MOTHER.
For a split second the porch spun around her. She took a deep breath and answered coolly, “Good morning, Mother.”
“Tessa. I’ve been trying to reach you.”
A pause. Tessa imagined her mother in the sitting room on Park Avenue, pen poised over the calendar she still kept in Moroccan leather even though her assistant maintained an electronic copy.
“Your grandfather has had another setback.”
“What kind of setback?”
“He’s stopped feeding himself. The staff have to do it for him now.” A beat. “He’s asking for Tassie again. We’ve explained who you are several times, but it doesn’t seem to take.”
She closed her eyes. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“We’re at a juncture, Tessa.”
There it was. The pivot word. Juncture. “What kind of juncture?”
“The Whitmore Academy in Connecticut has accepted Makayla for their fall class.”
Tessa’s hand tightened on the phone. “How? She didn’t apply nor did she audition.”
“I applied on her behalf in February.”
“Without asking me?” Tessa demanded a shade sharply.
“You didn’t answer your phone when I called to ask.”
That, infuriatingly, was probably true. In February she’d been organizing Fern’s funeral and buried in all the details.
“Why would they let Makayla in without hearing her play, first?” Tessa tried.
“My assistant found a video of her performing in some sort of school concert last fall. The Whitmore School accepted it as her audition.”
Tessa rolled her eyes and made a mental note to scrub off the Internet every future video of Makayla that got posted.
Judith continued, “Whitmore is the most respected pre-collegiate music program in the country. They produce renowned soloists. Concertmasters. Virtuosos.”
“Mother—”
“I’m not finished. Tuition, room, board, instrument insurance, master class fees—everything—will be covered by the family education trust. Makayla will graduate without debt and with a CV that opens any door in classical music.”
Tessa looked out at the pasture. June and Biscuit had come to the fence and were watching her hopefully for peppermints.
“I’ll think about it,” she said.
“The deposit is due Friday.”
“This Friday?”
Tessa drew in a slow breath. She needed time to talk it over with Makayla. Find out what her daughter wanted. Think about whether she was ready to send her child two-thousand miles away for most of the year. “Request an extension.”
“They don’t grant extensions. They have an extensive waiting list and will fill Makayla’s slot with another student if you won’t commit to sending her there. The deposit is the test of seriousness.”
The deposit, Tessa knew without having to ask, would be roughly the price of a new car. A nice one.
“Which brings me to the second matter,” Judith said stiffly.