Cecily arrived carrying two sandwiches and an opinion about a bicycle.
“I want it,” she said, putting the wrapped sandwiches on the little café table. “I don’t need it. Those are the facts.”
Annelise moved her choir folder to make room. “What kind of bicycle?”
“A used one. Yellow. Sensible gears. I’m trying not to let the yellow make the decision.”
“Is yellow known for poor judgment?”
“In my case, sometimes.”
The café in the community center was closing in half an hour. They had arranged to meet there before rehearsal because Cecily was passing on her way home, and Annelise had wanted to see her without asking how the honeymoon had gone for the fourth time. Her sister had sent photographs, enjoyed three nights away, and returned to a school office full of people who had apparently saved all their questions for her personally.
Now she wanted a bicycle.
Annelise unwrapped her sandwich. “Where would you ride it?”
“To work, sometimes. Not every day. And there’s the path by the river.”
“Have you ridden it?”
“The actual bike? No. I’m going on Thursday.”
“Then you’ll know more on Thursday.”
Cecily looked at her over the top of her sandwich.
“What?” Annelise asked.
“Nothing. I thought you’d have a list of things to inspect.”
“I don’t know anything about bicycles.”
“That hasn’t always stopped you.”
Annelise laughed, a little ruefully. “True.”
“I wasn’t being horrible.”
“I know.”
They ate for a moment. At the counter, the woman working in the café was taking labels out of the display case. A stack of cups rattled. Cecily had a small smear of mustard on her finger and looked at it with annoyance before reaching for a napkin.
“I’m worried I’ll buy it and never use it,” she said.
“Do you want me to talk you out of it?”
“No. I want to be excited and sensible at the same time. It’s difficult.”
“How much is it?”
Cecily told her. It was enough to think about, not enough to reorganize a life around.
“You could probably sell it again if you hated it.”
“That’s what Hugo said.”
“I like him more and more.”
“You should. He’s very good at agreeing with me when I’m right.”
Annelise bit into her sandwich to hide the smile. Cecily took out her phone and showed her the photograph. The bicycle was indeed very yellow, with a basket that had seen better days and tires that looked more useful than elegant.
“Oh,” Annelise said. “I see the problem.”
“Exactly.”
“It’s cheerful.”
“Dangerously.”
They looked at it together. Annelise could imagine her sister riding it, hair coming loose from its tie, face intent as she argued with a hill. She liked the image, though she kept it to herself. Cecily didn’t need to carry Annelise’s vision of her along with her own.
“Tell me after you’ve tried it,” she said.
“I will. What about you? Are you ready for Saturday?”
Annelise looked at the folder beside her. “Ask me after tonight.”
“That good?”
“Mostly good. There’s a place where I keep wanting to follow the tune instead of my part. It sounds wrong when I practice alone, even when it’s right.”
“That seems unfair.”
“It is. I’m considering a complaint.”
“To music?”
“At the highest level.”
Cecily smiled. “Hugo and I will be there. Mom’s riding with us.”
“She told you?”
“She asked if we could pick her up. She doesn’t want to park in the dark somewhere she doesn’t know.”
Annelise nodded. “I’ll send you the ticket information tonight. The organizer said it would come before rehearsal.”
“Don’t worry about seating us. We can sit in chairs without supervision.”
“Your record during the wedding setup suggests otherwise.”
“That was a door problem.”
They laughed, and Annelise felt the quiet pleasure of a joke that belonged to something they had recently done together. There was no need to reach back seventeen years for evidence of being sisters.
Cecily smoothed the edge of her sandwich paper. “Do you want flowers?”
“For singing?”
“People get flowers.”
“I think people who do solos get flowers. I’m going to stand near the end and try not to knock anyone over.”
“So no enormous bouquet.”
“Please no enormous bouquet.”
“A discreet brass band?”
Annelise shook her head, laughing. “Just come.”
“We are.”
Cecily reached for the other half of her sandwich, then paused. “Would you come out with me if I buy it?”
“On a bike?”
“Unless you’re planning to run alongside.”
“I don’t own one.”
“You can rent one by the path. I checked.”
Annelise pictured herself on a bicycle after years of walking past them. She could ride. She remembered liking it. She also remembered the unpleasant conviction that every passing car wanted the exact patch of road she occupied.
“On the path,” she said. “Not in traffic. And no ambitious hills.”
“It’s almost flat.”
“That’s what people say before a hill.”
“We can turn around.”
The offer made the imagined outing less like an obligation she would have to complete. She could go and see whether she liked it. Cecily could enjoy her bicycle without needing Annelise to develop the same enthusiasm.
“Yes,” she said. “A short ride. Let me know when you’ve got it.”
Cecily looked pleased. “I will. We could get lunch.”
“Your strongest argument.”
“I know my audience.”
Annelise finished the last bite of her sandwich. She had come prepared to ask questions about Cecily’s week, to be a better listener. She hadn’t expected to leave with the possibility of doing something neither of them yet knew how much they would enjoy. She liked that better than a perfectly conducted conversation.
They cleared the table before the woman at the counter had to ask. Outside the café, Cecily hugged her with one arm because she was holding her bag in the other.
“I like this,” she said.
“What?”
“Being able to have a sandwich with you.”
Annelise put her hand against her sister’s back. “Me too.”
Then Cecily went toward the parking lot, already checking whether she had her car keys, and Annelise went down the corridor toward the rehearsal room.
The room was louder than usual. People were checking clothes, times, whether black meant all black, and how early was early. Someone had brought a garment over one arm to ask whether the small silver buttons were a problem. The organizer said buttons were not the enemy.
Annelise found her place and set out her music. The woman who usually sat beside her was absent. Her empty chair had a different effect now than it would have had six weeks earlier. Annelise knew which pencil marks they had made together, which passage the woman mouthed under her breath before singing it. She was used to a particular intake of breath on her right.
“She’s all right,” the organizer said when Annelise asked. “Family obligation. She’ll be here Saturday. She asked if someone could send any changes.”
“I can take pictures of my notes.”
“That would help. Send them to me and I’ll forward them.”
Annelise agreed. She drew a small star at the top of the page to remind herself, then put the phone away. The job would be easier if she listened now.
They warmed up, then worked through the difficult entrance. The conductor changed the cue and waited while they marked it. Annelise made hers large enough to show in a photograph.
On the next attempt, the singer on her left came in early. Annelise kept her place; a bar later they were singing together again. At the break, the woman leaned over her page.
“Let me copy yours. Mine’s a mess.”
Annelise held the folder between them. They checked the mark against the conductor’s score before passing it down the row. By the final run-through her throat felt dry, and she was glad to put her pencil away. Saturday would have an audience. Tonight they had enough to practice.
After rehearsal, she photographed the changed pages under the bright light by the door. The first picture cut off the bar numbers. She retook it, checked that the pencil was visible, and added a short explanation of the new cue before sending the images to the organizer.
The reply came while she was putting on her coat. Thank you. Forwarded. See you Saturday.
She went out into the cold with her folder pressed against her side. Her voice felt used, in the best way. In the car she drank the rest of her water and resisted the urge to sing the difficult passage again. Enough. She wanted it to remain possible to enjoy Saturday.
At home the ticket email waited in her inbox. She forwarded the three-ticket information to Cecily and checked the separate code for Malcolm. Then she wrote: Here you are. Doors at 6:30, starts at 7. I’ll be warming up, so find yourself a seat. Looking forward to seeing you afterward.
She reread it once for the time and sent it.
Malcolm replied a few minutes later: Received. I will resist waving until released.
She smiled and typed: The restraint will be noted.
Then another message arrived from the organizer, forwarding thanks from the absent alto. The woman had seen the notes and said she was especially grateful for the warning about the new cue. She had been worried she would arrive already behind.
Annelise put the phone down and went to find her black clothes. The pants needed pressing. The top was fine. She hung both on the outside of the wardrobe, where she would see them before Saturday could become a rush.
Her phone rang as she was smoothing a sleeve. It was her mother.
“Cecily says she’s got the tickets.”
“She has.”
“I wanted to make sure you didn’t need us to bring anything.”
“Just yourselves.”
“All right.”
There was a pause, and Annelise waited through it.
“I’m looking forward to hearing you,” Maribel said.
Annelise looked at the black clothes, ordinary garments for an ordinary place in a group. “I’m looking forward to it too.”
After the call, she put the folder beside her bag and laid the pencil on top. Then she picked up the novel she hadn’t finished and took it to bed. The music kept moving quietly at the back of her mind, but for once it wasn’t a problem she needed to solve before she could sleep.