I would do anything to get a chance to play a Strad, anyway,” she said.
“And what’s so special about a Stradivarius?” Ziggy asked. “Apart from the famous name?”
“Nobody really knows,” Candace said. “It’s like the big mystery of the musical world. Scientists have done all kinds of tests and stuff on the instruments, and they think it has something to do with the varnish the violin-maker used. They were built back in the 1600s, and it’s amazing that they still sound so good. People say it’s the best string sound in the world—Stradivarius violins, violas, cellos—there’s nothing that compares to it. And of course, they’re worth bazillions of dollars, so only a very few really famous musicians can afford their own.”
“Is that why you’re all dressed up like that?” Alan said. Candace, who usually didn’t pay too much attention to her looks, was wearing a very short skirt and a crop top that exposed her stomach. She was wearing shoes with big heels, too, and makeup that made her look way older than fifteen. This was not her usual style. “Are you hoping that Hugh Pratt will let you take his instrument for a little spin?”
His mother snorted loudly, then immediately blasted him to kingdom come. He sat quiet for the rest of the journey, folding his arms and frowning, ignoring Ziggy and Josée, who didn’t say anything after that, either.
The train was on time, and so were they, so they didn’t have to wait around much. Alan and his friends had wanted to stay in the van and let his Mom and Candace do the welcoming. But Mrs. Nearing insisted that they all come.
“He may have a great deal of luggage,” she said, “and I want you on hand to help carry it. The days of the railroad porter are long gone, you know, so you’ll have to help out.”
When the train pulled into the station, they were waiting on the platform in a row, like those plastic ducks some people liked to put on their front lawns—the mother duck and four babies in descending size, although Ziggy and Josée were not technically Mrs. Nearing’s ducklings.
Candace gave a little squeak when she saw Hugh Pratt descend from the train like a royal prince. He was wearing a black leather jacket, baggy black trousers and shiny dark shoes. His hair was mussed in the kind of way that you just know takes a lot of careful planning, and he had a slightly stubbled chin, as if he had forgotten to shave that morning. He had a square, chiselled jaw and large, dark eyes.
“He looks like a model,” Josée said to the others.
“Oh wow, he is even more amazing in person than he is in his pictures,” Candace said. Her voice had gone all breathy. Alan risked a look at her, although he was determined not to make any more mean comments. He had seen this happen before, when his sister had said she was in love with Leonardo di Caprio. Alan was sure that his remarks then had helped get her over it. Now she was doing the same thing again over this musician, and it would be hard not to bug her about it.
A rail attendant handed down two large suitcases out of the passenger car onto the platform, and Mr. Pratt himself carried a black leather briefcase on a strap over his shoulder, and in his left hand, his violin case.
“Welcome to Laingford, Mr. Pratt,” said Mrs. Nearing, and held out her hand.
“Thank God that’s over,” he said, touching her hand briefly like a guy on the winning team in a post-game handshake. Alan felt a stab of dislike as he saw his mother’s welcoming smile get brittle, suddenly, like glass. “The train journey was a total drag, and I was stuck next to this incredibly boring old woman who talked the whole way about her stupid grandchildren.” His voice was a slow, drawled-out whine, like a long bow on an untuned string.
“He doesn’t sound near as classy as he looks,” Ziggy muttered. Alan and Josée nodded in agreement.
“You’re the reception party, I take it?” Mr. Pratt went on. “I was expecting a limo. Can you smaller kids handle these bags? They’re kind of heavy.” Alan and his friends picked up the cases without comment. They were heavy, but after a remark like that, they weren’t going to let it show. Then the musician turned to Candace, who immediately turned bright red. Alan thought she might be holding her breath. “And if you wouldn’t mind taking this, sweetheart, that would be great,” he said. Her face was practically glowing, a huge smile plastered on so wide, it looked like it would crack her face in half. The musician was going to let her carry the famous violin for him.
“I knew it,” Alan said quietly to the others.
Candace stretched out her arms to receive the precious case, her fingers just touching the corner of it, when Mr. Pratt snatched it away with a look of horror on his face. “Not that,” he snapped. “God, I wouldn’t let a kid carry the Stradder. No, I meant this,” and he handed her his leather briefcase. She looked like she’d been slapped.
“Ouch,” Ziggy muttered.
In the van, Mr. Pratt sat in the front with Mrs. Nearing, drawling a long list of complaints about his train journey—from the lousy food in the dining car to the hardness of the seats. Alan reached over and gave his sister a sympathetic punch on the shoulder. It was just a tap—no big deal, and luckily she knew exactly what he meant and gave him a twisted and slightly misty-eyed smile. That should make up for the remark he’d made earlier, he thought. Sisters. Unpredictable people.
In the back seat, they all kept a kind of stony silence, while Mr. Pratt talked on and on. Alan’s mother didn’t seem to have noticed that anything was wrong with Candace, and she seemed to have forgotten Mr. Pratt’s snobby handshake. She was chatting quite pleasantly to him, asking him about the upcoming concert, and whether he was looking forward to working with the Society orchestra. Maybe mothers don’t notice the same things kids do, Alan thought. She didn’t seem to have any problem with this man at all.
When they got to the Weems’ place, which was a huge glass and wood home on the shores of Steamboat Lake, Mr. Pratt seemed to get bigger, somehow. His voice changed, and he started purring, like a large, sleek cat.
“This is my kind of place,” he said.
“Yes, it’s lovely, isn’t it?” Mrs. Nearing said, in a friendly voice. “I’m sure you’ll be very comfortable here, Mr. Pratt. They have a beautiful guest room.” A couple of women, standing in the driveway, pointed at the Nearing’s vehicle and waved to Mrs. Nearing. “Got him, then?” one of the women called out.
“Safe and sound,” Mrs. Nearing called back. “Come on over and meet him before anybody else does.” The women began to stroll over in their direction. Alan watched as Mr. Pratt, who was still doing his contented cat imitation, checked out his reflection in the side view mirror before getting out of the van.
Candace, who had been sitting behind the drivers’ seat, the furthest from the door, got out last, after the boys. Somehow, she got her foot wrapped around one of the seat belts, which was dragging on the floor, and she fell sideways suddenly, missed her footing and landed in a heap on the asphalt driveway, crying out in pain as she landed. Mr. Pratt moved right in on her.
“Oh, angel, are you all right?” he said, all the whine gone from his voice and replaced by a honey-sweet tone that seemed to make Candace forget her pain.
“I—my foot,” she said. He crouched down next to her, all concern and hands.
