Annette spun around to face him again, with a snarl on her face that Alan, even some distance away, thought was frightening.
“Flirting with the girls again, Hugh? Haven’t you learned yet?” This time her voice was loud enough to make sure everybody heard. Conversations stopped. “But oh, yes, I forgot,” she went on, still at full volume, “that’s how you won the competition in the first place, isn’t it? Too bad you didn’t win based on your talent.” With that she turned once more and made a fast exit, almost tripping on the steps by the patio doors. A man wearing a black leather jacket—Alan thought he was one of the other orchestra players—stepped out of one of the silent, watching groups and followed her.
“Wow,” said Ziggy. “That was better than Masterpiece Theatre. Flirting with the girls, eh? I bet Candace doesn’t mind.”
“My mom would,” Alan said, looking around to see if he could spot her in the crowd.
Monica made a choked, laughing sound.
Mr. Pratt watched Annette retreat up the steps, shook his head sadly, then touched Candace’s shoulder.
“An old flame,” he said, loudly enough for everybody watching to hear. “And she’s probably had too much to drink. She’s a little on the flaky side at the best of times. Sorry about that. You’re okay, eh?” Candace just nodded and gave him a radiant smile.
Alan remembered the way he had felt when they came into the house, like he was in the middle of a movie set, everything too big and shiny. He felt like that again, now. The whole day had been so—dramatic. Starting from the moment that he and Ziggy and Josée had found the broken, drowned violin in the water, then Dylan Weems and his friends swamping the canoe, then meeting Mr. Pratt at the train station, and all the stuff about the stupid Stradder violin, and now this scene like a soap opera right in front of them. He felt tired, suddenly.
Still, there was a plus side. He was with his friends, he was anything but bored, and Hugh Pratt, virtuoso violinist, was about to give everybody a free concert. He may not be a great violin student, but he did like to hear good playing—it made shivers run up and down his spine. He didn’t want to be a concert violinist himself, but hearing one made him feel like he was part of a special kind of club.
Mr. Pratt had tuned the violin quietly in a corner of the patio, and stood now with head bowed, holding the Stradder at his side. Mr. Weems got up to speak again. He was a very large man, with steel grey, crew-cut hair and one of those necks that seemed to be as wide as his head.
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