puzzling. Actually they were a little frightening, she thought, absently tracing a threeinch scar along her hairline. A throbbing pain grew after she opened one yearbook and paged through class photographs. She would’ve been a high-school sophomore that year. There was her smile on the face of a stranger named Colleen Drake. Cold prickles ran up Jo’s spine. Her first inclination was to put everything back in the box and pretend she’d never found it.
Curiosity made her open the second book—her junior year. That picture of Colleen Drake resembled her uncannily. It could almost be her—except she never wore her hair pulled back away from her face the way it was in this photo. And Jo’s birth name had been Drake, too, until she’d changed it for professional reasons.
The question was unavoidable. Who was Colleen Drake? Could this be her? Lights flashed behind Jo’s eyes, warning of an impending migraine. She fended it off by sheer will. A cousin—maybe this was a cousin.
A spot in the third yearbook where a graduation photo should have been was blank. But Colleen Drake’s name was typed there along with credits listing activities such as track, band and girls’ chorus. What had happened to the girl with her face?
Unable to think clearly for the pounding in her skull, Jo cradled her head in her hands. Neatly layered rustred hair fell forward, veiling the damning evidence.
After a minute, she felt calm enough to begin reviewing what she did know. There wasn’t much. The severe injuries she’d sustained in the accident that had killed her father had erased her memory. When she woke up in the hospital following surgery, she’d panicked at her inability to recall anything. But then her mother had appeared at her side. Sharon patiently sat by Jo’s bedside and painstakingly reconstructed her past, one story at a time. Some details bubbled up now. According to Sharon, Jo had led a privileged childhood, attending private schools and studying with music tutors. Master violinists. Sharon repeated these stories so often Jo felt as if she remembered living them. Everyone at the hospital considered it a miracle that she’d retained the ability to play her violin. They consulted doctor after doctor who’d all said that sometimes it happened like that following a head trauma. Maybe her memories would return, but maybe they wouldn’t.
Why—why would her mother lie to her? Why hadn’t she said anything about this cousin or whoever she was? After all, she’d kept these yearbooks…Fear crept in.Who was left to confirm her mom’s accounts of her history?
Scrambling to her feet, Jo found her cell phone and punched in Jerrold Cleary’s number with shaking fingers. A longtime patron of Boston’s symphony, Jerrold was Jo’s mentor and her mother’s staunch friend. Jo suspected her mother and Jerrold had a loose romantic relationship, but she had no proof of it, except—
“Jerrold? It’s Jo.” She broke off her erratic thoughts and found herself babbling. “I thought I’d emptied Mother’s closet, but I found a cedar box I think belonged to my dad. This is going to sound bizarre, but…did Mother ever mention me having family? Maybe a cousin, Colleen?” A sigh slid out, but Jerrold’s assurance was a relief. He and her mother often huddled together in the kitchen talking while Jo practiced for six or eight hours every day.
“Not that I know of, Jo,” Jerrold said. “Are you all right? You aren’t making much sense.”
“I know. I’m sorry to have bothered you. I’ll dig deeper.” Jo hastened to say goodbye, but Jerrold cut her off. “You sound funny. I’ll be right over.”
“There’s no need. I’m sure there’s a logical explanation for this stuff. This must be a long-lost cousin from Dad’s side of the family,” she said, trying to believe it. The other possibility was too devastating to consider.
After she’d healed, on a rare outing to a mall, Jo openly envied the young women her age. She’d seen them holding hands and laughing with their handsome boyfriends. Her mother used to hurry her along or divert her attention. Was that significant?
“Don’t come over, Jerrold. I’m about to call the movers. I have everything in the apartment packed.” Except for the items from the cedar box. Jo scowled down at the phone gone dead in her hand.
She didn’t call the movers, but returned to her mother’s bedroom and sat down to read the news clippings.
Lost in her reading, Jo felt her heart race when the outer apartment door opened and Jerrold Cleary called her name. She met him in the empty living room. As a rule, his suits were impeccable, and she’d never seen him with a single iron-gray hair out of place. Today he looked rumpled and irritated. “Whatever crap you’ve unearthed, Jo, it’s better tossed out and forgotten.”
“Better for whom?” Jo never talked back, and the fact that she did now surprised both her and her visitor. Jerrold waved a dismissive hand.
“Better for your career. Your career is everything. You know your mother devoted her life to ensuring your success. I was going to pop by later with this fantastic news, but I think you need a boost now.” Jerrold took a paper from his inner pocket and passed it to Jo. “I’ve finalized arrangements for you to go on the European circuit this summer,” he said, all but preening. “And I negotiated three solos.” He wiggled three fingers under Jo’s nose, as though she might have misunderstood. “The pieces the conductor wants you to do are listed on the back of the schedule. You’ve played them all, but you need to start practicing until every note’s perfect.”
“You aren’t listening. What if I’m not alone? What if I have family somewhere?”
He tapped the schedule she hadn’t glanced at. “This is a huge coup, Jo. It’s just a shame your mother won’t get to see you play Ravel’s ‘Rapsodie Espagnole’ on stage in Spain. Hearing you solo on the European circuit was her lifelong dream. But you know that.”
Jo had difficulty taking in anything Jerrold was saying. And the ambitious itinerary she held might as well have been written in Chinese. “Jerrold, I can’t…go…on this tour.”
“Nonsense. I know violinists,” he stated in his typically pompous way. “You all get cold feet. But you, Jo Carroll, are the most naturally gifted virtuoso I’ve ever had the good fortune to mentor. With dedication I predict you’ll one day be as famous as Itzhak Perlman or Vladimer Spivakov. And as wealthy,” he murmured, straightening his tie. “You, my dear, will be world renowned. My only reward will be to stand in the wings of a sold-out house, watching the audience give my protégée standing ovations.”
“Jerrold, you aren’t getting it.” Jo thrust an award certificate at him. “Look at this. I don’t know if I’m Jo Carroll. Or am I this other musician, Colleen Drake? It’s too much of a coincidence that she looks like me and has the same talent. What if I’m her?”
Jerrold carelessly tore the certificate in half and dropped it. “Jo, you already knowyou’re a Drake. Does the first name really matter? After the accident, Sharon and I decided using her maiden name, Carroll, for your stage name would ensure you privacy. Sharon Carroll would have been famous had she not gotten pregnant with you and been forced to scrap her singing career.”
“Mother used to sing around the house.” Running a hand through her disheveled hair, Jo circled the nearly empty room. “Daddy made acoustic guitars. And fiddles.” She stopped midstride, aghast. “That…all came out of nowhere, Jerrold. Did Daddy make guitars? I swear Mother only ever mentioned his violins. Oh, but I could be way off base. Mother auctioned Daddy’s wood and his tools on eBay after I was released from the hospital.” Jo pressed her aching head to the cool window.
“Stop agonizing,
