The orchestra moved on to play Mahler’s Symphony No. 5 in C Sharp Minor, and it seemed to go on forever. Molly would have kicked poor Mahler if he’d been there. Why was he so long-winded? Then it was over, finally. When the applause died down, Rossini turned his charismatic smile on the audience. He said in his charming Italian accent, “We are proud to present Miss Emma Hunt. She will play George Gershwin’s
“Miss Emma Hunt.” Giovanni Rossini held his hand out to welcome Emma as she walked toward him in her Christmas-red velvet dress, her beautiful glossy dark hair held back by two gold clips, like shiny silk beneath the lights. She wore black ballet flats on her small feet. Her only jewelry was the locket Ramsey had given her for her last birthday, a photo of her and her mother on one side, Ramsey and the twins on the other.
Molly could never adequately describe her feelings when her daughter walked onto a stage. Usually it was a strange mixture of so much pride she could burst with it, and such throat-clogging terror she thought her face would turn blue. And such elation, she thought, that she knew she could leap off the box railing and fly, and finally, utter blank-brained amazement that she’d given birth to this incredible being. She watched Emma take Rossini’s hand and smile up at him, then turn to walk to the Steinway grand piano, shoulders straight, lightly running her fingers over its glossy black finish. She sat down in front of the keyboard, moved the bench an inch to the left. Before Emma lowered her hands to the piano, she looked directly at their box and smiled.
She began to play
Molly leapt to her feet, clapping madly, hearing the audience’s huge applause as they rose in a standing ovation. If Ramsey had been able to, he would have jumped to his feet along with his beaming wife, and Savich, with a wildly clapping Sean in his arms, Sherlock, and Harry and Eve, but he knew he’d probably tip right out of the box and make a mess of it on the people below.
Emma bowed again as the applause continued, with shouts of “Encore!” She seated herself again at the Steinway. She played variations on a medley of Christmas carols she herself had written, from “Oh, Come All Ye Faithful” to “Silver Bells,” which lifted every spirit in the house. When she stood to bow again, the audience rose once more to applaud. Rossini presented her with a deep bow and red roses. Emma looked directly at her father, held out the roses to him, and gave him a bow.
As if choreographed, everyone in the audience turned to look up at his box. The applause, if possible, grew even louder.
When, at last, the audience settled into their seats, there was a single stark instant of complete silence. Sean’s little boy voice rang out, loud and clear, from the last seat in the mezzanine to the dressing rooms behind the stage, “Emma, you’ve got to marry me!”
P.S.
Within an hour of the end of the concert, photos and videos, with sound, appeared on YouTube showing Judge Ramsey Hunt’s box in Davies Hall in San Francisco, Sean in his father’s arms, nearly falling over the railing in his excitement, yelling to Emma. Within hours it went viral.
To escape the media, Savich and Sherlock took Sean to Disney World in Orlando. Unfortunately, a little girl recognized Sean, jumped up and down, and screamed, “Marry me, Sean!” and it started all over again.
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