BOOK TWO
Trumpet Voluntary
Spring, 2022

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER ONE
“Figlia, sorella, amica, Tutto trovate in me.”
– Rossini, La Cenerentola, Non piu mesta (Aria)

Boston, Massachusetts, May 21, 2022

I woke up slowly, emerging almost reluctantly from the dream I had taken across the threshold of consciousness. It had been years since I had seen that dreamscape, but there it was, whole, healed, and perfect: Me, making a graceful dive from a wooden pier into a deep, pristine lake, surrounded by snow-capped mountains, pine forests, and the clearest air in the world. I was wearing a lime-green one-piece and curves that were, finally, all my own.

I smiled, running my hand lightly down my satin negligée. No one would ever describe me as Rubenesque, but the end result of two years of hormone therapy was – in the opinion of the only two people whose views on the subject mattered – entirely satisfactory.

Two years of estrogen and other chemical blockers and stimulants. Two years of blessed healing. Two years of loving discovery.

I had lost two inches in my waist, picked up rather more in the hips and rear end, and even achieved a bust that managed, albeit only just, to fill out the very first bras I had bought to wear with my prosthetics. I jokingly referred to their size as a “gentleman’s C.” My skin was softer, my body hair gone, and the hair on my head was finer, more full. When loose, it came down to the middle of my back.

But I won’t be wearing it loose today! As sleep left me, I jumped out of bed, grabbed my dressing gown and raced upstairs. It was all I could do to stop myself from going straight to the third-floor bedroom, but I knew I would be more welcome if I came bearing the only appropriate gift.

I had fresh coffee ready in minutes, pausing in gratitude – as I tried to do every morning – for the rich, earthy smell. Pouring two cups, I brought them upstairs, held awkwardly in one hand so I could manage the door at the top of the landing. I rapped twice, sharply, and walked in without waiting for an answer. I wasn’t really worried about my welcome.

“Good morning, beautiful!” I said, gazing at the stunning woman who was already sitting up in her bed. She was alone — but only for the one night.

Fiona returned my smile with a look of such joy that it literally took my breath away. “Good morning, Cami.” Her voice was soft, warm, and full of love. She patted the bed. “Come join me!”

I handed her one of the cups, taking the opportunity to bend down and plant a kiss on her forehead, before going around the bed to sit beside her against the pillows. “You ready?”

Fiona smiled, this time fiercely. “Ready? More like over-ripe!”

“Good thing,” I said, “because I’ve got a full day planned for you! You might regret leaving the ‘details’ to me!”

Fiona looked untroubled. Serene, even. “Girl, I have every confidence in you. I’m sure everything will be absolutely perfect.”

I gave her a look of mock horror. “Oh! No pressure!”

She laughed, then turned serious. “I would trust you with my life. I can’t begin to tell you how proud I am of you. How amazed I am at the incredible, accomplished, beautiful woman you’ve become. I’m so glad that you're my sister. And so happy to be sharing this morning with you.”

I choked up, but was just able to say, “God, I love you, Fi. You’ll always be my hero!”

My eyes, like Fiona’s, were bright with tears. But they were, at last, the best kind: Tears of joy, of love, and of thanksgiving.

We had survived.

We had survived as COVID closed the country, as we retreated to our bubbles and hunkered down behind closed doors. As infections soared. As the hospitals had filled . . . and the morgues. As the date that Fi and Henry had announced with such joy came and went, just another day of grueling work for a frontline healthcare professional.

We had survived to see a new spring complete with vaccines. I had hoped, then, that maybe, just maybe, things would get back to normal. But Fiona had warned me that it wouldn’t get better overnight, and as usual she was right.

Baseball returned, but it started with empty stadiums. Stores opened, only to close again as numbers crept back up. Amazingly, there were organized campaigns against getting vaccinated, and in many parts of the country they worked. People Fiona had been trying desperately to save turned around and joined team virus.

So, summer arrived, and a new subvariant came, and we stayed locked in our bubbles.

And we survived.

But Fiona, my hero, had not given up, so I could not give up either. We kept the flame of hope alive as summer turned to fall and the brutal Delta variant took hold. We kept hope alive as Thanksgiving gatherings and Christmas parties turned into super-spreader events, as the death total continued to climb, reaching one million just two weeks ago.

But the Delta variant waned and the less-deadly Omicon variant took its place. And in an act of hope and faith, Fiona and Henry had set a new date. A day in spring, when the flowers would be blooming, even in coastal New England. When the trees would be covered in a light green, and azaleas would blossom.

Today.

“I wish they could be here today, to see you like this. Iain. Gammy Campbell.”

“Me too,” Fiona said. “Though I expect if she was here, Grammy’d have a thing or two to say about our lolling around in bed getting maudlin when there’s work to be done.”

I smiled through my tears. “She would, too.”

Gammy had passed with the turning of the year. She hadn’t died of COVID; she just went to bed one night and, wholly without drama, failed to awaken with the dawn. Maybe she had no Tina in her life, to call her sternly back to duty. But I thought the weight of the years, the fights, the deaths and defeats had been too much for her.

I was proud to carry her name, though she’d ribbed me about it. “Can’t see what good’ll come of changing your name; you’re a Savin whether you like it or not. But I suppose you’re a Campbell too, and there’s no name better.”

It was time. “Let’s get cracking, Doctor Savin,” I said. “Into the shower with you!”

“Not a doctor today,” she said as she slid out of bed. “And not a Savin tomorrow!”

I folded her into a hug before she disappeared into her bathroom. “If you’re not a doctor today, then no giving orders,” I admonished. “It’s all under control!”

I trotted downstairs to get my own shower, reflecting on Fi’s decision to take Henry’s last name. Like me, she no longer had any desire to bear our father’s.

Fi hadn’t spoken to Dad since he’d disowned her. He had caught COVID in late December of 2020, and as a result he wasn’t able to join his friends’ caravan to Washington D.C. to rally in support of President Trump’s efforts to overturn his election loss.

Dad had been doubly blessed: his symptoms were relatively mild and, unlike his friends, he wasn’t facing federal criminal charges for assaulting the Capitol. God’s ways are, indeed, as mysterious as the pathway of the wind.

I hadn’t been in contact with Dad either — not since our mutual denunciations. But I kept in quiet and sporadic communication with Mom, which is the only reason I’d even known about Dad’s COVID episode and his insurrection stupidity. I had met up with Mom twice. The last time, just a few months ago, had been at Gammy’s internment in West Virginia. Dad hadn’t accompanied her.

The time before, Mom and I had each driven six hours to meet in Columbus, Ohio so I could give her Iain’s remains. To my surprise, she already knew about my transition. “Why you thought you could tell a thousand people and not have anyone bring that bit of juicy gossip to your mother’s ears is beyond me.”

I thought about that conversation as I put my hair into a shower cap and turned on the hot water. Our conversation that day had been quite the eye-opener.

We had sat across from each other on park benches, separated by a gravel path, a pandemic, and an unbridgeable chasm of mutual disappointment and unmet expectations. She had looked bitter, brittle, and far older than she had just six months before, when I had seen her at Thanksgiving.

She had asked about Iain’s final days, and I gave her a sanitized version. I left out my final minutes with him, when he was fighting for every breath, and I was straining every nerve to hear the sound of the approaching ambulance. When he had called, in his last distress, not for his mother, but for Fiona. Mom didn’t need to know that.

She had convinced herself that Iain’s death was punishment for her own sins, and she had scornfully rejected my efforts to change her mind. “What do you know about it? Nothing! You sit there, stuffed with all your big-shot schooling and proud as Lucifer, and think you have all the answers? You don’t know shit. It is my fault. My sin! I was like you – so full of myself, so sure I knew better. The rules didn’t apply, not to me. I should ‘follow my heart,’ even when it led to sin. Even when it led to a child, a perfect baby girl, who was mine . . . mine! But not my husband’s.”

Well, that had been a surprise.

By that point she had been crying – bitter, ugly tears. “Because of my sin, God took my Heather, my love child, my perfect baby girl. Took her back. But that wasn’t enough. Didn’t matter that I reformed, that I gave my life over to Him, was ‘born again.’ Didn’t matter that I was a dutiful wife. Oh, no. He wasn’t satisfied. He had to take Iain, too, and leave me with another son who doesn’t even want to be a man.”

She gave me a look then, a mixture of earnestness and sheer ferocity. “So, get this through your pretty little head, child of mine. Don’t waste your time loving God. Just fear Him. Fear Him! You hear me?”

I would never agree with her theology or her willingness to defer to Dad’s bigotry. But, I thought sadly, she should still be here today. Fiona is the only child she has left of whom she could feel unreserved pride, within the narrow confines of her own world view. While I was sorry that she would never accept that I’m a woman, I had no desire to punish her. She had suffered enough.

Fiona, however, had not been so forgiving. “She went right along with Dad when he disowned Iain and had the gall to tell me to get over it. No.” And that was that, as far as she was concerned.

Two years of crisis had distilled Fiona down to her fiery essence. She had never suffered fools gladly; these days, she didn’t suffer them at all. It didn’t matter who they were. She treated the morons, the gadflies, the anti-vaxxers; her Hippocratic oath required no less. But she didn’t coddle them.

I offered a prayer that morning for my mom. A prayer for healing. For forgiveness. I doubted Fiona would forgive her and I knew she would never forgive herself. But I continued to believe in a kind and loving God, and I trusted He would do better.

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER TWO
“So lohnt der Tugend kühnen Lauf”
– Mozart, Die Zauberflöte, O Isis und Osiris (Aria)
Boston, Massachusetts, May 21, 2022, immediately following

I didn’t put on makeup because our first stop of the day was at a salon. So as soon as I was dressed, I trotted back upstairs. There was just enough time to make a couple of fresh cups of coffee and pull out the fruit and yogurt before Fi joined me.

“Perfect!” she said, looking at what I had laid out. “I don’t think I could eat any more than that right now!”

“No morning sickness?” I asked.

Fi shook her head. “Not since the first trimester. Knock wood, it’s been pretty easy for the last couple of weeks.”

“You sure you’re in the second trimester?” The question was barely out of my mouth when I realized how stupid it was. This was my sister, the doctor. Of course, she was sure.

She just smiled. “Cami, this child was conceived the night that was supposed to be my first wedding anniversary. Of that, I am one hundred percent positive.”

I gave her a broad smile of complete and total approval. “I can’t imagine you being the slightest bit worried about walking down the aisle pregnant, even if Boston’s high society requires a mountain of smelling salts!”

She sorted. “Are you kidding? After everything we’ve been through, Henry and me? I wasn’t going to wait an instant longer to get pregnant. All the better that I’m big as a house!”

“Fi,” I said fondly, “you’re barely showing and you know it. You look amazing.”

She scooped up the last of her yogurt. “Not yet, I don’t. But you’ve got a couple hours to get me there!”

I laughed, poured the remainder of our coffee into to-go mugs, and pushed her out the door. “Okay, okay! Let’s get moving!”

Twenty minutes later, we were at a salon that I had found after a diligent on-line search. The place Fi had taken me to on Christmas Eve in 2019 had closed, but at least one of the hair stylists had found a new home here. I knew Fi would be delighted to see Charli again.

Anne was already at the salon waiting for us. She gave Fi a beautiful, motherly hug as soon as she came through the door. “Good morning, love,” she said. “How are you feeling? Ready to be a Hutchinson?”

Fi laughed. “I don’t know about that . . . . But I’m past ready to call you ‘Mom!’”

Anne beamed. “You make Henry so happy, Fi. And I can’t begin to tell you how that makes me feel.”

She turned and gave me a big hug, too. “Cami, you’ve been a wonder, getting all of this organized!”

Soon the three of us were sitting side-by-side, Fi in the middle, while beauticians fussed over our nails, our makeup, and most especially our hair.

“How are the boys this morning?” I asked Anne. Henry and Rob had both spent the night at George and Anne’s Back Bay Brownstone.

“Oh, George had them both up early and got us all fed. You know, the usual humor about ‘last meals’ and all that. Guy stuff,” she concluded fondly.

“Even ‘civilized’ men are still men,” Fi said with a touch of asperity.

“Thank goodness!” I added, causing Fi and Anne to giggle.

The stylist was working on Fi’s thick plait of hair, and I took a moment to admire it. However grueling her work had been, she had adamantly refused to simplify her life by cutting it short. “It was a way of keeping faith,” she explained. “A way of telling myself that this day would really come. It felt so impossible, some days.”

“How are your friends doing, Cami?” Anne asked. “The guys who taught you the secrets of hair and makeup?”

“Al and Javi are great,” I responded. “I haven’t seen them in person since they moved back to Bogotá in early 2021, but that almost makes no difference. I mean, during lockdown, we weren’t really seeing anyone in person, even if they lived down the street. We’ve kept in touch by Zoom.”

“It’s such a shame their shop didn’t make it,” Fiona said. “I know you would’ve wanted them to be here today.”

I shook my head. “They were getting by, mostly thanks to government assistance. But Javier’s mother was fighting cancer and they decided it made sense to relocate so they could be nearby.”

“Is she still with them?” Anne asked.

“No, she passed last summer. I gather it was about as gentle a passing as Javi could have hoped for under the circumstances. And he was at least able to be there with her.”

Fiona asked if I thought they might move back at some point.

“I doubt it,” I said. “They both really like Bogotá, and apparently it has a pretty vibrant LGBTQ+ community. Tina’s happier down there, too.”

“That’s the transwoman you told me about?” Fi asked. “The one you represented?”

“I haven’t heard this story,” Anne said.

Where to begin? “Al and Javi took Tina in when she was eighteen and on the run from her family. She stayed with them a couple of years, and they were really close. She was like a daughter. But the family caught up with her, hauled her back to Missouri, and got her committed. . . .”

Anne was shocked. “Oh my God! That’s terrible! What the hell? This isn’t the Middle Ages!”

“In some parts of the country it might as well be,” I said grimly. “Anyhow, she escaped somehow and found her way back to Al and Javi. That’s why I moved in with Nicole and Maggie — so I could vacate Al and Java’s garage apartment for Tina. When I got back from New York and Boston after Iain’s death, I got in touch with Tina . . . .”

Here, I thought, I’m going to need to edit the story; there are parts they don’t need to hear, and parts I can’t tell them.

I had met up with Tina along the banks of Indian Creek in April of 2020 and offered to pay for a health insurance plan that would allow her, finally, to get gender-affirming medical care through Dr. Chun’s office. She had been deeply suspicious of my motives, to the point where I was compelled to admit that I was doing it, in no small measure, because she had come to me in a nightmare and screamed at me for even thinking about giving up.

Her response had been classic Tina: “So you want to help me ’cuz I showed up in your crazy dream, but I’m the one who’s supposed to see a shrink? That’s messed up. You know that, right?”

As I suspected, Dr. Chun had no trouble making a diagnosis of gender dysphoria in Tina’s case, and she soon had her own HRT supply. But perhaps more importantly, Dr. Chun had finally gotten Tina to open up about the abuse that she had suffered and the wholly improper proceedings that had resulted in her being involuntarily committed to an institution for years.

Dr. Chun urged Tina to tell me the story as well, and (with Tina’s somewhat grudging permission) I took the matter to Eileen.

After hearing my summary and doing a Zoom interview with Tina, Eileen personally took the matter to the firm’s pro bono committee. With her endorsement, there was no chance that the committee would not agree to take Tina’s case without charge, especially since Eileen had, with great reluctance, taken over as acting Chair of the Management Committee when Rafe Oliveira developed long COVID.

The facts in Tina’s case were horrific: fanatical parents, a religious zealot with a clinical psychology practice, a corrupt probate judge . . . . But the firm had hired an excellent investigator and, with Tina’s inside knowledge of where to look, had found damning evidence. The path to justice was complicated, however, since it is incredibly difficult to mount a collateral attack on an earlier judgment by a nominally competent tribunal.

We had a theory, though, so I drafted a detailed complaint, backed by the evidence that the investigator uncovered. I thought it looked solid.

“It might not work,” Eileen cautioned Tina and me. “Push comes to shove, it probably won’t. That’s one hell of a conservative court, and we don’t have a choice on where to file. But sometimes you’ve got to play the cards you’ve got.” She got a wolflike gleam in her eye. “And sometimes, people will pay a crapload of money not to have you lay your cards on the table where the whole damned world will see them.”

And that was just what happened. We never had to file the complaint; the named defendants called, blustered, and then made an offer. Which we rejected out of hand, countering with our own pie-in-the-sky demand.

But at the end of the day, Tina got a $1.65 million settlement, the probate judge resigned to “spend time with his family,” and defendants did not get the non-disclosure agreement they so desperately wanted. Tina could spill the beans whenever she wanted to, as could all the rest of us. And would in a heartbeat, if anyone in her benighted family ever caused Tina trouble again.

All that history flashed through my mind as I sat in the beauty parlor, primping like a princess. It was a beautiful world, sure enough, but when you turned over rocks there were a whole lot of slimy worms and venomous snakes.

I summarized, lamely, “My firm was able to get a decent settlement for her. Enough that she and Al and Javi can establish themselves in Bogotá and never have to worry about having a roof over their heads.”

“Her whole family should have been strung up with concertina wire,” Fiona growled.

“Tina would agree with you,” I replied. “Me too, for that matter. But . . . security for herself, and for the only two people in the world she trusts, was even more important than vengeance.”

“She trusts you too, doesn’t she?” asked Anne.

“Oh, I don’t know about that. She’s never going to like me, but she appreciated the work we did for her. She gave me a token that I wear every day. I’d say we parted on pretty good terms.”

Actually, what Tina had said was, “I should show up in your psycho dreams more often.” But that wasn’t a comment I intended to share.

We thoroughly enjoyed our salon time. When you’re in a salon, you can’t really be working or doing all of the things that we normally spend our time doing. You have to pause. To stop, even. It was a blessing for me — the run-up to the wedding had been pretty frenetic — but I think it was even more of a blessing for Fi. She’d basically had no time for such a frivolous, but “civilized,” activity since the pandemic had struck. More than two years.

Fi and I had opted for elaborate updos, while Anne had her hair done up in a net of gold mesh that looked incredibly sophisticated. We thanked the ladies, who fussed and wept and naturally said Fi was the most beautiful bride ever.

She was, too.

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER THREE
“Nel di della vittoria”
– Verdi, MacBeth, Nel di della vittoria (Aria)

Boston, Massachusetts, May 21, 2022, immediately following

We went back to Fi and Henry’s place in Cambridgeport to have some light refreshments and finish getting ready. But we’d barely gotten ourselves upstairs when the doorbell rang.

“That’ll be Liz!” I scurried downstairs to let her in.

And there she was, dressed to the nines in a stunning full-length green dress that matched her emerald eyes. I hadn’t seen her in person in over two years, and instantly I pulled her into a fierce hug. “Oh my God,” I said, struggling to keep myself from crying. The girls had worked hard on my makeup. “I’ve missed you so much!”

“Damn, you look good, Cami!” Her hug was fierce. “You feel good, too!”

I giggled. Not quite the body she remembered! I pulled her inside and toward the stairs. “Come in, come in! Where’s Derek?”

“He’ll catch up at the ceremony. I only need one lens in here. Besides . . . I thought it would be better to keep this part within the sorority, so to speak.”

We got to the main level, and I turned to make introductions. “Fi, Anne, this is Liz; Liz – my sister Fiona and Henry’s mom, Anne Hutchinson.”

Anne was closest, and she greeted Liz warmly. “So glad to meet you, Liz!”

“Likewise, Mrs. Hutchinson,” Liz replied.

“Please, call me Anne – everyone else will, since you’ll see dozens of women who can be called ‘Mrs. Hutchinson’ today! And besides, any friend of Cami’s is a friend of mine.”

“Anne, then.”

Fiona had hung back, but she surprised me by pulling Liz into a warm hug. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you for so long. Cami raves about you!”

It was interesting to see Liz and Fi together. They were fairly close in age and coloring, though Fi was a strawberry blond to Liz’s pure, bold redhead. Liz had sharper features altogether, but in both of them, the force of their personalities shone through every line and curve.

“I go a bit over the top when I describe your little sister, too,” Liz said playfully. “For a lawyer, she’s okay. All things considered!”

“Okay, okay!” I said, realizing that this could get embarrassing in a hurry. “Why don’t we have a bite to eat before we get down to business!” I made coffee – of course! – while Fiona pulled out some cheese, fruit, and pastries from one of the many wonderful Italian bakeries in the North End.

“You’re from Pittsburgh?” Anne asked Liz.

“Born and raised there,” Liz replied. “And I’ve been back now for six years. It’s a wonderful city.”

“It’s been years since we visited. George and I spent a few days there one time before going down to tour Fallingwater. The city was, I guess you would say, ‘in transition,’ back then.”

Liz snorted. “Pittsburgh is always in transition, one way or another. But I love it.”

Anne was clearly finding Liz to be fascinating. “How did you meet Cami?”

“Through work – my company hired her firm for an antitrust case, and I got roped into it. Tell the truth, I was really dreading it at the time. You don’t advance your career in a business by working on lawsuits. But . . . turned out there were a few side benefits!”

“Well,” Fiona interjected, “Cami credits you with helping her discover herself. And you have my thanks for that, as well . . . . You saw it, when the rest of us were still fooled.”

I was starting to blush furiously. This conversation could get very embarrassing!

Liz, fortunately, was sensitive to my discomfort. “However she chooses to express herself, Cami has always been a remarkable person. Though, I do think . . . hope? You’re happier now?” This last question was directed at me.

I nodded. “Absolutely. There were things about being a man that were easier, I guess. In some ways. But it’s just not who I am. As soon as I understood it – as soon as you helped me to see it,” – I threw her a grateful look – “I knew I could never go back. And I’ve never regretted it.”

Fiona shook her head. “We weren’t really close as adults, until she came out as trans. I don’t know how much that had to do with how close we’ve become since then. But I think it’s probably a lot. I don’t know . . . as a brother, Cam was kind of distant. But maybe that was me.”

“Me, I think,” I said slowly. “I was so focused on establishing myself as independent. Self-sufficient.”

I snorted at my own pretensions. “As if! One of the things that I’ve learned these past two-plus years, over and over and over again, is just how much I depend on my friends, my family, my mentors at work . . . . everybody! And I’ve learned to embrace that. . . . As long as I can give back, too.”

“That’s definitely an important balance,” Anne observed. “One thing I’ve noticed as I’ve grown older, and as I’ve watched my parents’ generation age, is that the balance point changes at different points in your life. Learning to receive with grace – that’s a hard lesson, especially in our culture.”

Liz chewed that one over. “Yeah . . . I’m not ready to learn that one just yet!”

We laughed.

“You’re recently married, too, aren’t you?” Anne asked Liz.

“Just over a year ago,” Liz said, smiling.

“What was your wedding like? That would have been before vaccines were widely available.” Fi asked.

“Oh, it was pretty much the opposite of what you’ll be doing today. Derek and I just went to City Hall one day, signed the necessary papers and got it all official with the civil authorities.”

“You didn’t want to wait any longer?”

Liz smiled, but her response was serious. “It’s my second marriage, Fiona. I did the big church, the big dress, the big party the first time around. And that was right, for the person I was then. For BethAnn, and for Jack. We wanted that. And . . . those are very, very good memories.”

She shot me a look, full of gratitude.

In my own, small, way I had helped her redeem those memories – a small repayment for the gift of self that she had given me!

Liz returned her attention to Fiona. “For Derek and I, though . . . we’re just different people. And the simple way, no-fuss-no-muss – that just seemed right for us. COVID or no COVID.”

“I still wish I could have been there,” I said. Before Liz could say anything, I added, “But . . . I understand. And I’m so glad that the two of you are happy.”

We were just about done with our brunch, and Fi brought the conversation around to the reason Liz was here this morning. “So . . . Cami showed me some of your photos – they really are amazing! How long have you been doing this?”

“I’ve dabbled for years – My Ex is a Marine, and when we were young, I’d help his friends by doing the photography for their weddings, since none of them could afford a professional.”

“Don’t tell me you aren’t a professional!” Fi laughed.

“I’m a telecom executive,” Liz answered. “This is just a side gig. I was hoping to do something with it, but demand kind of dried up when the pandemic hit. And, work got pretty crazy.”

“Which is to say, oh modest one, that you’re being groomed for a VP slot,” I said.

“That may be the first time anyone’s ever accused me of modesty,” Liz retorted. “But in this case, I’ve actually got a lot to be modest about. The main reason my career has taken off is that so many of our senior people retired rather than adapt. COVID’s pretty much changed the way the whole office operated, starting with selling our building and committing to remote employment.”

“Well, I’m very glad you were able to be here today,” Fi said. “It means so much to Cami that you’ll be doing the photography. And to me as well.”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Liz said. “And, it looks like God has smiled on you with perfect weather.”

That was a good thing, I reflected, since Fiona had insisted that the wedding be outdoors. And it would have been, even if the wedding party had had to appear in ponchos!

We spent two minutes clearing up the table and then Fiona, Anne and I started getting dressed. Once we were relatively decent, Liz pulled out her camera and began capturing some memories. Unlike the photoshoots I had done with Liz in the past, she stayed discreetly in the background and simply captured the moment without directing the action.

Fiona had chosen a style that was both simple and classic – a strapless, A-line dress in white satin with a form-fitting bodice and a fuller skirt. If you knew to look, you could definitely see that she was pregnant. Fi, being Fi, was extremely pleased about her baby bump.

Anne was wearing a long, flowing, high-necked dress with lace applique in a deep claret red. She looked beautiful and sophisticated and happy – so very happy!

Fiona had selected a fairytale dress for me in sky blue silk and chiffon. It flattered my curves and showed a fair bit of lilly-white skin above the wide and deep neckline. I was checking the effect in the mirror when Anne came up behind me.

“Missing a little something, I think,” she said. “Rob got this for you.” She was holding a delicate necklace in white gold with a heavy sapphire pendant.

My throat caught. “Oh, that man!” The gem matched my eyes.

“Good value, isn’t he?” his mother said fondly. “Here – let me.” She settled the piece around my neck, with the pendant hanging mid-way between the hollow at the base of my throat and the cleavage – the real, honest-to-God cleavage! – that the dress allowed me to display. A little present from my guy.

I looked in the mirror again, and finally saw the woman I had only been able to see in my mind’s eye for years.

We were all ready, all beautiful, and Liz had all the “primping” photos she could possibly want, when the car arrived. The four of us fit easily into the stretch limo, which took us to the harbor where we transferred to a small boat that would take us to the island where the wedding was being held.

As planned, we were the last to arrive. We were met at the dock by George and Rob, both of whom looked incredibly dashing in morning suits that emphasized the breadth of their shoulders and their trim, athletic builds. The look on George’s face when he saw his wife would melt the hardest heart.

Music played as George walked Anne up to the pavilion where the guests were waiting. At the change of the tune, Rob took my hand and led me up to the pavilion as well, passing by rows and rows of Hutchinsons and friends of both Henry and Fiona. When we reached the ceremonial arch, Rob went to the right to join his brother, and I went left to wait for Fiona.

A hush descended on the crowd as a ruggedly handsome man in the blue mess uniform of a major in the U.S. Army stood and raised a gleaming gold trumpet to his lips. The clear, bracing strains of Jeremiah Clarke’s regal Trumpet Voluntary pierced the morning, and Fiona stepped down onto the dock and made her way to the pavilion. The only person who accompanied her down the aisle was her daughter, who, being still very much in utero, had no choice in the matter.

Fi looked radiant.

She had told me once what her perfect wedding was going to be like. Rob, Iain and I would be groomsmen, her best friend Cassie would be her Matron of Honor, and Dad would walk her down the aisle.

Almost none of it had gone according to Fiona’s plans. Iain had not survived the pandemic. Cassie Johnson had, but at a personal cost that left her a shadow of the fun, vibrant woman who had been Fi Savin’s roommate and confidant.

Day after grinding day of work in an ICU filled to bursting had ruined Cassie’s health, her marriage, and her passion for healing. She had finally resigned and gone home to Birmingham, Alabama. While she had made it to the wedding, she begged off being part of the wedding party. She wished Fiona all the best, but she had no energy for it.

I took Cassie’s place as Maid of Honor. Rob was the only one of us who managed to do his assigned job.

And yet . . . it was perfect.

Just looking at Fi as she walked forward brought tears to my eyes. She had been through so much – endured so much suffering, witnessed so much death. But she had come through, and this day, so long postponed, had finally arrived. Henry, waiting for her, looked like a man who had achieved his heart’s desire.

This was a Hutchinson wedding, so an Episcopal Bishop presided. He did a lovely job, though I couldn’t help but wonder what Sarah would have said about all the smells and bells. She was rigorously low church; I could always appreciate both.

Henry recited his vows with quiet, irrepressible joy. Fi’s voice was firm and clear as the trumpet.

The highlight, for me, was the music – particularly an absolutely breathtaking, inspiring two-part rendition of “The King of Love My Shepherd Is.” The singers, of course, were the stars of the recently concluded, critically acclaimed, podcast “Opera Houseparty,” Nicole Fontaine and Margaret McGregor. My companions and housemates during the worst of the pandemic – my teachers, my partners in craziness, my dearest friends.

My Ohana.

Maggie wore a soft pink dress; Nicole, a pale yellow. As always, they were just gorgeous, but their voices were simply magnificent. There wasn’t a dry eye anywhere in sight.

They rose again to lead the recessional hymn, supported by the major on trumpet, a string quartet, and a tall, spare man with a sensitive face and the eyes of a poet, who conducted the group as he played “Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee” on a grand piano. Rob and I followed Henry and Fi just as the girls sang,

“Ever giving and forgiving,
Ever blessing, ever blest,
Well-spring of the joy of living,
Ocean-depth of happy rest!”

The beautiful hymn gave structure to the emotions that were overwhelming me. I felt, indeed, like I was joining “the mighty chorus which the morning stars began.” Affirming, in this beautiful service, that life and love and beauty will endure to the ends of the earth.

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER FOUR
“Recondita armonia di bellezze diverse!”
– Puccini, Tosca, Recondita armonia (Aria)

Boston, Massachusetts, May 21, 2022, immediately following

The food was served on outdoor tables, with Boston Harbor and the city’s skyline as the backdrop. Henry, who knows a thing or two about food, had suggested the caterer. The wedding party was served first, freeing the bride and groom to make the rounds while people were eating. But that left Rob and me and George and Anne alone, and I had a better idea than that. “Okay,” I said to Rob’s parents, “I want to finally introduce you to my roomies!”

Anne laughed. “I can’t wait! God, I loved that podcast! I miss it so much!”

Since I’d been in charge of the seating, I arranged this in advance. Nicole and Maggie were at a table for eight, but four of the seats were empty – waiting for just this opportunity. The other two seats . . . .

“George, Anne, let me introduce my roommates, Nicole Fontaine and Maggie McGregor, and of course you know Kyle and David.” The last mentioned were, respectively, Kyle Stewart, who had played the trumpet during the ceremony, and David Sinclair, the pianist.

Anne was positively gushing. She gave Nicole and Maggie enthusiastic hugs, then turned to the two men. “Kyle . . . David. I am delighted – so delighted – to see you both again . . . and in such good company!”

George’s greetings were more restrained, but in his own, quiet way no less warm. He smiled shyly at my two lovely roommates and said, “Thank you for your wonderful podcast. It was so very civilized!”

We sat and chatted with them while they ate. Anne wanted to get Nicole and Maggie’s take on the podcast. She already had mine.

“You know it was all Cami’s idea, of course,” Maggie said.

Anne nodded.

“Well, Nickie and I worked on it even while Cami was up in New York looking after Iain. And, more happily, getting acquainted with your reprobate son there.” Maggie smiled at Rob. “We had about fifteen episodes roughed out by the time Cami got home. You know – what the episodes would be, what topics we wanted to explore, and how we wanted to do it.”

Nicole said, “Cami had us focus first on who we thought the target audience should be. Mags and I are professionals – well, Cami calls us geeks! – but an audience of pure opera geeks would be pretty small. She thought we needed to reach more than just professionals. Said we should try to capture people who maybe didn’t know much or anything about opera, but had time on their hands and were willing to learn something new, so long as it was fun.”

“That’s where ‘Opera Houseparty’ came from,” Maggie said. “It sounded fun, and informal. And, we got my dad to take a picture of the three of us on the front steps of the house, sharing a bottle of wine wrapped in a paper bag. After Cami’s friend Liz cleaned it up, it made great cover art for the podcast.”

“I love that picture,” George said. “I would see it, of course, whenever I played the podcast on my phone, and I really felt like I was there, listening to the three of you chatting.”

Nicole took up the story. “Anyhow, as you both know, we had our big launch in early May of 2020.”

Anne and George were well aware of the timing of the launch, since I had brought them both in on it. Anne Shaw Hutchinson is a mover and shaker in the donor community that supports arts in the United States, and her enthusiastic backing for the project had helped ensure its success. Simultaneously, Nicole and Maggie had boosted the podcast through their extensive professional networks, so the launch had gone very well.

“Our scheduled episode plan went out the window almost immediately. The George Floyd murder happened just a couple of weeks after we’d launched, and it just felt like the wrong time for some of the material we had recorded. But we were able to adapt quickly, and that was a real learning experience.”

“I remember those episodes,” Anne said. “The stories that your friends told . . . they were so powerful. Really eye-opening.”

“The arts have a long, long way to go before they are anything like equal opportunity, that’s for sure,” Maggie said. “I was really glad that some of our friends from our time as students – and as singers – were willing to come on the podcast and tell people what it’s like to be Black opera singers.”

“It sounds pretty all-consuming,” George observed. “Was this basically your full-time job?”

“Nicole and Maggie put in a huge amount of time, especially at the beginning,” I said. “It did get easier over time. My job was a lot simpler. I handled the logistical elements that didn’t require any real knowledge of the subject matter. Like figuring out hosting services, recording and editing software, organizing the artwork, theme music . . . stuff like that. Once we were up and running, my job on the podcast was mostly to ask stupid questions and add a bit of comic relief when these two got too serious!”

Nicole smiled fondly. “Cami’s being modest, as usual. She kept us grounded. Effectively acted as the moderator of the show. And her questions were ones that regular people ask all the time. What our broader audience would be asking.”

“Like, ‘why does everyone die in opera!’” Anne giggled. “That was my favorite episode!”

Maggie laughed, hard. “Funny thing, too. That was the first question Cami asked back when she sold us on the idea of the podcast. Even though it’s obviously not the case. There are plenty of silly operas – it was even a specialty. French Opera Bouffe. You could put the whole Gilbert and Sullivan cannon into that category. There are other operas that aren’t just silly but no one dies, like The Marriage of Figaro or The Merry Widow. It’s just a myth.”

“Myths often have a kernel of truth behind them, though, as I recall your colleague observing during that episode,” George said.

Nicole nodded. “It’s true. The operas where people die tragically – especially when it’s the protagonist – they just stick in our memories. They remind us how fragile all of this is – all of it – art, beauty, love . . . even life.”

I could see that truth written on every face at the table. It was a truth we had all lived. We had all survived, but . . . it had been a difficult two years.

“Sometimes words by themselves just don’t seem like they’re enough to convey tragedy,” Nicole added. “And opera gives us a way to bridge that gap, a way to communicate that goes beyond language. When Tosca sings about feeling abandoned by God in Vissi d'Arte, she is touching the heart of human experience.”

David reached out and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “One part of it, anyway, my love. There’s a happier part as well.”

That earned him one of Nicole’s patented, heart-stopping smiles. “There is, indeed.”

Anne smiled at them, then at her son. “Nice bit of matchmaking, Robbie. Never thought you had it in you!”

Rob gave every appearance of innocence. “Me? Oh, no. It was all Cami’s fault!”

I blushed from the top of my head to the tips of my toes, I’m sure. “Rob!” I said, threateningly.

“Ohhhhh, I think there’s a story here!” Anne said gleefully.

“But one that Cami might prefer not to tell,” George murmured.

“Nonsense!” Anne said. “Or rather, I’m sure she’ll get over it!”

I looked sheepish. “Well . . . . See. Here’s the thing. Rob wanted to come down and see me in Baltimore after I went back. He decided that we could each isolate for a couple weeks. Or he could, on the one hand, and the three of us,” – I indicated my roommates and myself – “could on the other. Then he would be able to visit with me for two weeks. And . . . well . . . I really, really wanted to see him. But, ah . . . .”

I couldn’t go on.

Rob decided to help me out. “. . . but my darling girl here was just petrified that I would never look at her again if I set eyes on her beautiful roommates.”

Everyone was laughing and it felt rude not to join in. Churlish, even. But I appealed to George and Anne, “It’s funny, but honestly. Can you blame me?”

“Your roommates are lovely,” Anne said soothingly. “But so are you. Have some confidence, girl!”

“I think I recall saying something along those lines myself,” Nicole said. “I mean, once or twice!”

“Me too,” Maggie said. “Stubborn woman!”

“Okay, okay,” I said. Then, more seriously, “But honestly. I’m a transwoman, I was only just starting my transition, my roommates are, objectively, beautiful in every way, and Rob was – is – not just one of the most eligible bachelors in Boston. He’s also a genuinely wonderful human being.”

“And a good dancer,” his mother said, judiciously.

“Better than average at chess,” his father contributed.

“Getting ready to go in search of the bar,” Rob said, looking almost, but not quite, as embarrassed as I had been. Good!!!

But then Kyle added, “He’s also the best friend a man could ever have. Well, he and David, both.”

“Amen to that,” David said. He raised his glass and said, “A toast, then, to Rob – truly the best Best Man!”

We raised our glasses in salute and Rob buried his head in his hands.

As the laughter subsided, Anne said, “I still don’t understand how Cami’s lack of confidence got the four of you together.”

Rob recovered quickly. “Sometimes one problem can’t be solved, but two problems solve each other. I knew that Kyle and David got an apartment together in Rosslyn after we returned from Afghanistan. And . . . well. I knew they were the finest people in the world. As close to me as Henry. Closer, even, in some ways.”

He looked at them both, his eyes communicating a world of experiences they alone shared. “The three of us used to joke that we’d never find anyone; we’d all had real trouble re-integrating when we came home. And I just thought . . . based on everything that Cami had told me . . . that maybe Nicole and Maggie might draw them out. Like Cami had done for me.”

“And you figured that Cami might calm down if you brought a couple of good-looking guys along with you when you came to visit?” Anne asked.

“Yup,” Rob said, sounding satisfied. “Worked like a charm, too!”

Kyle was looking at Maggie, his expression tender. “It was love at first sight for me, I’ll tell you. She didn’t need to draw me out!”

“But I would have, if I’d had to,” she responded. “I knew that after five minutes.”

George smiled and looked at Nicole. “I’ve been able to read David like a book since Rob first introduced us. I think I can guess how that evening went for him. But how about you?”

“He was so shy when the evening started,” Nicole said, her voice warm.

“To quote Cami,” David said, “‘Can you blame me?’ I mean, first Rob introduced us to the podcast, and Kyle and I listened to every episode they'd put out at that point. So, we already knew they were stars. Then we meet them, and Nicole is just the most beautiful woman in the whole world, and she’s made this incredible seafood risotto, and she has a voice like an angel . . . hell, yeah, I was shy!”

I laughed. Time Nicole got a touch of her own medicine!

But she remained serene. “He was so quiet during the meal, it was hard to get a sense of him. But after dinner . . . we got him to play on our keyboard. I mean, you heard him today, so you have an idea of how good he is.”

She shook her head, smiling at the memory. “But it wasn’t the quality of his music that got me. When he started to play, he just lost himself in his music. The same way I do, I guess. And . . . all of his shyness disappeared. He was somehow focused and peaceful and . . . Oh, I can’t describe it. I realized I had never seen anyone so lovely in my life.”

I had happened to be looking at Nicole that night, at the precise moment that epiphany had struck her. I had seen it in her eyes, in her face . . . the sure, certain understanding, that this was what she had been looking for. This was what she had been waiting for. She had never looked more transcendently beautiful than she did in that instant of understanding.

Naturally, the three of us had talked that night after the guys had left. Nicole and Maggie’s descriptions began with the thing that had first struck me about Rob. Compared to these three, their previous encounters had been with boys. Rob and Kyle and David had a weight and seriousness that marked them as men, even when they were being lighthearted or charming.

And they had treated us with seriousness as well. They saw the grit and determination that Maggie and Nicole had brought to the pursuit of their dreams. They saw their intelligence, their maturity, and it attracted them powerfully. Because they were secure in themselves, in their own manhood, they did not see attractive and accomplished women as a threat.

Both Nicole and Maggie had ample experience with guys who found them physically attractive. But men whose attraction went deeper, went to the very core of who they were as women, as human beings – that was novel. And both of them found it a source of a strong reciprocal attraction.

“Trying to get relationships off the ground during the pandemic must have been a challenge,” George observed. “I mean, we had trouble enough integrating new people that we hired at the office.”

“We found a way,” David said. “Kyle and I were pretty isolated as it was. The think tank where I work had shuttered its offices in April or May of 2020 and we were all working remotely. Kyle had a desk job at the Pentagon and he was encouraged to work remotely, too. So, we were able to basically have both our apartment and the girls’ house as one bubble.”

“The Monastery and the Nunnery,” Maggie said, laughing.

“Really?” Anne asked, archly.

Maggie grinned. “Well, not for long! Plenty of mornings I might be over at the Monastery, or David might join us for breakfast at the Nunnery.”

“I felt so bad for Cami,” Nicole said. “Here she’d gone and found these wonderful guys for us, and we got to see them, and her own boyfriend was stuck up in Boston!”

“We found a way too, Rob and me,” I said. It hadn’t been as frequent, but I had managed a couple of trips to Boston and he had managed a couple of trips to D.C. We had isolated for two weeks before each trip, and had stayed for around two weeks when we got there. At Rob’s apartment in Boston, and at a hotel when he was in the D.C. area (my room at Opera House was pretty tight quarters!).

My body responded well to the hormone treatments, and each time Rob and I met I felt more and more like my body matched what I wanted it to be – for him, and for me. And, dear man, he made sure that I realized just how much he appreciated me throughout my development. Our lovemaking just kept getting better. Practice makes perfect!

“It sounds like a pretty ideal existence,” Anne said. “Not bad, for the middle of a global pandemic!”

David said, “I know. And believe me, I thank God every day that we were all so blessed. So many weren’t.”

Nicole was nodding. “So true. I mean, there were days I would go crazy, cooped up in that house, not able to perform . . . but I still miss Opera House. I think part of me always will. We were so close, Maggie and Cami and I – and then David and Kyle and Rob, too.”

“Never thought I’d hear you regret being in New York,” I joked.

“I don’t regret it. New York is still my city, you know.” She flashed me a grin, an echo of her exultant smile that night, so long ago, near the fog-shrouded Christmas Tree in Rockefeller Center. “And the place David and I are renting is perfect for us. But . . . I miss you guys. I always will.”

I got a bit teary at that; Nicole has that effect on me. But I was moving out too. Rob was taking a leave of absence from the firm to take a position advising the Secretary of Health and Human Services, where his deep understanding of the pharmaceutical industry would be put to good use. We were going to rent a place in D.C.

The end of the podcast and the breakup of our bubble at Opera House was partly due to the end of the pandemic and partly to the success of the podcast itself.

We had put out an episode a week for almost two years, rain or shine. Through donations and sponsorships, the podcast was able to replace Nicole and Maggie’s lost income. But it did more than that: it put their names, faces, and voices in front of every music director in the opera world. So when opera houses finally reopened, Nicole and Maggie both had no difficulty in getting parts. The girls simply did not have the time to do justice to the podcast while actually performing.

While the podcast had taken a huge amount of effort and energy, it did get easier over time and the three of us had time together for other things. “I think I’m going to miss our ballroom dancing lessons the most,” I said. “I wanted to get good enough to partner Rob, but I just loved the time we spent on it.”

“I’ll miss the cheerleading,” Maggie said with a big grin.

“Cheerleading?” Anne was incredulous.

“Oh, yeah,” Maggie said. “Cami was doing cheer routines for exercise every day, first thing in the morning. 5:00 a.m. kind of thing. And I thought it looked cool, so I had her teach me.”

Just my luck that Liz had picked that moment to wander over to our table for some candid shots, her husband Derek trailing behind her with a truly impressive camera bag. She snapped off a few before flashing her wolf’s grin at Maggie and asking, “Cami taught you cheerleading?”

“She did – I’d never done it in school, and now I wish I had!”

“You didn’t join the fun?” George asked Nicole.

She shivered. “5:00 in the morning? Are you kidding? I’m from New York! That’s when people should be going to bed!”

“How was your pupil?” Liz asked me, still smiling like the apex predator she is.

“Better’n me after about three weeks,” I said promptly. “Maggie’s a natural gymnast. She would have made your squad, no problem!”

“You were a cheerleader?” Maggie asked Liz.

“A few years back,” Liz said, her eyes dancing. “Cami may have taught you everything she knows . . . but she didn’t teach you everything I know!”

I stuck my tongue out at her, which Liz caught on camera. Of course!

Liz wandered off to the next table.

“Sounds like you guys kept busy,” Anne said.

I replied, “Oh we did . . . I was working – remotely, of course – but we also had the podcast, and dancing, and cheerleading. Nicole gave us both cooking lessons, and I gave lessons on web design. I studied voice with both Nicole and Maggie since Dottoressa Trelli wasn’t able to do my lessons once the pandemic hit.”

“It was important to keep busy, to keep moving forward,” Nicole said. “Cami saw that, from the very beginning. I mean, Maggie and I were just destroyed when all the opera houses shut down. I don’t think we had any idea how to put one foot in front of the other. If she hadn’t given us both a kick in the butt, I don’t know what we would have done.”

“You’d have figured it out.” My eyes were once again bright with tears as I looked at my roommates. “But if I managed to give something back, it was a fraction of what I received. You two – you taught me how to be a woman. I couldn’t have had better role models. Because you’re the most caring, most genuinely empathetic women in the whole world.”

“Ever giving and forgiving, ever blessing, ever blessed,” Rob said softly.

“Yes,” I said. “That. Exactly that.”

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER FIVE
“E non ho amato mai tanto la vita!”
– Puccini, Tosca, E lucevan le stelle (Aria)

Boston, Massachusetts, May 21, 2022, immediately following

Everyone had finished their meal and people were beginning to wander from table to table, so we got up and began mingling. Rob and I walked arm-in-arm across the lawn, enjoying the feel of the sunshine and the sparkle of the water. It felt like a very long time since the world had been this open.

We ran into Rob’s Uncle Cornelius and Aunt Geraldine during one of the moments when they were not swamped with other family. After we exchanged greetings, Cornelius went straight to the question that interested him.

“I understand you have left your firm,” he said, giving me an appraising look.

“Just last month,” I responded.

“I heard you have found another position. You should have let me make an offer!”

“That is very kind of you, sir.” Rob might call him “Uncle Chip,” but to me, the Tai Pan of Clan Hutchinson would always be “sir.” “But I felt like it was time for me to do something a bit more public spirited. I’ll be joining the Civil Rights Division of the Justice Department in a few weeks – once I’ve recovered from all the festivities here!”

My move had been facilitated by the fact that I was the sole beneficiary of Gammy’s will, and the thrifty Scotswoman had saved over $200,000 on a bookkeeper’s salary. She had consulted my mother prior to Iain’s death, and apparently Mom had told her that Fiona was marrying money and that, contrary to my father’s constant complaints, the two of them were well off financially. So, all of my student loans were paid off.

Eileen herself had advised me to make the move. “Cami,” she had said, “this firm has multiple offices, but we started here, in D.C. Our practice has always been close to the federal government. We’ve had attorneys leave to serve as Cabinet Secretaries, deputies, line attorneys. And we’ve always encouraged it, because they often come back, and they come back with experience we can never duplicate. We do a better job training lawyers than the government ever could, but for where you’re at in your career right now . . . you should be somewhere you can be in court all the time. Don’t worry. We’ll be here when you get tired of it!”

“Remember us, when you and Rob get tired of that den of iniquity,” Cornelius said.

Geraldine just smiled.

We wandered off. Rob greeted friends and family, introducing me. I was content – more than content – to walk with him, proud to be his date on this most perfect of days. To nestle into his arm, or to walk hand-in-hand. To bask in the knowledge that, in his eyes at least, I was a pretty woman, and he was my guy. He had promised, two years ago, that we would make it work, our impossible pairing. That love would, somehow, find a way.

I had placed my trust in his certainty, and he had been right.

We were standing close to the pavilion, looking down toward the water, watching everyone mingling in the later afternoon sun. White clouds scudded against a deep blue sky, and sail boats raced across the harbor. Everyone dressed brightly, looking so at ease, so happy.

Shakespeare said that all the world’s a stage and we are but players, but I thought opera was a better analogy. We were all singing our parts – sometimes together, sometimes apart. Sometimes melody, sometimes harmony. Looking down at the gathered assembly, I thought of all of the people whose voices had joined with mine.

I would not be the woman I was today without the wonderful man at my side. Without Nicole and Maggie, together with their guys down by the shoreline. Without Liz, snapping photos with her usual unique mix of intensity, precision and flair. Without Fiona and Henry, in the center of the activity, effortlessly gathering the attention of everyone there. Without Eileen, without Al and Javi, Sarah and Tina, Gammy Campbell . . . .

But for a brief, intense five-month period from Thanksgiving of 2019 until Easter of 2020, I had stood upon the stage and sung a new song, my own song, in my work and my life and my love. I left parents and friends behind, risking everything on the crazy conviction that my physical body did not cabin, or even describe, the fundamental truth of my being.

I sang my song in Pittsburgh and Boston, in New York and Washington, in Baltimore, College Park, and Morgantown. I sang it through a pandemic, through a wild night in Rockefeller Center, and in a motel in Mount Vernon where I lost my brother and found the love of my life. It was my song, and mine alone.

My aria.

My life flowed on and my song joined with others, sometimes leading, sometimes supporting. But my aria defined me – the brief moment that changed the direction of my life and gave me a new purpose. Even a new name, one I had chosen myself, each part of which had meaning – powerful meaning – for me.

“Alright, my love,” Rob said. “Enough of your wool-gathering. The music is starting!” And there they were, forming up on the dance floor. So many of the people I loved most in all the world, together and in person, gathered around Fiona and Henry.

I ran down the hill, the pale blue chiffon of my dress streaming behind me, and called back to the wonderful man who had stolen my heart.

“Well, come on, then! Let’s dance!”

Finis

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