Unfinished Business

before. With a smile, she opened the first page.
    There were pictures of her at the piano. It made her laugh to see herself in pigtails and neat white ankle socks. Sentimentally she paged through photos of her first recital, her early certificates of accomplishment. And here were the awards that had once hung on her walls, the newspaper clippings from when she had won her first regional competition, her first national.
    How terrified she’d been. Sweaty hands, buzzing ears, curdling stomach. She’d begged her father to let her withdraw. He’d refused to listen to her fears. And she’d won, Vanessa mused.
    It surprised her that the clippings continued. Here was an article from the London Times, written a full year after she had left Hyattown. And here a picture of her in Fort Worth after she’d won the Van Cliburn.
    There were dozens—no, hundreds—Vanessa realized. Hundreds of pictures, snippets of news, pieces of gossip, magazine articles—many she had never seen herself. It seemed that everything that had ever been printed about her was here, carefully preserved. Everything, Vanessa thought, down to the last interview she had granted before her concerts in D.C.
    First the letters, she thought, the book weighing heavily on her thighs, and now this. What was she supposed to think? What was she supposed to feel? The mother she had believed had forgotten her had written her religiously, even when there had been no answer. Had followed her every step of her career, though she’d been allowed no part in it.

    And, Vanessa added with a sigh, had opened the door to her daughter again without question.
    But it didn’t explain why Loretta had let her go without a murmur. It didn’t explain the years away.
    I had no choice.
    She remembered her mother’s words. But what had she meant? An affair would have destroyed her marriage. There was no doubt of that. Vanessa’s father would never have forgiven her. But why had it severed her relationship with her daughter?
    She had to know. She would know. Vanessa rose and left the books scattered on the rug. She would know today.
    The rain had stopped, and the watery sunlight was already struggling through the clouds. Birdsong competed with the sound of a children’s television show that chirped through the window of the house next door. Though it was only a few blocks away, she drove to the antique shop. Under other circumstances she would have enjoyed the walk, but she wanted no interruptions from old friends and acquaintances. The old two-story house was just on the edge of town. The sign that read Loretta’s Attic was a graceful arch over the front door.
    There was an old-fashioned sleigh in the yard, its metal fittings polished to a gleam. A scarred whiskey barrel was filled to overflowing with petunias, their purple-and-white petals drenched with rain. On either side of the entrance, well-groomed beds spilled over with spring color. A beribboned grapevine wreath hung on the door. When she pushed it open, bells jingled.
    “It’s circa 1860,” she heard her mother say. “One of my finest sets. I had it refinished locally by a man who does a great deal of work for me. You can see what a wonderful job he does. The finish is like glass.”

    Vanessa half listened to the exchange coming from the next room. Though she was frustrated to find her mother with a customer, the shop itself was a revelation.
    No dusty, cramped antique shop this. Exquisite glass-fronted cabinets displayed china, statuettes, ornate perfume bottles and slender goblets. Wood gleamed on each individual piece. Brass shone. Crystal sparkled. Though every inch of space was utilized, it was more like a cozy family home than a place of business. The scent of rose-and-spice potpourri wafted from a simmer pot.
    “You’re going to be very happy with that set,” Loretta was saying as she walked back into the main room. “If you find it doesn’t suit after you get it home, I’ll be more than willing to buy it back from you. Oh, Vanessa.” After fumbling a moment, she turned to the young executive type beside her. “This is my daughter. Vanessa, this is Mr. Peterson. He’s from Montgomery County.”
    “Damascus,” he explained. He looked like a cat who’d been given a whole pitcher of cream. “My wife and I just bought an old farmhouse. We saw that dining room set here a few weeks ago. My wife hasn’t been able to talk about anything else. Thought I’d surprise her.”
    “I’m sure she’ll