Page 27 of Nantucket Longing

“Hi, yes, that’s me,” she said.She assumed the conversation would be over in ten seconds.

“I wonder if you might speak to me in private for a few minutes,” he said.

Madeline’s heart dropped an inch, but she kept her smile upright.Why would this stranger want to talk to her?

“I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t catch your name?”She glanced at Bernard, hoping to give him an appreciation of her slight fear.

Bernard caught on immediately and furrowed his brow.She read the look likethis guy won’t get away with anything; we have your back.

“My name is Aleksander,” he said.

“Where are you from, Aleksander?”

“I am from Poland,” he said.“Like you.”

Madeline laughed nervously and raised her chin.“I’m not from Poland.I’m from Michigan.”

Of course, memory of her mother’s past tugged at her, demanding her attention.But how would this man know anything about her mother?

Aleksander smiled wider.“But don’t you know?You play like the most brilliant pianist from Poland.You look like her, too.”

Madeline’s heartbeat skipped.“I don’t really know any pianists from Poland.”

When was this guy going to get the hint and leave her alone?

But suddenly, Aleksander pulled a photograph from his coat pocket and pressed it into her hand.The picture was vintage, perhaps taken in the seventies or eighties, and featured a young woman at a piano wearing a velvet dress with her hair piled up and stitched together like a basket.The woman had Madeline’s face.It was uncanny.Madeline’s throat felt tight.Was it just a coincidence?Did many women of Polish descent look like one another?She blinked several times and told herself not to cry.

From behind her, Bernard said, “Madeline, are you all right?”

Madeline cleared her throat.“I’m just fine.”She passed the photograph back to Aleksander and looked him dead in the eye.What did he want from her?Why did it feel as though the ground was melting beneath her?

“Five minutes,” Aleksander said.

Her curiosity was piqued.She glanced back at Bernard, Greta, and Henry and raised her finger.“I’ll be back,” she said.What could she do but go with him?

But she wouldn’t go outside.When Aleksander tried to guide her out onto the street, she hunkered in the corner and said, “We talk in here or not at all.”She crossed her arms and told herself to be very brave.

Aleksander tucked the photograph back in his coat pocket and gestured to a passing server to order a glass of beer.“Do you know who the woman in the photograph is?”

“No.I’ve never seen her before.”

“She has your face, no?”

Madeline flared her nostrils.She felt as though this man were playing a game with her.

“That woman is Barbara Nowak,” Aleksander said, his voice shimmering with magic.

“Okay?”

“Barbara Nowak is the most famous female musician Poland has ever known,” he said.“She’s performed in every concert hall and philharmonic from here to Tokyo.She’s renowned.I’m surprised you haven’t heard of her.”

“I’ve heard of her,” Madeline said, scoffing.She’d heard the name.She’d flitted in and around countless piano circles, where names like Barbara Nowak were said with gravitas.She’d even heard a few recordings of Barbara’s performances.But she’d never seen her photograph.Her blood ran cold.

“So you do know her,” Aleksander said, half accusing her.

Madeline tugged her hair.“What is this about?”

Aleksander smiled.“Barbara Nowak is your grandmother.”

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