Epilogue IV
Dedicated to My Mother
Winter, 2089 (twenty-nine years later)
The Breutschen sisters (dressed in iridescent black contour suits) and their husbands (clothed in dapper gray tuxedos) listened to the final notes resound within the lavender and gold Perfect Pitch Auditorium. Music dwindled and died, and soon, the orchestra was still. After five seconds of silence, the words “Thank you for attending the Lisanne Breutschen Retrospective” floated up from the outstretched arms of the conductor and sped toward Nancy’s face. Her twin Ellen took and squeezed her hand.
The audience stood, applauding the performers and the deceased composer.
Upon the stage, a Canadian maestro of incomparable skill motioned to Lisanne Breutschen’s daughters and said, “Please join me.”
A new surge of en
