on Passyunk Avenue. But her true salvation lay eleven blocks away at St. Augustine's Church. The side door had a broken latch, and inside, past the dark pews, sat an out-of-tune upright Baldwin.
Every midnight, Phoebe played in the dark. She played Chopin, Debussy, and Satie from memory. Then, she played her mother's compositions, and eventually, her own. Walter Reed, the church custodian, caught her once, listened in awe, and silently began leaving water and granola bars on the bench for her.
But three weeks before the Ellison Gala, a notice appeared on the church door: St. Augustine's was closing for six months of structural renovations.
The door was bolted. Phoebe’s only sanctuary was gone.
Deprived of her instrument, Phoebe began taking longer, aimless routes home from the restaurant, wandering through the affluent neighborhoods of Rittenhouse Square and Society Hill.
On a warm Friday evening in late May, she found herself walking down a private lane lined with dogwood trees in Bryn Mawr. Through the iron gates of a sprawling limestone estate, she heard the faint sound of recorded cello music, laughter, and clinking glasses. She slipped through the open gate, drawn not by the wealth, but by the magnificent, ebony silhouette resting on the flagstone terrace.
A Steinway Model D. Empty. Waiting.
She didn't care about the two hundred people in evening wear. She didn't care about the string lights or the treble clef ice sculpture. Barefoot, with her frayed backpack sliding off one shoulder, she walked straight onto the terrace and stood before the grand piano.