In front of the children, in the front of the room, facing us is the same instrument, double in size. Asher motions for me to take a spot standing next to one of the parents while he moves to the front of the room.

Asher takes his place, seated behind the cello, and looks on to the kids.

“Mr. Asher… Mr. Asher!” A young girl about seven raises her hand to gather Asher’s attention. “I have a special song for you.”

His jaw widens. “I’d love to hear it, Jaelyn.” He answers the girl with familiarity.

We’re at a music class and I’m trying to figure out if Asher is the teacher or a volunteer or just doing this as a one-time sort of thing.

The young girl leans downs on her cello and starts to play a beautiful melody far beyond her nine years. She makes a few mistakes, but Asher doesn’t correct her. When she concludes her musical interlude, she looks up at Asher with a big grin on her face. She has clearly been anxious to play that for him.

“Thank you, Jaelyn. I can tell you’ve been practicing.” He leans forward and touches the little girl’s cheek causing her to blush. I want to assure Jaelyn he has that effect on women of all ages.

Asher removes his leather jacket and begins a cello lesson. He’s amazing. The way he talks to the children, his patience and manner with them is surprising. I didn’t see him as being a teacher.

With the twenty children surrounding him, Asher teaches them how to play their giant violins, and while the sounds from the children in unison leave much to be desired, you can tell he has made a lot of progress with them and they’re desperate to please him. Equally impressive is the amount of parents surrounding the lesson. I wonder if they’re here for their children or to steal glances of the beautiful mogul.

“Isn’t he amazing?” A tall African-American woman leans over to me.

“Yes, these parents must spend a lot of money to have Alexander Asher teach their children to play the cello.”

“Oh no.” She corrects me. “Mr. Asher volunteers his time every week. These are underprivileged children. This is his way of keeping them off the street.”

I’m confused. “But the cello is an expensive instrument.”

“All donated by Mr. Asher. He teaches a class here but funds the program in seven schools across the city.”

So this is where he is every Friday. He said he had a standing appointment until the concerts. These must be the kids he’s having perform at the gala.

Perhaps he is for real. But why would this man who spends his days and nights carefree spend so much time helping children? I’ve seen his bio. He donates millions to children’s charities. I assumed it was a publicity stunt, but seeing him with these kids, knowing he’s here with them every week… You can’t fake that kind of generosity.

The class ends and the students each hug or high-five Asher. He pays attention to each child and asks them questions about their school week and if they’ve been good to their parents. It is genuine to watch.

“I’m impressed.”

“I’m glad. Come,” he says, placing his hand on my elbow, escorting me back to the bike. “I have one more place I’d like to show you.”

This man can ask me to go anywhere right now and I’d follow.

We drive up the west side highway as I listen to Snow Patrol sing about love and forgiveness. I don’t know where we’re going, and for the first time in a long time, I don’t care. I don’t care about having a plan or list to follow. I feel like I’m a teenager again. Carefree and wild.

The lesson lasted an hour and he stayed almost as long afterward talking to the families. He invited everyone to the concert on Labor Day weekend and is even giving them prime seating. With a theater of over two thousand seats, you’d think he’d only leave the house seats for the high rollers, but I guess, to Asher, those kids are the high rollers. They are why he’s hosting this event.

It never dawned on me why we’re doing this concert. I know Gabriel said the company is making money, but there had to be more to it than that. Erik said this was an Asher Family event. What he really meant was this is an Alexander Asher event.

The afternoon sun gazes down on us and the wind from the Hudson River cools my skin. As we drive north, I feel removed from the city, but we’re very much in it. We’ve been driving around on the motorcycle for quite some time, yet we haven’t gone far at all. We drove through Central Park and stopped to survey the area where the other concert will be held. Asher wanted to get a feel for where everything would be and look at the layout. I stayed back and gave him some time as he made a few calls. One was to Erik to let him know of a few concerns. I tried not to eavesdrop. Instead, I just hung back and enjoyed the sun on my back. After the park, we took a drive across town and onto the highway.

Asher exits and drives up to a place I haven’t been since I was kid on a school field trip, Grants Tomb. Devon, his driver, is waiting for us with a large plastic bag from the gourmet market, Citarella. Asher takes the bag and we walk side by side down the corridor of trees that lead to the glorious stone monument. It’s amazing how a mausoleum can be so ethereal.

Taking my seat at the top of the grand staircase leading up to the museum, American flags hang over me. I place my hands around my knees, looking out at the harbor. It is beautiful in the afternoon light. The day has been stolen away from us, yet with the promise of a summer sunset, there’s still plenty of time left before we have to go back.

Asher places the bag down and takes a seat beside me and leans back on his elbows. His long, lean legs stretch down the stairs as he looks up into the trees. My eyes trace his frame from his toes to his fingers that were recently playing the most soothing melodic chant I’ve ever heard.

“You play beautifully,” I say. It’s the first thing I’ve said in over two hours.

His eyes meet mine as he tilts his head to the side and grins. “Thank you.”

“Who taught you?” I ask, running my fingers through the front of my hair and tucking it behind my ear to gather it back in place. There’s a slight breeze and wisps of my hair are lightly blowing in front of my face.

“My mother.” He pauses as if drawing back a sweet memory. “She was a concert cellist. Studied at Julliard.”

“Did she play professionally?”

Asher tilts his head down and lets out a sad smile. Shaking his head slightly, he replies, “No.” He raises his head and looks back out to the river. “No. She gave up on her dream, but she never stopped loving to play. She made me practice every day. She instilled the love of music and culture into everything she did.”

“Then I take it she would approve of your choice of meal locations.” I chide.

Asher lets out a light laugh. “Yes, yes, she would. My mother was somewhat of a historian. She loved history, the arts, museums, and fine food.” Asher lowers his head away from the sunlight and trees. “Not a bad role model to have I suppose.”

“It sounds like she’s a wonderful woman. Does she get to see you play often?” The question was innocent, but as soon as I asked, I knew the answer.

“No. She passed.”

Spasms of remorse cross my face. Do I know anything about this man? I have the deepest desire to grab my phone and start Googling, but I know it’s impossible. Is it inappropriate if I ask him about her? He’s the one who wanted to be friends. Friends can ask questions about their friend’s past. Even if their friend is their boss.

“How old were you when she died?”

Asher looks at me as if debating to answer. I can see he doesn’t talk about this often. Bending his right leg, Asher places his elbow on his knee. His hand travels to the back of his neck and plays with his collar. “Ten.” He sighs. “My mother died on my tenth birthday.”