A man at the next table glanced over and then, well-bred, glanced away. Claire felt the sentence land where sentences like it always landed, just under the sternum, in the place that had learned not to flinch where a guest could see. She set the pitcher on the tray she had braced at her hip. The Steinway's open lid threw a black reflection across the window glass, the room floating out there over the street as if the street had ordered it.
She could have smiled. The Winslow preferred a smile. She had several, sorted by tip and by temperature. None of them stood up.
"I never said I couldn't."
The woman turned her head then. The diamonds took a point of light and set it down. Amusement moved through her mouth, thin and public, the kind that invites nearby tables to join without having to be asked.
"Please. Don't embarrass yourself in a place like this."
The girl looked at her mother, then at Claire, then at the keys, which from where she sat were a pale row interrupted by black, orderly as teeth. Her feet in their patent shoes did not reach the floor. She put one hand on the cloth, not grabbing, steadying.
"Mom, let her answer."
"Real pianists train for years."
The woman said it gently, as if gentleness could turn a gate into a kindness. She lifted her burgundy and did not drink. Around them the room continued its low weather: a tray passing, a match at the gueridon flaring and dying into a scent of orange peel, a laugh trimmed before it could become a story. Claire heard, under the sentence, other rooms. She did not go to them. Not yet. The girl was still looking at her with the terrible courtesy of someone who had asked a real question and was waiting to see whether adults would allow it to remain real.