She put the Brahms on the program and, at the end, the first half of the Ballade, not as a confession, as repertoire. The cafeteria door opened on schedule. She stayed. The phrase that had hung in a condo five years earlier found its next notes, not flawless, present. Her hands shook when she stood. The shaking did not show if you were not looking for it. In the back row, a girl in a wool cape sat beside a woman in a dark coat, no diamonds obvious at this distance, both of them very still. Claire saw them on the second bow, such as the bow was, a nod. She did not go to them. They did not come to her. Willa lifted a hand, the same small signal from the coat check. Claire returned it. Then a neighbor wanted to talk about her grandson's lessons, and the Rowes were gone when the aisle cleared, which Claire chose to read as respect and not as flight. Both readings were possible. She let them both stand.
Andre heard about the Ballade from Claire in a sentence, not a saga, over silver.
"You finished it," he said.
"I finished a portion of it in a room that smelled like radiator."
"That's still finishing. Don't negotiate with good news until it turns into homework."
"It is homework."
"Then do the homework and also let it be good." He bumped her shoulder, light. "Both. You're allowed both. I sing and I carry soup. The soup does not cancel the singing. The singing does not excuse me if I drop the soup."
"Diane would frame that."