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itself?”
    “It’s as good a way as any. I’m not always right, of course, and the women composers are much harder, more complicated, but I’m getting better and better. I think I’m going to write a book on it.”
    “Just don’t start writing letters to the editor.” Suzanne smiles. “Anyway, it’s a game composers would hate, don’t you think?”
    “Not to mention music critics.”
    It feels good to be talking to someone she knows but not too well, to share some banter, to be thinking about something other than her own life. Yet she cannot help herself and says, “Up for one more?”
    He hands the viola back to her, and she plays a stretch of the music she continues to think of as Subliminal , mimicking its thrust as best she can with a single instrument. The viola is suited to the task. She understands now how Lola Viola can sound like an entire ensemble all by herself, which, combined with her beauty, is the secret to her enormous commercial success—a rarity in their line of work.
    “Wow.” Doug stares when she finishes. “Feels like a trick question, but okay. I’ll try. Contemporary, obviously. Innovative but with a strange conservatism. A streak of traditionalism, but not reactionary.”
    “You’re describing the music itself.”
    “I’m working my way to the composer through the music. Very well-trained, especially in composition theory. Fair-minded but incredibly stubborn and sometimes blinded by it. Emotionally restrained—incredibly so—but not without some emotion. The emotion is there but suppressed, consciously maybe, but not uniformly. Someone who uses intellect to translate emotion because the emotion frightens him. I’m guessing a comfortable childhood but with a tragedy of some kind. A deep point of pain.”
    “Disappointment?”
    Doug shakes his head. “Someone not unhappy with how his life has turned out, though maybe only because he didn’t expect more.” He shakes his head. “It’s not that simple. The music pulls in more than one direction, even more than usual. I’m starting to think the composer is a woman, which throws everything off.”
    “You’re a sexist, Doug.”
    “I guess, if you mean that I think men and women are different, and that women are more nuanced and complex.” He combs his hair with his fingers, slightly clumsily, as though he has a new haircut and his fingers expect longer hair. “I’m stumped, I guess. Dedicated is the best I can come up with, yet also detached. An oxymoron, I guess. I’m sorry.” He looks as though he really is.
    “No, I’m sorry,” Suzanne says. “It was a trick question. It’s a collaboration: not a woman but two men.”
    Doug laughs in his deep bass. “I’m relieved. I was about to toss my book proposal in the trash.”
    Suzanne turns to case her bow and sees Adele, her teary line of sight following the beautifully carved Stainer across the room as Doug leaves with it. Suzanne cups Adele’s face, presses her palm into the soft skin of her cheek, reassured by its softness and warmth.
    Adele speaks, forcing out the awkward syllables, something she almost never does when her hands are free. “I want to hear you play. I want to hear my mom play. I want to hear Ben.”
    Now they are both nodding, Suzanne whispering, “I know, I know.”
    Doug returns and takes the check Suzanne signs for him. He shakes her hand, then bows low to Adele, pops up, smiles. “What’s this?” he mouths soundlessly as he reaches behind Adele’s ear and produces a quarter, which he places in her palm.

Five
Suzanne and Adele arrive home to find Petra and Ben watching baseball. Lounging on either side of the sofa, separated by a bowl of popcorn, they could be college roommates. Petra wears flannel pajama bottoms and a tank top ringed with condensation from the bottle of beer she steadies on her stomach. Her feet, stretched out to rest on the coffee table, turn out from her early ballet training, but she is otherwise boyish.
    It is a