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that worked with her fair skin and dark hair, stepped into black heels, and clipped on silver earrings that glittered and flowed. Grabbing a purse and an umbrella, she set off.
    Naturally, when she reached the lobby, Tony Cohn was nowhere in sight, but at least the rain had stopped.
    The Essex Club thrived in a large brownstone on the opposite side of Commonwealth Avenue, an easy three-block walk from her apartment. It was a private dinner club, elegantly decorated and skillfully run. Relieved to have made it with time to spare, she checked in at the office, where Daniel Curry, the club’s owner, was taking a last-minute reservation.
    A square-built man of forty-five with perpetually ruddy cheeks, he acknowledged her arrival with the hitch of his chin and finished up on the phone. By that time she had stowed her things in the closet.
    She glanced at the reservation book. “Good?”
    â€œVery, for a Monday. There are a few empty tables out there now, but we’ll be full in another hour. It’s an easy crowd. A lot of old friends.” He named a few, couples Lily had come to know in three years of playing there.
    â€œAny special requests?” she asked.
    â€œOne thirtieth wedding anniversary, Tom and Dotty Frische. They’ll be arriving at eight, table six. He’s arranged to have a dozen red roses there and asked ifyou’d play ‘The Twelfth of Never’ when the champagne is uncorked.”
    Lily loved doing that kind of thing. “Sure. Anything else?”
    When he shook his head, she left the office and climbed the winding staircase to the main dining room. It was decorated in the club’s trademark dark wood and nineteenth-century oils. The color scheme was hunter green and burgundy, carried through table linens, china, carpeting, and draperies. The effect was rich and Old World, which made her feel part of something with a distinguished history.
    She greeted the maître d’ and smiled at those patrons who caught her eye as she crossed the carpet. The piano was a baby grand, a Steinway, beautifully polished and tuned. There were times when she felt sinful being paid for playing it, but she wasn’t about to tell her boss that. After taxes, what she earned at the Winchester School teaching music appreciation, coaching singing groups, and giving piano lessons barely paid for rent and food. Without her work here and at private parties, she wouldn’t have money for much else. Besides, this job was what had brought her to Boston. The club was far nicer than the one she had played at in Albany.
    After settling comfortably on the bench, she warmed up her fingers with soft arpeggios. The keys felt cool and smooth. Like early morning coffee, those first few touches were always the best.
    Her hair fell forward as she watched her hands. Swinging it back when she raised her head, she slipped into the mildest of New Age work, variations on popularsongs to which she gave a different beat, a gentle flow. Patrons might recognize the song, but even the most frequent diners at the club wouldn’t hear the exact same rendition twice. Playing by ear, she just let loose and did what felt right at a given moment. She rarely used books or sheet music other than for learning classical work or, on occasion, the words to a collection of songs. More often, she simply bought CDs. Once she knew a tune she could play her own version, giving it whatever slant was appropriate to the audience. Some of the parties she played at called for soft rock, others for Broadway hits, others for Brahms. Adapting the same song for different audiences was one of the things Lily did best. It kept her fresh and challenged.
    The piano stood on a platform in the corner, allowing her to look out over the room as she played. She smiled in greeting to familiar faces, smiled generically at new ones. Dan had been right. The crowd was mellow. Granted, early diners were usually older and milder, but the club had its