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share of aged loudmouths. She didn’t see any tonight.
    Based on the patrons she did see, she segued into a set of smooth oldies, leading with “Autumn Leaves” and “Moon River,” moving on to “Blue Moon” and “September.” Twice she played requests passed on through the maître d’. She kept going until seven-thirty, when Dan brought her a glass of water.
    â€œAny questions?” he asked while she took a drink.
    She was careful not to look at the diners now. “Davis just seated a foursome at table twelve. They look familiar but… members?”
    â€œNo. The men are the governors of New Hampshire and Connecticut, in town for the conference that just ended. You probably saw their pictures in the paper.”
    That explained the familiarity, but it raised a new question. Lily definitely recognized the man at table nineteen. There was no mistaking that dark mustache. He was a reporter with the Post . “Is Terry Sullivan here watching the governors?” she asked.
    Dan smirked. “Not to my knowledge, or I wouldn’t have let him in.” The club protected its members. Journalists were welcome when they were guests of a member, as Terry Sullivan was. Few had the sponsors, much less the funds, to join themselves. “He must like the place. This is, what, his third time in as many weeks?”
    â€œYes,” Lily said. She had counted, too.
    â€œHe likes you.”
    â€œNo.” But she couldn’t deny that she might have been the reason Terry was there. “It’s business. He’s doing a series of profiles of Boston performers and wants to do one on me.”
    â€œThat’s nice.”
    Lily didn’t think so. “I keep refusing him. He makes me nervous.”
    â€œMust be the mustache,” Dan said and glanced at the door. Cheeks ruddying up, he grinned as he straightened. “Ah. There he is.” He set off.
    Lily broke into a smile of her own at the sight of Francis Rossetti. Archbishop Rossetti. Newly named Cardinal Rossetti. Saying the last would take some getting used to. Lily and the Cardinal went back a ways. She was every bit as proud of his elevation as Dan, who was married to his niece.
    Lily wasn’t Catholic. She wasn’t much of anything, but for several minutes, sipping her water, she marveled at the power of the man. He wore no elegant robe, no red hat. Those would come in four weeks, when he went to Rome for his first consistory. But he didn’t need robes or a hat to be charismatic. He was a tall man who stood straight and wore his crisp black clerical suit, pewter pectoral cross, and thick silver hair with style.
    This wasn’t the first time Lily had seen him since his elevation. A frequent pianist at archdiocesan events, she had played at a lawn party at his residence last night, but this was the first time he had been to the club. Without conscious thought, her hands found the keys and began playing the theme from Chariots of Fire .
    He heard it, looked over, and winked.
    Pleased, she finished the song and moved on to others. Fran Rossetti and she had played side by side often enough for her to know which songs he liked. He was a man who appreciated the fullness of life. His taste in music reflected that, in church and out.
    She played “Memory” and segued into “Argentina.” She played “Deep Purple,” the love theme from Dr. Zhivago, and then “The Way We Were.”
    Promptly at eight, a couple was seated at the table with the red roses. Soon after, when the wine steward uncorked a bottle of champagne, Lily turned on the mike and played “The Twelfth of Never,” singing in the rich alto that went so well with the club’s decor.
    Dotty Frische took a visible breath. She glanced briefly at Lily—then positively beamed at her husband. It made Lily’s night.
    There was soft applause at the end of the song, so Lily did a medley of other