Gabriel's workshop contained eleven instruments, three clocks, and no evidence that any of the clocks had been consulted recently.

Vivian stood in the doorway while he examined the bridge of a cello beneath a bright lamp. He had not heard her come in. Without an audience, his face was more serious, the easy smile set aside while he listened to something she could not yet hear.

She liked this face too.

"I can come back when you've finished the consultation," she said.

He looked up, and the smile returned without replacing his concentration. "We're disagreeing about a small matter of alignment. Hello."

"Hello."

He placed the tool down before coming toward her. The care of that movement pleased her. Then he kissed her, which pleased her considerably more.

"You smell of oranges," he said.

"You left an entire bag. I've become involved."

The workshop occupied the ground floor of a narrow brick building. A curtained doorway led to storage, and a steep staircase rose toward his apartment. On the wall, a photograph showed a younger Gabriel standing with four musicians in front of a van whose continued existence looked optimistic.

"The van survived the band," he told her when she pointed.

"That sounds like the title of a memoir."

"A short one. We had three excellent years and two years of pretending the other three were still happening."

She took off her coat. "May I look around?"

"Please. Anything on a stand can be admired. Anything in pieces is currently sensitive about it."

Vivian stopped beside a violin with a repair ticket tied to its case. The owner's name and telephone number faced inward. She noticed the neatness of the arrangement, the tools returned to specific places, the half-eaten sandwich beside a cold cup of coffee.

"Did lunch interrupt something?"

"Lunch was supposed to be the interruption. It lacked conviction."

He gave her a stool with a sound, comfortable seat. She settled on it while he finished the cello's adjustment. When she asked what he was listening for, he explained without expecting her to become an expert before she could enjoy the answer.

The first note had an uneasy edge. After a minute's careful work, he played it again. Vivian could hear the difference, a fuller sound arriving without the faint complaint beneath it.

"There," she said.

Gabriel looked pleased. "There."

His phone rang before he could put the bow away. He glanced at the screen.

"My sister. I'll tell her we're going out."

He answered, and for the first thirty seconds that appeared to be what he intended. Then he asked how large the cabinet was. Whether it was upstairs. Whether the delivery people had removed the old one.

Vivian studied a row of clamps.

"Tomorrow morning," he said at last. "I can come around nine."

After ending the call, he rubbed the back of his neck.

"Clara bought a cabinet. Apparently it arrived in the wrong part of her house."

"Buildings can be so uncooperative."

"She could hire someone. She knows that. I could mention it. I also know that."

"Were you free tomorrow morning?"

He looked toward a sheet of music on the workbench. "I was planning to practice something. It can move."

Vivian nearly asked how often it moved. She recognized the question as an excellent way to conduct an interview and a poor way to begin the dinner she had requested. He knew his sister. She had met him less than two weeks ago.

"What were you going to practice?" she asked instead.

He showed her the music. A difficult arrangement he'd been working on for no reason except wanting to play it. Nobody had hired him. Nobody was waiting to hear it.

"Those are sometimes the things I do last," he said.

"The ones without somebody else's deadline?"

"Exactly."

She thought of her new document at home, the two paragraphs she had written without knowing where they belonged.

"I understand that," she said.

They left the workshop after he returned a call from Owen, who needed someone to speak to a booking manager on Monday. Gabriel agreed to handle it, then caught Vivian looking at him.

"You may be developing an unflattering theory."

"I'm collecting evidence. It's too soon for a theory."

He laughed, but she saw the small discomfort underneath it.

Dinner was at a neighborhood restaurant with steamed windows, modest tables, and a handwritten list of specials. Gabriel had booked ahead and asked for somewhere quiet enough to talk. Vivian was not recognized, which made the evening feel like a small holiday.

When the waiter asked whether they had dined there before, she said no and left it at that. She did not explain her former job or inspect the room for a story.

Gabriel noticed.

"How is it?" he asked after they ordered.

"Being a civilian? Strange. I keep thinking I should be doing something with the information."

"You could enjoy knowing what you ordered."

"A radical use of expertise."

They shared dumplings and argued mildly about which sauce belonged with them. He told her about his first paid performance, where a wedding guest had requested a song none of the musicians knew and then sung it at them as an instructional method. She told him about accidentally interviewing a restaurant owner's identical twin for twenty minutes.

"Did he stop you?"

"He enjoyed being asked his opinions. It was apparently unprecedented."

Gabriel laughed so openly that the couple beside them smiled without knowing why.

Later, while they waited for dessert, he returned to the workshop conversation.

"Clara isn't unreasonable," he said. "Neither is Owen. They ask because I say yes. Sometimes before they've finished asking."

"You don't have to defend them."

"I'm trying to avoid blaming them. There is a difference."

Vivian looked at him. "What happens when you don't want to say yes?"

"I usually discover that afterward. By which time it seems rude to mention it."

She rested her hand beside his on the table. "I would prefer the mention. For future reference."

He turned his hand and let his fingers meet hers. "I'll try to remember."

The dessert was an excellent rice pudding with an unnecessarily decorative flower. Vivian moved the flower to the side of the plate, and Gabriel said he admired decisive leadership.

They walked afterward without choosing the shortest route. At a quiet corner, he stopped and asked if he could kiss her again.

"You can," she said. "I've remained consistent on the subject."

The kiss lasted longer than the one in the workshop. When they moved apart, she stayed close, one hand on the front of his coat. Her delight had nothing to do with feeling younger. She liked knowing enough about herself to recognize a good evening while she was still inside it.

They stopped at a café for coffee because neither wanted to say goodnight yet. Gabriel brought the cups while Vivian claimed a table by the window.

She had just reached for his hand when someone spoke behind her.

"Mom?"

Theo stood beside the counter holding a paper bag. He looked from her face to Gabriel's, then to their joined hands.

For once, Vivian had noticed nothing before anyone else.