Marcus kept turning toward the stage.
“She eat anything?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Nervous.”
“She needs food.”
“I told her.”
“Did you bring the peanut butter crackers?”
Renee stared.
“To a formal gala?”
“She likes them.”
“You cannot pull peanut butter crackers out during a three-hundred-dollar dinner.”
“We didn’t pay.”
“That is not the point.”
Marcus looked toward the bread basket.
“I’m taking rolls backstage.”
Renee slapped his hand.
“Sit.”
He laughed.
Their son, fourteen-year-old Devin, sat beside them wearing headphones around his neck and pretending to be uninterested.
He was not.
Every time someone mentioned Lila’s name, he looked up.
At table two, Celeste could see them.
She knew immediately who they were.
Not because anyone told her.
Lila had her father’s eyes.
Marcus laughed at something Renee said.
Celeste watched.
Then caught herself.
Why was she studying them?
To reconcile the family with the recording?
To make the talent make sense?
That was part of the problem.
She turned back to dinner.
Gregory leaned closer.
“You’re quiet.”
“I’m eating.”
“No.”
Celeste looked at him.
“You laughed too.”
“So did you.”
“Yes.”
He shrugged.
“We were wrong.”
Celeste stared.
“That is very easy for you.”
“What?”
“To say.”
“We thought she was some kid playing before the event.”
“She was.”
Gregory frowned.
“What?”
“She is a kid.”
Celeste looked toward the stage.
“Her fellowship number does not change that.”
He sighed.
“Come on.”
“No.”
She surprised herself.
“If she had played badly, we still would have sounded awful.”
Margaret shifted.
“Nobody said anything terrible.”
Celeste looked at her.
“No?”
“We made a joke.”
“Yes.”
“Children hear jokes.”
Margaret became defensive.
“I donate to these programs.”
Celeste almost laughed.
So did she.
That sentence had felt powerful an hour earlier.
Now it sounded useless.
Rachel Benton, the society’s artistic director, stepped onto the stage after dessert.
The ballroom lights dimmed.
“Good evening.”
Applause.
Rachel was fifty-three, Black, formerly a professional violinist, now administrator, fundraiser, scheduler, crisis manager, and occasional adult supervision for donors who believed large checks made them music critics.
She welcomed everyone.
Thanked sponsors.
Thanked staff.
Then explained the Bell Fellowship.
Five finalists.
Blind recordings.
Independent jury.
No donor could purchase selection.
That last sentence earned laughter.
Rachel smiled.
“I say it every year because someone asks every year.”
More laughter.
The finalists would each perform eight minutes.
The professional jury had already selected its winner based on recordings, interview, and live afternoon audition.
The dinner performance determined only the Audience Interpretation Award.
A smaller honor.
No career decided by applause.
Good.
The first finalist was fifteen.
Brilliant.
A Chopin scherzo.