When the auctioneer cleared his throat, the room went entirely quiet. “We will now begin the bidding for Lot 42,” the man announced, his voice echoing clearly through the speakers. “An exceptional late-nineteenth-century Italian violin by Raffaele Fiorini, Bologna, circa 1892.

Excellent state of preservation, accompanied by the original certificate.” The starting bid was opened at forty thousand dollars. A man in the front row raised his paddle. Then another in the middle. The numbers climbed in steady, dizzying jumps of five thousand dollars.

I didn’t look at the auctioneer. I kept my eyes fixed on the back of Wayne’s neck. It had turned a deep, embarrassed crimson. Every time a paddle went up, his head seemed to sink a little lower into his shoulders.

The bidding didn’t stop at fifty thousand. It didn’t stop at seventy. When the hammer finally fell with a sharp, clean crack, the violin had sold to a representative from a Chicago music conservatory for eighty-eight thousand dollars. Wayne sat frozen for a moment, then stood up and walked quickly out of the gallery, his face entirely flat and gray, looking at the floor to avoid eye contact with anyone.

Clara reached over and squeezed my hand. “You okay, Martha?” she asked softly.

I looked at the empty stage where my violin had been displayed, and then I looked toward the glass doors where Wayne had disappeared into the gray afternoon. I didn’t feel a great surge of triumph, and my heart didn’t swell with a cinematic joy. The money would make my retirement comfortable, but it wouldn’t bring Arthur back, and it wouldn’t make my old joints stop aching in the winter. It was just a Saturday. I stood up, smoothed down my skirt, and smiled at Clara. “I’m fine,” I said. “Let’s go home and make some pasta. I think we have some garlic left in the pantry.”