She laughed. “What do you want me to ask?”

“What about ‘Why are you going to church with Grandma tomorrow?’ ”

“Well, why are you?”

“She invited me.”

“Good for her.”

“And there’s this cellist playing Brahms.”

“Which Brahms?” asked Robin from the head of the table, where he sits to make the point that he is sitting at the head of the table. Robin is a classical music fanatic. He taught himself to play the piano when he was thirty-two, which is pretty impressive. But he never got the knack of learning to read the notes because his brain was too set in its ways. He has to memorize. Whereas I’ve taken lessons since I was eight and I am a great sight reader. Or at least I was when I used to play.

“I don’t know.” I spread my chicken potpie around the plate to make it look half-eaten. “They’re picking me up at nine-fifteen.”

“Aren’t you hungry, Maddy?” asked my mother.

“Not very. Don’t you want me to go?”

She gave me her mock-exasperated look.

“Apparently it’s Palm Sunday,” I said.

“Wasn’t that when he rode through town on a donkey?”

“You’re the expert. You’re the one who went to Sunday school every week!”

“I was an expert until ninth grade,” said my mother.

“Is that when you became a heretic?”

“That’s when I started having my own ideas.”

“Want to come?” I said. “We could all go.”

My mother gave me her everything-under-the sun-is-acceptable smile. “Not this time.”

“Why not?”

“Go and have a day out with your grandparents. They’d love that.”

I fluttered my eyelids at Robin. “Come to church with me? The family that prays together stays together.”

He glanced at my mother while levering the last of the salad onto his plate. “She’s been reading bumper stickers again.”

“I do love salad,” I remarked. “Salad is the one thing I’m in the mood for . . .”

“Oh, sorry, Maddy! It’s yours. Dressing? Garlic bread?” When everything had been offered except what I was really asking for, Robin said in a muted voice: “You know church is not my thing. And I have work to do. Unfortunately.”

“Thanks for the support.”

Again they exchanged looks. My mother drained her wineglass.

“If it’s the C-major Trio,” said Robin, “get ready to cry.”

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