Part 8: The Spring Recital

The music school's spring recital took place in my father's front room. The roof had been repaired, the electrical work inspected, and the recording studio opened through the garden door. Daniel had installed removable panels as his architect suggested. The workbench stood against the wall, with a few of my father's tools displayed above it and the rest stored safely.

The piano had been tuned. I arrived early and found Mae, one of the music school's students, practicing a short piece while her teacher turned the pages. She stopped when she saw me.

“Do you want to try?” she asked.

“I haven't played in years.”

“That's all right. I'm practicing too.”

I sat beside her and played the first bars of the piece from my old concert program. I missed a note. Mae pointed to it on the page, and I tried again. We both laughed when I missed a different one.

My mother arrived with flowers for the teacher. Daniel brought chairs from the studio. Ms. Price came with the scholarship student who now played her cello. The student had chosen a gentle piece and asked to perform near the window because the light made it easier to read the music.

Before the recital, the school's director thanked the estate administrator for helping return the instruments and organize the loans. She thanked Daniel for making the practice room available. She thanked my mother for helping repair the roof. Then she thanked the students, who had practiced through the winter and were responsible for the music we were about to hear.

No one announced that I had defeated my family. I had not. We had disagreed, made mistakes, found records, and asked people with the right expertise to help us understand our choices. Some of the conversations were still difficult. They were also more honest than the dinner at which I had been told to sign without reading.

After the performances, Daniel showed me the studio's calendar. He had three regular clients and a waiting list for the practice room. The business was still small. He had made the scheduled payments and sent the records to both attorneys. The music school paid a modest fee that covered its share of utilities, and students could use the room under the agreement we had reviewed.

“Dad would have wanted the room used,” Daniel said.

“He would have asked you to label the cables.”

“They're labeled.”

He opened a cupboard to prove it. Each cable had a neat tag. I told him I was impressed, and he admitted that the contractor had insisted.

My mother joined us carrying the old concert program in its protective folder. She asked if it could stay in the piano room for the afternoon. I agreed, provided it remained away from the refreshments. She placed it on a shelf beside a photograph of my father repairing an instrument.

When the guests left, I stood by the garden door. Through one entrance I could see the piano and the empty chairs. Through the other I could see Daniel's studio and the workbench. The house had not stayed exactly as my father left it. It had become a place where new people could make music while the old records were respected.

Daniel asked whether I would come back for the next recital.

“If I'm in town,” I said. “Send me the date.”

He wrote it on a card and handed it to me. I read it before putting it in my bag. Some habits are useful long after the meeting is over.