The Final Decree Left My Fleet And My Name Intact

"An auction would give us a clean break," Lydia said.

We sat at separate tables in the family courtroom. Outside the window, March snow clung to a narrow strip of shade.

Her lawyer said cash would be easier to divide than instruments. He did not call the fleet worthless. That part of the argument had ended.

Miriam placed our property worksheet before the judge.

We had sent the proposal weeks earlier. Selam had matched it to the bank balances, the house closing statement, and both retirement statements. An auction was not needed to give Lydia her fair share.

"Mr. Bekele requests the business at the independent appraised value," Miriam said. "The remaining property allows an equal division before any fee award."

The fleet stood at $148,600 on the worksheet. The recovered income and current cash appeared on separate lines. Supported bills and the agreed tax reserve were listed too.

Nothing sat in a hidden column.

I would receive Cedar Interval, its pianos, and its net cash. Lydia would receive a larger share of the house proceeds and retirement funds to balance that award. Our other property and debts had already been agreed and included.

The judge asked me whether I could run the company without her.

"Yes," I said.

"Who will handle its books?"

"Selam Tesfaye has a monthly service agreement. I approve payments and see the statements. I've also arranged help with bookings."

"At an added cost?"

"Yes. It's included in my business budget."

I had brought that budget. Miriam handed it up.

Lydia looked at me as if I had spoken in a voice she did not recognize.

"He dislikes paperwork," she said.

The judge looked toward her lawyer, waiting for him to continue. He had no question to ask.

I had disliked being told I was too foolish to understand the papers. That was something I had only recently learned to name.

The judge granted the divorce and awarded me the business under the proposed balance of property. Lydia would sign the membership transfer. The decree gave me sole control of Cedar Interval.

Then the judge addressed the financial statement.

The written findings said Lydia had knowingly failed to disclose valuable business property and rental income. Her amended statement corrected the numbers. It did not erase the expense of finding them.

The court ordered her to pay $5,200 toward my family-case fees from her share of the house proceeds. That was separate from the civil costs already paid.

Miriam had requested the amount with bills. The judge had reviewed them. It was a charge for what Lydia had caused, not a price for ending our marriage.

Afterward, Lydia stopped near the hallway bench.

"Are you satisfied?" she asked.

I thought about the night she had moved my spoon to protect her papers.

"I'm ready to go home," I said.

She nodded once. We had nothing left to sign together except the last transfer documents. The lawyers handled those that week.

The house escrow paid out under the decree. The retirement division papers were accepted. Selam confirmed that the returned rental money, later receipts, expenses, and tax reserve all matched the closing records.

There were no unpaid terms left in the civil judgment. No piano remained under North Lantern's name. Lydia's access to our accounts ended, and the banks confirmed it in writing.

I did not ask whether she and Owen stayed together. Whatever they chose, neither could sign for my company anymore.

In April, Ruth booked CI-04 for another recital. This time the contract named Cedar Interval from the first line to the payment instructions.

"Would you like us to replace that service card?" she asked.

"Just turn it around."

She laughed, then grew quiet.

"I'm glad you answered the phone."

So was I.

At the recital hall, I fitted the new casters before I tuned. The grand rolled without its old squeal. I checked the triangular soundboard patch and wrote the date on its chart.

The boy from the community center was playing that evening. He stood beside me while I set the temperament, building the middle notes before working outward.

"Does it still wobble?" he asked.

I touched the fork to my knee and rested its stem on the bridge of my tool case. Then I sounded the A on the piano.

We listened as the slow beats narrowed.

"Less," he said.

I made one small turn.

"Now?"

He smiled.

After the recital, I returned to my apartment above a quiet side street. I entered the day's payment, filed the service sheet, and made a backup of the new photographs.

Then I set the blue box beneath my desk and laid the fork in its worn velvet pouch.

The window was open a few inches. Snowmelt moved along the curb below.

I made tea, rested both hands around the cup, and listened until the kettle's last small ticks were gone.

Beside my tea, the silent phone lit with a confirmed booking for June.