Chapter 9 - THE PIANO IN THE FORGOTTEN WORKSHOPI held the phone so tightly that my fingers hurt.
"You have Grandma's piano?"
Delaney stared at me from across the coffee table.
The man on the phone took a breath.
"I believe so. A dealer in Chicago hired my shop to inspect and restore a Steinway grand piano. The serial number matches the one I remember from Loretta's house."
I closed my eyes.
The piano.
The same instrument that had taught me my first scales.
The instrument Grandpa Henry had spent months restoring.
The one Grandma had promised to me.
It was sitting in a workshop in Duluth.
"Is it damaged?" I asked.
"Not seriously. It needs some work, but the soundboard appears stable."
Relief washed over me.
"Can I come see it?"
"Yes."
He paused.
"But there's something we should discuss first."
I looked toward Delaney.
"What's that?"
"How your father ended up selling it."
I felt my stomach tighten.
"What do you know?"
"More than I wish I did."
The next morning, I drove north.
Delaney insisted on coming.
At first, I refused.
I wasn't sure I wanted to share this moment with her.
But she stood beside my car and looked at me with an unfamiliar determination.
"Everett, I know I don't deserve to be included. But if Thomas is really our brother, I'd like to meet him too."
I studied her.
"Are you coming because you're curious, or because you want to help?"
She looked down.
"Both."
I opened the passenger door.
"Then get in."
The drive to Duluth took nearly three hours.
For most of it, we listened to the radio.
Neither of us knew how to talk about the discovery that we had an older brother.
Finally, Delaney broke the silence.
"Do you think Mom knew?"
"I don't know."
She watched the road.
"Dad always said family loyalty meant keeping private things private."
I glanced at her.
"Sometimes privacy protects people. Sometimes it protects lies."
She nodded slowly.
"I think Dad used it for both."
When we reached Duluth, Thomas's workshop was located in a converted brick warehouse near the waterfront.
A simple wooden sign hung above the entrance.
Reed Instrument Restoration.
Inside, the air smelled of wood polish, felt, and freshly brewed coffee.
Several upright pianos stood along one wall.
A violin lay carefully disassembled on a workbench.
Shelves held tools, tuning forks, and small labeled containers.
Then a tall man stepped out from a back room.
He had dark brown hair with gray at the temples, a closely trimmed beard, and hazel eyes that looked painfully familiar.
For several seconds, we simply stared at one another.
Then he smiled.
"You must be Everett."
I nodded.
"And you must be Thomas."
He extended his hand.
I shook it.
It felt strangely formal.
Like meeting a distant relative at a funeral.
Then he looked toward Delaney.
"And you're Delaney."
She nodded.
"Hi."
Thomas smiled gently.
"It's good to meet you both."
I glanced around the workshop.
"Where's the piano?"
His expression softened.
"This way."
We followed him through a wide doorway into a large restoration room.
And there it was.
Grandma's Steinway.
The dark mahogany finish still reflected the overhead lights.
The carved legs looked exactly as I remembered.
Even the small scratch near the music stand was still there.
I stopped walking.
For a moment, I was seven years old again.
Grandma sat beside me, guiding my fingers across the keys.
"Don't rush, Everett. Music needs room to breathe."
I approached the piano slowly.
My hand rested on its polished surface.
"Hello, old friend."
My voice broke.
Delaney stood behind me, completely silent.
Thomas opened the keyboard cover.
"Go ahead."
I sat on the bench.
My fingers hovered above the keys.
Then I played the first melody Grandma had taught me.
It was a simple little waltz.
I hadn't played it in years.
But my hands remembered.
When I finished, Thomas was watching me.
"She taught you that?"
I nodded.
He smiled faintly.
"She taught me the same piece."
I stared at him.
"You played this piano?"
"Many times."
He leaned against the workbench.
"Loretta used to invite me over during the summers when I was young. Henry showed me how the action worked. I was fascinated by all the tiny moving parts."
I looked at him.
"Is that why you became a restorer?"
"Partly."
He smiled.
"I liked fixing things that other people thought were beyond saving."
Something about those words stayed with me.
Delaney moved closer.
"Did Grandma know you had the piano?"
"Not until yesterday. I contacted Miles as soon as I confirmed the serial number."
I turned toward him.
"How did you recognize it?"
Thomas pointed toward the underside of the music desk.
"Henry carved a small mark there after restoring it. His initials and Loretta's."
He lifted the desk carefully.
There, almost hidden in the wood, were two letters.
H + L.
My throat tightened.
Thomas continued.
"The dealer had purchased the instrument through a broker. Afterward, he arranged for it to be transported here for evaluation before final resale."
"Then we can bring it home?"
"Not immediately. The dealer claims he purchased it in good faith. Miles is working through the ownership dispute."
I looked down at the keys.
"So close."
Thomas rested a hand on the piano.
"At least we know where it is. And nobody's moving it without the lawyers knowing."
I nodded.
That was something.
We spent the next hour talking.
Thomas told us about his mother, Rebecca, who had died five years earlier.
She had been a school librarian.
She loved gardening, jazz, and old mystery novels.
He spoke about her warmly.
When I asked about Dad, his expression became guarded.
"Calvin visited occasionally when I was little."
"Did you know he was your father?"
"Yes."
Thomas looked toward the window.
"He was always careful about where people saw us together."
I felt anger rise in my chest.
"I'm sorry."
Thomas shook his head.
"You don't need to apologize for something you didn't do."
Delaney was quiet.
Then she asked:
"Did you ever want to meet us?"
Thomas smiled sadly.
"Of course."
"Why didn't you?"
"Because I didn't want to become another argument in someone else's marriage."
She lowered her eyes.
"I wish we'd known."
He looked at her kindly.
"Well, now we do."
Before we left, Thomas showed me the dealer's paperwork.
The purchase agreement listed the price at one hundred and forty-eight thousand dollars.
The seller was identified as an authorized representative acting for Loretta Whitaker.
And attached to the agreement was a copy of the disputed power of attorney.
I studied the signature.
It looked like Grandma's.
But something about the date caught my attention.
The document had supposedly been signed at the lakehouse.
On a Tuesday afternoon.
I stared at it.
"That can't be right."
Thomas looked over my shoulder.
"What?"
"Grandma was already in hospice."
He nodded.
"We know."
"No, you don't understand."
I pointed at the date.
"That afternoon, I was visiting her. We had a video call with my music students."
Thomas frowned.
"Do you still have the recording?"
My heart began pounding.
"I think so."
A school assistant had recorded the virtual performance for parents.
Grandma had smiled and waved from her hospice bed.
The recording included a visible timestamp.
I looked at Thomas.
"If this document says she signed it at the lakehouse, the video could help prove she was somewhere else."
Thomas's expression changed.
"Everett, get that recording to Miles."
I reached for my phone.
But before I could call, Delaney spoke.
"There's something else."
We turned toward her.
She was staring at the seller information on the document.
Her face had gone pale.
"What is it?" I asked.
She pointed to the name of the person who had witnessed the disputed signature.
I looked down.
And for the second time that week, I felt the ground shift beneath me.
May you like
The witness was listed as Gwendolyn Whitaker.
Our mother.
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