Chapter 2 - The Morning Workshop
Sunday morning broke over Hyde Park in a wash of golden Texas sunshine and birdsong.
My workshop smelled of aged spruce, beeswax polish, and hide glue.
Sunlight streamed through the high clerestory windows, illuminating a 1912 Steinway grand piano resting in the center bay.
I stood over the open action rail with a brass regulating tool, adjusting the let-off buttons on the middle octaves.
My head throbbed faintly from the two beers on Rainey Street, but my mind was completely consumed by Nicholas Valenti.
He had walked out of the bar shortly after returning my napkin, leaving behind a twenty-dollar bill for the bartender.
“Sleep well, Mara,” he had said. “We have business to discuss on Monday.”
The heavy wooden double doors of the workshop creaked open.
My grandmother, Clara Redford, shuffled into the sunlit room wearing faded denim overalls and gardening gloves.
At eighty-two, Grandma Clara was five feet two inches of pure, unadulterated Texas granite.
She had run a cattle freight depot for thirty years before retiring to cultivate prize-winning heirloom tomatoes.
"There's a black town car idling at the curb, Mara," Grandma Clara announced, wiping dirt from her cheek.
"A fellow in a dark suit just carried two wooden crates onto the gravel driveway."
I set my brass tool down, my pulse suddenly hammering against my ribs.
I walked to the front double doors, wiping my dusty hands on my canvas apron.
Parked beneath the ancient pecan tree was a midnight-black Cadillac Escalade with tinted windows.
Standing beside the open tailgate was a burly man with gray hair at his temples, dressed in a tailored charcoal suit.
He held a clipboard and tipped his head politely as I stepped onto the crushed limestone path.
"Miss Redford?" he asked in a crisp, respectful tone.
"Yes?"
"My name is Marco. Mr. Valenti requested that I deliver these historical restoration components for your evaluation."
Marco set the wooden crate on the potting bench beside the porch.
Inside, nestled in shredded cedar bedding, lay the complete action mechanism of an 1888 Erard grand piano from Paris.
The rosewood hammers, mother-of-pearl damper flanges, and hand-wound brass strings were museum-grade treasures.
Resting on top of the velvet lining was an envelope of heavy cream parchment.
Inside was a handwritten note in sharp, elegant calligraphy:
Rule number seven: Hands that know how to fix something real.
The Governor's historic ballroom restoration needs this instrument fully voiced by Saturday evening.
I believe your hands are the only ones in Texas qualified for the task.
Fee: Twenty-five thousand dollars.
Nicholas.
Grandma Clara leaned over my shoulder, adjusting her wire-rimmed reading glasses to inspect the letter.
"Twenty-five thousand dollars?" Grandma Clara whistled softly, tapping the rosewood action with a dirt-stained finger.
"Who is this Nicholas boy?"
"Nicholas Valenti, Grandma," I whispered, holding the heavy paper.
Grandma Clara’s eyebrows shot up beneath her silver curls.
"Valenti? The fellow who owns the downtown freight rail terminals and the concrete plants?"
"Yes."
Grandma Clara looked at the black Escalade, then looked back at my face with a sharp, calculating grin.
"Well," Grandma Clara chuckled, grabbing her trowel.
"At least the boy has taste in pianos. Tell him I expect him here for sweet tea before he takes you anywhere."
Before I could answer, the roar of a modified BMW engine shattered the quiet morning air.
May you like
A silver convertible screeched to a halt behind the Escalade, kicking up limestone dust.
Colton Avery stepped out of the driver's seat, looking disheveled, frantic, and wearing the same rumpled shirt from the night before.
