Chapter 6 - Loretta's Final Performance
Grandma wore her favorite emerald-green velvet shawl over her simple hospice dress.
Her hair was neatly pinned into an elegant twist, just as she had worn it for every formal recital. Though her face was pale and thin, her posture was remarkably upright, and her silver eyes burned with fierce, unbreakable dignity.
"Loretta?" Hugh Ashb whispered, stepping back as if he had just seen a ghost walk into his living room.
Ryder looked between his father and the wheelchair, visibly trembling with embarrassment.
"You haven't changed in thirty years, Hugh," Grandma said, her voice soft but commanding total silence in the vast room. "Still taking what you cannot create. Still hiding behind your lawyers while you rob people with your signature."
"Mrs. Whitaker, you shouldn't be here," Hugh stammered, his polished arrogance cracking under her gaze. "Your health... this exertion is dangerous."
"My health is my own business," Grandma replied sharply. "Joan, bring me closer."
Joan wheeled Grandma across the marble floor until she stopped inches from the rosewood case of the Steinway.
Grandma lifted a frail, trembling hand and rested her fingertips against the polished wood. A soft, tender smile touched her lips, as if greeting a lifelong companion after a long and painful journey.
"Calvin thought he was being clever," Grandma said, looking up at Hugh. "He thought because I was lying in a hospital bed waiting for the end, my voice didn't matter anymore. And you thought you could finally own what I refused to sell you forty years ago."
Hugh swallowed hard, his hands clenching at his sides. "I made a legal purchase through a broker, Loretta. I had no desire to cause you distress."
"Don't lie to a dying woman, Hugh," Grandma said, her eyes flashing like steel. "You knew Calvin didn't have the title. You knew my husband built this case by hand with Steinway's master craftsmen. And you knew this instrument was promised to the boy who actually understood its soul."
She turned her head slowly toward me, reaching out her hand. "Everett."
I stepped forward and took her cold, fragile fingers into mine.
"Play for him," Grandma whispered softly.
"Grandma, we need to get you back to the clinic," I murmured, worried about her shallow breathing.
"I have enough breath left for one song, my boy," she insisted, tapping my wrist gently. "Sit down. Show Mr. Ashb what real wealth sounds like."
I looked over at Hugh, whose face had turned the color of ash.
I pulled out the leather bench, sat down, and placed my hands above the keys. The familiar feel of the ivory beneath my skin grounded every frayed nerve in my body.
I played Chopin's Ballade No. 1 in G minor, the piece Grandma had taught me during the final summer before my hands grew large enough to reach an octave.
The music rose through the cathedral ceiling of the Ashb mansion, powerful, sorrowful, and magnificent.
It wasn't just sound; it was an indictment. Every note condemned the greed, the posturing, and the hollow pride of the men who thought they could reduce a family's legacy to a commodity.
When the final resonant chord faded into the vaulted room, nobody spoke.
Ryder had his head bowed in shame. Hugh stood motionless, staring at the floorboards, his drink completely forgotten.
Grandma closed her eyes, exhaling a long, peaceful sigh.
May you like
"Now, Hugh," Miles Wexler said quietly, breaking the silence. "Are we going to call the sheriff to escort this piano home, or are you going to sign the surrender agreement right now?"
Hugh looked up at Grandma, his shoulders dropping in total surrender. "Bring me the pen, Miles."
