Chapter 11 - The Woman Who Gave the Piano Its Voice Back|
My mother cried when I told her Luca Moretti wanted her advice.
Not because he was wealthy.
Not because he was powerful.
But because someone wanted her knowledge.
For years, she'd worked repairing old church pianos and sewing clothes to support our family.
Then arthritis began making her fingers stiff.
Eventually, she couldn't perform the delicate repairs she loved.
She stopped accepting jobs.
Sold most of her tools.
And convinced herself that the part of her life she loved most was finished.
Now Luca was asking her to help restore a piano that had belonged to his mother.
“Emma,” she whispered, “are you sure?”
I smiled.
“Positive.”
She looked down at her hands.
“I can't do the work anymore.”
“You don't have to.”
I sat beside her.
“You can tell the restorer what needs to be done.”
Her eyes filled.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
I laughed softly.
“Mom, you taught me half of what I know.”
She smiled.
“And the other half?”
I grinned.
“Mostly how to avoid burning dinner.”
She laughed.
Two days later, my mother arrived at the Moretti mansion.
Her name was Margaret Sullivan.
She wore a simple blue dress and carried a small notebook filled with measurements and repair notes.
Luca greeted her at the entrance.
“Mrs. Sullivan.”
She smiled nervously.
“Mr. Moretti.”
He gently shook her hand.
“Thank you for coming.”
Her eyes moved toward the west sitting room.
Then she saw the piano.
She stopped.
“Oh.”
I smiled.
“Beautiful, isn't it?”
She nodded slowly.
“Even damaged.”
Luca's expression softened.
“That was my mother's favorite possession.”
Margaret approached carefully.
She examined the keyboard.
The exposed wood.
The tool marks.
The damaged bench.
Then looked toward Luca.
“Whoever removed these pieces didn't understand what they were taking.”
His jaw tightened.
“No.”
She touched the lacquer gently.
“This instrument has been cared for.”
I smiled.
“She would have loved hearing that.”
Margaret looked toward me.
Then toward Luca.
“Your mother played often?”
He nodded.
“Every day.”
“Then the piano deserves to be heard again.”
Luca's eyes filled.
For several hours, my mother worked with Robert Hale, the professional restorer.
She couldn't handle every tool.
But she knew the instrument's construction.
She recognized old repair techniques.
And she helped Robert plan how to restore the damaged keys without erasing the marks Elena had left.
They agreed to preserve the tiny blue stain beneath middle C.
They also documented the hidden compartment and kept it intact as part of the piano's history.
The six ivory pieces recovered from Vanessa's comb were preserved rather than reused.
Robert explained that suitable modern replacement keytops could restore the keyboard's appearance and function without requiring new ivory.
My mother approved.
“So it can play again,” she said.
Robert smiled.
“Exactly.”
Over the following weeks, the piano slowly returned to working condition.
The damaged keys were repaired.
The action adjusted.
The pedals cleaned.
The lacquer carefully conserved.
And the small child's bench was restored, its carved inscription preserved.
When the work was complete, Luca invited Isabella and my mother to the west sitting room.
He sat at the keyboard.
For a moment, his hands trembled.
Then he began playing Seven Little Stars.
This time, the melody didn't stop.
Every note sounded.
Soft.
Clear.
Beautiful.
Isabella began crying.
My mother covered her mouth.
And I stood beside the doorway, trying not to cry myself.
Luca finished the song.
Then remained motionless.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Finally, Isabella whispered:
“Mom would be proud.”
Luca lowered his head.
“I hope so.”
My mother stepped closer.
“She would.”
He looked up.
Margaret smiled through her tears.
“Nothing loved that deeply should be silenced forever.”
Luca stood.
Then gently took her hand.
“Thank you.”
My mother began crying.
And for the first time in years, I saw her look proud of what her hands had once created instead of ashamed of what they could no longer do.
That evening, Luca asked me to join him in the garden.
He stood beneath the old oak tree wearing a black shirt with his sleeves rolled up.
His tattoos were visible along his forearms.
He looked strangely nervous.
“Emma.”
I smiled.
“Yes?”
“I've been thinking about something.”
My heart quickened.
“What?”
He looked toward the illuminated windows.
“You spent eleven months working here. You knew exactly what could happen if Vanessa fired you.”
I swallowed.
“Yes.”
“And you brought the piano into the dining room anyway.”
I smiled sadly.
“It didn't feel right letting her throw it away.”
His expression softened.
“You protected something I didn't even realize was in danger.”
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then Luca took a breath.
“I'd like to ask you something.”
My pulse quickened.
“What?”
He smiled.
“Would you have dinner with me?”
I laughed softly.
“We have dinner in the staff kitchen every day.”
His smile grew.
“Not like that.”
I looked up.
He continued.
“Somewhere quiet. Just the two of us.”
I stopped breathing.
Then whispered:
“Are you asking me on a date?”
May you like
Luca smiled nervously.
“Yes.”
