Grant Ellison reached the piano just as she stood up. He ignored his son, who was still standing paralyzed by the bar. Grant looked at Phoebe, taking in her bare feet, her oversized clothes, and the fierce, protective grip she had on her bag.
"Who taught you to play like that?" Grant asked, his voice thick with emotion.
"My mother," Phoebe answered quietly.
"I have heard the greatest pianists in the world sit at this very instrument," Grant said softly. "None of them made it sing like you just did. Where are you playing next?"
"Nowhere," Phoebe said, looking toward the gate. "I have to move my car by 5:00 AM."
Grant’s brow furrowed, piecing together the reality of the girl standing before him. He looked over his shoulder at Trent, then back to the Steinway.
"My son's gala is over," Grant said, his voice carrying an authority that brooked no argument. He turned back to Phoebe, a warm, genuine smile breaking across his weathered face. "But if you'll accept it, I have a music foundation that is in desperate need of a resident composer. It comes with a salary. And, more importantly, it comes with a set of keys to this house, so you can play this piano whenever you please."
Phoebe looked at the Steinway, then at the man offering her a lifeline she hadn't known she was looking for. She reached into her backpack, her fingers brushing against the worn leather of Clara's notebook.
"I'd like that," she said.