"Do you still play?"
"Funny you should ask. I hadn't touched a keyboard that wasn't part of a computer or smartphone until just three months ago when I began getting this house ready for sale. I wasn't yet aware that in her will it had been specifically offered by inheritance to my mother, or, should she not be able or inclined, to me. Well, there happens to be a piano in this house. A stand up Steinway. Not in the best tune but still serviceable. At first I was too terrified to go anywhere near it. Then, just last week, I began to play. It has been difficult and awkward of course, but it all seems to be coming back. Anyway, Dorothy has offered to help me with the property taxes if she can move in with me, and strangely, you know, we have become very fond of each other."
"There will be a concert pianist visiting this afternoon, and likely staying for dinner. Would you like to meet her."
"What time?"
"Six thirty, or seven?"
"Yes, that should work. Who is she? Is she quite well known?"
"Her name is Carol Barlow-Mead."
"Oh my God!"
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