Chapter 7 - The Music Room
By late October, the trees along Lake Erie were ablaze with deep reds, vibrant oranges, and golden yellows.
The Westlake house was quiet, but it was no longer cold.
I had spent three weeks reclaiming the space. I sold the sterile, modern furniture Evan had insisted on buying for the formal living room and brought down my father’s old velvet armchair from the attic. I opened the heavy draperies in the dining room, letting the golden autumn light pour across the hardwood floors.
In the home office—now officially restored as the Music Room—my father’s 1972 Gibson Les Paul guitar sat proudly on a stand in the corner, its polished sunburst wood catching the sunlight.
On the desk sat a fresh, bound contract from Sony Music Publishing.
Sitting across from me was Arthur Vance and a young, brilliant intellectual property attorney named Maya Lin, whom Arthur had brought in to handle the catalog negotiations.
“They’ve doubled their advance offer, Claire,” Maya said, pointing to the figures on the page. “Because the streaming series became an international hit over the weekend, three major record labels are competing for global sync and master distribution rights. They aren't just offering money—they’re offering full digital remastering of your father’s entire seventy-song catalog.”
I looked at the number on the paper: Two point eight million dollars.
A year ago, that number would have terrified me. I would have handed the paper to Evan, asked him what it meant, and apologized for not understanding the corporate terminology.
Now, I picked up my reading glasses, read every line of the royalty split, checked the audit terms, and nodded calmly.
“I want ten percent of the annual net royalties placed into a perpetual trust,” I said, looking at Maya. “A trust dedicated to funding music therapy programs in Cleveland public schools.”
Maya smiled warmly, writing down the note. “Consider it done, Claire. Your father would be immensely proud.”
The front doorbell rang.
I stood up, smoothed down my wool cardigan, and walked to the foyer. When I opened the heavy oak door, I didn't see process servers or police deputies.
I saw Marcy and Leah holding two large cardboard boxes filled with vintage vinyl records, fresh apples from an orchard in Amherst, and a hot, tin-foil-covered deep-dish pie.
“Happy Tuesday, Claire bear!” Marcy cheered, stepping into the hallway and setting the pie on the entry table. “We brought apple pie, forty-five RPM singles from 1978, and zero male opinions!”
Leah laughed, setting her box down. “How did the meeting with Maya go?”
“We’re signing the Sony agreement on Friday,” I said, pulling both of my friends into a tight, warm hug. “On my terms.”
We spent the afternoon in the Music Room. We put my father’s original 1976 vinyl record on the turntable, set the needle down, and listened as the warm, golden sound of his acoustic guitar filled the house.
The music rolled through the rooms—vibrant, soul-stirring, and clear.
For twelve years, I had thought that love meant making myself small enough to fit inside someone else’s life. I had thought that marriage required surrendering my voice so that my husband’s echo could fill the room.
May you like
Sitting in that sunlit room, surrounded by the women who had saved me, listening to the music my father had placed into my hands, I realized the absolute truth:
My life wasn't over at sixty-three. It was just beginning.
