The Variables

“I’ll go!” Grant yelled, but Lucy clung to his hand. “I’m sorry, Lucy...I have to…”

“Don’t,” Lucy said. She turned to the guards, “I’m not letting him go. You can take it up with Huck if you want to, but I’m not letting go.” She stood firm and defiant, even though her heart beat ferociously.

“Lucy—” Grant said. He unwrapped her hand from his own and then he stopped and helped Ethan to his feet. “Ethan, if...”

“No,” Ethan said. He took a step forward toward the waiting guards, but this time the guard went for his weapon.

“Stand back, Mr. King,” the man said.

“Don’t let her do anything dangerous,” Grant said. “Please.”

“The Kings don’t like to be told what to do,” Ethan replied. He clasped his hand on Grant’s shoulder as Grant stepped in front of the guards.

“No!!” Lucy cried and she tried to go after him, but Ethan stopped her. He grabbed her around her shoulders and pulled her into him, hanging on to her as Grant was led away. She could feel the throbbing down to her elbows. “No! Don’t you dare hurt him!” she yelled again. It didn’t do any good. They walked off with Grant in tow, out into the hallway and out of sight.

The other bar patrons watched the spectacle unfold and then went back to their drinks. They busied themselves by staring at their TV screens.

“They’re going to kill him,” Lucy said to Ethan, tears welling up in her eyes. She started to march off again, but her brother grabbed her hand and held it firm. Lucy shook her head. “Ethan...listen to me...they are going to kill him! And I didn’t get to say goodbye. Ethan, they didn’t even let me say goodbye!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Huck pointed to a big and black concert grand piano, walked over to it, and ran his hand over the top of the open lid. It was the most majestic piece of musical equipment Grant had ever seen. It had an ebony gloss finish and the keys were achingly pristine.

“I hear you play,” the old man said to Grant.

With his hands shoved deep in his pockets, Grant shrugged. He tried to take in the full grandeur of the entire room. Ornate, detailed, with beautiful touches—and a view of the shore, just out of reach. Bookshelves held large leather-bound volumes of classic literature, and the walls held frames for an array of artwork and photographs. It was stately, clean, and classic.

Hanging on one of the closest walls was a prominent frame with a wrinkled drawing that looked not unlike the Kymberlin towers. Large pillars rose from the ocean shaded in muted colors. Someone had tried to iron out the creases, but it was worse for wear: dirt-smeared, a dollop of red rust in the corner, wrinkles ru

“I guess?” Grant answered Huck like a question. He looked at the man’s eagerness and cleared his throat. “I mean, yes. Sometimes. I play.”

The guards had dumped him into the room without fanfare—led him past Huck’s young secretary—and left him to fend for himself against the leader, who had been sitting alone at a big oak desk covered in papers. He rose when he saw Grant and had walked straight over to him and pointed to the piano. No other salutation, no niceties. The time for that had passed.

“Play something for me,” Huck said, and he reached down and pulled out the piano stool, patting it and motioning for Grant to sit.

“I’m not that good,” Grant tried to defer, but he realized that Huck was not going to take no for an answer.

“I don’t play at all,” Huck replied with a gentle smile. “Even if you play Mary Had a Little Lamb, I’m sure it would sound amazing on this piano.”

Grant slid onto the bench and ran his fingers over the keys lightly, and he played a chord to hear the richness of the vibrations. He thought of the song he had made up in Leland Pine’s living room. The notes had just come to him then and they had fallen right into place. It was a sad sort of melody, with strong minor chords: a reflection on his sadness at the time, his longing and worry. He closed his eyes and tried to remember how it started, and as soon as his fingers began to play, the song came back. He played and played, with his eyes closed, forgetting Huck was listening, forgetting everything except the ivory keys and the feeling of his foot against the pedal.

When he finished, he kept his hands on the piano for a long time, and then slid them into lap, afraid to look up.

“That was,” Huck started, and then he dropped his voice to a whisper, “simply amazing. Did you write that?”

Grant nodded.

“Beautiful.” Huck shook his head. “I’m impressed.”

“It’s just chords,” Grant replied. “It’s just an illusion. Like a parlor trick.”

“And so humble, too.” Huck laughed and tapped Grant on the shoulder, pointing toward a chair by his desk.

He wasn’t trying to be humble. Once his mother took him to a special show in Portland. It was right downtown, the big illuminated Portland sign on Broadway welcoming them into the heart of the city. They came to listen to a piano player who wore a perfectly tailored tuxedo with tails that hung off the bench; he sat under a solo spotlight playing the great composers with wild abandon. It was the most remarkable thing Grant had ever heard. His mother had listened to the entire concert with her eyes closed and her hands white-knuckling the program. When he wasn’t watching the man play, he was watching her.

She died not too long after that. A year, maybe two.

He would never play the piano the way that pianist had.

“Blair told me that you saved her life.”

Grant found the courage to look at Huck. He was almost entirely gray, and wrinkles were deeply etched into his forehead. There was a pair of glasses on his desk, untouched, atop a stack of manila file folders. Grant couldn’t imagine what kind of paperwork Huck needed to review.

“I don’t remember it that way,” Grant replied honestly. “She saved my life, probably.”

“That’s not the story I heard,” Huck pushed.

“It was messy down there. It’s hard to remember what happened and what didn’t.” He stopped. “I’m just trying to be accurate...”

Maybe it was a trap, he thought.

“I see.” Huck turned his chair to face away from Grant and look out over the ocean. They were high above the sea; Grant felt wary of the building, as if a strong gust of wind would topple them straight over. “You are an enigma, my dear Grant. Do you realize the issues you’ve created?”

“No. Not really,” Grant answered honestly.

“You have no family.”

He thought of his dad. Waiting for him. He wanted to tell Huck right then: I do have a family. I have a father who came all this way for me. “I have Lucy.”

“What if you and Lucy have a falling out? It could happen, you are young. Although I’m sure you ca

“I want to marry Lucy,” Grant said. Then he regretted giving Huck those words, the specialness of them, the meaning they had for him. And he looked to the ground again, wishing he could take it back and keep that desire for himself a little while longer.

Huck hummed a sigh. “Marry her? How quaint and old-fashioned. And so very romantic and sweet,” he said. “And when you picture your future with our darling and passionate Lucy King...do you see yourself here? On my Islands?”

“Yes, I think I do,” Grant answered, unsure of what he was supposed to say to keep himself alive.

“It’s a future you could support.” Huck didn’t say it like a question and Grant shuffled his feet again along the dotted carpet. “Well, this is a beautiful place to stay...a home you could be proud of. Don’t you think?”