@maestrobenoit
Holland led Nic into her father’s office, the one he’d turned into a make-shift at home studio back in the heyday of her career. The room was the cleanest it had been in months, finally organized, its shelves packed neatly, the floor spotless, the piano freshly tuned in the corner. Sitting on the love seat were a trio of cardboard boxes, all full to the brim with books of sheet music.
“Here -- you can -- you can look through it all, take whatever you want for yourself, too. I already have everything I’m going to keep, so this is all free rein. There are books in there going back to the forties,” Holland said, huffing out a laugh. “Pretty sure some of it belonged to my grandfather. Some of it is just stuff my dad picked up. There’s a lot in there I don’t recognize, I don’t know if it’s any good.”
“I mean -- I play my fair share, but there’s nothing I can do with all this. I don’t even have time to go through it, let alone learn it. So I thought, well, maybe Nic might want some of it. If not, we can just donate it to the library. What do you think?” Holland asked, nudging one of the cardboard boxes. She looked at Nic, waiting for his say. “If you can even help me get it to the curb, I’ll buy you dinner.”
