For a moment, he thought about walking away. It would be the safe choice, the smart choice. He could just leave and forget this ever happened. He could go buy a simple keyboard for Sophia and go home.
But something inside him would not let him leave. Something he thought was dead. Something that had been sleeping for 40 years.
He remembered being 19 years old. He remembered his first concert at Carnegie Hall. He remembered standing backstage, shaking with fear. His mother had come to him and held his hands.
Marcus, she had said, your gift does not belong to you. It belongs to the world. Never be afraid to share it.
He remembered playing that night. He remembered the way the music flowed through him like water. He remembered the standing ovation that lasted 10 minutes. He remembered his mother crying with joy in the front row.
Then he remembered the accident: the construction site, the scaffolding that collapsed, the falling metal that crushed his left hand, the blood, the pain, the hospital, the doctors who said he would never play professionally again. He remembered the years of silence, the years of hiding, the years of pretending that part of him never existed.
He had told no one about his past. Not his wife, who had passed away 5 years ago. Not his children. Not anyone.
Marcus took a deep breath. He looked at Richard's hand one more time. Then he reached out and shook it.
"Deal," Marcus said.
Richard's smile grew wider. He thought he had won already. He pulled out his phone to record the moment. He wanted to capture the old man's failure. Maybe he would put it on the internet. It would be funny.
"Everyone, gather around," Richard called out. "This should be amusing."
The wealthy guests formed a circle around the piano. They were all watching with excitement. They expected to see a disaster. They expected to laugh.