***

Two weeks later, the sun finally broke through the winter clouds.

I stood on the second-floor balcony, watching a white delivery van pull up to the front circle.

Two men in gray uniforms unloaded a large, wooden crate.

Inside was the bronze plaque I had ordered from the foundry in the city.

I walked downstairs to meet them in the foyer, my boots echoing on the bare hardwood floor.

“Are you Ms. Hartwell?” the driver asked, holding out a clipboard.

“I am,” I said, signing my name on the yellow carbon paper.

They used a crowbar to pry open the pine crate, revealing the polished metal plaque inside.

It read: *The Eleanor Hartwell Foundation for the Musical Arts*.

“Where would you like it mounted, ma’am?” the second worker asked, wiping his brow.

“Right next to the main entrance,” I said, pointing to the stone pillar beside the heavy oak door. “Directly into the masonry.”

While they worked with their drills, the sound of stone dust falling onto the gravel, my phone rang in the kitchen.

This time, it was a local number I did not recognize.