Debbie practiced her piano faithfully. She was going to be very good. Someday she would play that delightful sonata by Scarlatti she loved so much. Broots wondered where his child had managed to get such a talent for music. Goodness knew he had no musical talent, as Miss Parker reminded him each time he hummed in her presence. Debbie’s mother, maybe. If so, she had squandered it. Such a waste. She could have been here to teach their child and enjoy her dedication to practicing. Sometimes Broots missed her. Did she miss him? Did she miss her child? Did she wonder if she ever played the piano? Debbie played beautifully.