‘What you played for me was good,’ she said. ‘OK, so I’m not a music critic and your technique could’ve been all over the place, for all I know—but none of the notes sounded wrong. I liked it. And there are plenty of people out there who’d like to relax with a decent cup of coffee and one of Ingrid’s fabulous cakes and listen to something to help them chill out.’
‘Be a musician.’ He stared at her, though it was as if he wasn’t seeing her. As if he was some place far, far away. ‘I don’t know, Fran. The more I think about it, the more I’m sure that being a musician wouldn’t have been the right life for me. I don’t want to be constantly on the road, or doing bits and pieces and trying to scrape a living. I know I wouldn’t have had the patience to teach.’
‘Are you sure about that? You did a good job of teaching me to make espresso.’
‘Which is not the same thing at all as teaching someone who can either sing in tune, but has no sense of rhythm, or can sing with the beat, but is completely tuneless. That’s more like nails scraping down a blackboard, and I’m not noble enough to pretend it doesn’t matter and gently guide whoever it is into a better technique.’ He sighed. ‘I just feel I’m looking for something, Fran. Searching. And I don’t know what I’m looking for or even where to look.’
‘Maybe you’ll know when you find it.’
‘Maybe. But right now I feel like the most selfish man on earth. I have so many good things in my life. I love my family, I have free rein in my job, I like where I live. So why can’t I be satisfied with what I have?’
She held him close. ‘I can’t answer that. But I do know your family love you, your employees respect you, and you’re a good man. Don’t be so hard on yourself.’
‘Hard on myself? That,’ Gio said wryly, ‘is most definitely the pot calling the kettle black.’
‘But that’s not up for discussion.’
He rested his forehead against her temple. ‘Now who’s being difficult?’
His breath fanned her cheek, and it was, oh, so tempting to turn her head slightly, let her mouth brush against his. Kiss his blues away. But that wouldn’t solve anything: that would just put off the problem. Right now, he needed her to keep this light. ‘Not me,’ she said with a smile. ‘Come on. Let’s go and dance your blues away.’
After a few minutes of throwing themselves into the music, she was relieved to see that his bleak mood lifted slightly and he was starting to smile again. But somehow they’d moved near to the stage, and the singer had caught sight of them.
‘Gio! Come up and play with us, my friend,’ he called when the song had finished.
Gio shook his head. ‘No, I’m fine in the audience, thanks.’
‘Come on,’ the singer wheedled. ‘You know everyone would love to hear to you play. And sing.’
‘I’m fine right here,’ Gio repeated.
The singer refused to let it drop, and Gio’s face darkened. Considering the conversation they’d just had, for a moment, Fran thought that he was going to walk out.
And then Nonna placed her hand on his arm. ‘Gio, piccolino, do it for me. Or if you won’t do it for me, sing for Francesca,’ she said softly.
Tension was coming off him in almost visible waves. But then he nodded. ‘All right. I’ll do it for Fran.’
He climbed up on the stage, to loud applause and cheers from the audience. ‘OK, so it’s August and not October, but there’s a certain song I want to sing tonight. For Francesca.’ He winked at her, as if telling her that it was going to be OK, he wasn’t going to make a scene; then he turned and mouthed something to the pianist, who nodded. And Gio made no protest when the guitarist handed him an electric guitar—just checked the tuning.
And then he counted the band in to a soft, jazzy number Fran recognized: ‘Moondance.’
It was a song she’d always liked. But hearing Gio sing it somehow gave it something extra. He had the most beautiful voice. So beautiful that it hurt; she found herself wishing that Gio was singing this to her for real, that he wanted to dance with her and call her his love and make love with her.
But his eyes were on her as he sang. And just for a moment she could almost believe that he really was singing this for her. Could imagine what it would be like to run into his arms and dance in a frost-covered garden with him on an October night, the moonlight shining through the almost-bare branches of the trees and turning everything magically silver.
The song ended with him pleading for one more dance with his love. Then he smiled. ‘Thank you. That one was for Fran,’ he said, and handed the guitar back.