Emilia (Part 1)(23)

I loved performing. It helped me forget all the outrageous crap going on in my life. Most importantly it made me feel close to my mom. Part of me imagined her there watching over me, shaking her head where I missed a note and smiling in encouragement when I pulled off a particularly difficult piece.

When the clapping faded away, I rose from the bench and headed for the side of the stage. With each step, the endorphins dried up, yielding to my frustration. Fortunately it didn’t last long. Sal gathered me into his arms a few minutes after I snuck around the black curtain.

“I don’t know much about piano, but I have no words, Emilia. You’re amazing. Absolutely amazing.”

I chuckled. “I’ll ignore the qualifier at the beginning of your compliment and run with the second part.”

He pulled a bouquet of white roses with a blue ribbon from a canvas bag sitting next to his feet. From the looks of it, he had stuffed a couple of peacock feathers into the arrangement. At some point, I needed to confess that birds freaked me out. “These are from your dad. He’s…uh…he couldn’t make it. I guess something came up at the club that required his input. He promised he’d make it to the next one.”

Determinedly ignoring the feathers, I gathered the flowers in my hand, inhaled their sweet scent, making sure they didn’t touch my face, then let them dangle limply from my fingers. “You don’t have to lie for him. He hasn’t made it to any of my performances since my mom died. I got his message loud and clear. I don’t understand why he insists I continue playing when he doesn’t want anything to do with it.”

Sal shifted on his feet, the slight narrowing of his eyes and his downturned lips broadcasting his discomfort with the conversation. I decided to let him off the hook. He came here and watched the performance. He was one more guest than I usually had. That said enough.

“Don’t worry, Sal. I’m not asking you to confirm or deny anything. I’m glad you’re here. Usually the seats reserved for my family remain vacant.” I lifted the roses to my nose one more time, checking the urge to shiver, because no joke, feathers were gross. I mean, they were the equivalent of plucking hair off someone’s head and using it for decoration. “By the way, I know these are from you and not my dad. There’s no way the thought crossed his mind to get flowers.”

Sal’s gaze flickered to the side. “You ready to go? I made dinner reservations. Your dad said there’s a restaurant you like a couple of blocks away.”

“Miss Trassato? Miss Trassato?” My piano teacher burst through the cliques of people. I had no clue why she insisted we use our last names when speaking to each other after ten years of weekly lessons. I made a few attempts to undermine her desire for formality, and it freaked her out so I backed off. There were only so many people and things I could fight in my life, and my piano teacher wasn’t one of them. My dad took up most of my energy.

“Mrs. Vitali, did something happen?”

Her dark eyes bounced all over the place, an overly bright smile on her face that came across as painful. “Don’t worry. It’s all good news. Mr. Corriere wants to discuss a position at the San Luigi music conservatory in Italy. He flew all this way to listen to you play. Can you believe it?” At my blank look, she explained, “It’s a very prestigious school. You should be excited about this, and if my memory serves me, your mother went there too.”

She waved her stick-like arm and a man with midnight colored hair, golden skin, and a dark suit stepped forward. “This is Mr. Corriere. He’d like a few moments of your time. Another one of my students is performing, so I need to run, but you’ll be fine. He was very impressed with you.”

Mrs. Vitali hurried away, leaving me face to face with this man. My cheeks heated under his intense onceover. While I waited for him to say something, the air around me grew thick with anticipation and crackling nerves. I wasn’t used to being around men outside of my father’s circle of acquaintances and family.

“Miss Trassato.” He pressed a kiss to each of my cheeks, his spicy cologne engulfing me.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Corriere.”

A smile spread across my face. It was like God hadn’t forgotten me after all, and hand-delivered a way to sidestep a marriage to Master Marcello, or whatever the heck his name was. The best part was that my dad couldn’t get mad at me. He’d been pushing me toward this goal all of my life.

“Piacere, and call me Lorenzo.” His voice was low and slightly accented, rolling over my bare arms like warm syrup. Objectively speaking, he was an attractive man, a little over six feet tall with silver threading the sides of his otherwise dark hair. The creases around his eyes and mouth testified to a life filled with laughter, good food, and wine.