by Bethany-Kris
Sinful, still.
Calisto was all too aware of her sins.
His, too.
“What?” he asked, annoyed at her staring.
“I might ask you to do it again.”
Calisto shut his eyes for a brief second, wanting to wave those words away. Was she testing him? He didn’t want to play those games.
“I might,” Emma repeated. “And I bet you won’t say no.”
Opening his eyes again, Calisto found Emma’s piercing, knowing stare still leveled on him. He had known even before opening them that she was still watching him. It was like he could feel it.
Feel her.
On him. Over him.
All through him.
“You won’t say no,” she told him again, confident and sure.
He would try to refuse her.
And fail.
“Heavenly Father, thank you for this meal and for our health, family, and our many blessings.”
The beginning of Minnie Sorrento’s prayer drew Calisto out of his thoughts and back to the dinner at hand. Checking out the other people sitting at the long table, he noticed that everyone had their heads down, eyes closed, and their hands connected with the person beside them if they were close enough.
Calisto sat beside Emma, but her hand stayed firmly seated on the table and far away from his. He wasn’t complaining.
“Thank you, Minnie,” Maximo said from the head of the table. “Let’s eat.”
Food was served. Dishes filled. Mouths were fed.
Calisto listened in on the conversations that filled the dining room, but didn’t bother to join in unless he was directly asked a question. At his side, Emma stayed quiet with her head drawn down as she pushed pieces of chicken pesto around on her plate.
It took Calisto another two minutes to realize he was doing the same damn thing.
“How do they not know what I did?” she asked quietly.
The loud conversations, continuous laughter, and the wine being shared between the people at the table allowed Calisto and Emma a mostly private conversation. He wasn’t concerned about being overheard, what with the volume of the noise.
“Because I knew what would happen if they did,” Calisto said.
Emma shot him a look that asked a million questions. “Should I thank you?”
“You already did.”
“For saving me, not for protecting me.”
There was a difference. She had made a distinction that he hadn’t quite realized before.
“Don’t bother,” Calisto said with a smile.
“But—”
“Emma,” George said from the other side of the table. “Do us a favor and play something?”
Calisto didn’t miss the frown that Emma quickly hid with a bite of food.
“Oh, yes,” Maximo said. “The piano was just tuned last week, too.”
“I haven’t played in years,” Emma finally replied. “I’ll be rusty, and it’ll sound awful.”
Calisto hadn’t known Emma could play the piano, but he wasn’t too surprised at the news. Most wealthy families had their daughters in a multitude of extra-curricular activities to fill their time and spend their money on. High-society liked for their girls to be cultured, polite, and well-trained in all things.
Emma didn’t look particularly pleased at being asked to play the piano.
“I doubt that,” Calisto told her. “I’m sure it’ll sound wonderful.”
Emma stared at him, not saying a thing.
No one else seemed to notice his comment. He was grateful. It was a little too comforting for a man that these people knew to be cold in his demeanor and aloof all the other times in between.
“Play, Emma, please,” Minnie said.
Emma sighed. “Ma, I’m not really in the mood.”
Before someone could pressure Emma again, Calisto stood from his chair and tossed his napkin down. “I will.”
Emma’s head snapped up, her eyes finding his and searching. “You play the piano?”
“Quite well,” he admitted, offering no other explanation. Turning to the man at the head of the table, Calisto waved his hand in the direction of the baby grand in the corner. “May I, Maximo?”
Maximo nodded. “Absolutely.”
Calisto strolled across the dining room, ignoring the curious gazes of the guests. Taking a seat on the white leather bench, he flipped open the top of the casing covering the ivory keys. A pain settled in his chest, stabbing and heavy, but he tampered it down.
Clenching his fists, Calisto felt his knuckles crack. A bit of the lingering tension drifted away when he placed his hands on the correct position to start, and felt the ivory kiss his fingertips. The memory was right there, teasing him and hurting him at the same time.
When he began to play, he could see her again.
A younger her.
A younger him.
He played the song she taught him first.
“It’s a beautiful sound, isn’t it, baby?” Camilla asked.
Calisto pressed the four keys in time, like his mother had shown him. The sound flowed from the piano. “Sì, Mamma.”
“And now,” his mother said, taking his hands in hers, “… we go like this.”
His mother pressed his fingers down on another four keys.
More sound.
More music.
A rhythm, she called it.
“Can you try those now, baby?” Camilla asked. “Do you think you can remember the first four notes and these, too?”
Calisto nodded. “Sì.”
“Show me.”
He did as his mother asked, hitting the first four notes using only two tiny fingers, and then following with the second set of four notes.
It was starting to make a song.
Calisto liked the sound.
“Who made this?” he asked.
“Hmm?”
“The song, Mamma. You says people write them. Who made this?”
Camilla ducked her head when her son turned for an answer. “Um, this is just something I learned a while ago.”
“But someone made it.”
“Composed, baby. But, yes, someone wrote this. They made it.”
“Who?” he asked again.
“Your father,” Camilla said quickly. “Can you show me the notes again?”
Your father.
Calisto, in all his five year old glory, knew better than to keep asking after hearing those two words. His father made his mother cry. That’s all he understood. Whenever his father was mentioned, his mother became sad.
He hated seeing his mamma sad.
Turning back to the piano, Calisto pressed onto the keys again with two fingers, playing the notes faster the second time around. He didn’t miss a single one.
“Well done,” Camilla said. “You’re a natural, Cal.”
“He’s very talented, but it’ll do him no good to have delicate hands, Cam.”
Camilla stiffened at the new presence. Calisto straightened on the bench at the sound of his uncle’s voice. He spun so fast on his seat that he nearly toppled over the large books his mother had used to sit him on to make him higher.
“Zio!” Calisto shouted.
Affonso stood in the entryway of the music room with a wide smile. “Calisto, my boy. Come here and stop playing around. We’re busy men, we have things to do.”
Calisto felt his mother’s arms tighten around his middle for a brief second. It was almost like she didn’t want to let him go. Then, just as quickly, she kissed the top of his head.
“We’ll practice more later,” she told Calisto.
Calisto was already jumping off the bench, out of his mother’s arms, and toward his uncle. Affonso was waiting with a hand open and outstretched. Calisto took it, feeling the golden ruby ring on his uncle’s pinky finger when he grabbed tightly to the digit.
“Cam?” Affonso called.
Calisto’s mother didn’t turn around after she closed the piano up. “Yeah?”
>
“Do you want to—”
“No,” his mother interrupted before Affonso could even get the question out.
Calisto was too interested in finding out what his uncle was going to do with him today to think about why his mother seemed sad again.
“Come on, zio,” Calisto demanded, pulling on Affonso’s hand.
“All right. We’ll go. I’ll see you later, Cam.”
“Sure, later,” his mother echoed.
“I’m sorry for intruding on your lesson,” Affonso said as he turned to leave.
Camilla laughed tiredly. “You’ve been intruding for his whole life, Affonso. Why stop now?”
Calisto finished the piece with a deep ache settling over his fingers and in his knuckles. It had been a while since he played something as difficult as one of his father’s works. It wasn’t long enough to make his hands hurt after playing, however.
It wasn’t a physical pain.
It was emotional.
Far down in his gut, embedded in his bones, and woven into his very person.
It would never leave.
Calisto could forget about it for a short time. He could pretend like it wasn’t there and use his distance and disinterest as a way to keep it at bay, but it always came back.
Those memories, ones of his mother that tied into her past with his father, were ones that Calisto tried to stay away from as much as possible. His childhood had been mostly happy despite his father having died, but it still tainted the edges of his memories with a dark, black color.
The resounding claps brought Calisto out of the daze he was in. Carefully, he slid the top back down over the ivory keys and pressed his hand on the glossy wood.
A thank you of sorts.
An apology, mostly.
Hopefully, his mother knew.
Standing, Calisto offered the Sorrento family and their guests a smile. “There, something for you.”
“You’re very good,” Minnie said.
“Thank you.”
“Who taught you to play?” Emma asked.
Calisto found her with his gaze, wondering if he should answer truthfully. “My mother. She loved the piano, and she wanted me to love it, too.”
Before anyone could question him further, Calisto excused himself for what he said was a bathroom break. Really, he just needed a second to breathe alone.
He was always alone now.
Calisto imagined that must have been how his mother felt, too. Even when she was holding him.
Calisto
Lighting up a cigarette, Calisto inhaled a hefty drag and let the smoke soothe his frayed nerves. It wasn’t like him to be so jumpy and anxious. He didn’t know how to deal with the onslaught of confusion swirling in his mind.
The Mercedes stereo blasted hard rock into the car. Calisto closed his eyes, leaned back in the seat, and drummed his fingers against the steering wheel in time with the music. It was nothing like his mother had enjoyed. She preferred blues or jazz. Something with emotion soaking every note and lyric. Something she could dance to.
Calisto needed to get out of his head.
Opening his eyes, Calisto surveyed the house just four doors down. He had arrived a little late to the dinner, and no parking spots were left for him to use in the Sorrento family driveway. He’d parked further down the street.
He hadn’t gone back into the dinner party before leaving the house. Twenty minutes had already passed. Calisto hoped no one noticed his absence and came looking for him. Wining and dining didn’t hold his interest.
Not tonight.
Ducking his head down, Calisto took another puff off his cigarette, tossed it out the window, and then massaged his temples. At least he could say he was cutting back by smoking less of a cigarette at a time.
That was something.
Right?
A knock on the passenger side window nearly made Calisto jump out of his seat. He found a stony-faced Emma peering in through the darkly tinted glass. She folded her arms over her chest, waiting.
Sighing, Calisto unlocked the door. Emma climbed in without a word.
“Party over?” he asked.
“No.”
“What are you doing out here then?”
Emma’s gaze jumped to him in an instant, and Calisto could practically feel it cut into his soul. Her worry was as clear as glass to him. Maybe she had taken note of his desire to exit the dinner party after playing the piano.
Calisto didn’t want her to worry.
Not about him.
He might like it too much.
“I could ask you the same thing,” Emma said.
“I wanted a smoke.”
“You said you were going to the bathroom twenty minutes ago.”
“Don’t you have your own business to look after?” Calisto asked, sharper than he intended.
Emma didn’t even blink at his attitude. “Is it me?”
“Is what you?”
“Whatever is wrong with you right now, Calisto. Your nastiness and your irritation. Is it because of me and what happened?”
Calisto frowned. “No.”
Emma cocked a brow, but didn’t say a word. Just her look alone was enough to make him correct his statement.
“Not entirely,” he said. “It’s still none of your concern, Emmy.”
“You should start calling me Emma. Might as well get used to it before we get to New York.”
Calisto scoffed. “Why?”
“Because Affonso doesn’t like Emmy.”
“I told you already, you’re sorely mistaken if you think I give a good goddamn what that man likes, Emmy.”
Emma smiled slyly, but turned her head away to where Calisto couldn’t see her face anymore. “The party got loud after they moved from the dining room to the living room with more wine. I’m not in the mood to listen to drunk people tonight. I don’t even think they noticed that I slipped out when no one was looking my way.”
Calisto chuckled. “Bad girl.”
“Thank you, by the way.”
“For what?”
“Playing the piano and taking the attention away from me. I could have played, but I don’t like to all that much. I used to practice and have recitals when I was younger because my father wanted me to. I didn’t enjoy it.”
“It’s fine. Don’t mention it.”
Literally, he held back from adding.
Emma didn’t let it go. “You didn’t seem to like it much either.”
“I—”
“But you play like a pro,” she finished, cutting him with yet another one of her looks.
“As I said inside, my mother taught me to play when I was a boy.”
“You’re very good for someone who only played as a child.”
“I never said that.”
Emma glanced down at her lap. “When was the last time you played?”
“Shortly before I came out here. I tuned a piano for a friend of mine, and played a bit to make sure everything was perfect.”
“Before that?”
“What are you digging for?” he asked.
Emma shrugged. “Curious.”
“Well, stop it. There’s nothing to find.”
Nothing he was willing to share.
“I’ve never heard that song before,” Emma noted quietly. “The one you played, I mean. Did you compose it?”
Calisto laughed. “No. I’m not that talented. I may understand how to play and be able to pick up a tune easily enough, but I can’t write music.”
“But it is an unpublished, unrecorded piece.” Emma turned in the seat, watching him with a burning glint lighting up her green eyes. “I may hate playing the piano, but I do like to listen to it. And like I said, I’ve never heard that before. I was curious who it belonged to.”
“My father,” Calisto said, wishing his chest wasn’t as tight as it was. “He composed the piece.”
“And your mother taught it to you.”
“Yes. What does it matter?”
&nb
sp; “Curious,” Emma repeated. “You never mention them. Not with any depth. And then I see you with the piano, treating it with kind hands, and I had to wonder about it all. It helped that Maximo mentioned he knew your father had played the piano before his death. I might have drawn a few conclusions.”
Irritation simmered below Calisto’s skin. “So, you assumed the piece had come from my family, came out here to pester me about it, and tricked me with a few questions to get me to admit to it? What is the point in that?”
Emma’s smile faltered. “I just wanted to know more. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“There’s nothing to know. My father played, he taught my mother, and she taught me.”
“Does it remind you of them?”
“Leave it alone, Emma. Please.”
Emma nodded, and rested back in the seat with a soft exhale. “I used to dance when I was younger, and then when I was a teenager. Ballet, actually. My grandmother was a ballerina. My dad’s mother, not my mom’s.”
“So?”
“So, I grew up on her knee learning about ballet, seeing pictures of her in her costumes and whatever else. I stopped dancing when I was seventeen.”
Calisto looked over at Emma, taking notice of the way her lips turned down at the corners and her hands balled in her lap. “Why seventeen?”
“My father told me ballet was an unimportant goal for me in the end. I never really understood why he felt that way until the whole marriage thing came up. It makes sense now.”
“Doesn’t explain why you quit.”
“My grandmother died,” Emma said. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but my family is very materialistic. Being wealthy and significant is more important to them than anything else. It was more important to them than giving me time and attention while I was growing up.”
“Your grandmother gave that to you instead.”
“Yeah. Ballet didn’t quite feel the same after. I was happy to give it up. My father was happy I gave up on a dream he didn’t support.”
“Win-win,” Calisto muttered.
“Apparently.” Emma lifted a single shoulder like it didn’t make a difference. Calisto could tell by the wetness coating her lashes that it made every difference to her. “Anyway, my point is that it’s nice you’re able to keep something close to you that reminds you of your parents without it hurting you. I wish I had the same thing for my grandmother.”