Silence. This would be harder than she thought. Carly steeled her nerves. ‘Alaina, I’m sorry.’
More silence.
‘I should have told you from the start I had feelings for Michelangelo, but at first I thought he was with you, so I tried to convince myself I didn’t like him.’
Still silent. Was she even in there?
‘I have another way for you to get the review you want.’
The door opened. Alaina stared back at her with mascara-smeared eyes. She wore a silky robe—thankfully covering her sleepwear. ‘How?’
‘I’ve spoken with Mrs. Maxhammer and planned another concert.’
Alaina shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter. The aria has never sounded good. It will just be another embarrassment.’
The fact that she came to answer the door gave Carly hope. ‘You don’t know that.’
She leaned on the doorway. At least she wasn’t slamming the door in her face. ‘What makes you think this will be any different?’
‘It will be different if you want it to be different.’ Carly stepped toward her and lowered her voice. ‘We’ve had this weird situation with Michelangelo between us and it’s affected the way we’ve played together.’
‘I’ll say.’ She snorted.
Frustration bristled the hairs on Carly’s neck. Getting Alaina to forgive her was like climbing an unscaleable mountain. She ran her hands through her hair. ‘If we can forgive each other, then we’ll play better together.’
Alaina shrugged, glancing at her as though she was the enemy. ‘What are you going to steal next? My dress?’
‘No, you can have that.’ Carly smiled. Get to the truth of the matter. ‘I hadn’t realized we’d become friends. But, when I saw the hurt in your face, I felt guilty—like I’d betrayed someone close to me—a friend. We’ve spent a lot of time together, and I know it’s been hard at times. We’re not exactly two peas in a pod.’
A small smile worked its way onto Alaina’s lips. ‘No, we’re not.’
‘But, we’ve learned to get along together, and I think we can learn to play together as well. You want to return to America with a favorable review don’t you?’
Alaina nodded. ‘It’s why I came on this trip. My career’s been stagnant for a long time and I need something to propel it forward.’
Carly knew about career all too well. ‘That I can understand.’ She reached over and touched Alaina’s arm. ‘I want that for you, too. I want to make things right between us, if you’ll let me.’
Alaina nodded slowly. ‘Maybe I don’t need love right now. Maybe all I need is a friend.’
Carly sniffed back her own tears. ‘That’s what I need, too.’
*****
Apprehension hung over Carly as she and Michelangelo sped down the rain-slicked highway in his red Fiat. She owed it to Mrs. Maxhammer, Alaina, the rest of the orchestra, and to him to make sure this concert was a success. ‘Something bothering you?’ He glanced at her from the driver’s side.
She folded and unfolded her hands in her lap. ‘It’s just that we have less than twenty-four hours to put on a successful event on a massive scale. What if no one comes?’
‘Then, you’ve done your best to save something that can’t be saved.’ Michelangelo gave her a warm smile, albeit sad. ‘I appreciate everything you and your orchestra are doing for me.’
‘It’s the least I can do.’ Too caught up in her own gig world, Carly had never really helped anyone with any cause before. It felt so good to be able to support someone else, someone she had growing feelings for. Those feelings felt blissful as well. She had no idea where they’d go, but right now she wanted to experience every moment with Michelangelo that she could. It seemed like their moments together were just as numbered as the ones the winery had.
They sped across the rolling hills outside Milan onto a windy, overgrown driveway. Carly had enough of an imagination to see what the drive could look like once the hedges were trimmed back and the sidewalks repaired. Beautiful mosaics of people enjoying wine in the countryside lined the walls, illuminated in the morning sunlight.
They crested a ridge and the rows of vines came into view. Carly gasped. ‘It’s gorgeous.’ Normally, she wasn’t one to notice landscapes, but Michelangelo’s story had gripped her heart. This land had belonged to his ancestors, his parents, and now him.
Michelangelo winked. ‘You’ve seen nothing yet.’
They wove through the vineyard to a large estate made from beige stucco, red brick, and stone. It reminded her of the mansion in the Godfather movie, with a fountain in the center of a circular drive. Despite being ostentatious and bucolic, there was a timelessness and homey quality to the grounds. An easy, relaxed vibe came over her; she felt she could vacation here for a very, very long time.
‘This is all yours?’
‘Until the end of the week, yes.’ Michelangelo parked the car and looked over at her. ‘It’s nice to see you here, like I’m bringing home the last piece of the puzzle.’
Excitement swelled up inside her. What exactly did he mean by that? Not willing to confront that topic just yet, she covered the serious nature of the conversation with a joke. ‘Hopefully, you’ll be bringing home much more than that.’
He laughed and turned off the ignition. ‘You’re right. Come, let’s tell my secretary, Isabella, the bad news.’
‘The bad news?’ Did he have one more lady up his sleeve? ‘You mean the good news, right?’
He laughed. ‘Watch her face when she realizes just how many people are coming.’
‘Oh.’ Relieved, Carly opened her door and stepped out. The fresh air of the countryside washed over her. She span around in the drive, feeling as though she had walked into a fairytale. Michelangelo had grown up here, so this place was an integral part of him. Getting to know the winery was like discovering a whole new side of him, a side that drew her further in.
They walked to the office beside the main building. ‘You sure she’ll be working this early in the morning?’
‘Knowing Isabella, she’ll come in at dawn to make sure the last crates are packaged and ready to go for today’s deliveries.’
‘That’s dedication.’
Michelangelo showed her to the door. ‘Her whole family has lived on the vineyard for generations, and her husband works in the fields, so any investment she makes is in her own family’s future.’
‘I see.’ Carly hadn’t thought of all the other people who depended on this winery. Heck, it must employ hundreds of people. Saving the winery meant saving their jobs as well.
Carly walked into an overstuffed office, filled with crates of wine, piles of paperwork and filing cabinets. A woman so pregnant Carly worried she’d have the baby right then sat behind a desk, illuminated by the fluorescent glow of a computer screen. She gazed up from her work and a smile stretched across her face. ‘Michelangelo.’
‘Isabella.’ Michelangelo gestured to Carly. ‘I’d like you to meet Carly Davis.’
Isabella rose while holding her belly. She gave Carly an interesting look of appraisal and smiled even wider. ‘Signorina.’
‘Nice to meet you.’
Michelangelo took Isabella’s arm to steady her. Carly guessed she was going to need it. ‘Carly’s here to help us save the winery.’
Isabella placed her hand on her heart. ‘Mio Dio! You don’t say.’
He nodded. ‘She’s invited her whole orchestra to give a benefit concert here…Thursday night.’
Isabella froze and panic widened her gaze. ‘This Thursday night? That’s in a little over twenty-four hours!’
Michelangelo found her purse. ‘I know. That’s why we’re here. We’re going to help as much as we can. But you, young lady, should stay right here.’
She settled back into her computer seat. ‘Fine. But, if this thing’s tomorrow night, you’re going to need all the help you can get. Rodolfo will be here any minute to start work in the fields. He can help you get set up.’
Michelangel
o rubbed his chin. ‘We’ll have to bring out all of the plastic chairs we used for your wedding, along with the event tent out back in the barn.’
Isabella’s fingers flew over the keyboard. ‘I’ll send an e-mail to the team. They can start setting up right away.’
‘Setting up for what?’ A wispy, age-wizened voice called from the back of the room.
Carly whirled around.
A ghostly woman leaned on the doorframe, a pink nightgown clinging to her bony frame. Her hair rose in gray wisps on her head, and she had Michelangelo’s dark, deep-set amber-blue eyes. Compassion swirled through Carly as she remembered what he’d told her of his mother’s Alzheimer’s. To hear it was one thing, but to see the beautiful woman who’d raised him reduced to a waif of a memory sent empathy straight to her heart.
Michelangelo ran to her side, hoisting her up. ‘Mamma, I’d like you to meet someone very special to me. This is Carly.’
Chapter Twenty
Duets
Carly approached her slowly, holding out her hand. Michelangelo trusted her, and she wanted this moment to be special and not awkward. ‘É un piacere conoscerla, signora.’
The old woman took her hand and turned it over as if she didn’t know what to do with it. ‘Carly?’
Carly smiled. ‘That’s right.’
His mother glanced up at him with a keen look. ‘A fine wife for you, Michelangelo.’
Wife! Carly blushed as his mother released her hand.
Michelangelo rolled his eyes. ‘Mamma, Carly’s here with her orchestra. They are coming to play for us.’
She glanced back at Carly, and for a second, the shrewd woman who’d run a winery for decades came back. ‘You play an instrument?’
‘Yes, I play the oboe.’ Hopefully, she knew what that was. Whenever Carly told anyone about the oboe, they always looked confused—as though they weren’t sure if it was the black spindly one, or the big long tube.
Michelangelo’s mother patted him on the arm. ‘You know, Michelangelo plays the guitar.’
Michelangelo—a musician? Carly gave him a suspicious look. ‘You never told me that!’
He laughed and shook his head. ‘Very badly.’
The old woman reached out to Carly and took her hand. ‘Play for me. Play with Michelangelo. I want to hear a song.’
Michelangelo turned her back to the corridor. ‘Mamma, Carly is a professional, classical musician. She doesn’t play oldies.’ He glanced back to Carly and spoke under his breath, ‘Sometimes when I play songs from her past, she remembers things. But you don’t have to play today. We have a lot to prepare for.’
‘No.’ Carly grabbed his arm. ‘We can spare a few minutes. Teach me a song and we’ll play it for her. I’m a fast learner.’
He sighed, checking the clock on the wall. ‘Oh all right. But I can’t assure you my guitar is in tune.’
Half the orchestra wasn’t in tune. ‘That’s okay. I’m used to adjusting.’
Carly retrieved her oboe from the car. They walked his mother up to her room, where his mother’s nurse profusely apologized. Michelangelo waved her back and gave her the next half hour off. He set up two chairs in front of his mother’s bed and dug out his dusty, acoustic guitar. His mother lay under the sheets, tapping her fingers on her stomach in anticipation.
‘Play the first verse and I’ll listen.’ Carly soaked her reed in her I Love New York shot glass by her feet.
Michelangelo leaned over his guitar. ‘This is a saltarello, a traditional Italian folk dance. My mother requested this at her wedding, and later we’d sing it when we danced together when I was a kid.’ He took a deep breath. ‘The chord structure is a simple one-five-one, going from E-flat major to B-flat.’
‘Sounds easy enough.’ Carly stuck her reed in. ‘I’m ready.’
His fingers paused over the strings.
‘What’s the matter?’
He laughed. ‘I’m nervous.’
A surge of adrenaline hit her. She’d played in front of audiences of thousands. How could she be nervous now? ‘I’m nervous, too.’
‘You? Nervous?’
‘Well, my last performance wasn’t so hot.’ But it wasn’t about that, really. She wanted to impress Michelangelo’s mother. She wanted her stamp of approval.
He smiled. ‘I don’t think that was your fault.’
Before she could respond, he strummed a chord. His fingers plucked a simple, charming melody. After the introduction, he took a deep breath and sang. His bass voice wasn’t operatic material, but to Carly it was beautiful with its raw honesty. The words were in Italian, and she could pick out certain phrases about celebrating and love.
When the verse ended, she picked up her oboe and came in, playing in a counter-melody to his vocals. She played at a mezzo forte so as to not cover his voice. Their harmony together struck her as natural and intimate. She could predict his rubatos and speed and slow the music to his pacing along with the melody.
His mother moved her hands through the air as if she were conducting them, lilting back and forth to their beat. She hummed along to their melody, a sparkle dancing in her eyes.
It was the most satisfying musical experience in Carly’s life. Playing here with Michelangelo and trying to give a woman back a moment of her precious memories was so much more meaningful than playing for anonymous audiences and critics. This was what music was meant to be, and this was where she was meant to be—alongside Michelangelo at his winery, helping him take care of his ailing mother. A deep ache resonated inside her along with the music. She hadn’t felt this way about performing in a long time. The music had stopped becoming a pleasure and had turned into a routine, a job. She’d lost the heart that made it magical. No wonder the critics didn’t like her aria.
If only I could stay.
Michelangelo ended the song in a flourish of chords, and Carly tapered the last note to perfection. He brought his guitar down, awestruck and breathless. ‘That was wonderful.’
Warm tingles ran all over her, setting her on fire. ‘We play together as if we’ve played together our whole lives.’
He stared into her eyes with a passion she’d never seen before. His lips parted slightly, and she ached to close the distance and kiss them.
His mother clapped. ‘Bravo! Bravo!’
Michelangelo set his guitar against the chair and ran to her bedside. He took her hand. ‘Did you enjoy it?’
She patted his hand. ‘Almost as much as when your father spun me around the dance floor on our wedding day.’
Signora Ricci remembered.
Michelangelo glanced at Carly. His face beamed with joy, melting Carly’s heart. He mouthed the words thank you.
She should have thanked him. With one song he’d taught her what all of her teachers at the university had only been able to tell her: music could be magical when best shared with those you love.
Michelangelo led Carly from his mother’s room, allowing Lila to take over. His mother slept soundly, tucked in the same bed she’d shared with his father for the last fifty years. Michelangelo’s great grandfather had carved the headboard with the Ricci arms over a hundred years ago, and it hadn’t left the room since. He hoped he could keep it that way.
Michelangelo took Carly’s hand, smoothing his thumb over her smooth skin. ‘Thank you for what you did back there.’
She glanced down as if shy. ‘Thank you for introducing me.’
He’d never seen her like this. Was she really opening up for the first time? Letting down her hard-hitting business face and her witty sarcasm?
Carly squeezed his hand and then let it go. ‘What can we do to set up?’
‘I can move the chairs and you can tell me where they go.’ He smiled. ‘Even though I’ve seen three concerts, I still can’t remember how many violins there are.’
Carly laughed. ‘I’m not sure I know myself, but I’ll try my best.’
He led her outside and they walked to the patio overlooking the vineyard. Rudolfo and the othe
r workers had already transported the stacked chairs from the storage barns out back to the cobblestone.
‘Wow, this is where the concert is going to be?’ Carly walked to the edge of the cobblestone and blocked her eyes against the sun as it rose in the sky, casting the vineyard in golden light. ‘It’s magnificent.’
‘It’s home.’ And it could be hers, too. The thought hit him hard in the gut. Was he really that serious about her? After less than two weeks? If he’d told himself he’d be falling this hard for an American girl on the tour, he wouldn’t have believed it. But now, accepting this tour and meeting her seemed like fate. He’d needed more than money when he took Mrs. Maxhammer’s offer. He’d needed someone like Carly. He just hadn’t known it yet.
He wanted to put his arm around her and hold her close, watching the sun rise together, but that would be too forward. Carly moved toward the chairs and the moment slipped from his fingers.
‘First thing you need to know about an orchestra is that they need space.’ Carly took the top chair off the rack and stood it in the center of the patio. ‘Or else you’ll have a violinists bow poking the piccolo player in the eye.’
‘Point taken.’ He took the next chair and set it a few feet away. ‘How’s this?’
‘Perfect.’ She brought another chair over. ‘Make sure they curve out in a semicircle around the conductor’s podium.’
‘Which is here?’ He stood on a patch of broken cobblestone.
Carly smirked. ‘No, that’s the violas. But you’re close.’
‘I can see why Mrs. Maxhammer had you go with me.’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘If I’d set this up all by myself, you’d have a one-eyed piccolo player and a lost conductor.’
Carly waved her hand. ‘You would have been fine. The orchestra can move their chairs around themselves.’ She gave him a sly, sideways glance. ‘Besides, I don’t think setting up is the only reason Mrs. Maxhammer let me come home with you.’
His heart jump-started. ‘Oh really? And what is this other reason?’
Carly shrugged and looked away as if she’d said too much. ‘Come help me with the next stack. It’s too high for me to reach.’
An American Girl in Italy Page 15