Should she leave without saying goodbye? Her carefully planned life waited for her back at home—her music group, her gigs, her orchestras, her friends. Would she lose her willpower if she saw him one last time? Carly’s fingers brushed along an old shelf with pictures of Michelangelo’s family on the vineyard. His father sat on a tractor wearing a straw hat and overalls, waving in the bright sun. Workers stood in front of a barrel twice their height with their arms around each others’ shoulders. A young Michelangelo smiled while pretending to punch another boy with a broken nose and freckles. Ricco.
Carly picked up the picture and dusted off the glass. Ricco had left Michelangelo without a trace, and his disappearance without saying goodbye haunted him to this day. She couldn’t do the same thing. She cared about him too much to hurt him in that way.
Just as Carly decided to wait, movement came from the corridor. The door opened and Michelangelo stepped in. His face brightened when he saw her.
‘My dear Carls! What a marvelous performance.’ He walked over and kissed the back of her hand fervently. ‘Bravo!’
The mention of his new nickname for her burned her neck. ‘Thank you. I think we finally got it right—and I have you to thank for that.’
‘I merely provided the stage, nothing more.’
Carly blushed, wanting to tell him he provided much more than just a stage—the very essence of what it felt like to be in love—the one thing that damn aria needed. Instead, she pulled away. ‘Congratulations. Your winery will be safe.’
‘Thanks to you.’ He pulled her close against him.
She allowed herself to relax in his embrace, letting the warmth and rush of adrenaline flow through her. The smell of his skin mixed with a trace of aftershave brought back memories of the previous night.
Michelangelo nuzzled his nose into her hair and sighed. ‘Can you stay one more night?’
Carly shook her head. ‘I’m afraid if I do I’ll miss my plane.’
‘So what?’ He cupped her chin in his hand and forced her to look into his intense gaze. ‘Stay here with me.’
Her heart pounded. This was what she was afraid of. Every ounce of her being pleaded with her logical mind. ‘I can’t.’ Carly pulled away, and her chest ached as if she’d torn her heart, leaving a part of it with him. ‘I can’t make a lifetime’s decision based on one night.’
He took her hand, smoothing his thumb over her skin. ‘Come now, you’ve known me longer than one night.’
Carly rolled her eyes. ‘Almost two weeks, then.’
Michelangelo kissed her fingers. ‘Big difference.’
‘No.’ Carly took her hand back. ‘You’re tempting me.’
Michelangelo smiled, but it was sad. ‘I had to try.’
‘And I appreciate the offer.’ Carly moved toward the door before she couldn’t move any longer. ‘I just need more time to think.’
‘Plane rides are good for that.’
Yes, but what he didn’t understand was when she got on that plane, it would already be too late. Carly forced herself to open the door. ‘Thank you for everything.’
Michelangelo nodded. ‘Don’t forget about me, or Italy.’
Carly bit her lip and left without another word. If she returned to Boston that was exactly what she had to do.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Take Off
Edda raised an eyebrow as Carly got on the orchestra bus. ‘Wasn’t expecting you.’ Her thick Italian accent only reminded Carly of Michelangelo.
‘Just forgot something.’ Carly smiled and passed by her as if nothing had happened. She didn’t need an Italian mother to guilt-trip her into thinking about what she was giving up. She knew what she was doing.
She was the last one on, and the only seat left was, of course, next to Al. Already cursing her decision, she made her way down the aisle and plopped down next to the trombonist.
Al adjusted his Red Sox cap. ‘About time you showed up. You know I had to ride alone all the way up here?’
That’s right. She’d driven up with Michelangelo to ‘get ready’ for the concert. When, in fact, they’d spent the night catching up on lost time.
Carly pushed the fresh slew of delicious memories away. She was a classical oboist, not a wine-brewer. ‘Well, I’m here now.’
Al leaned back in his seat and gave her an appraising look as if wondering what went wrong with her Italian boyfriend. ‘So you are.’
He pulled out his phone. ‘I’ll even let you play the first round.’
Carly was not in the mood for empty distractions. Angry Birds wasn’t going to solve anything. ‘You go ahead.’ As the ache in her chest grew to a full-fledged throbbing, she laid her head back against the seat and closed her eyes.
Worse news greeted her at the hotel. Her room was empty, dark, and cold and smelled like a moldy air conditioner. Alaina had decided to take her own private jet that night, leaving Carly alone the one night she would have enjoyed company.
At least she had her phone. What she should do was go through her messages and prepare her schedule so when she got back to Boston she had gigs and students lined up.
Carly threw her oboe case on the bed. Not an ideal bed companion. She could be sleeping beside Michelangelo.
Stop dreaming and get to work.
She clicked on the screen and accessed her e-mail account. Fifty-eight e-mails awaited her reply. Methodically, she did what she did best, organizing them according to importance, then answering each one with the only answer she knew how to give. Yes.
Yes, she’d drive three hours to Maine to play at some small wedding ceremony on a Saturday afternoon. Yes, she’d accept a new oboe student at her home studio. It only meant getting up a half hour earlier on a Sunday. What did it matter to her? She had no one to stay up late with, especially with Melody on the track to marriage.
All of a sudden each e-mail became an empty pursuit. The scheduling process didn’t bring her the same joy she once had, the joy she now had with Michelangelo. The joy she’d just thrown away like a piece of trash.
Anger and frustration brimmed inside her. She’d become a slave to her work. Why the hell couldn’t she just let go?
Carly threw her phone across the room. It bounced off the wall and landed under the bed. Tears stung her eyes and she viciously wiped them away. The truth was she was scared. Scared of a life that wasn’t all music; a life with variables she couldn’t control. But could she live her life tied to her oboe? Or did she want something more?
After graduating from New England Conservatory, Carly had taken every opportunity she had, until scheduling each gig became a robotic pursuit, trying to fit as many jobs in one weekend and as many students in each day as possible. It took over her life before she could even start one.
But she didn’t care then. So why did she care now?
The truth hit her like a wrecking ball, cracking through her carefully constructed ideal of who she thought she was and what she thought she wanted to accomplish. Music wasn’t how many gigs you had, how many concertos you memorized, or how many orchestras you played with. It’s who you played them with, who you played them for. Not a faceless bunch of critics, but for the people who mattered in your life. She’d found the true meaning to music at Michelangelo’s side.
*****
The sun beat down hot and strong, reminding Michelangelo of the days when he and Ricco would sneak away to the stream that ran alongside his father’s lands. They’d strip down to their boxers and wade in the cool water, splashing each other until they shivered with goose bumps.
Michelangelo wiped the sweat from his brow as he dug holes for the scaffolding into the newly cleared ground. The smell of wet earth and wildflowers wafted up. Usually it calmed him. ‘Put the new trellises over there.’
‘Si, Signore.’ Rodolfo nodded and helped the crew move the beautiful weave work that would stabilize another crop’s growth. Behind them, finches chirped and insects buzzed in the usual symphony that accompanied his vineyard.
A young boy walked across the fields. At first, he thought Isabella’s son had grown overnight, but then he recognized the slicked-back oily hair and the dark, pensive eyes.
Michelangelo dropped his shovel and met the boy halfway, his arms crossed over his chest. ‘Look who’s turned up.’
‘I want a job.’ The boy kicked at a sod of dirt as he spoke, but at the end he looked him straight in the eye. He’d changed his clothes, wearing cleaner jeans and a collared shirt he must have got from some second-hand store. At least he’d had the good sense to show up clean—even if he hadn’t combed his hair.
‘Is that so?’ Michelangelo gestured toward the house. ‘Have you talked to Isabella?’
‘Yes…sir.’ The boy added the second word as if he wasn’t used to addressing authority. ‘She said to talk to you.’
Michelangelo picked up a shovel off the ground and handed it to him. ‘We can always use workers like you. What’s your name?’
‘Paolo.’
‘Paolo.’ He half expected him to say Ricco. But he refused to be disappointed. Even if he didn’t find Ricco, he could take in a dozen boys like him from the streets. It wouldn’t change what his father had done, but it might stop it from happening again. ‘Come on, Rodolfo will get you started with everything you need to know.’
He led the boy to the new patch of soil where they were setting up the trellises. Everything was going better than he’d ever dreamed. So why did his heart sink in his chest like a wet sod?
He checked his watch. Eleven twenty-three. Carly’s plane would have taken off a half hour ago. He knew because he’d booked the flight for them when he planned the tour.
Give it up. A concert oboist wouldn’t like getting her hands dirty with pruning, or her feet stained by crushing grapes. Who was he kidding? She was better off in Boston, and he had a winery to maintain. A thriving one at that. He owed it to Ms. Maxhammer to make sure her efforts weren’t in vain.
Movement caught his eye from the patio up the hill. Was Isabella coming out to make sure Paolo showed up and did the work? She could be a formidable woman if you crossed her.
Blonde hair caught the rays of sun. Michelangelo dropped his shovel. That wasn’t Isabella.
Carly ran to the edge of the patio and raised her hand to her brow to shield her eyes from the sun. She gazed down at the hillside where he worked. Too stunned to move, Michelangelo watched as she ran down the hill toward him.
‘You’d better go see to the signorina.’ Rodolfo nudged him in the shoulder. ‘Wouldn’t want her falling down and breaking one of her fingers.’
Disbelief crashed through him. How was she here? Did the plane have a delay? Michelangelo moved slowly at first, then picked up speed. Surely Ms. Maxhammer would have contacted him had any change to the schedule been made. Carly was here for one reason alone. His heart sped with all the enormous possibilities. She’d chosen to stay.
Carly reached him just as he skidded down the hill. She rushed into his arms and he picked her up, never again wanting to let go.
‘I thought you had a plane to catch.’ He nuzzled his nose into her hair, breathing in her scent and the feel of her smooth skin as her cheek rubbed against his.
‘I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t leave.’ Carly tightened her grip, smoothing her hands along his back. Her touch made his nerves burst into flame.
He pulled his head back to meet her eyes. ‘Why?’
She swallowed deeply as if gaining courage. Her fingertip traced his cheek. ‘I was afraid to leave my musical life. I was afraid love would distract me and ruin everything I’ve worked for.’
He listened, breathless. ‘And did it?’
Carly smiled. ‘I realized everything I worked for has led me to love, it’s led me to you.’ Joy like he’d never felt before erupted in his chest. He laughed deliriously, holding her against him.
Carly pulled away, crossing her arms. ‘What’s so funny?’
Michelangelo put his hands on her shoulders, realizing the truth as he said it. ‘I love you, too.’
THE END
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An American Girl in Italy Page 18