Violent Daylight

by Caroline Angus Baker

“After you sing this week, go to fucking Australia to see Canna. You know you want to go.”

  Claudio glanced at his son. “I’ll be back for Three Kings Day in Cartagena, I promise.”

  “Good. Clear up all this shit with Canna and come home ready to be a devoted father. No more distractions. Everything you need to focus on is in that bassinet.”

  CHAPTER 45

  LONDON

  Freedom only existed on the stage. That’s what Claudio always told himself, and it turned out to be true. On stage, all his troubles melted away, and he could concentrate on his music, on his voice and his soul. He did his voice exercises every day no matter what went on, and it was the most healing that he could do. Now, the delightful tingle of nerves buzzed through his veins while he waited on go on stage at Royal Albert Hall, this time in front of royalty. It would be broadcast out across the UK and beyond, and Claudio had to get this right. It was a shame it would be the last time he would sing with Virtuosi. But it would be the last time he had to take the stage with Dane Porter.

  As he sat alone in the dressing room, Claudio’s phone beeped in his bag. He dug through his street clothes and found it; one new message. A Google alert about Canna Medici. He hadn’t seen his wife for weeks, and Google was filling in the blanks for him. She had sent a few text messages, but little more than friendly hellos. At least Claudio knew she was alive. God, he missed her so much. They parted on such awful terms, and he hated not knowing where he stood with his wife. He just wanted Canna to walk in the door and critique his tuxedo, like she always did before a show.

  The Cruising Yacht Club of Australia today held a banquet lunch for owners and skippers competing this year’s Sydney Hobart Yacht Race. Sailors from all over the world dined on lunch provided by some of Australia’s finest chefs, coupled with quality local wines and enjoyed a humorous and fact-filled key-note speech from Vincitore skipper Canna Medici, owner of the all-new Medici Marine boatyard in Bonifacio, Corsica.

  Canna gave a speech? Claudio didn’t know what to make of it. What would she be talking about in Sydney? Did the woman ever take a break? He thought of her at the yacht in Malta, so diligent with her work. Maybe continuing with sailing was the way she was coping with the recent deaths and dramas, just as Claudio dealt with stress by singing. Claudio had imagined Canna drunk for the last three weeks, but obviously not. Canna Medici was blooming in his absence.

  Claudio read on, about Canna’s speech involving the set-up of a new boatyard in southern Corsica. She had been busy in the last few weeks. She spoke about building opportunities for yachts in both hemispheres, and the need to increase efficiency in safety equipment and survival training offshore. Claudio felt so proud to see photos of her at the microphone, dressed a beautiful white summer dress as the 200 or so guests listened. He admired the woman’s stamina; her ability to get up every morning was an inspiration.

  “Hey, dude,” Erik said as he came into the quiet room. He ran his hand through his long dark hair. “How do I look?” he asked and twirled in his tuxedo.

  Claudio snorted. “Did you lose your masculinity in the makeup room?”

  “Very funny. I don’t like having anyone except Rebecca style my hair.”

  “Mmm…” Claudio wasn’t listening as he scrolled through photos of the guests at the yacht club luncheon, hoping to spot Canna again.

  “Are you okay to sing with Dane?”

  Claudio just shrugged. “I guess. I’m glad I rehearsed in private. We’ve done these songs many times, so I’m sure I can get through it once more.”

  “You and Dane finish the second song together. We’ll never find replacements for you and Dane. I hope you know that.”

  Claudio put his phone down again. “What do you want me to do, Erik? Forgive him?”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “The fact is that you don’t have all the details. I know Dane told you and Henri the truth as he promised, but I don’t trust him.”

  “Dane said that Canna went to Helsinki because his sister Danica invited her to the wedding. They parted at the end of the night with an argument and decided to say nothing more about it. Then, when he found Canna up on murder charges in Italy, he went there and told them about the night in Helsinki. Dane said he told the police that they spent the night together, for Canna’s alibi.”

  “Dane told the police they were in bed all night for the sole purpose of hurting me and Canna. Dane wanted revenge after Canna and I…” Claudio’s voice trailed off for a moment. “No, screw it. Canna and I weren’t having an affair. I loved her, and she loved me, but we forced ourselves apart because of Dane. We came together once Canna split with Dane for good. Dane was vindictive and lied to the police. Canna refused sex with Dane in Helsinki and Dane’s pride reacted with revenge.”

  “It was nasty. But didn’t it set Canna free?”

  “Well, yes, but that would have happened without Dane. Canna didn’t kill Giorgio Savelli. Dane can lie all he likes, you can’t make someone love you. Canna doesn’t love Dane. She never will.”

  “But you guys can’t work it out?”

  “Do you want us to work it out?’ Claudio asked. “I thought we had worked it all out, and then this happened. How do I know Dane won’t try to hurt me and Canna again in six months’ time?”

  “True. But Canna is the common dominator is all these dramas, not you or Dane.”

  “So are you asking me to choose between Canna and Virtuosi?”

  “Canna isn’t even here. Have you broken up?”

  Claudio picked up his phone and continued to flick through photos from Sydney. “I don’t know anything other than the fact I’m mad as hell. I’m angry at Canna, but that doesn’t stop me from loving her.” He paused when he found a photo of Canna with a stunning young redhead. The two of them sat together at a table, champagne flutes in hand, blowing kisses at the camera. Just behind them, the sea sparkled in the sunshine. “Check this out.”

  Erik leaned over and looked at the photo. “Holy shit, who’s the sexy redhead?”

  Claudio squinted at the fine print. “Canna Medici, skipper of Vincitore, and Abigail Troublé, wife of French helicopter designer Christophe Troublé.”

  “Helicopter designer? That’s a job?’

  “Seems so, and I guess it pays well because no one at this lunch needed free food.”

  “Canna looks gorgeous.”

  “All that sea and sunshine must be good for the soul.”

  “And that Abigail is beautiful. You need to invite your wife and her friend around here so we can look at them.”

  “Women are not objects for us to stare at, Erik.”

  “Pity.”

  Claudio rolled his eyes. He looked at the glasses the women held; they seemed to be filled with orange juice but knowing Canna it might hide vodka or similar. Wow, he had no faith in her sobriety, not that she ever gave him reason to trust her behaviour.

  As Erik went to his bag of things, Claudio sent a message to Canna.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  The response was almost instant. ‘Having breakfast on the boat. Ice blocks. It’s a warm 32 degrees already this morning’

  ‘Who is Abigail Troublé?’

  ‘Been spying on me?’

  ‘No, just reading about your yacht club speech’

  ‘Abigail is married to one of the other skippers here. We are friends’

  ‘You and Christophe are friends?’

  ‘No, me and Abigail are friends’

  ‘You have a female friend?’

  ‘Amazing, I know’

  ‘I’m stunned’

  ‘I’m 37 days clean and sober. Abi is now 156 days sober’

  Claudio felt surprised. Canna had found herself a sober friend. She ran from Milan and was still clean and sober. ‘Congratulations’

  ‘Thanks. What are you doing?’

  ‘Singing at the Royal Christmas special. Veena and Casamiro are here with me’

  ‘I’m glad you’re with Virtuosi. Do
n’t throw it all away. Say hi everyone for me, including the royal family’

  Claudio chuckled. ‘Sure’

  ‘And kiss that baby of yours for me’

  ‘Consider it done’

  ‘I have to go, safety inspector is here. I guess I’ll catch you on YouTube’

  ‘Blinky, I want to talk to you’

  ‘You know where I am, when you’re ready. I love you’

  The dressing room opened and in came Henri. The cheerful Frenchman rubbed his hands together with glee. “Are you ready, ladies? You better be; Lea, Holly and Dane are waiting for the signal for us to go and wait our turn to head onstage. My wife is particularly teary that this is the last ever Virtuosi performance, so you better make it enjoyable.”

  “That will be the pregnancy hormones,” Claudio replied and gasped.

  “What?” Erik cried. “I didn’t know!”

  “Thanks, Claudio,” Henri said. “Yes, Lea is pregnant, but shut up about it!”

  “Mate, this is amazing!”

  “Yes it is, and it’s still a secret. Just let Lea enjoy her last night as Virtuosi’s manager.”

  “Can’t we carry on with Virtuosi?” Erik asked. “We are perfect together. We are perfect when Canna is out of the picture.”

  “Not fair, Erik,” Claudio replied.

  “He’s right,” Henri said.

  “You blame Canna for Virtuosi’s demise but I don’t see you giving back her €20 million. Canna believed in us.”

  “I will give back Canna’s money, Claudio, I promise,” Henri replied.

  “Can’t three of us carry on, and let Dane leave the group?” Erik suggested. “Could we start over with a new singer?”

  “Impossible,” Henri replied.

  “Can’t we release another album by recording our voices in separate sessions and stick them together? Claudio and Dane wouldn’t have to see each other. Plenty of music groups hate each other.”

  Claudio and Henri shared a look. “Maybe,” Henri mused. “But they would still have to come together for meetings and discussions on the music. And then there is touring.”

  Claudio shrugged. “I feel nothing for Dane. I’m not angry.”

  “No?” Erik ventured.

  “No, he’s dead to me. Canna… she went through all that drama with Yuri and it took an enormous emotional toll…”

  “They think Yuri was murdered by an anonymous hitman, don’t they?” Henri interrupted. “I saw it in the news.”

  “They think Canna’s bodyguard hired a hitman behind her back and had Yuri killed. But Giorgio Savelli, Canna knew him for a decade, and she didn’t hurt him. Giancarlo Antelli was a close friend of Canna’s, and he murdered Giorgio. Canna has been betrayed, so of course things are going to be hard. She needs to be given a break; she has suffered a lot for all that pain. I had a son with Veena, and it hurt Canna, as much as she would deny it. She relapsed into drinking and taking pills, and then to top it all off, I made a tactical error and believed Dane over Canna at the Milan police station. I need a fresh start and it doesn’t include Dane or Virtuosi …”

  “Fair enough,” Erik mused.

  “I’m an idiot!” Claudio cried.

  “Why?” Henri asked.

  “Every story has a hero. The time for the hero to appear is now. I’m the hero! I should go to Australia!”

  “We knew that!” Erik said in a raised voice. “We were just wondering when you would figure it out!”

  “But before you do run off into the sunset, are you sure you want to let Virtuosi go?” Henri asked.

  “I never wanted to let it go, but Dane and I are done. Finished.”

  “You’ve said that before and you patched things up again.”

  “Please, Claudio, think about it during the Christmas break. Maybe things don’t have to end,” Erik pleaded.

  Claudio paused for a moment and looked at the faces of his friends. “Okay, I’ll think about it. Let’s go and entertain, Virtuosi style. Maybe there is still hope for some of us.”

  CHAPTER 46

  SYDNEY

  Every Christmas Day, the Cruising Yacht Club of Australia filled with sailors who sacrificed family time to sail in Sydney. The marina surrounded the club, filled to the brim with yachts ready to set sail from Rushcutters Bay the following day. As night enveloped Sydney, the balcony lights came on over hundreds of revellers who sat dressed in their crew gear, enjoying the hot thirty-plus temperatures that Christmas always provided.

  “Has anyone else noticed how slow this bitch is?”

  Canna glanced up from the cards she shuffled. Across the long table sat Abigail Troublé, a young red-haired French woman with a mouth full of mischief. “I’ll shuffle at whatever speed I want,” Canna replied. She put one foot up in her chair and leaned back, and slowed her card shuffling even more.

  “Oh come on, Canna,” said her young boat assistant, Doug. “Some of us have a game to win!”

  Canna glanced around at the half a dozen Vincitore crew members, all eager for another round of poker. “You know I’m going beat you again,” she said with a sly grin, and adjusted her Santa hat.

  “She says that like it’s true,” Abigail threw back.

  “Shut up or I’ll send you back to your husband,” Canna replied as she began to hand out cards to the happy players. Everyone was full of Christmas cheer, in the form of beer. Canna and Abigail were the only exceptions. Canna had no idea how helpful it would be to have a friend, a normal friend, who knew how she felt, how she suffered. Abigail understood the value of being clean and sober.

  “Are you ladies ready to do another song from the karaoke machine?” Doug asked as he assessed the hand he had been dealt.

  “We didn’t get rich by being ladies, so don’t call us ladies,” Abigail said to the young man.

  Canna held her fist up, and Abigail gave her a fist jab. “Bitches like us also didn’t get rich by singing or losing card games.”

  “Getting drunk and arrested in Milan is more your style,” said Michele, an Italian crew member from Vincitore.

  Canna looked over her cards at the smirking guy. “It took me thirty years to get photographed mid-arrest. If you all want to be proud of getting arrested at a younger age, be my guest.”

  “You should be ashamed, Medici. My first arrest was at 17,” Abigail said as she placed her bet of beer caps in the centre of the game.

  “I’m better at hiding from the law, what can I say? I picked a more evil first husband than you did.”

  “I’m still on my first husband!”

  “How lazy are you? I’ve already been through two!” Canna liked to joke, but losing Claudio hurt to the bone.

  The guys erupted into laughter and Canna threw her cards on the table. “Two pair. Kiss my ass, girls.”

  Abigail threw her cards down on the table. “Fucking bitch!”

  Canna chuckled as the rest of the players all folded. “Merry Christmas to me.”

  As the men all grumbled, and Canna began to shuffle again, Abigail became distracted. “Canna,” she said. “I’m looking at my husband.”

  “Good for you, Christophe is a handsome Frenchie,” Canna replied without looking up from the cards.

  “Canna, vous devez preparer.”

  “Prepare for what, losing? Never going to happen.”

  “Canna.”

  Canna looked up at her a new friend and frowned. Abigail looked pale. “Christophe parle à un homme. Je pense que c'est Claudio.”

  Canna spun in her seat and searched for Christophe through the crowd. The tall Frenchman was easy to spot amongst the shorter Australians, but he was alone. She turned back to Abigail. “Pourquoi voudriez-vous me mentir comme ça?”

  “I’m not lying, Canna. I swear, I thought I saw Claudio.”

  “Excuse me,” came a sound of an Australian accent through the speakers. The karaoke had been paused. “Ladies and gentlemen,” John Lister, the yacht club’s commodore, continued, “we need to pause the party for just a mom
ent. I’m sure you are all enjoying your Christmas Day ahead of our race tomorrow.”

  A round of cheering went up through the crowd. The commodore, a cheerful man in his fifties, smiled and waited for the spirited yachtsmen and women to calm down again. “We are facing a serious weather forecast for tomorrow. I know all the skippers have been briefed and will be again in the morning, but I reluctantly have to say that I am nervous about sending you all to sea tomorrow.”

  “We can manage,” a lone voice called, followed by more cheering.

  “Thanks for the confidence,” John said to the audience. “However, before you take to the sea, I would like to point out that one of our skipper’s has a birthday today. Could Canna Medici please come up on stage.”

  Canna rolled her eyes; she never celebrated her birthday. Her 30th had been spent sitting home alone in the London townhouse. Her 29th had been spent in hospital after the car accident. Canna hated her birthday.

  “Go on,” Abigail said. “Celebrate forty days of being sober by letting us sing you happy birthday.”

  Canna made her way up on the stage, her bare feet dodging spilled drinks on the wooden slats of the yacht club balcony. “Thanks, John,” she said under breath when she stood with the commodore, a man twice Canna’s size. “A woman loves to be reminded of her age.”

  It came from behind her. Canna heard the first word and knew the sound in an instant; the deep bass sound of a baritone’s voice. She spun around and there stood Claudio, holding a chocolate cake with what must have been 31 candles. He continued to sing Happy Birthday, accompanied by the crowd. His dark brown eyes locked on Canna as he threw his prodigious voice out over the crowd and the entire marina without the need of a microphone. He dragged out the final note, letting his enormous voice startle the crowd, who all cheered and clapped for his performance.

  “Are you going blow out your candles?” he asked.

  “I’ve never had a birthday cake before.”

  “I know, you told me.” Claudio glanced at the crowd for a moment. “Come on, make 31 wishes.”

  “I have just one wish.” Canna took a giant breath and just managed to blow out the candles, which together threatened to melt the cake. The crowd clapped again, and Claudio coughed through all the smoke of the candles.