A Different Kind of Forever(12)
Michael sat down and smiled at Diane. “You look great.” He was wearing jeans, a button-down blue shirt and a gray linen blazer. His eyes looked very blue.
Diane stared at him. She had tried not to think about him during the week, and she was struck with again how attractive he was, not just the strong lines of his face, but the energy and charm.
“Thanks,” she replied, faintly. “I’m sorry I’m late. I was afraid things would get hairy. Academics are a pain in the ass to deal with.” A drink was set down in front of her, and she murmured her thanks. She picked up her glass.
“What shall we drink to?” she asked.
Michael picked up his red wine. “How about being in good hands?”
They clinked glasses gently and she took a healthy gulp, feeling the vodka immediately take the edge off the vague, nervous feeling she had had all day.
She looked across the table at Michael. He was watching her, a faint smile on his lips. “So, you’re Italian?” she asked.
He sounded slightly defensive. “Yeah.”
“It’s just that I am too, and I know that whole only son Italian thing. How the hell did you talk your father into letting you sing in a band?”
He chuckled. “It was a tough sell, believe me. My sister Denise did the whole thing. That’s how she became our manager.”
“Okay, I’m confused. Your sister?”
“Sorry. I just assume sometimes – I mean –.” He looked flustered. “It’s just that there’s been so much stuff written, and I’ve given so many interviews, well, I’m usually not talking to somebody who doesn’t know my whole life story. That sounds really arrogant. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. I’m just not used to having dinner with famous personages.”
He blushed faintly. “I’m not a famous - .” He saw the look on her face. “Okay. So, are you going to bust me all night? Can’t we pretend I’m, say, a nice bus driver?”
“Like Ralph Kramden?” she asked.
“Who? No, wait, I know who he is. Okay, like Ralph Kramden.”
“Fine, but if somebody asks for an autograph, I may get suspicious.”
“Deal. So, what do you want to know? I’ll be happy to tell you everything.”
“I don’t think I’m ready for everything, but tell me about your sister and the band.”
“Okay. Denise is twelve years older than me. She’s my middle sister, and the last to get married. She stayed home and took care of me and my Dad. My father was getting crazy, kept asking her why she wasn’t married – well, you’re Italian, you know – then one day she comes in with this guy, Dave Adamson, and says they’re in love and want to get engaged. Well, my Dad is happy because Dave is an electrical engineer, and he’ll always have a job, right?”
“Right - the first priority for an Italian father. The guy may have one eye and sleep with his sister, but as long as he’s gainfully employed, he’s a keeper.”
“Exactly. So, right after this, Dad goes off on some business trip, Denise invites Dave over and I find out the real story. Dave was managing his brother Joey’s band on the side, and what he really wanted was the band to be successful enough to quit his day job. Now, Dave had been telling Denise that the band was great, terrific potential, all that shit, but they needed a second vocalist and maybe a keyboard player. So Denise drags him over to our piano and makes me sit down and play for him. I’d been playing the piano for years, and I was really into the whole thing, writing and all sorts of shit, plus I
played guitar and I’d been singing forever. Dave thinks she’s crazy, till he hears me. So he calls Joey, Joey comes over with Seth, and we are just going to town. I mean, Joey’s a big R&B fan, and so am I, and we were kicking serious ass. So Dave figures I’d fit right in.”
“Wait a minute. What about the whole geek thing?”
“That was a problem. I was fifteen, but I looked about twelve. I was still really short, skinny, I wore glasses. It was awful.”
Diane smiled. “Oh, God, I can just see it. The mild mannered Catholic schoolboy.”
“Oh, big time. The rest of the band finally came over, we all got along great, but we couldn’t figure out how to get me on stage without the audience laughing out loud.”
“So, what? How did you do it?”
A waiter appeared with a basket of warm, fragrant bread. Michael broke off a piece and dipped it into a bowl of olive oil.