Nocturne(43)

That’s because my thoughts were muddled. After only two weeks of helping Madeline, it was clear Savannah was a natural teacher as well. That was troubling, given Madeline’s hypothesis that Savannah might not be fully committed to a career in playing.

“Just be careful,” he muttered as he took two mugs and shuffled into the living room.

Carrying the other two mugs into the living room, my breath involuntarily caught at the sight of Savannah on the oversized leather loveseat. She was sitting up straight, highlighting her years of orchestral training. Her poise was evident in the way her long, tanned legs were crossed at the ankles and her hands were resting in the lap of her green summer dress. The soft waves of her golden hair were hanging carelessly over her shoulders, as they always did. Her smile interrupted my staring.

“Thank you.” Savannah smiled brighter as she took the mug, wrapping her long fingers around it and leaning back against the couch.

James and Madeline were sitting rather close on the opposite couch, so I took a seat next to Savannah. Sitting slowly, I thought I felt her eyes on me, but when I looked up she was simply staring into her coffee cup. She hadn’t yet taken a sip.

“So, Savannah,” James leaned forward, “I’m dying to know what it was like growing up with Vita Carulli. It must have been a fascinating experience.”

Had he gone mad? Madeline seemed to think so too, given the crooked glance she shot in his direction. Savannah had brought up her mother’s name in my presence exactly once, and in a tone that made it clear she felt overshadowed, uncomfortable. And the one time I met her mother, in her presence, Savannah was reserved. Tense even. I didn’t know what the reasons were, but it was clear that relationship was extremely strained.

“James, certainly we can find something else to discuss—” I tried to offer an exit from an already uncomfortable evening for Savannah, but she cut me off.

“Oh, no, it’s fine.” She spoke softly as she placed her mug on the side table.

Though she pulled off a practiced smile, her two-second blink before she started speaking suggested I should pay very close attention. Savannah ran a hand through her long hair and started talking.

“Growing up with Vita Carulli is … a loose term, James. The three of us lived in Italy together until I was twelve. Any growing up I did after that was with my father and his parents in Philadelphia.”

Her voice and expression seemed wistful, but apparently James was tone deaf to it, because he kept talking.

“Wow, what did you like most about Italy?”

“Well, I have the most vivid memories from the Teatro dell’opera di Roma. My mother spent most of her time in Milan at the Teatro Alla Scala, but what’s beautiful about the theater in Rome is, the shows aren’t held in that theater in the summer.”

Her smile turned genuine and her face lit up. “In the summer, they move the theater and dance performances to the ancient Baths of Caracalla …” her voice trailed off along with her eyes.

“That must have been beautiful,” Madeline interjected.

I was stricken speechless by Savannah’s seemingly perfect Italian accent as she spoke the names of the theaters, leaving me to wonder if she still spoke any, as I’m sure she had to know some when she was younger.

Savannah’s hazel eyes grew wide as she looked to Madeline. “Oh, Madeline, you have no idea. There’s absolutely nothing on earth like opera under the stars. The first year my mother was prima donna there, Malcolm Carroll was conducting, and it was ... a powerhouse. Just ... amazing.”

Closing my eyes for a second, I put myself there. Under the stars in Rome, watching the opera with Savannah.

“Your father is a French horn player, right? Why did you choose the flute?”

While James’s questions were bordering on interrogation, I wanted to hear the answers as well. She’d told me before, in the coffee shop as she played with my hands. I seemed to have gone deaf the second her skin came in contact with mine because I had no recollection of what she’d said.

“Right,” she nodded, her smile fading, “he’s horn, and my mother…” Savannah continued on to the story she’d told me that day.

I found myself drawn to her hands. Remembering.

“Anyway,” she continued, “I always thought the flutes and the strings sounded the most beautiful out of the entire orchestra.”

“Strings, huh?” I interjected, growing slightly uncomfortable in my own silence. “What made you settle on the flute?”

A mischievous grin played on her lips. “The flute was prettier.” She shrugged unapologetically.

“How honest of you, Ms. Marshall,” I teased, chuckling a little.

“My mother was as supportive as she could be, and my dad …” Savannah sighed, leaning forward and running an index finger along the rim of her mug, staring again into her untouched coffee. “My dad was as supportive as he could be for knowing what kind of life I was preparing to lead.”

I chose an entirely different career path than my parents, leading to decades of tense half-conversations over the phone and tight greetings on holidays. Apart from her mother, I knew Savannah’s father was an accomplished musician, as well. To willingly step into a life mastered by one’s parents, and to try to make it one’s own? That took a certain constitution. Backbone. She wanted to do this, and not rest on her parents’ laurels. At least, that’s what she started out wanting. Her enthusiasm for instruction was growing more concerning. I’d caught her practicing after instruction was done for the day, and she was gaining ground in technique. She had to keep playing. Savannah straightened her shoulders, which pulled the fabric on her dress tighter across her chest. I checked my watch.