Nocturne(71)

“Hmm,” she paused briefly to plaster on her stage smile while accepting her Manhattan from the waitress, “did you speak with him?”

“Mother,” I sighed, “it was five years ago. Move on. I have.”

“You don’t sound so convinced—”

“For God’s sake, Mother, drop it!” My voice came out a bit louder than I, or my mother cared for, and the people at the next table looked up. Embarrassed, I picked up my wine glass and took a large gulp, shifting my gaze to the tiny white caps bobbing through the water.

“So, you’ve decided to join that Big Five tour, I hear?” my mother inquired after an acceptable length of silence.

My jaw failed me and dropped just enough for her to arch her eyebrow. “How did you …” I trailed off, not really needing an answer. Her connections in the American music industry ran so deep, it was hardly surprising that she found out about a decision I’d made only hours before. “Never mind.”

“And am I to assume that since we’re having this conversation here, and not in Moscow, you’ve chosen to leave Bolshoi?”

I didn't try to disguise my exasperated exhale. “We’re on break for the summer, Mother. I’m not sure what my plans are.”

She clicked her tongue against her teeth and shook her head, looking across the harbor with a sour look on her face. “You simply can’t settle down, can you?”

“Interesting choice of words, coming from you.” I carefully set my glass down and braced for her counterattack.

“Young lady, I’d watch my tone, if I were you.”

“Well, we’ve established I’m not you, haven’t we?” It had been a year since I’d seen my mother, and I was already regretting asking her for drinks. It was too long and cold of a swim to make a break for it now, though.

My mother stood gracefully and tucked her clutch under her arm. “I don’t have to take this attitude from you, Savannah. I’ll be on my way.” After she took an elegant half turn and a single step, I stopped her.

“Wow, this is getting easier for you.” My pulse raced as I prepared for what I would say next. “Being on your way. Is that the same term you used on Dad when you left him last year? That you’d be on your way?”

She turned around slowly and stared at me as ruffled as I’d ever seen her. Her blue eyes darkened, and her mouth swung open. I’d rendered Vita Carulli speechless. I’d never addressed her leaving. Not with her, anyway. Not only had I not seen her in a year, I hadn’t spoken with her either. While I received phone calls from both of them on the day she left, I happened to answer my father’s call first and got the raw version of events. She wanted more, he had said.

More than my father giving up his own career to raise me while she traveled the world doing what she loved.

More than having the entire opera world love her.

More than doing exactly what she wanted, when she wanted.

More than having my father wait lovingly for her for two decades and welcome her home with open arms to resume their life together.

She packed her things and moved to Boston. Fucking Boston. The city I loved.

Taking a page from her score, I slid my bag over my shoulder and stood to leave.

When I reached the place she was standing, shocked and unmoving at my words, I leaned in so only she could hear me. “I’ll be on my way, Mother.”

Walking through the lobby of the hotel and out to the parking lot, I never turned around to see how long she stood there. In that moment, I didn’t care if she stood there forever.

Alone.





Savannah


“Nervous?” Nathan leaned in and whispered to me after we finished tuning.

I shook my head “no” as the comforting buzz of excitement coursed through my body. One benefit of being in the flute section is being seated near the front of the orchestra. While I wasn’t nervous, because I wouldn’t have to visually take in the entire orchestra to keep my eyes on the conductor, I reveled in feeling the power of the whole orchestra behind me.

Nathan and I arrived a little earlier than necessary. I knew no one was going to particularly care that I was there, if they even noticed. I wanted to be sure to make a good impression on the conductors we’d be working with, in the event that I wanted to audition for any of the orchestras represented in this room. Despite Nathan’s insistence that I take the seat ahead of him, I demanded to sit last chair based on principle. Everyone else in the flute section was a member of one of the Big Five. I was an outsider.

I elbowed Nathan and whispered, “Hey, there’s Tim Flannigan!” My cheeks heated as I pointed out the principal flute for Chicago. Not only was he currently my favorite flutist, he was shockingly easy on the eyes.

“Blush much?” Nathan teased, rolling his eyes.

Tim was tall, just like Nathan, but much more filled out. His broad back and narrow waist had him looking like a percussionist for a marching band.

I’d followed his career since I was old enough to care about such things, and his rise to the first chair with the Chicago Symphony was remarkable. The son of Irish immigrants, he’d come to this country when he was ten, though he started playing the flute a year prior. His parents couldn’t afford to send him to a conservatory, so he studied music at his local college. Practicing every spare hour he could, he auditioned half a dozen times before getting in. Since his acceptance, he traveled the world doing solo performances before sold out crowds during the symphony’s off-season.