(Blue Notes 2)The Melody Thief (5 page)

“Connor Taylor.” Cary’s heart did a nosedive for his stomach. Francesca wore a wedding band on her right hand in the European custom.

No wonder he wasn’t interested.

“So you’re Antonio’s wife?”

She laughed, a light, musical laugh that rang about the bedroom. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “No, no. We’ve been friends since we were children—he’s like my brother.”

The extent to which it relieved Cary to hear this surprised him.
Why would you care, anyhow? You only wanted to sleep with the guy, not marry him.

“I see” was all he said.

“Speaking of work,” she continued, “Tonino asked me to make you some breakfast. He left for the office about an hour ago.”

That’s right. Today is Monday, isn’t it?
He really needed to call Georges and let him know about canceling the upcoming gigs.

“That’s very kind of you.”

“Antonio and I grew up together near Stradella, not far from here,” Francesca explained as they sat down for a breakfast comprised of a variety of fruit, cheese, and bread. “His family still lives there.”

The apartment was quiet, for which Cary was more than grateful. Massimo was now lying on his stomach on the couch, feet up in the air, reading a book.

“So you live in Milan?”

“Yes. I moved here a few years ago with my partner, Marissa. I’m a painter.” She filled his coffee cup and passed him a tray of cheese and prosciutto. “I’ve had a few shows in Milan and Rome. I work at a gallery in the city.” She gestured to a painting hanging on the wall.

“Interesting piece,” he said, noting the splashes of bright colors on the mostly dark background and the hint of a human shape they combined to create. It was a sensual, unusual work. Something he could see hanging on a wall in his own apartment. “I like it.”

She blushed charmingly. “Thank you, signore.”

“Please, call me Connor.”

“Connor. Your Italian is very good,” she added as she offered him some more bread.

“I’ve got a pretty good ear. And I love the sound of the language.”

“I’m so sorry about what happened to you. Tonino told me about those horrible men. Does it hurt much?” she asked.

“Just the wrist. But it’s better today. I just look worse.” He touched two fingers to his jaw.

“So I hear you’re a waiter.”

Cary nodded as he sipped his coffee.

“What restaurant do you work at?”

Cary tried not to choke. Lies were easier to stomach if you didn’t have to go into a lot of detail. They were also easier when you were drunk. “I sort of fill in at a few places.”

He felt like a total shit now. He needed to go home.

“Tonino left you some clothing.” She pointed to a chair by the front door. A pair of pants hung over the back, along with a neatly folded shirt and socks. “He was sorry he couldn’t stay. He’ll be back at lunch.”

“He’s already done a lot for me. And I really should be going. The doctor was just worried about last night.”

Her expression was almost wistful, as if she were disappointed to hear this. “I’m sure he would want you to stay,” she said. “At least until he comes home.”

“That’s really nice, but I’ll leave him my number. I’d like to thank him.”

And I have some great ideas about how I can do that, if he’ll let me.

Chapter 5

O
LD
H
ABITS
, O
LD
H
AUNTS

I
N
THE
end, Francesca insisted he take a cab back “home.” She sent him off with more Euros than he needed to pay for it, in part because Cary lied about living much further out of the city, in a less expensive neighborhood. He would pay it back as soon as he saw Antonio again—and he had every intention of seeing Antonio again—so he brushed off his guilt and took the money.

Roberta met him in the doorway of his apartment, her palpable relief replaced a split second later with a look of horror as she took in his bruised face and the cast on his left wrist. “Oh, Signor Redding! What will you do?”

Her genuine and unexpected concern had him shifting awkwardly on his feet. He was even more surprised when she launched herself at him, taking him in her arms like he was a wayward child who had finally come home.

He winced as she hugged him tight. “It’s nothing. I’m fine, and the cast will come off in six weeks. The doctor said I might need a little physical therapy, but it’ll be fine.”

“I was worried about you.” She frowned at him, and he managed a wan smile.

“Thanks.” He loved that she thought of him as a surrogate son, but it also made him uncomfortable. He felt undeserving.

“Signor Duhamel called this morning,” she said as she shooed him inside the apartment. “He says you should call him. Maestro Somers had a cancellation on this season’s schedule, and he needs to know by tomorrow if you’re interested.”

“Thanks, Roberta. I’ll call him.”

She raised an eyebrow and said, “You haven’t told him yet, have you? About what happened?” He scowled at her as she clucked like a mother hen. “And you haven’t been eating enough, have you,
stangone
?” He opened his mouth to protest the nickname—“beanpole”—but she just laughed and headed for the kitchen.

The apartment was, as always, immaculate. Roberta wouldn’t have it any other way. The simple linen curtains were open to the bright sunlight, the colorful Japanese silk pillows lined up in a neat row on the sofa. Like the pillows, Cary had bought most of the artwork that adorned the walls and tabletops on his trips abroad. A Thai silk weaving hung above a collection of three Hopi kachina dolls he’d found in New Mexico. Two abstract paintings he’d discovered in Paris were strategically placed over the couch, and the rest of the surfaces sported glass bowls, wood carvings, and other objects that had caught Cary’s eye.

He walked into the living room and past the open doorway to his practice studio. It was a brightly lit room with a baby grand piano and his favorite chair to play in. In the corner was his cello, safe in its white fiberglass case. As with the rest of the apartment, the walls here were also covered in artwork. His favorite artwork. A collection of masks in various sizes and materials, each unique.

Cary didn’t step inside the room but just stood in the doorway and forced himself to breathe. He had expected this would be difficult, seeing this place and knowing he couldn’t play. He just hadn’t realized
how
difficult it would be.

Cary Taylor Redding
, his mother’s voice echoed in his mind,
you must practice every day. Even if it’s just for an hour or two. Music isn’t like a book that you put down and forget about. It’s part of you. Always.

This time, it wasn’t just an ache that stirred in his soul. It was something else. Guilt. He knew the feeling well, although it had been years since he’d felt it quite so keenly. He closed the door to the studio, went back into the living room, and poured himself a drink. He’d skip the painkiller. He decided he needed the alcohol more.

When he settled on the couch a few minutes later, the heat of the cognac warmed his chest. With a deep breath, he picked up the telephone and hit one of the speed dial numbers. He wasn’t looking forward to this call.

“Y
OU
what?” Georges Duhamel shouted through the phone.

“I got mugged,” Cary repeated, holding the handset between his chin and shoulder and rubbing his face with his right hand. “I broke my wrist.
Mon poignet
.” He figured the guy probably had understood the first time—his English was far better than he let on—but he thought he’d make sure.

“
Espèce de con
,” his agent cursed under his breath.

“I heard that, Georges,” Cary said in French. He took another deep swallow of his drink.

“Good, you stupid boy. I will not ask what you were doing.
Tu me fais chier
,
avec ton
—”

“I know I piss you off,” Cary interrupted, shifting back to English again and chuckling. “But you still love me, don’t you?”

“As if.”

“You’ll need to cancel the Rome gig next month, but I should be able to do the master classes, even if I can’t play yet.”

“What about Florence in January?”

“The doctor says I should be good to go by December. January should be fine.”

There was silence on the other end of the phone, then a resigned “Fine. I take care of it.”

“Thanks, Georges.”

“Oh, I almost forgot. Maestro Somers is in Milan conducting. He said to call him so you might have dinner while he’s here. He tried to call you, but you didn’t answer your phone.” There was a soft huffing sound on the other end of the call, but when Cary said nothing, Georges continued, “He also says there’s a cancellation on the Chicago Symphony schedule in March. He wanted to know if you could substitute. The Elgar or the Dvořák B Minor. Your choice.”

“Dvořák,” Cary said without hesitation. “The Elgar’s too gloomy for Chicago in the winter.”

Georges laughed. “March is spring.”

“Not in Chicago. Too damn cold.” Cary hesitated a moment, then added, “I’m sorry to put you out like this.” He meant it too.

“You are going to kill me. If you don’t kill yourself first.”

“I’ll try to behave.”

“Perhaps you find some nice man and make a home.”

“Not anytime soon. Not if I can help it.”

“I will send you e-mail when I get confirmation from Somers’s assistant. For now, you let Roberta make you eat well, and you sleep. No late nights,
comprends
?”

“You know I don’t speak French worth a damn,” Cary teased, reverting to French once more.

“
Ta gueule
,” he heard Georges swear as he hung up the phone.

B
Y
FOUR
o’clock that afternoon, Cary was full of nervous energy, restless. He paced about the apartment, trying to find something to do with himself. He couldn’t remember when he’d spent an entire day without practicing, and the list of things he needed to do that didn’t require two good arms was far too short.

His wrist ached too much for sit-ups, and lifting weights with one arm got old very quickly. He turned on the TV and watched reruns of
CSI: Miami
dubbed in Italian. The episodes were at least three years behind those in the States, he guessed. During the second episode, he fell asleep and awoke to find a message on his cell phone.

I just wanted to check to see that you were feeling better
, Antonio had said.
I’ll call you in the morning.

Morning.
I guess that’s all she wrote.
Apparently Antonio wasn’t all that interested in what he had to offer. Why would he be, anyhow? He had just been kind. Cary smiled sadly; he had honestly liked the man.

Around eight that evening, Cary dragged himself to the kitchen and sat down at the table to pick at the food Roberta had left for him. It was, as always, delicious, and he was reminded of Antonio’s failed attempt at dinner the night before. Still, he would have been happy to eat more of Antonio’s food, as awful as it had been, if only to have another shot at the man.

After giving up on his dinner, Cary decided to give practicing a try. He had barely managed to tighten the bow when his wrist started to ache. For an hour, he did exercises for his bow arm, then finally gave up and put the instrument away.

“
T
HIS is Aiden Lind. I can’t talk right now. Leave me a message, and I’ll get back to you.
”

“Hey, Aiden. It’s Cary. You in town anytime soon?” He didn’t want to sound desperate, but he was pretty sure he would go stir crazy without being able to practice. At least with Aiden in town, he’d have some company for his misery. “Georges said David’s in town, and I remember you saying you had a gig at La Scala for the opening in December. So I thought maybe—”

The phone beeped, cutting him off.

“Shit.” Cary sat back down on the couch, wishing Aiden had moved to Milan, as he had once threatened to do.

Aiden had been Cary’s best friend ever since David Somers, the music director of the Chicago Symphony, had introduced them five years before. Back then, Cary was pretty sure David had hoped Aiden and Cary might become more than friends and that Aiden might help Cary find some stability in his life. But between Aiden’s traveling for his operatic career and Cary’s lack of interest in a long-term relationship, the two men had instead settled into a comfortable friendship.

Cary glanced up at the clock. Thirty minutes had passed since he’d last checked it.

Fuck.

On a normal Monday, he’d have spent the entire day practicing, taking breaks to lift weights and do a few hundred sit-ups. If he didn’t have a rehearsal the next morning, he’d head for the bars. Even now, he felt it: the overwhelming urge to leave the confines of the apartment, have a few more drinks, and find a partner to satisfy his need. Get fucked, maybe. Or maybe just get off. It didn’t really matter. Either one would do.