Nocturne (47 page)

“Hardly. I go back to Chicago in two days and plan to spend exactly none of them in jail.”

I checked the time on my cell phone and let out a defeated sigh. Time, and timing, hadn’t been on my side for years.

Nathan stood and held out his hand. “I’ll walk you as far as I can.”

Nathan and I walked through the airport, and he told me that he and Christine would be shopping for an apartment together as soon as they returned to Chicago. I was happy for them and the effortless dreams most couples take for granted. It ached when I tried to let myself go to a place in my head where Gregory and I were living together, practicing together … loving together. So, I pushed those thoughts out of my head and focused on my friend and his happiness.

Thankfully, the security line wasn’t long so I wasn’t likely to miss my flight, but that meant Nathan and I had to say our goodbyes immediately.

“I’ll miss you, Nathan. I loved spending time with you this summer. I wish it could have been more …”

“No regrets, okay? We all grew up a little, I think. Be happy, Savannah. Find someone who takes your breath away and supports you and nurtures you.”

“I did.” I could barely get the words out without more tears. But I managed.

“You know what I mean.” Nathan sighed and shagged a hand through his hair.

“Please tell Marcia that I’ll call her as soon as I get settled in.”

“Love you,” Nathan said, swallowing me into his long arms for a sad hug.

After several seconds I pulled back and held Nathan at arms’ length. “Love you, too. Now, go back to Marcia’s, get Christine, and go be happy.”

Nathan shot me a sad smile as I turned and made my way through the maze to the belt, praying my luggage would end up where it was supposed to, since all I had on me was my flute and my cell phone. Once I was settled into a chair by my gate, I texted my father. I know I should have called him, but his silence last night told me that he hadn’t spoken with my mother. I was too tired to get into it at the moment and told him I had a change of flight plans and I’d call him when I got settled back into my apartment in Moscow.

A couple of hours later I was finally boarding my final flight to Moscow from JFK. The layover wasn’t a bad as I thought it’d be. I busied myself reading over some new music for the upcoming season that had been FedExed to me while I was on tour.

As we taxied away from the gate, I leaned my head against the window and exhaled long and slow.

“Nervous?” a woman in her fifties sitting next to me asked.

“No. Just … tired.”

“You look sad.” Her thick Russian accent sent a wave of emotions through me. It sounded like home, the new home I was returning to. But … it reminded me how far away I was going. As I wiped a tear away she took my hand. “I saw you looking at music. Do you play over there?”

“Yes. Bolshoi. Flute.” The sounds of the engines hauling us down the runway did their best to silence the screaming in my heart.

Her eyes lit up. Russians are, of course, serious about their ballet. Remembering the story I’d told Tim and Nathan on the road let a small grin escape. “Impressive. So, you’re sad about leaving the States?”

“No.” I shook my head and met her eyes. She looked sincere, and comforting. I’d picked up a fair bit of Russian by that point, mainly emotive words since they were often written onto our music by composers and spoken to us by conductors to direct our playing. “I just … I’m going back …
s razbitym serdtsem
…”

She swallowed hard, this kind stranger, and didn’t let go of my hand. She gripped it tighter as we cruised above the clouds and tears formed in her eyes. She seemed to have appointed herself to escort me back to Moscow.

With a broken heart.

Gregory

“Christ, Gregory. You look like shit.”

I grumbled a little at James as I poured hot water over a tea bag and sat down at his kitchen table. My head was splitting, and I had a vague memory of switching from gin to something else deep into our conversation. Tequila, maybe?

I shook my head, which was a mistake, because it caused the entire room to tilt to the left. “Leave me alone.”

James poured coffee for himself and sat down across from me as I tried to piece together what had happened the night before. The show, followed by Nathan’s outburst, and my own. The argument with Karin, which had resulted in me dropping her off, then me peeling off in the car, tires screeching. I’d ended up with James. Drinking. Pouring out the story of Savannah and our love affair.

That was no affair ... it was ... like a safe place in a storm, a quiet, purposeful, beautiful duet in a silent theater.

I don’t know what James said.

I don’t know how he responded.

Because for the first time in my adult life, I drank so much I blacked out.

James slid several Tylenol across the table to me. “Take these,” he said. “And get a drink of water.”

I took the Tylenol without comment, just staring at the table. I rubbed my forehead and looked up. “What exactly did I say to you last night?”

James snorted a little and shook his head. “The question is what
didn’t
you say, Gregory. I’ve never seen you such a mess before.”

“She won’t answer my calls,” I replied.

James winced.

I leaned forward and stared at my tea, then said, “I screwed up. Badly.”

He shrugged. “We all screw up. Though I’ll admit, adultery ...”

I shook my head, then looked up at him, irritated. “That’s not what I meant.”

“What
did
you mean?”

“I screwed up five years ago. When I told you I’d drop her. I screwed up when I didn’t put her first. And ... I’m pretty sure she got that message when she called last night. I couldn’t have said it any clearer.
God
, I’m such an asshole.”

I leaned my head in my hand. The Tylenol wasn’t helping. My head was pounding, and worse, I … I felt empty inside. Empty like I hadn’t felt since that day five years ago when I learned she’d left the conservatory. Just ... empty.

I stared miserably into my cup. Then I took out my cell phone and dialed again.

Straight to voicemail. Again. I tapped out a text message.

I’m sorry. Please call me. Please. Forgive. Me.

Then I hit send and looked up at my oldest friend. “I don’t know what to do,” I said. “I just don’t know what the fuck to do.”

That’s when I heard Madeline’s voice, behind me. “You go to her,” she said. “You tell her how much she means to you. You do whatever it takes.”

James frowned. “Madeline,” he said, an edge in his tone.

“Oh, shut up, James. You know they’re in love.”

I twisted around in my seat. “And if she won’t take my calls? I don’t even know where the hell she is.”

Madeline grinned. “I can help you with that. She’s staying with one of your former students, Marcia Taylor. In Andover.”

I shot out of my seat, which was added to the list of my poor decisions for the last 24 hours. My head spun and pounded at the same time, but I got a grip on the table. “You know the address?”

Madeline nodded.

Ten minutes later I’d had the shortest shower of my life and was in the car on my way to Andover, wearing clothes borrowed from James with too short arms and legs and a waist I could fit two of me through. As I drove, I glanced in the back seat and froze.

My cello was still in the back seat.

I’d left a seven hundred thousand dollar cello in the backseat of my car, parked on the street in Boston, overnight.

I frowned and kept driving. Right now I had more important things to worry about. I tried to call her as I drove, but the phone went straight to voicemail. Again.

Thankfully, I didn’t have to deal with much in the way of traffic. It was still relatively early on Sunday morning, the summer light still faint as I drove north out of Boston. The grey sky suited my mood. But I had one thing going for me.

I had hope.

It took forty minutes before I pulled up to the address on Chestnut Street Madeline had scrawled on a sheet of paper.

I parked in front of the house and took a breath, suddenly terrified. A white two-story home, with three dormer windows cut into the attic. A small structure, originally separate, must have once housed a kitchen or garage. A knee-high stone wall bordered the edge of the property, and the breeze blew the leaves off several old trees towering over the house. Somewhere inside, Savannah had lived, briefly, after returning from Moscow and before we went on tour.

I opened the car door and got out, then slowly walked up the front walk. My upper body was tense, my throat tight. Something told me this was my only chance to make it right. Because I’d been so fucking cold on the phone. I’d been so angry. It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t anything she’d said or done. It was just the timing. And my own carelessness.

I don’t have time for this
is not something you say to the love of your life.

I found myself wondering what death row inmates feel like when they are walking toward their execution. Was it this tension? This fear deep in the gut? I swallowed my fear, reached up and knocked on the door.

Nothing.

After a full minute, I hit the knocker again. This time, from deep in the bowels of the house, I heard a female voice calling out, “Just a minute.”

And so I waited.

Almost a full minute later, the door opened, and I stood there dumbly confused for a moment. I’d so anticipated Savannah being there that I was confused when Nathan Connors’ girlfriend, the harpist, answered the door. A moment later Marcia, my former student and Savannah’s roommate, approached the door.

“What are you doing here?” Marcia’s voice wasn’t hostile, but it wasn’t exactly friendly either.

I coughed. Then I said, “I need to speak with Savannah.”

Marcia’s eyebrows drew together. And then she burst out the front door, standing in front of me, and poked me in the chest hard with her index finger. “What the fuck did you say to her last night, Gregory?”

I staggered back. I had nothing I could say. No defense. Because her reaction was confirmation of what I’d already known ... that my angry response on the phone last night had destroyed what little trust Savannah had in me.

“Please ... just let me talk to her.” And I was horrified. Because for the first time in my adult life, my voice cracked.

Marcia’s eyes widened. She whispered, “What the hell happened between you two?”

I looked away, ground my teeth, and said, “I lost her. And … just ... please ...”

She shook her head, looking terribly sad. “She’s gone.”

“What do you mean, gone? Where did she go?”

“Back to Russia. She … didn’t come home last night ... called early this morning to let me know she’s going straight to the airport.”

I staggered back. “Back to
Russia?
”

Without transition I found myself sitting on the edge of a flower planter next to the front walk. Potting soil and water soaked into the back of my pants as I shook my head. “Why?” I asked, my voice at a whisper.

Marcia shook her head. “You tell me. I’ve never heard her sounding so distraught in my life. Whatever you said to her Gregory ... you hurt her. Badly.”

“Fuck,” I groaned. I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees and my head in my hands.

“Can you get off my flowers?” she asked, her voice edging toward annoyed.

I sighed and stood. “Sorry for … wasting your time.”

My shoulders slumped; I walked back toward my car. And just to cap the morning, as I unlocked my car, Nathan fucking Connors drove up and parked behind me. I almost got in and drove off before he could get out of his car, but something told me to wait.

He got out of his car. His expression reflected disgust when he saw me.

“Fitzgerald.”

“Connors.”

“What are you doing here?” He closed his door and leaned against it.

I shrugged. “I came ... to see her. But I was too late.”

He shook his head and walked toward me, then leaned back against
my
car. Presumptuous as usual, but I didn’t say anything. “I just saw her off at the airport.”

“She’s going back to the Bolshoi.”

He nodded.

“She’s done with me. For good.”

He nodded again.

I leaned against the car, next to him, and said, “I didn’t mean to break her heart. I’d do anything to take it back.”

“Little late for that,” Nathan said. “Twice, Fitzgerald. Twice, I’ve had to put my friend back together after you tore her to shreds. Just ... stay away from her. Let her heal and get her life together and don’t … don’t hurt her again, all right? She deserves a whole man. You understand what I’m saying? The one thing you couldn’t ever do—put her first.”

I closed my eyes and groaned. He was right. Everything he was saying was right. I never had. It has always been ... the conservatory. My career. The music. Karin. It was always something else, anything else, when it should have been her. No fucking wonder she felt the way she did. I had the arrogance to ask her to wait for me, to ask her to set aside her career, her entire life, to stay in Boston while I fumbled through whatever the hell was going on with my marriage.

And
I couldn’t even take her phone call.

I gasped. “Don’t you ever say anything to anyone. But ... nothing else will ever matter again. Not after losing her.”

Nathan made a disgusted sound and shook his head. “I’ve spent my whole morning dealing with the fallout from your carelessness, Fitzgerald. Don’t ask me to feel sorry for you on top of it.”

I grimaced. The
last
fucking thing I wanted was Nathan’s sympathy. I glared at him and said, “Just tell me she’s going to be okay.”

He looked me straight in the eyes, his mouth twisting up in a parody of a smile. “I don’t have a clue. This was … much worse than when you dumped her five years ago. I don’t know if she’ll ever be over you, and I hate you because of that. She’s better than this.”

I closed my eyes. “When you talk to her. Please ... tell her I’m sorry.” I turned and opened the door, getting in my car as Nathan stepped back. Savannah had returned to Moscow.