The Stars That Tremble (28 page)

“Yes. But—”

“I’m not a fool. I know how this game works. When a woman with a clear agenda makes charges against a teacher about whom there have been no complaints, you have to wonder. So you’ve been acquitted of those charges. Just to get that off the table.”

Gio decided to stop trying to get a word in edgewise. He nodded and mumbled, “Thank you.”

Vanderbrandt was not finished, however. “We’ve decided to let Amelia Quinlan into the Young Musicians Program.”

And there it was. Any relief he felt at the dismissal of the false charges vanished in an instant. It wasn’t just that this wasn’t an outcome he wanted; he hated that Tracy Quinlan had won after all she’d put him, Mike, and Emma through.

“Not the outcome you wanted?” Vanderbrandt asked.

Gio hated that his feelings must have been so apparent on his face. “It’s not relevant what I think,” he said. “She’s a fine singer. If the school has decided to accept her, I hope she takes every advantage of the amazing opportunity she’s been given.”

“But you don’t think she deserves the spot.”

“Again, it’s not relevant what I think.”

Vanderbrandt nodded. “Yes, it would appear that, in this situation, that is true. Look, Gio. I believe that there was no impropriety on your part, and if there was, you took the correct steps in taking yourself off the audition committee. I know of your friendship with Dacia Russini, but even without her on the committee, Emma McPhee would have been accepted and Amelia Quinlan probably not. But the problem here is that, if the Quinlans take their money away, the school will lose a large enough endowment that it will affect the fall semester in a profound way. We’d have to cut classes or let a few teachers go.”

Gio took a moment to process that, and then said, “So you’re accepting Amelia to keep the endowment?”

“Yes.”

It was astonishing that Vanderbrandt seemed to have no compunction about that. Then Gio realized what this could really mean. “Emma McPhee gets to stay?”

“Yes.”

It was an odd sensation to fret about the unfairness of Tracy Quinlan winning while also feeling relief that Emma got to stay. It was unfair, but probably the best outcome he could have hoped for.

There was a long silence, after which Vanderbrandt said, “I’m surprised you haven’t inquired after your own employment.”

That almost seemed beside the point. “I suppose you will tell me what your verdict was.”

Vanderbrandt nodded toward Howell, who said, “We considered asking you to take the fall semester off, but that wouldn’t be fair to the students you’ve already made commitments to. You will continue to work with those students, but your schedule is restricted otherwise. No new students, no additional classes.”

Gio recognized that this was kind of a token punishment—he hadn’t anticipated taking on new students in the fall semester except perhaps for Emma, whom he could easily work with outside of the school—but the stern look on Vanderbrandt’s face indicated that perhaps this was not a widely known fact.

“All right,” Gio said. “I can accept that.”

Howell walked him back down the hall a few minutes later, and Gio found that his feelings were more mixed than he would have anticipated. The Amelia thing aside, this was really the best possible outcome. Why was he not more elated?

“I’ll call the McPhees,” Howell said. “They might appreciate knowing nothing has changed regarding Emma’s place in the program. And I suppose we can finally post who was admitted to the YMP. Then maybe the parents will stop calling me, at least.”

“Yes,” Gio said, though he intended to call Mike soon as well.

“I apologize for putting you through this, but you know how these things go.”

Gio shrugged. “I will not be teaching any YMP classes next semester, and probably not for a while, I’m guessing. So it is immaterial to me.”

Howell stopped near the elevator and crossed his arms over his chest. “You care a great deal more than you’re letting on, but all right. I will take you at your word and carry on with my day.” He shook his head. “But I don’t like it much either.”

Gio closed his eyes for a long moment and tried to get his bearings. “I am grateful that you and the administration are letting me keep my job and also keeping Emma in the program. I am. And maybe I do care, but enough of my personal stuff has been aired because of this mess, so you’ll understand if I’m not eager to share my thoughts.”

Howell pressed the down button. “I understand, Gio. I was there when Vanderbrandt questioned Mike McPhee. My heart went out to him. To both of you. That can’t have been easy.” He took a step back from the elevator. “He seems like a nice man, for what it’s worth.”

“He is.”

“Maybe the two of you would like to come over for dinner sometime soon. Bring Emma. My wife is a great cook.”

“All right.”

Howell bid him farewell and went back to his office, leaving Gio standing near the elevator wondering what had just happened. He pulled out his phone and texted Mike:
Emma’s in and I keep my job
.

When he got back to the first floor, his phone buzzed. Mike had texted him a smiley face.

You spend too much time with teenagers
, Gio texted back.

I know. Come over tonight and we’ll celebrate.

Gio smiled. Together—that was what they’d agreed to that morning. Maybe life wasn’t completely fair, but Gio had Mike, and that felt like a victory. He texted,
I will see you soon. I love you.

Mike texted back,
Love u 2.

G
IO
reached behind him, so Mike took his hand as they walked to their seats. It wasn’t the first time Gio had gotten them orchestra seats to the Metropolitan Opera, but it felt different this time. For one thing, Mike was still partial to the balconies because he loved the theater’s architecture, which you couldn’t see as well from the orchestra section. Also, he was nervous in a way he never had been before.

“This is intense,” Sandy said as they walked across a row to their seats. Mike turned around and saw Sandy gawking and looking around.

Behind him, Sandy’s boyfriend rolled his eyes and said, “Stop staring. You’re so uncouth.”

Sandy grinned. “You like that about me.”

They were cutting it close to performance time. Mike had needed a glass of wine before the show to calm his nerves, so Gio had bought him one from the bar just outside the theater. It had made them all run a little late. The lights dimmed briefly, so Mike took his seat.

Gio reached over and intertwined his fingers with Mike’s. “Calm down,
caro
.”

“I know, but—”

Then the lights dimmed for real and abruptly the orchestra began.

Mike tried to concentrate on the story, reading the subtitles and watching the costumes on stage. They were attending the Julie Taymor production of
Die Zauberflöte
, and as often happened when Mike went to the opera, no amount of Gio—or sometimes Emma, although not tonight—explaining what was going on could make him understand the story clearly. It didn’t help that he was distracted.

But then… then. A lovely eighteen-year-old singer named Emma McPhee came out with the chorus and graced the stage with her presence. Well, she was part of the chorus. Not quite Queen of the Night, but still, Emma’s first time on this stage—definitely not the last, Gio kept saying—and here she was in this famous theater right here at home.

She’d been talking about applying to schools in Europe, which Mike didn’t think his poor heart could handle—the thought of Emma in a foreign country made him feel faint—so, really, that she was right here and starting Juilliard in the fall, these were good things. She was less thrilled when Mike pointed out that the apartment they shared with Gio on West Eighty-fifth Street was awfully convenient to the school, so she didn’t
have
to move to a dorm. That was a battle he sensed he was about to lose.

He squeezed Gio’s hand, thankful he didn’t have to face the empty nest—and his forties, since
that
birthday had happened the previous year—by himself.

At intermission, Gio leaned over and kissed Mike’s shoulder, a gesture lost somewhat in the fabric of Mike’s suit jacket, but one that was appreciated just the same. After four years together, Mike didn’t need the grand gesture to be convinced of Gio’s love, but that didn’t mean he opposed such moments, big or small.

“Our beautiful girl looks quite at home on the stage,” Gio said.

Mike was trying really hard not to cry. He swallowed and nodded.

“I’m proud of her too, Mike.” Gio paused and sat back in his seat. “This will happen every time she performs, won’t it? We will always be awed by it.”

“No. Well, yes, probably.” Mike sighed. “She looks so beautiful in the costume. She….” He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes.

“Let me buy you some more wine,” said Gio.

“No, I’m all right.” Mike turned and looked at Gio, trying to find some solace in his patient gaze. “I’m not ready for her to grow up. I’m not ready for her to go off to college.”

“She’s not going far.”

“I know, but… she’ll be on her own, and I worry and….”

“She will always be your baby.”

“Yes.”

When the opera ended later, and Mike, Gio, and Sandy had shouted, “Bravo!” and “Brava!” until they were hoarse, they all walked out to the fountain in front of Lincoln Center. Mike held Gio’s hand. He still remembered fondly the first night they’d spent together all those years before, when they’d danced to a solo cello in this very spot. Now it felt like they were coming full circle in a way, standing here as part of a family.

Gio made small talk with Sandy and his boyfriend, but Mike focused on looking around the square, waiting for Emma to walk out. They waited a good twenty minutes before she appeared, walking beside a man Mike recognized as one of the actors who played a secondary character. She giggled and clutched at the man’s arm, which got Mike’s hackles up. Her personal life wasn’t helping his blood pressure much, either, although he recognized he didn’t have much of a say anymore. She didn’t date much—Mike suspected the boys at her high school were intimidated by her—but she had gone out with a few musicians from Olcott, and now she was flirting with this opera singer, and Mike realized this was probably just the beginning. God help him.

She saw them and then bid the opera guy farewell with a kiss on the cheek. He beat a hasty retreat, so Mike assumed he wasn’t supposed to know about this guy, although that was a conversation they’d be having later. She wasn’t out of the house
yet
.

Then she ran over and let out a little squeal when she threw her arms around Mike.

“Congratulations, sweetie,” said Mike. He hugged her tightly. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Thanks, Dad.” She took a step back and grinned. Then she hugged Gio. “Thank you too.”

“You looked lovely up there,
cara,
” Gio said.

Gio met Mike’s gaze as Emma hugged Sandy and the boyfriend. Mike’s heart was still pounding, but in a good way. Emma was an adult—almost—and was on the road to a successful singing career, and he could not have been prouder of his little girl. “You know,
amore mio
, this is an occasion for celebration, not for moping.”

“I’m not moping.”

Gio put an arm around Mike. “What do American parents usually threaten when their children move out? To convert their bedrooms into gyms?

Although, I suppose in your case, you intend to turn her room into the Emma McPhee Museum.”

“I’m not that bad.”

“Maybe in a few years we can sell tickets.”

Mike laughed despite himself. “Or perhaps,” Gio went on, “you can look at her impending independence as an opportunity to move on to the next phase of your life. Concentrate on being the king of renovations in New York. Or, alternately, you could just be my handsome husband.”

“I thought I had that last one taken care of.”

Gio smiled and gave Mike a brief peck on the lips. “You do.
Ti amo
.”

“I love you too.”

“Get a room,” called Sandy.

Mike laughed. “Well, anyone who wants to come back to our place for a celebratory cocktail—virgin cocktails for you, Em—is welcome.”

Emma stuck her tongue out at Mike.

“Let’s go home,” said Gio.

K
ATE
M
C
M
URRAY
is a savvy New Yorker and voracious reader and writer. Her books have won several Rainbow Awards. She is currently serving as vice president of Rainbow Romance Writers, the LGBT romance chapter of Romance Writers of America. When she’s not writing, Kate works as a nonfiction editor. She also reads a lot, plays the violin, knits and crochets, and drools over expensive handbags. She’s maybe a tiny bit obsessed with baseball. She lives in Brooklyn, NY, with a pesky cat.

Website: http://www.katemcmurray.com
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