Page 9 of Every Step She Takes
“We’re just kids,” she said.
Behind me, Isabella admonished her daughter, but I knew what lay behind Tiana’s very adult look of disapproval: years of people stumbling over themselves around her family, years of not being treated like a normal child. And oh, look, here was her new music tutor, starstruck already, stammering and stumbling, eager to email her friends with “OMG, I’m here!!!” complete with surreptitiously snapped photos.
When she reminded me that they were just kids, I paused only a heartbeat before coming back with, “And I’m just a klutz.”
I took her hand in a firm clasp. “Lucy. Your Mary Poppins for the summer.”
As I said it, I realized the reference might not mean anything to her, but she snorted and rolled her eyes.
“You gonna teach me to sing and dance on rooftops?” she asked.
“Sing, yes. As for dancing… you did notice me tripping over my own feet, right?”
Another snort, but some of the disapproval leached from her eyes. She lowered herself onto her lounge chair again and picked up her book. I glanced at the cover, expecting something suitably tween-friendly. It was1984.
“Nice beach read,” I said.
The corners of her mouth twitched. “I thought so.”
Behind us, Isabella held the swim shirt over the pool edge for Jamison, who was ignoring her by swimming underwater. I kicked off my sandals, took the shirt and jumped in, not even thinking of what I was doing until the water closed over my head. I caught Isabella’s laugh of surprise and Tiana’s muffled voice, but I stayed under, holding the swim shirt out for Jamison. He saw me, his dark eyes widening. We both surfaced, and he took the shirt with a crooked smile.
“That’s one way to do it,” Isabella said, still laughing.
I swam to the side just as feet slapped on concrete, and Tiana said, “Hey, Dad.”
I glanced up, straight into the sun, and squinted. I could only make out the shape of a man. I started to heave myself out. Then I realized I was wearing a soaking-wet sundress and dropped back into the water.
“Jamie was being a goof,” Tiana said, “pretending he couldn’t see Mom with his swim shirt. Our summer Mary Poppins fixed the problem.”
A low chuckle. “I see that.”
The figure bent at the poolside, and a hand appeared from the sun-shaded shadow. I squinted up into a face that sent a jolt of recognition through me. I might have blanked on Colt Gordon’s name, but seeing that square jaw, the cleft chin, those bright blue eyes, I instantly recognized him.
Those eyes met mine in a direct look that only lasted a second before they moved on, to my relief. I was an eighteen year-old girl in a movie star’s house – I didn’t want to catch his attention. But he met my gaze only perfunctorily, quickly shook my upheld hand, and then rose, calling to Jamison.
“Give me a minute to change, buddy, and then I’ll join you while Lucy gets herself settled in.”
Jamison nodded, and with a peck on Isabella’s cheek, Colt strode into the house.
I exhaled and climbed out as Isabella handed me a towel.
Chapter Five
Rome, 2019
Normally, Thursdays are my least favorite day of the week. It’s my busiest, gone from dawn until dusk, with barely enough time to grab an espresso between gigs. Today, though, I thank God it’s Thursday. It keeps me too busy to think of that letter.
It’s a ticking clock, warning of impending explosion. I will not allow the explosion this time. I’ll wait it out and pray Isabella takes a hint and backs off.
That day, I teach, and I play, and I teach some more and play some more. It’s not the New York Philharmonic, but in many ways, this is better. Less stress and more job security.
At one time, I looked at musicians like me, hustling with side gigs, and I pitied them. They’d clearly failed in their chosen career. Now I know better. I am happier here than I ever would have been as first viola in a major orchestra. For every kid who sulks through my lessons, there’s another who loves it the way I did or an adult who comes home from a long day and cannot wait to make music. Then I play with my small groups, all of us playing for the sheer love of it, with an audience who is there by choice, no one suffering through while reminding themselves that they’re supporting the arts.
After an 8 p.m. outdoor performance, I should be dragging my ass home, but I’m floating instead. This evening, Marco has back-to-back tours through the Capuchin Crypt and the Catacombs of Priscilla, and we’re texting as I walk home. That’s normal for us. When we’re together, we talk as if we haven’t seen each other in weeks. When we’re apart, there’s a casual back and forth that can last for hours, an unhurried exchange that’ll go twenty minutes between responses while he’s busy with his tours and I’m busy with my lessons or performances.
Tonight, someone suffered an emotional breakdown in the crypt. It happens. The chapels are an artistic display of monks’ bones with a singular message:someday, this will be you.It’s a powerful memento mori. Too powerful for some. Marco handled the situation with grace, as always. He has a degree in psychology, and while he’s never used it – as far as I know – he has a therapist’s knack for dealing with stressed tourists.
As I walk, I pause on the Garibaldi Bridge to gaze out at the lights reflected in the Tiber below. Tourists pass, a dozen languages of excited chatter swirling around me. It’s a gorgeous night, and I’m walking alone through the streets of Rome, and I have rarely been happier. My youngest student performed her first piece today. I got to play a solo in a historic Roman park. And my lover is keeping me entertained with amusing missives from tour-guide life. I fairly float over the cobblestone roads, and then swing up my endless flights of stairs, planning to raid the fridge for a late dinner on the terrace. I’ll also suggest that Marco stop by for the night since his tour ends a half mile away.
