Nocturne (5 page)

Each year there was always a fresh batch of rumors about who got in and why. Some people were accused of bribing members of the pre-audition committee in various ways, but others, reportedly, took it all the way to the top and went for the jugular. Paying off the school.

I knew there were enough people at the conservatory that knew who my mother was, but the fact that Gregory Fitzgerald didn’t calmed me somehow.

Marcia rolled her eyes when I told her Fitzgerald was the new instructor for my music theory class. Luckily, Madeline was able to set me up with a trusted colleague of hers to provide my private instruction for the remainder of the semester. Marcia actually had Gregory, as he requested she call him—which shocked the hell out of me for some reason—for her private instruction. She was thrilled to learn from the best cellist at the conservatory, and, really, in the country, but she found his style a bit militant.

I shook my head, lifted my chin, and resumed practicing.

Open throat. Don’t let your fingers get ahead of your eyes.

I don’t know why the hell Gregory Fitzgerald got under my skin.

Yes, I do. He was an arrogant, snobby musical stereotype of the worst kind. He barely looked out into the class when he was talking, and when he did, his clear blue eyes shot through me like ice. He was only ten years or so older than me. His thick, black hair and fairly tight physique spoke to that. But the grim, smug expression he plastered on his face aged him another ten. Easily.

Seeing him at Murphy’s with James Mahone that day caught me off guard. I wanted to blow him off, ignore him the way he ignores all of us when we’re out in public. But, he wasn’t ignoring me. I’d caught him staring at me, and it didn’t infuriate me. It excited me. I felt his eyes on me as I took off my coat, and when I turned toward him, those blue eyes pulled a juvenile
hi
from me before I could filter it. He grinned back, returned the greeting, and I wanted to melt.
He might be human after all
, I thought.

Before I knew it, I stumbled across a string of notes that should have been an easy run.

Shit, see what happens? Focus. He’s still awful, even if his smile did that to your insides.

I took a deep breath, exhaling all thoughts of the annoying, lifeless professor, and started the piece over again. This time, it was good. Not ideal—I had to slow down a few times over some of the runs, and my throat was definitely going to be sore in the morning, but it was good. I groaned at the thought of the exercises I’d have to get back into doing to pull off this, and other pieces, with solid tone.

“You know,” Nathan startled me as he walked into my dorm room, “they have soundproof practice rooms so you can grumble in private.” He sat next to me on my bed as I put my flute away.

“I know, jerk,” I teased, “I just wanted to get one last go at this piece before quiet hours. How many pieces are you playing for your recital?”

Nathan ran a hand through his thick, dark curls as he sighed. “Three.”

“Don’t sound too excited, or anything,” I toned out sarcastically. He didn’t laugh. “Hey,” I put my case away and placed my hand on his leg, “you okay?”

He stared at my hand for a second before shaking his head. “Yeah, I’m fine. You ready to go out?” He stood and held out his hand for me. I took it.

“Absolutely. Just don’t drink as much as you did last time. You got all weird.”

Nathan stopped at the door, dropping his hand from mine. “What do you mean?”

I shrugged. “You just drank a ton and then got all … I don’t know … sad.” I shrugged again, indicating I had no idea what he was going to say that night.

“Sorry…” he trailed off, running both hands through his hair.

“Don’t be. Just don’t drink
all
the liquor at the bar tonight.” I giggled and took his hand again. An easy smile spread across his face as he followed me down the hall.

“So,” he seemed eager to change the subject, “that piece you were playing when I walked in requires a cellist.”

“Uh-huh, I’m going to ask Marcia to do it, I think.”

“What?” Nathan asked as he held the main door open for me. “You don’t want the dashing professor to do it?”

I let out a full-throated laugh. “Yeah, can you imagine? I’m going to have a hard enough time passing the newest assignment.”

“I don't understand why you keep poking the lion. You deserved a way better grade on your canon, it was brilliant.”

“I know," I said. “But I’m excited about it, because I think I can turn the piece into something really exciting—”

“He’ll fail it,” Nathan cut in.

I nodded. “I’m sure of it,” I said with a smile.

I knew what Fitzgerald was looking for when he gave us those assignments. He wanted us to play by all the rules that held his brain in his head. Rules that would make our compositions indistinguishable from the composer at hand. As much fun as that sounded, I was determined to breathe new life into old music. To keep it alive and fluid and moving. Snobby professor-be-damned.

Nathan chuckled. “I wish I could play along in your effort to make his head explode, Savannah, I really do. But, I put off this class for the last minute so I could take it with you, and if I fail it, I’m screwed.”

“I appreciate the sentiment.” Idly, I found myself wanting to see what my latest composition looked like through those gorgeous blue eyes that belonged to Gregory Fitzgerald.

“Whatchya thinking about?” Nathan asked as he wrapped his long arm around my shoulders.

“Oh,” I sighed, “just what a fucking long semester this would be if I didn’t have you to sit next to in that theory class.”

He smiled and kissed the top of my head. “Anything for you, doll.”

I tilted my chin to meet his eyes. “I might hold you to that if I end up in jail for strangling him. He’s so boxed in it drives me crazy.”

Nathan just laughed and kissed my head again. “Please do your best not to end up in jail, Savannah.”

“I’ll try,” I smiled, “promise.”

Savannah

A
couple of weeks later,
I stared at my perfectly glossed lips in the mirror one last time before meeting Nathan in the entrance of the dorm.

It’s going to be fine, Savannah. Just ... it’s going to be fine.

“Happy birthday, Savannah.” Nathan linked arms with me and we headed down the stairs to go meet my dad.

“Thank you, gorgeous.” I smiled, playfully messing up his short, dark curls. I was definitely excited to enjoy my night with the people I loved.

Twenty-one.

I guess that would mean something to someone who did things in an ordinary fashion. While I’d moved back to the States with my dad when I was eight, spending summers in Europe led to me having my first drink out in a tiny restaurant in Italy when I was sixteen. It was a vintage Pinot Noir my mother had ordered for the table. I was worried that I’d disappoint her, somehow, if I hated it. I didn’t. It was the best thing I’d ever tasted. Smooth and smoky, it sucked me in, and now I’ll rarely order anything else if an Italian Pinot Noir is on the menu.

“Hey Dad!”

My dad, Stephen, leaned against the entrance to the opera house. He wore a black tux underneath a grey cashmere and wool overcoat. The plaid scarf I’d purchased for him on holiday in Scotland when I was twelve made me smile almost as much as his warm brown eyes.

My mother was prima donna at
Teatro Alla Scala
for the last fifteen years, and my parents and I lived together in Italy, traveling Europe as her schedule permitted. My dad moved me back to Philadelphia with him right before eighth grade, and we lived with my grandparents so I could go to school like a “normal kid.” As normal as could be expected when your mother is a world-renowned opera singer.

Of course, middle school isn’t the ideal time to relocate countries and be
normal.
One of the reasons I think Nathan and I became so close was because he was one of the few people I met then who really understood me.

“Happy birthday, sweetheart.” My dad gave me a tight squeeze and then reached out to shake Nathan’s hand. “Good to see you again, son.”

“Great to see you, Mr. Marshall.” Nathan quickly brushed his hand off on his pants, even though both of them were wearing gloves, and he shook my dad’s hand.

My dad grinned and ran his hand over his increasingly thinning hair. “Oh for God’s sake, Nathan, for more than ten years I’ve been insisting that you call me Steve.” He chuckled.

Before heading up the stairs, I smoothed my hands over my floor-length emerald gown. In my everyday life, I found it a major facade to have to “dress a certain way.” Just to make a point, I had underdressed for my audition to the conservatory. You could say that my point was made, since I got in, but Madeline White softly scolded me about it later. However, tonight wasn’t my everyday life. Yes, it was my birthday, but tonight my mother was performing as a special guest in
Tosca
. I’d never seen her sing this particular opera, and I was anxious and excited. I was thrilled to see her, and respected every bit of pomp and circumstance that went along with the opera.

“Is it lame that I’m really excited to see your mom sing?” Nathan whispered as we made our way to our excellent, “special guest” seats.

“No,” I whispered back, “I’m super excited too. It’s been a long time for me.” The anticipation alone gave me goosebumps.

While Nathan and I have been friends for more than ten years, my mom worked so much—and most of it overseas—that he’s never seen her perform live. And it’s always better live.

As we settled into our seats, I couldn’t help but wonder what
Gregory
would think of all of this. While his class was proving to be thoroughly more irritating than I could have even imagined, the image of him playing that Bach piece on our first day of class was still seared in my brain. The man was a walking contradiction. He spent the last several weeks trying to prove to us that music was all science and math. His point of doing that Bach piece, he told us the next day, was to illustrate that if you study how music is written, you could, in theory, start a piece and finish it on your own, even if sight reading, because everything is a formula. He said the trick, however, was to still be able to put feeling into it, which, in his mind, came from more practice.

That was an incredible lie I really think he believed. What was going on with his body and on his face while he was playing that piece was anything
but
practiced. I wondered, idly, if he’d ever seen himself play. Surely he has recordings of his Pops performances? Whatever his reason for insisting that practice really does make perfect, natural talent or not, he was hell bent on teaching the class his way.

Still, thoughts of his eyes scanning over my body a few days ago in Murphy’s had me silently wishing he was sitting next to me, watching me more. My stomach flipped the way it did when he grinned at me, and I shifted in my seat, trying to ignore my thoughts.

Sitting between my dad and Nathan, I pulled out the program. As always, I was filled with pride to see her name. I saved every program of hers I could get my hands on. She’d send me some, and her agent would send me the rest when she was on a whirlwind tour.

“Dad,” I whispered, “Mom says she gets a break for a while after this?” I spoke to my mother earlier in the week, and she said she would have a few months off before deciding if she wanted to continue. That’s the longest break I can remember her having, and the first time she alluded to possible retirement.

He nodded, with a strange, tight look passing over his face. “That’s the word.”

Before I could respond, the lights dimmed, the orchestra tuned, the show was on, and I was lost in it. My mom’s stage presence really was something to covet. She was gorgeous. Tall, my height, but deep, rich black hair that accented her Italian olive skin. Her face was made even more impossibly beautiful by enticing blue eyes—eyes that were in such stark contrast to the rest of her dark features that they almost looked fake. She wasn’t born in Italy, but her parents were, and Italian was always spoken in her house growing up—it was the natural place for her to want to carry out her career.

By the time the second act was underway, I pried my eyes away from the stage and looked at my dad. As my mother’s voice reached nearly every octave possible, his eyes widened and glistened. The reverence beaming from his face highlighted the deep love and admiration he’s always had for her. And she was in love with the opera. It wasn’t that she didn’t love my dad. It’s just that opera was her first love, and you can’t come between first loves—people or not. She was singing long before she met him, and he took on the role of supporting that, no matter what it meant for him. They met when he played in the pit for one of her shows. He’s a French horn player. Or was.

I gave his hand a slight squeeze, which seemed to startle him, and he took an exaggerated breath before looking at me. Something on his face had changed. I’d never seen that lonely look in his eyes before. I cautiously glanced back to my mom on stage before returning to his face. He nodded, as if to tell me everything was fine, but I started to wonder if twenty years of success in a certain kind of marriage would translate into the same success when the structure changed.