Chapter Twenty
Carly approached her slowly, holding out her hand. Michelangelo trusted her, and she wanted this moment to be special and not awkward. ‘É un piacere conoscerla, signora.’
The old woman took her hand and turned it over as if she didn’t know what to do with it. ‘Carly?’
Carly smiled. ‘That’s right.’
His mother glanced up at him with a keen look. ‘A fine wife for you, Michelangelo.’
Wife! Carly blushed as his mother released her hand.
Michelangelo rolled his eyes. ‘Mamma, Carly’s here with her orchestra. They are coming to play for us.’
She glanced back at Carly, and for a second, the shrewd woman who’d run a winery for decades came back. ‘You play an instrument?’
‘Yes, I play the oboe.’ Hopefully, she knew what that was. Whenever Carly told anyone about the oboe, they always looked confused—as though they weren’t sure if it was the black spindly one, or the big long tube.
Michelangelo’s mother patted him on the arm. ‘You know, Michelangelo plays the guitar.’
Michelangelo—a musician? Carly gave him a suspicious look. ‘You never told me that!’
He laughed and shook his head. ‘Very badly.’
The old woman reached out to Carly and took her hand. ‘Play for me. Play with Michelangelo. I want to hear a song.’
Michelangelo turned her back to the corridor. ‘Mamma, Carly is a professional, classical musician. She doesn’t play oldies.’ He glanced back to Carly and spoke under his breath, ‘Sometimes when I play songs from her past, she remembers things. But you don’t have to play today. We have a lot to prepare for.’
‘No.’ Carly grabbed his arm. ‘We can spare a few minutes. Teach me a song and we’ll play it for her. I’m a fast learner.’
He sighed, checking the clock on the wall. ‘Oh all right. But I can’t assure you my guitar is in tune.’
Half the orchestra wasn’t in tune. ‘That’s okay. I’m used to adjusting.’
Carly retrieved her oboe from the car. They walked his mother up to her room, where his mother’s nurse profusely apologized. Michelangelo waved her back and gave her the next half hour off. He set up two chairs in front of his mother’s bed and dug out his dusty, acoustic guitar. His mother lay under the sheets, tapping her fingers on her stomach in anticipation.
‘Play the first verse and I’ll listen.’ Carly soaked her reed in her I Love New York shot glass by her feet.
Michelangelo leaned over his guitar. ‘This is a saltarello, a traditional Italian folk dance. My mother requested this at her wedding, and later we’d sing it when we danced together when I was a kid.’ He took a deep breath. ‘The chord structure is a simple one-five-one, going from E-flat major to B-flat.’
‘Sounds easy enough.’ Carly stuck her reed in. ‘I’m ready.’
His fingers paused over the strings.
‘What’s the matter?’
He laughed. ‘I’m nervous.’
A surge of adrenaline hit her. She’d played in front of audiences of thousands. How could she be nervous now? ‘I’m nervous, too.’
‘You? Nervous?’
‘Well, my last performance wasn’t so hot.’ But it wasn’t about that, really. She wanted to impress Michelangelo’s mother. She wanted her stamp of approval.
He smiled. ‘I don’t think that was your fault.’
Before she could respond, he strummed a chord. His fingers plucked a simple, charming melody. After the introduction, he took a deep breath and sang. His bass voice wasn’t operatic material, but to Carly it was beautiful with its raw honesty. The words were in Italian, and she could pick out certain phrases about celebrating and love.
When the verse ended, she picked up her oboe and came in, playing in a counter-melody to his vocals. She played at a mezzo forte so as to not cover his voice. Their harmony together struck her as natural and intimate. She could predict his rubatos and speed and slow the music to his pacing along with the melody.
His mother moved her hands through the air as if she were conducting them, lilting back and forth to their beat. She hummed along to their melody, a sparkle dancing in her eyes.
It was the most satisfying musical experience in Carly’s life. Playing here with Michelangelo and trying to give a woman back a moment of her precious memories was so much more meaningful than playing for anonymous audiences and critics. This was what music was meant to be, and this was where she was meant to be—alongside Michelangelo at his winery, helping him take care of his ailing mother. A deep ache resonated inside her along with the music. She hadn’t felt this way about performing in a long time. The music had stopped becoming a pleasure and had turned into a routine, a job. She’d lost the heart that made it magical. No wonder the critics didn’t like her aria.
If only I could stay.
Michelangelo ended the song in a flourish of chords, and Carly tapered the last note to perfection. He brought his guitar down, awestruck and breathless. ‘That was wonderful.’
Warm tingles ran all over her, setting her on fire. ‘We play together as if we’ve played together our whole lives.’
He stared into her eyes with a passion she’d never seen before. His lips parted slightly, and she ached to close the distance and kiss them.
His mother clapped. ‘Bravo! Bravo!’
Michelangelo set his guitar against the chair and ran to her bedside. He took her hand. ‘Did you enjoy it?’
She patted his hand. ‘Almost as much as when your father spun me around the dance floor on our wedding day.’
Signora Ricci remembered.
Michelangelo glanced at Carly. His face beamed with joy, melting Carly’s heart. He mouthed the words thank you.
She should have thanked him. With one song he’d taught her what all of her teachers at the university had only been able to tell her: music could be magical when best shared with those you love.
Michelangelo led Carly from his mother’s room, allowing Lila to take over. His mother slept soundly, tucked in the same bed she’d shared with his father for the last fifty years. Michelangelo’s great grandfather had carved the headboard with the Ricci arms over a hundred years ago, and it hadn’t left the room since. He hoped he could keep it that way.
Michelangelo took Carly’s hand, smoothing his thumb over her smooth skin. ‘Thank you for what you did back there.’
She glanced down as if shy. ‘Thank you for introducing me.’
He’d never seen her like this. Was she really opening up for the first time? Letting down her hard-hitting business face and her witty sarcasm?
Carly squeezed his hand and then let it go. ‘What can we do to set up?’
‘I can move the chairs and you can tell me where they go.’ He smiled. ‘Even though I’ve seen three concerts, I still can’t remember how many violins there are.’
Carly laughed. ‘I’m not sure I know myself, but I’ll try my best.’
He led her outside and they walked to the patio overlooking the vineyard. Rudolfo and the other workers had already transported the stacked chairs from the storage barns out back to the cobblestone.
‘Wow, this is where the concert is going to be?’ Carly walked to the edge of the cobblestone and blocked her eyes against the sun as it rose in the sky, casting the vineyard in golden light. ‘It’s magnificent.’
‘It’s home.’ And it could be hers, too. The thought hit him hard in the gut. Was he really that serious about her? After less than two weeks? If he’d told himself he’d be falling this hard for an American girl on the tour, he wouldn’t have believed it. But now, accepting this tour and meeting her seemed like fate. He’d needed more than money when he took Mrs. Maxhammer’s offer. He’d needed someone like Carly. He just hadn’t known it yet.
He wanted to put his arm around her and hold her close, watching the sun rise together, but that would be too forward. Carly moved toward the chairs and the moment slipped from his fingers.
‘First thing you need to know about an orchestra is that they need space.’ Carly took the top chair off the rack and stood it in the center of the patio. ‘Or else you’ll have a violinists bow poking the piccolo player in the eye.’
‘Point taken.’ He took the next chair and set it a few feet away. ‘How’s this?’
‘Perfect.’ She brought another chair over. ‘Make sure they curve out in a semicircle around the conductor’s podium.’
‘Which is here?’ He stood on a patch of broken cobblestone.
Carly smirked. ‘No, that’s the violas. But you’re close.’
‘I can see why Mrs. Maxhammer had you go with me.’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘If I’d set this up all by myself, you’d have a one-eyed piccolo player and a lost conductor.’
Carly waved her hand. ‘You would have been fine. The orchestra can move their chairs around themselves.’ She gave him a sly, sideways glance. ‘Besides, I don’t think setting up is the only reason Mrs. Maxhammer let me come home with you.’
His heart jump-started. ‘Oh really? And what is this other reason?’
Carly shrugged and looked away as if she’d said too much. ‘Come help me with the next stack. It’s too high for me to reach.’
They set up chairs for the rest of the day, making the audience weave in between the rows of vines. Isabella brought them bread and cheese for lunch, but by the end of the day, he was exhausted and ravenous.
Carly had taken off her outer shirt and she looked so sexy in her tank top and shorts. A light sunburn covered her shoulder and the bridge of her nose. ‘Is there anything else you can think of that we can do to prepare?’
Michelangelo shook his head. ‘I think we’ve done enough for today. Let’s head back to the house.’
Carly wiped sweat from her brow. ‘Sounds good to me. My arms feel like they’re going to fall off.’
He ran a finger down her arm, wishing he could massage her tired muscles. ‘You did a great job. I’m not sure we can fill all the seats you set up.’
‘Let’s hope so.’ Carly walked beside him as they headed toward the house. ‘And I didn’t do it alone. You set up about twice as many chairs as I did.’
‘I’ll do anything I can to save this place.’ He put his arm around her. ‘It feels so good to be able to do something to help my winery. All summer I sat on that patio, watching helplessly as my mother and the vineyard slipped away from me.’
‘It must have been awful thinking there was nothing you could do.’
He nodded, relieved he could talk with her about his problems. ‘One of those days, Isabella brought me the newspaper. We’d canceled it a long time ago, but I guess that paperboy messed up his route, or forgot. Anyway, that particular paper made it into my hands, and it had Ms. Maxhammer’s ad.’
Carly raised an eyebrow. ‘Would you call that fate?’
‘Perhaps.’ Michelangelo tightened his arm around her shoulders, pulling her against him. ‘It led me to you.’
Carly felt way too good under his arm, and he didn’t think he could hold back any longer. Michelangelo pulled away before he stole a kiss, which would lead to another and another. ‘Come, let me make you dinner. You can try some of my family’s wine.’
A smile etched its way into the corners of her lips. ‘I’d like that very much.’
Michelangelo led her through the back door to the kitchen. A southern-facing window looked out over a patch of old vines from the original vineyard. While Carly watched the moon rise over the hills, he started a pot of boiling water and found a bag of homemade pasta he’d bought at the market down the street. At the time when he bought it, he thought he’d be eating it alone with the jar of homemade tomato sauce, which was just like his mamma used to make. The serendipity of the situation gave him hope.
‘The vineyard looks so magical at night.’ Carly ran her fingertips along the windowsill. ‘You were right when you said there was nothing like it.’
Michelangelo emptied the bag of pasta in the water and warmed the pan of sauce. ‘I’m happy to share it with you.’
Carly turned from the window, a flush in her cheeks. Intensity burned in her gaze. ‘Being here has brought up emotions inside of me that I didn’t think existed.’
Michelangelo’s chest tightened. ‘Does that scare you?’
Carly laughed. ‘Maybe a little. But, more than that, it opens my eyes to a whole new world, a different way of life, more possibilities.’ She drew out the word possibilities as if inferring a deeper meaning.
The temperature in the kitchen rose fifteen degrees and he didn’t think it was the cooking. Michelangelo drained the pasta and stirred in the sauce, thankful to have a task to employ his eager hands. He ached to go over there and wrap his arms around her, but he didn’t want to come on too strongly. With his winery on the line, he could be homeless in less than a week. He really couldn’t promise her anything. He had nothing to offer. As much as he wanted Carly, he let the comment drift away. ‘Dinner is ready.’
Carly walked over. ‘Is there something I can help you with?’
Michelangelo pulled out two brightly painted plates from the cupboard. ‘Yes.’ He gestured toward a wine rack on the countertop. ‘Choose a wine.’
As Carly wandered over and pulled out bottle by bottle to read the labels, Michelangelo set the table with two steaming plates of fettuccini. Hopefully, she wasn’t one of those carb-counters or a relationship would be almost impossible. Pasta was one of his favorites.
Why I’m thinking about a relationship right now is beyond me. He lit two long tapered candles and the romantic feelings stirring deep inside him came to the surface. He wasn’t sure he could hold them down any longer. Part of him didn’t care. He’d given everything to this vineyard, so what was one night away from duty?
‘How about this one?’ She pulled a red Merlot, aged to perfection over the last ten years, from the rack. Those grapes had been harvested by his father when he was still a teen.
Michelangelo smiled. He couldn’t have chosen better himself. ‘Perfetto!’
Carly brought the wine to the table, the deep-crimson liquid glowing in the golden candlelight. ‘My goodness you’ve cooked a feast.’
He froze with his hand over the wine-opener. ‘You do like pasta, don’t you?’
She pulled out her chair and sat down. ‘Love it.’
Michelangelo breathed easily. ‘Good.’
As he popped the cork and poured two glasses, he wondered just what he was going to do with her. What did she want?
‘So, are you enjoying your stay in Italy?’
She sipped her wine and licked her lips, giving him memories of what it tasted like to kiss her. ‘I have to say it’s grown on me.’
Michelangelo twirled the fettuccini around his fork with practiced grace. ‘When I first met you, you said you’d never come back. Is that still true or did I change your mind?’
Carly glanced down at the table, and he couldn’t read her expression. ‘My life is very complicated, scheduled down to each hour of every day. Being a freelance musician, you have to take every gig offered to you. It’s the only way to play the game and win. When I first got here, that’s all I could think about—which gigs I was missing out on and how soon I could get back.’
She looked up again, the sheer determination and vulnerability he’d seen in her eyes that first day had come back. ‘The funny thing is, right now, I don’t want to leave.’
He almost dropped his fork. If only he had his winery, he could offer her a place to stay and explore their feelings for each other, and then, perhaps, establish herself in Italy. But all of that depended on the concert and how much money they raised. Besides, it could just be a passing fancy, and she’d miss her Boston gig life soon enough. The closer he got to her, the more she’d hurt him if she left. This time it would be worse than all the others who’d left before.
‘I don’t want you to leave, either, but there are some things we may not be able to change.’ Michelangelo collected his empty plate and stood still. ‘There are guest rooms upstairs. You are welcome to stay in any one of them you’d like.’ As long as this place stands.
Carly raised an eyebrow. ‘Guest rooms?’
‘Yes.’
She finished her wine. ‘And where will you be sleeping?’
‘I have a room down the hall from my mother. It used to be a guest room, but I moved upstairs to keep an eye on her.’
She set the glass down with finality and held his gaze. ‘You said I could stay in any one of the guest rooms, right?’
He nodded.
She crossed her legs and leaned back in her chair. ‘Well, I’d very much like to see yours.’
Heat rushed from Michelangelo’s head to his toes. He’d very much like her to see his room as well. But was this the best for both of them? Right before the big fundraising concert that would decide both their careers? To hell with it. He’d handle the aftermath later. ‘Shall we?’