Everything in my life lately has comical timing. I swear, it’s never ending. First, Christian keeping me on my toes with the state of us. Second, David acting strange when I need my closest friend the most. Third, back to Christian, who kinda, slightly, the teensiest bit agreed to feed my vineyard dreams. And fourth, the best of all, the LA Philharmonic audition coming up in the middle of all of this madness—yes, they accepted my resume. Well, I have one more point to add to the list.
Today is the first Sunday dinner with the whole family since before Italy due to our busy schedules and Flora’s store opening. My parents cannot, I repeat, cannot know about my audition. They’ll already be trying to talk me out of switching careers without this knowledge.
So, let’s review. I’m hiding that I’m planning a trip to Temecula Valley from Christian and the audition from my parents?! I’m going to need a notebook to keep track of everything soon. Who am I? But I’ll let the truth emerge when the timing is right. It has to eventually, or I’ll burst.
The pocket of these jeans still contains the P scrap paper from the beach, since I haven’t washed them yet, so I touch it as a reminder that the best is yet to come. Pietro never let obstacles stop him, and without even knowing him, I think we may be alike in that way. We better be. We have to be.
“Remember,” I remind Christian as we approach the front door of my childhood home on Rinaldi Street, “I’d rather my family not know about the audition. You know they’ll be asking a million questions already, so we don’t need more ammunition against my plan B in life.”
“I got you covered.”
Does he? I wish I could rely on those words.
“Thanks. I owe you.” I adjust the straps of my cello case on my shoulders.
Seconds after pressing my parents’ doorbell, Dad answers. “Ay, you two. Get your butts in here.”
As we walk through the door frame, he bear hugs us both, patting my case as a finale. Good thing I held the cookies I brought off to the side, or they’d be crushed in the love lock.
“Your mom is in the kitchen, cooking up something special for us today.”
“Oh, good. I smell it and like it already.” Sniffing in loud exaggeration, I set down my cello and proceed to their tiny kitchen to the left.
Christian follows.
“Hi, Viola.” He beats me to greeting my mom, who’s bent over the stove looking like a mad scientist.
“Hey, Mom.” I set down the ricotta cookies on the counter. “Even though it’s not Christmastime yet, I was in the mood for these.”
She glances at them. “Thanks, kids. One sec,” she says, hitting her red stirring spoon on the large pot then resting it on a paper towel on the counter. “Huggy, huggy.”
“Mom, we aren’t five,” I mumble through my squashed face on her body.
“You’ll always be my bambina.”
“Am I chopped liver?” Christian slouches and pouts.
“Never!” She repeats her embrace for him.
After all the hugging, I ask, “What are you making?”
“I brought home carnaroli rice so we could have a taste of the Pavia region at home.”
“Yum. It makes the risotto dreamily creamy.” Food talk can make me loopy in an instant.
Christian moves his head up and down. “I don’t remember having that there, but now that you say creamy, the risotto is always thicker in Stradella versus here.”
“That’s right. But I’m making it different than what we had there. Just simple, with lemon, garlic, onion, chives, basil—” Mom stops talking on a cliffhanger.
I walk to the stove to inspect the glory in progress. “Is there another ingredient?”
She answers, “Dry white wine.”
I hear my heartbeat in my ears. The wine conversation is already starting? Act like everything is normal, Toni. “Ah, yum times two,” I manage to say.
“Mm-hmm,” Mom sharply murmurs.
I need to escape the thick air. “Let me know if you need help.” Walk away, walk away, walk away.
“I can help too,” Christian adds, again following me.
We end up in the family room with my dad, who’s in front of his newest model of a keyboard—he’s the most technology-savvy, tech-loving person I know. Making ourselves comfortable on the couch, I grab a few olives from the bowl on the coffee table and pop one in my mouth. The salty pleasure of Mediterranean olives reminds me of home since it’s my parents’ go-to pre-dinner snack.
“Is she ready?” Dad asks.
I know exactly what he means. “Of course she is. Want me to get her?” I throw the rest of the olives in my mouth and dry my damp fingers on my jeans.
Meanwhile, Dad’s fingers grace the keyboard as the 2/4 drumbeat provides a driving rhythm. “Yes, it’s been too long.”
After I place my cello in position, Dad makes sure to switch his sound to piano on the keyboard, the signal for us to start jamming. This tradition before Sunday dinner started when I was learning to play cello. The squeaking, severely out of tune noise my family had to put up with…oh my God, can you imagine? Flora playing flute not too long after me added to amateur hour, though Dad was far beyond our novice stage and helped our family’s sound to be tolerable to Mom, I’m sure.
Even though he’s a professional keyboardist, living a work life similar to mine, it never seemed to bother him. When he’d get home every night from his school job, he’d have a smile on his face and be ready to help my sister or me with pieces we needed to practice. Private students were reserved for weekend work, but never, ever on Sundays. I’ve followed in his footsteps with that rule as well. Sundays are for rest, as most Italian families agree.
After a few minutes of our duet, my accompaniment halts.
“You’re not playing the same today.” Dad stares at me with questioning eyes.
“Oh, I…I don’t know what you mean.” I exchange a guarded look with Christian.
“I feel it. Your heart’s not in it. What’s wrong?” His expression remains quizzical.
My dad doesn’t play games, so if he means what I think he means, he’d directly ask me. But is it obvious my mind is elsewhere these days? That isn’t good. I have to get myself together for the audition. I have to see if I can make it, even if I continue on the path of vines, just to prove to myself I can do it.
“Nothing,” finally escapes my mouth. “I must be hungry.”
He squints and offers, “Let’s hit it again,” then nods to signal our start.
This time, I concentrate more than usual to make up for any hint of a lack of care. Focusing on my dad’s joy—his smile, his body shifting to the beat, the energy in his fingers hitting the keys—spreading across his instrument overtakes me. The vibrancy of the notes dancing within and without feels right. Feels like home.
This house is where my original dream started and where I almost achieved it. I shouldn’t dodge it with my parents. As I move my fingers faster and faster to keep up with the intensity of Dad’s rhythm, the high of musical expression and need for release overtakes me, and I blurt out, “I have an audition for LA Phil again.”
He stops playing and raises his eyebrows.
Christian adjusts his position on the couch, sitting up straighter.
Dad finally speaks. “That’s great news, honey. Viola, did you hear that?”
“What? The onions and garlic are sautéing in here, so it’s loud,” she responds.
“Toni’s got another audition for the LA Philharmonic!” he screams toward the kitchen.
Mom peeks her head around the corner. “I’m glad to hear it. I want to hear everything at dinner.”
Mom doesn’t beat around the bush either, so I know what she means by everything. Why did I open my big mouth? I exhale and say, “Alright,” to her. “Dad, let’s just keep playing. I’ll update you both in a little bit.”
I’m not saying that to get out of a conversation I don’t want to have; I’m saying it for the love of playing with my dad. If you asked me about my favorite times with him, this tradition of filling the house with music while Mom’s cooking harmonizes with it would be my answer every single time. Besides, I need food in my stomach for the discussion to come.
As soon as Dad and I stop playing when dinner is ready, Christian whispers, “I thought you weren’t going to tell them.”
I shrug. “The moment moved me.” Plus, I’m relieved to only carry one secret from a loved one.
I pull out a chair at the dining room table next to Flora, who just arrived.
“Sorry, guys. The store was slammed today. I gotta ride the wave when I can.” Flora laughs.
“You’re in the green room.” Christian shakes his fisted hand with raised pinky and thumb at my sister in true Cali-surfer style.
“Here’s hoping, bro. It’s every surfer’s goal to be in the barrel of a wave.” She grabs a steaming hot homemade roll, splits it open, and swipes her knife along the stick of butter.
Dad pours a small amount of white wine for each of us, except in Christian’s glass. “We brought this riesling Italico back from Oltrepò Pavese. Tell us what you think.”
“Carmine, I’d like a little today. I had a few sips of wine recently, and they weren’t half-bad.”
“Was it only half-good? Bah.” Dad pretends to be offended then grins and pours wine for Christian.
“I’m ready for that risotto, Mom,” I say. Devour time is here.
She sets the overflowing, starch-filled bowl in the middle of the table, and I catch a glimpse of my cello and Dad’s keyboard behind her, laying peacefully and waiting to be loved again. The garlic inhabits my nostrils, and I dive for the spoon first out of anyone at the table. “Sorry. My stomach is growling.”
“That’s my lady.” Christian raises his plate, and I scoop a heaping amount for him as well.
Is that a half-bad or half-good comment? Much like the wine, who knows? I wish I didn’t have to guess.
Once everyone is settled at the table, Dad holds up his wine glass and says, “Salute.”
Five glasses clink in varying tones as we repeat the word I adore.
Taking the first taste of the wine from my heritage’s region fills my body with refreshment. “Mmm, this is good, guys.”
“Not too shabby, you two.” Christian smiles and ingests another small sip.
The wine is winning my husband over. Holy cannoli.
“So, how’s the store, Flora?” Dad asks, mouth full of bread.
And you wonder where I get it from.
Flora chews like Mom, mouth closed and proper, waiting to speak until all is swallowed. “I’ve never been happier.”
Her response sends a chill of satisfaction throughout my body. She knew what she wanted, took a risk, and did it. “You’re my hero, sis.”
“I don’t know about that, but thanks. It’s a lot of hard work—harder than I imagined—but it’s worth it.” She dabs her mouth with a napkin.
Mom chimes in, “Lots of hard work, indeed,” then meets my eyes.
“Toni.” Dad dips his head, looking up from below his bushy eyebrows. “Tell us about this vineyard thing from the other night. I’m a little confused.”
Are those screeching tires in the family room? I take a deep breath and say what they already know. “I feel like I may need a change, and after learning about our family’s history, with my love of wine, the idea to have a vineyard and open a winery came to me. That’s all.” Is the minimizing working?
“That’s all?” Mom jerks her head back.
“Nothing is settled yet. We’ve been researching for the time being.” I look at Christian for him to add confirmation.
“I thought you weren’t into this idea, Christian,” Flora states. “At my opening, you did not look too happy.”
“I wasn’t…but I’m warming up to it. We just have to find a location that’s acceptable and affordable to see if we can swing it.” He looks to me as if to gain my confirmation now.
“But what about the philharmonic audition? Your life’s work?” Dad’s voice and shoulders drop.
“Dad, I love playing, but if I don’t get into LA Phil—which you know is a slim chance—I need something that brings me pleasure again.”
“And the cello doesn’t bring you enjoyment anymore?” Mom yells, ironic in combination with her word choice.
“It does, but not how I’m using it. You know how draining it is for me to run here and there. And I’m not a natural teacher, like Dad. I only ever wanted to perform, and I feel like it’s time to change course, to not settle for second best.” Whoa, who’s this dynamo busting out of her cage?
“We want you to be happy, but we don’t want you to throw away your gift.” Mom’s voice matches Dad’s as she takes a sip of her wine.
“I wouldn’t throw it away. I’ll never stop playing. I just would be doing something else for money.”
“I can understand that, but I want you to really think about what you’d be giving up. We’re two peas in a pod, Toni. My little girl and I.”
As Dad says his all-too-common statement that applies to us ninety-nine percent of the time, I look at Flora, who remains emotionless. She went through a phase of being hurt by the phrase, but that’s long gone. Her and Mom are twins, Dad and I are twins, and Flora and I look like twins. The Agosti family comes in package deals.
I glance down. “I know, Dad.”
“All the sacrifices we made for you to get the lessons you needed, Toni. All the time you put into your career. Don’t break our hearts,” Mom pleads.
My stomach turns with additional guilt to my already sky-high pile.
Dad doesn’t add to her comment. He’s chewing the side of his inner mouth, as he does sometimes in thought.
How can I manage the conflicting messages? Be happy, we understand, but don’t change, and continue being in a career you don’t love. Instead of trying to sort this out any further right now, my urge of avoiding takes over once again. “I’ll keep you updated. And I refuse to break your hearts. I only want to make you proud.”
“We know that.” Dad’s mouth quivers in an attempted smile.
“Yes. Everything will work out as it’s meant to be,” Mom adds. “Now, have some panzanella. I wanted to make something from my family’s region in Tuscany today as well.”
“I love when you make this salad.” I continue eating and try to focus on the fresh tomatoes, purple onion strips, and chunks of bread drizzled with olive oil, vinegar, and a sprig of basil. There’s nothing like food and wine to take a person’s mind off the sorrow they’re causing the best parents in the world.