(Blue Notes 2)The Melody Thief (20 page)

“Can I ask what changed your mind?” John too must have felt his son’s mixed emotions, because he added, “If you don’t mind telling me, of course.”

Cary took a deep breath. The truth was he was grateful for his own second chance, after his near-disastrous start with Antonio nearly a year before. What he said instead was also the truth, although not nearly as revealing. “I realized I was angry. I’ve cooled off since Chicago.”

“I… I appreciate that, Cary. Sounds like your brother wasn’t as reasonable.”

Cary forced himself to take a deep breath.
Wasn’t as reasonable? Is it so unreasonable to be pissed as hell when your long-lost father shows up out of the blue?
But all he said was, “Justin needs to do what’s right for him and his family.”

“Of course.” Cary’s father’s words were conciliatory, but Cary saw the pain in John’s eyes.

That’s not your battle to fight
, he reminded himself
. Justin needs time too.

When he left the apartment an hour later, having arranged for John to meet him and Antonio for dinner the next evening, Cary felt as though he had survived a self-created trial by fire. After all the worry and soul-searching, he had found John to be charming and intelligent. He could only wonder what had gone so terribly wrong to cause his parents’ marriage to fall apart so spectacularly.

“S
O
, S
IGNOR
R
EDDING
—”
Antonio began in English.

“Please call me John.”

“Only if you’ll call me Antonio.”

“Of course, Antonio.”

“So, John,” he began again, “what do you do for a living?”

“I’m a freelance writer. I write copy for press releases and annual reports, and when I’m lucky, I sell my articles to online journals and print magazines. It pays the bills. Things have been a little more difficult in this economy, but I’m not averse to taking a job bartending from time to time.”

It was nearly ten o’clock, but all eight of the tables at the small Brooklyn Heights restaurant were occupied. The Storehouse was run by the brother of one of Antonio’s clients, Sean Josephson, and had quickly become one of Cary’s favorite places to come when he was in New York. In spite of its name, The Storehouse was a tiny restaurant, decorated in an eclectic mix of modern art from the 1960s and ’70s and atomic-era furniture and lighting.

It was Sean himself who brought their desserts to the table, and he embraced Cary and Antonio warmly. “Sean, this is my father, John Redding,” Cary said formally as Sean and John shook hands. “John, this is Sean Josephson, the man who fed us so well tonight.”

“After tonight’s amazing dinner,” John said with a charming grin, “I’m afraid I’ll be a regular fixture for dinner. My son’s fault, entirely.”

Sean bowed and put a hand to his head to keep his chef’s hat from tumbling off his short dark hair. “As long as he keeps giving me tickets to his concerts, I’m happy to feed all the Reddings. My sous chef keeps threatening to walk off the job if he doesn’t get to hear you play someday, Cary. You and Antonio going to make it here for brunch on Sunday?”

“Are you kidding? Our flight home doesn’t leave until late afternoon, so we’ll probably leave for JFK from here.” Cary leaned over to his father and added, “Sean makes the best brunch in the city.”

“Perfect. It was great to meet you, John. I look forward to seeing you.”

“I have to admit,” John said a few moments later, as they ate their desserts, “it’s a bit strange to be introduced as someone’s father. I’m liking it. Especially the added bonus of free symphony tickets.”

Cary managed an uncomfortable smile.

“Cary’s career is certainly more interesting than mine,” Antonio said between bites of a delicate pear mousse.

“I don’t know,” Cary replied. “You certainly work with interesting people. I’ve never met a performance artist who ‘paints’ with food before.”

“What type of law do you practice, Antonio?” asked John.

“I’m an entertainment lawyer. My clients are mostly classical and jazz musicians, along with the occasional fashion designer and artist. And one client who paints in different pasta sauces.”

“Sounds fascinating. And has Cary been taking advantage of your expertise?”

“My colleague, Valentia, handles Cary’s contracts. Cary and I decided it was best to keep business and pleasure apart. Although many of my clients are also friends, it’s different when you live with someone.”

“I can imagine,” John said with a quick smile in Cary’s direction. “And Cary, I see you’ve been busy lately.” When Cary blinked at him with surprise, John added, “I took a look at the schedule on your website. Quite impressive.”

“I do all right.” Cary took a quick sip of his coffee and felt Antonio’s hand on his thigh. His entire body was, once again, full of tension. He loved the way Antonio could sense that about him, and he put his hand on Antonio’s in a silent “thank you” of sorts.

“I know your mother would have been proud,” John said with genuine appreciation. “Did you know she was a classically trained pianist?”

Cary swallowed hard. “No. I mean, I knew she could play. She accompanied me at home when I was little.”

“Janet was always the practical one. She was talented enough to make a career of it, but she knew a job as a choir director was a less risky proposition. She conducted the choir at Christ Methodist Church until about the time you began to perform publicly.”

“You followed us… I mean, her?”

“As best I could. I know it probably doesn’t mean anything now, but I came to a few of your concerts over the years. Only to the bigger venues—I didn’t want to cause trouble for you.”

“Really? I didn’t think you’d have been interested.” How many times had he looked out into the audience and imagined his father was still alive and sitting out there, listening? And now to hear he
had
been there. Cary wasn’t sure how he felt.

“Whenever I could. Mostly when you were performing around the Chicago area.” John’s smile was warm and a bit wistful. “I am curious, though,” he continued. “Why did you decide to move to Europe?”

It wasn’t an easy question. There were many reasons Cary had decided to leave the US. Mostly he had just been lost after his mother’s death. In spite of their differences, he had never really known a home other than the one she had made for him. He had wanted to start fresh somewhere far away from St. Louis, and Europe seemed about as far as he could run. But as usual, he found himself revealing only part of the truth to his father.

“I don’t know. The majority of my gigs are in Europe and Asia. After I graduated from New England Conservatory, I spent a month in Milan working on some new music with David Somers, and he showed me around. It didn’t hurt that his villa outside of town is incredible, either. I hadn’t met Aiden yet, so I really didn’t know anyone in Europe other than my agent. Milan just seemed like the best place to land.”

I
T
WAS
nearly midnight when Cary and Antonio walked John to the Clark Street subway station and said their goodbyes. “Mind if we walk a little?” Cary asked.

“I’d love to walk. Where did you have in mind?”

“The promenade. It’s a few blocks down from here, and there’s an incredible view of downtown and the Brooklyn Bridge.”

Cary took Antonio’s hand and led him out of the station and down Clark Street, toward the East River. The air was cold, but there was almost no wind as they reached the pedestrian walkway.

“It’s beautiful,” Antonio said as he leaned on the railing and looked out across the water to see the Manhattan skyline, still illuminated even at such a late hour.

“This is my favorite spot in the city.” Cary loved how it felt peaceful here, and yet under his feet he could feel the low rumble of traffic from the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway.

“I can see why.” Antonio leaned in to kiss him, and they just held each other for a few minutes without speaking. “How are you doing?” Antonio asked at last. “Are you glad you made time to see your father?”

“Yeah. I’m glad I did. I think I’d like to see him again.”

“Would you like to invite him to visit us?”

“In Milan?” The suggestion took Cary by surprise.

“Why not? I know money’s tight for him, but we can send him a plane ticket. You could choose a time when you’re not working and show him around. Get to know him better.”

“You wouldn’t mind?”

“Why should I?”

“I don’t know. I guess it seems like it’s asking a lot, having him there.”

Antonio chuckled and kissed Cary on the forehead. “I suggested it, caro. I wouldn’t have if I didn’t think it was a good idea. We’ll look at the calendar and see what kind of time you have. We can ask him to come for a few weeks, and if you want, you can ask him to stay longer.”

“I’d like that,” Cary said. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure.” Antonio pulled Cary close once again. “It makes me happy to see you happy.”

“I love you, Tonino.” Cary pushed away the familiar niggle of doubt from his mind.

“I love you too.
Sempre
. Always.”

Just accept your inner Disney princess
, thought Cary as he melted into Antonio’s arms.
She’s a lucky girl.

Chapter 17

N
OW
I K
NOW
W
HY
T
IGERS
E
AT
T
HEIR
Y
OUNG

Milan, January

“C
ARY
P
APÀ
!”
Massimo tugged on Cary’s T-shirt as Cary bent over the counter, mixing up a batch of pancakes. Cary had brought back a few boxes of mix when he’d visited the States a few months before, but this was the first chance he’d had to make Antonio and Massi breakfast, since he’d been performing nearly every weekend since.

“Hey, Stinker.” Massi peered over at the bowl, and Cary tilted it so the boy could see.

“That looks weird. Are you sure it’s not bread?”

“I’m sure,” Cary said with a grin. “Wait until you taste it. And with the maple syrup I brought back—”

“Carlo called,” Massi interrupted. “He’s going to meet me in the park to play some football.”

“Now?” Cary stopped mixing the batter and looked down at Massi. “But we’re supposed to have breakfast with your father when he gets up.”

“He’s lazy. He shouldn’t be sleeping in so late.” Massi glared at Cary in open challenge.

“He got back late from his trip. He’ll be up in a little whi—”

“Carlo said if I don’t get there in ten minutes, he’ll choose someone else to play goalie.” Massi stomped his foot as he spoke the words.

Cary smiled at him. “Then he’ll get someone else to play goalie. You can meet him after breakfast. Besides, since when do you play goalie?” Cary added. “I thought you wanted to play right midfield in the pros, like David Beckham.”

“I need to learn other positions too.”

“You can learn them another time, then.” Cary reached up and pulled a frying pan down from the cabinet. “This morning, we’re having breakfast together.”

Massi scowled and put his hands on his hips in a gesture that reminded Cary of Francesca when she scolded Massimo for not cleaning his room. “That stuff is disgusting,” Massi said. He pursed his lips as though waiting for Cary to argue with him. “I don’t want to eat your stinky American breakfast, anyhow.”

Still holding the frying pan, Cary turned and stared at Massi. In the nearly six months he and Antonio had been living together in their new apartment, Massi had never once talked back to him. He tried to remember what it was like to be seven years old, without much success. Cary felt his gut clench and willed himself not to react to the taunt.

Cool head. He’s the kid here, not you.

“You can go play after breakfast, Massi.”

“But Francesca and Marissa are coming over this afternoon.”

“They’re not coming over until dinnertime. There’ll be plenty of time for you to play later.”

“But I—”

“That’s the final word, Massi.” Cary sure hoped it was, too. “We’re having breakfast together. And if you keep pushing me on this, you won’t get to go play football at all.”

This last statement seemed to push Massi over the edge. “You can’t do that!” he shouted, his voice echoing throughout the kitchen. “You can’t tell me what to do! You’re not my father!”

Cary felt as though he’d just been kicked in the chest. Until that moment, he thought he was doing okay with the kid. He’d responded the way he’d seen Antonio respond when Massi pushed the boundaries. But the truth in Massi’s words was something he couldn’t deny. He
wasn’t
Massi’s father. He never would be, either.

Before Cary could collect himself enough to figure out what to say, Massi stormed out of the kitchen, running headlong into Antonio, who was rubbing his eyes and frowning. Cary walked over to the doorway, unsure of what he should do but glad that Antonio was intervening.