The Stars That Tremble (15 page)

“You should know that I very much would like to have you as one of my personal students at some point in the future. You’re enormously talented, Emma, and it would be a great honor to mentor you.”

Her eyes widened. “Really?”

“I haven’t said anything about this to your father, but assuming you get into the Young Musicians Program—which you definitely will, because the faculty is already buzzing about you—I’d like to do a few lessons with you. You have the raw talent, but it could use some polish.”

“To my father…. You haven’t said anything to Dad.”

“This exists outside of my… interest in him. You,
bella
, are a rare bird, and I want to help you learn to fly.” He sighed and sat on the piano bench. “But I suppose this situation can’t be separated from the simple fact that I very much like your dad and would like to continue seeing him. I know he would stop our relationship in a heartbeat if you told him to, as well, and I know you don’t really… approve of us, per se, but….”

“It’s not that I don’t approve.”

“Mike—your dad—said you think it’s weird.”

“It
is
weird.”

Gio laughed and rubbed his forehead. “The situation is complicated. For now, let us try to separate one from the other. I want to be your teacher. I also want to make your father happy, and I think being with me makes him happy. I think I can do both, but not without you.” He shook his head. “Although Dacia Russini would very much like to work with you, as well, so if you find it too weird to be taught by your father’s significant other, well, I can make arrangements. Dacia is a marvelous teacher, so you would still be in good hands.”

She looked at him for a long moment before saying anything. She glanced toward the door as if she expected Mike to materialize there. “You’re Dad’s… boyfriend, I guess. Wow, that’s strange. But you’re also Giovanni Boca. One of the greatest living opera singers.”

“Well, not so much anymore.”

“Still, you once were. Before all this happened, I wanted to work with you so much, but now, I don’t know. Can I think about it?”

“Take all the time you need.”

Mike did materialize then. He walked right into the studio. He said, “Hi!” brightly and then reached over and smoothed some of Emma’s errant hair. He kissed the top of her head. “How was class?” he asked.

“Good,” Emma said.

Gio stood. He wanted to give Mike a kiss hello but wondered how smart that would be. Instead, he reached over and squeezed Mike’s hand.

Emma let out a little grunt and said, “Let me go pack up.”

While Emma had her back turned, Gio gave in to his desire and gave Mike a quick peck.

“I can’t stay, unfortunately,” Gio said, stepping back and glancing toward Emma. “I have a meeting anyway. I sometimes think half of teaching is attending meetings.”

Mike laughed. “That’s how some of my projects go. I spend more time arguing with my clients about tile and carpet samples than I do working some days.”

Gio smiled but didn’t have time to say more before Emma came back. She looked ruffled and annoyed, but she spared Gio a glance before she tugged on Mike’s hand and said, “Let’s go.”

“Think about what I said, Emma,” Gio said. “Really think. I don’t want to pressure you into a decision.”

“I will,” Emma said.

“What is this about?” Mike asked.

“I’ll tell you on the bus. Let’s go, Dad.”

“O… kay.” He shot Gio a look of longing before following Emma out the door.

M
IKE
’
S
mother had been the classical music fan. As he and Sandy made their way through the lobby of Alice Tully Hall, he had some kind of trauma flashback to being eight years old and being squeezed into a suit that didn’t fit anymore so his mother could take him to see the Philharmonic. He’d hated every minute of it. The music was boring. There was nothing to look at except the musicians. He’d squirmed in the uncomfortable seats until, mercifully, he was allowed to get up and leave the theater, only to find out it was merely intermission and he had to go back. He’d spent the next fifteen years of his life telling anyone who asked the, “What kind of music are you into?” question, “Anything but classical.” Even the worst that country music had to offer—and he’d heard a lot of it when he was in the army—was a substantial improvement over the dreadful boringness of violins.

When Emma first arrived, Mike’s mother had been convinced that the way to foster genius was to play a lot of Mozart and Beethoven whenever Emma was around, and Evan had readily agreed, trying futilely to make peace with Mike’s family. Emma’s arrival had actually already gone a long way toward repairing the rift—Mike’s parents might not have liked Mike’s homosexuality, but if there was a grandchild involved, perhaps it could be overlooked. So Emma’s early years had been filled with classical music, much to Mike’s chagrin, and when she developed an interest in it herself, he’d had to feign liking it. Over the years, he’d developed a grudging appreciation for it, and he liked choral music and opera all right. That is, he’d take Madonna and Gaga over Pavarotti any day of the week, but seeing classical music live was no longer the worst thing that could happen to him.

Mike and Sandy settled into their seats in the section reserved for family of the performers. Mike’s mother might have made a fine guest as well, and he imagined that she’d get a kick out of seeing Emma on that stage. However, even if they had been able to have a civil conversation lately—pretty much any time he called, she yelled at him for something he was doing wrong, be it mishandling the takeover of his father’s business or being too indulgent with Emma or any number of other things—she’d recently sprained an ankle and was being kind of a diva about it, not traveling more than a mile from her house. Mike was feeling pretty done with her antics, which was why he hadn’t even mentioned that this performance was happening.

Sandy, who had cleaned up nicely and put on a tie and everything, looked around at the other parents. He whispered, “This feels very ‘one of these things is not like the other.’”

“I know,” Mike said. At the other end of the aisle, he recognized an aging Upper East Side socialite whose bathroom he had redone a few years back. It was startling to be so aware of the class difference between himself and most of the other parents, who were expensively attired and professionally coiffed. Mike was pretty good at blending in, currently in a Tom Ford suit that had cost him most of the profit from a kitchen remodel in TriBeCa, but he still felt quite acutely that this was not his sphere, and these were not his people.

The auditorium filled, and five minutes after the show was supposed to start, the lights dimmed and Gio walked onto the stage.

“Welcome, everyone!” he said. “As most of you know, I am Giovanni Boca and I am here this evening to present the gala final performance of this summer’s opera workshop.”

Gio’s accent seemed especially pronounced to Mike. He loved the cadence of Gio’s voice, but even that seemed exaggerated. Mike realized as Gio talked a little about the work he’d done with the students that he was performing. His exaggerated affect was for the benefit of the audience. Mike wondered if Gio had been performing this way for the parents all along without him having noticed.

“Without further ado,” Gio said, “I’d like to introduce you to twelve very talented singers.”

Twelve teenagers walked onto the stage in a single-file line and arranged themselves on the risers. Gio turned around, produced a baton seemingly from out of thin air, and the performance began.

Mike had no idea what the kids were singing, though the program indicated it was from a Verdi opera. Sandy, likewise, sat there with his head tilted, as if he was trying to decipher what was happening in front of him.

After the choral piece, the kids went backstage again, and then they returned one at a time to do their solo pieces. Mike could not deny there was a lot of talent in this group. He was particularly impressed with a tenor named Greg who had a voice that sounded far more mature than his appearance.

Emma was the last one on stage. Gio was nothing less than effusive when he introduced her, though he didn’t say much more than “And, finally, Emma McPhee.” He seemed giddy, though. This, Mike thought, was the star of the show.
His
daughter was the star. How strange was that?

The piece started sweet but then turned more dramatic. Emma had explained to Mike a few days before that this aria was sung by the tragic figure in the opera, the woman who loved the hero but was destined to lose him to the more beautiful princess. It was nothing short of amazing—and also kind of surreal—to see this girl he’d raised from infancy on the stage, singing her heart out and sounding like nothing short of a miracle.

He was crying when it ended.

Emma brought the house down.

He was, of course, the first one standing when she took her bow, but he wasn’t the only one. Other parents and audience members got to their feet and shouted, “Brava!”

“Did that sound really come out of little Emma?” Sandy asked.

“I’ve been listening to her practice around the apartment all week, so I know intellectually it did, but, man, I just didn’t
know
.” He wiped his eyes. “I had no idea she would sound like
that
on a real stage.”

Mike’s chest swelled with love and pride, and he whistled and clapped until his hands hurt, and still it was not enough to convey everything he felt in that moment. His beautiful daughter had just given the performance of a lifetime. How could anything ever compare?

Gio brought the kids back out to do one final group number. It took a while to get the audience to settle down, but once they did, the kids started to sing together again. Mike marveled at how lovely Emma looked. She’d put on a purple gown he’d helped her pick out, and her rich brown hair was twisted up at the back of her head. It was one of the strange talents he’d picked up as the father of a girl—Mike’s sister Becky had taught him how to braid and French twist and otherwise do a girl’s hair. Gio, too, looked good today. He wore a black tux perfectly tailored to his figure, and his dark hair was a little unruly. Mike was proud of Gio as well, amazed he was capable of teaching his students to do what they were doing now.

Then he had a more upsetting thought: Emma could sing like an angel, and Gio could teach teenagers to make the sweetest music anyone had ever heard. Mike remodeled rich people’s bathrooms. They didn’t even belong in the same universe.

Mike didn’t see Gio or Emma again until the reception in the lobby after the show. The kids came in a few minutes after the parents had been plied with cocktails and hors d’oeuvres. Emma jogged over to Mike and threw her arms around him.

“Did you see that, Daddy?” she asked.

“You were amazing, sweetheart. The show was incredible. I am so proud of you.”

He felt the tears sting his eyes again as he looked at her.

She hugged him tight and then took a step back. “Hi, Sandy.”

“Hi, little girl. How come you never told me you could sing like that?”

She shrugged. Mike reached over and tucked an errant piece of hair back into the twist. Then he put an arm around her and hugged her again. “I love you so much,” he said.

She hugged him back. “I love you too. Where are those little pastry things Sandy’s eating?”

Sandy pointed. Emma ran off.

When she came back, a few of the parents were on her trail. Emma introduced the kids in her class to Mike, although most of them knew him already since he’d shown up at the end of class so consistently. She said, “This is my dad and this is my Uncle Sandy,” a few times. Mike shook a lot of hands.

One woman said, “Your daughter is amazing. What an incredible voice!”

“Thank you!” said Mike. “Not that I had anything to do with it. She has a lot of self-discipline.”

The woman nodded. “Oh, how rude of me. I’m Georgina Mansford. My daughter Julia was in Mr. Boca’s workshop last year. He’s really outdone himself this year with the kids he picked. My Julia is gorgeous and talented, of course. She has one more year at Dalton and then she’ll be ready for Juilliard.”

“That’s wonderful.”

“Yes. Her father is a banker, you know, so at least we have the funds to put her through the best schools. No expense too high for our Julia.” Georgina Mansford paused. “What do you do, Mr. McPhee?”

Mike hesitated, feeling inferior suddenly. “I’m, ah, an independent contractor. I do home renovation.”

“He’s too modest,” Sandy piped in. “He owns his own business.”

“Marvelous. We need more small business owners thriving in this city.” It was clear she was acting now, though. Her smile seemed hollow.

She excused herself and Mike let out a sigh. He felt itchy everywhere with the need to escape from this place, but he didn’t want to make too hasty an exit when Emma seemed to be enjoying talking with her classmates so much.

Gio walked over then. He shook Mike’s hand and held it a moment longer than was probably wise. “Did you enjoy the show?” he asked.

“Very much,” said Mike. He wanted to give Gio a kiss or a hug or just grab him and run out of the theater. But he remained there, standing a foot from Gio but unable to touch him, quietly going mad.