The Stars That Tremble (20 page)

Gio smiled. “Yes, I would like that. Is this Isobel also a singer?”

“No. She plays violin.”

“Ah, I see. So she is still musical.”

“Yeah. Let me call her back. I think we’d have to get to the park at five. Is that okay?”

“That’s fine, sweetie,” said Mike.

And she was off again, but Mike felt like peace had been achieved.

G
IO
tried to discern what was happening in the baseball game. Each time he thought he understood the rules, something would happen on the screen and Mike would react to it in a way that ran contrary to Gio’s understanding. After the third time he asked about it, he gave up and just sat back to watch. He was amused how Mike leaned forward during the last inning and seemed to hang on every moment.

After the game ended, Emma hopped up, gave Mike a kiss on the cheek, and announced that she was going to go read in bed.

“Thanks, sweetie,” Mike said. “Sleep tight.”

Gio wondered if he was thanking her for leaving them alone.

Spending the night was out of the question. Even if Mike would allow it, Gio felt strange about it. Their relationship was too new, too untested to bear anything too intimate with Emma close by. He supposed he could argue his way into sleeping over, but he didn’t think he could withstand a night in bed with Mike without touching.

He looked at Mike, who smiled and looked back at Gio. “So,” Mike said.

Gio laughed. “Yes. This is a somewhat unprecedented situation.”

Mike lifted his hand and lightly ran his fingers across Gio’s shoulder. “I wish you could stay, but I think under the circumstances—”

“I know,
caro
.”

“Someday, maybe.”

Gio leaned closer to Mike, close enough to smell him. Mike had a warm, complex scent that lately Gio had found irresistible. It was part sharp soap, part musk, part mint, but it was all Mike and Gio loved it.

He hooked a hand behind Mike’s head and pulled him forward until their lips met in a spectacular kiss. He’d been wanting to kiss Mike, really kiss him, all night and this was the first real opportunity.

Mike pulled away. The room was flooded with the sounds of the sportscasters talking about the game, and Gio suspected Mike had left the TV on to mask any sounds they made. Mike smiled. He leaned back and rested his head on his arm. “I’m really tired.”

“Do you want me to go?”

“Not just yet.” Mike took Gio’s hand. “I like having you here.”

“I like being here.”

“Do you think it will be weird to do family things with me and Emma?”

Gio considered. “Well, it will be going to see opera. That’s right up my alley.”

Mike grinned. “You know, you’re the first guy I’ve dated who had anything to talk to Emma about.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Most guys I’ve met haven’t known what to do with a girl. But, hell, she talks about singing most of the time. I can’t keep up. But I’m glad that you can.”

“You do a better job than you think. It’s clear she adores you.”

Mike closed his eyes and nodded. “It’s just been the two of us for so long. Sometimes I think she raised me as much as I raised her.”

They were quiet together for a moment, just gazing at each other and occasionally touching. Mike had that sad expression on his face, as if perhaps he was thinking back on his sob story, on the circumstances that led him to be a single father to Emma. This man was amazing, Gio decided. To have overcome everything he had and still be this hard-working, beautiful, wonderful man was not something to be taken lightly. “You know what’s remarkable about you? You seem so well-adjusted for someone who has been through as much as you have.” Gio had his own set of trauma, but what Mike had experienced—getting kicked out of the army, disappointing his parents, losing his partner, raising a daughter alone—that was a lot for one man to bear.

Mike smiled ruefully. “Other people have said that. I think I’m better at looking well-adjusted than I am at actually being it.”

“Men have been felled by lesser traumas than you’ve experienced.”

Mike shrugged. “I try to keep it together. I don’t know. I keep busy, I guess. I don’t like to dwell on the past. I have to hold things together, at least for Emma’s sake. I can’t…. Falling apart is not an option.”

Gio leaned over and ran his knuckles gently down the side of Mike’s face. “Maybe what you need is someone to help hold you together.”

There was a small smile on Mike’s lips. He leaned into Gio’s touch. “Maybe.”

Gio was overcome by the conviction that he wanted to be that person, wanted to hold Mike and help him and make all of his pain go away.

Ah, fors’è lui
, he thought. Maybe Mike was the one, the man so completely different from all who had come before that Gio could not help but fall in love with him. If his life were an opera, he’d sing an aria now about how everything was changing and the future looked bright. He could only hope this was not a tragic opera.

C
ENTRAL
P
ARK
in the summer was a revelation sometimes, a place out of time and space, an area of the city that didn’t belong in the city.

It was a hot August night. On the streets, it was muggy in the way only New York could be, particulates of dirt and grime sticking to the skin. But in the park, everything was clean and green again.

Sort of. Mike followed the path to the meadow with Emma and Isobel, the two of them chattering and not paying attention, periodically needing to be steered out of the way of a dog or random detritus on the walkway. And then there was the meadow, already covered in a mass of people and blankets. Mike took a moment to extend sympathy to the poor, thinning grass of the meadow for having to withstand this crowd. He hadn’t been expecting so many people, but he supposed he should have been less surprised that the opera would be such a draw. That, and any free concert in New York was bound to be an attraction.

“Uh, Gio got us a spot, right?” Emma asked.

“He said so.” Mike pulled out his phone to see if he’d missed any texts. He saw one from Gio indicating he was up near the right side of the stage. There sure as hell seemed to be a lot of people between where they currently stood and the stage. “We’re never going to find him.”

“You’re calling him Gio now?” asked Isobel, her voice dripping with skepticism.

“He said I could. He
is
Dad’s boyfriend.”

“I still can’t believe that.”

“Girls?” said Mike. “I’m right here. You want to maybe not discuss my personal life so loudly around me?”

“Sorry,” said Isobel. Then she and Emma started whispering to each other.

“Still right here,” Mike said. “Make yourselves useful and keep an eye out for Gio.”

Mike led them around the right side of the mass toward the stage. Feeling helpless, he pulled out his phone and called Gio. When Gio answered, Mike said, “Could you stand up and wave or something?”

Gio laughed. “Where are you?”

“I don’t know. Right side of the stage.”

“Stage right or your right?”

Mike groaned. He wasn’t even sure what stage right was. “Uh, my right if I’m facing the stage.”

“You must not be far.”

They spent a good two minutes trying to wend their way through the crowd, until finally Emma said, “There he is!” and, yes, finally, there was Gio, standing and waving. He grinned when Mike made eye contact.

He’d snagged a pretty good spot and had spread out a blanket that was being held down by a black plastic bag from a bodega and his overstuffed leather messenger bag. When Mike reached the blanket, Gio pulled him into a hug, which was nice. Mike closed his eyes and savored it for a moment before he backed away and introduced Isobel. Emma decreed the spot acceptable and sat down on the blanket.

They all got settled. Mike held up a plastic bag. “We got sandwiches and cookies. I hope turkey’s okay.”

“It is. I bought some sodas, like you asked.”

Mike nodded. “So explain to me what we’re watching.”

“It’s a bunch of stuff,” said Emma.

“Yes,” said Gio. “Sometimes they do a whole opera, sometimes they just do highlights. This year, they’re doing ‘The Best of Puccini.’ I know one of the baritones singing tonight, so I asked about what they’d be doing. He didn’t know for certain, but he implied they didn’t want to do a whole opera this year because the audience sometimes loses interest.”

“That’s dumb,” said Emma.

“I know,
cara
, but opera is not as popular as it once was, which you well know. I continue to be surprised so many young people audition to be in my workshop each summer.” Gio laughed softly. “But then, this is New York City.”

Emma and Gio speculated about which arias the performers would sing while Mike started to fish through the bag of sandwiches and figure out which belonged to each person. None of them were labeled, which was frustrating, so Mike had to open each one. Isobel was going through a vegan phase, so he’d gotten her a portabella mushroom sandwich, and that one at least was easy to identify. But Gio’s turkey versus Emma’s chicken? Who knew?

Then Emma said, “Do you think they’ll do ‘Nessun Dorma’?”

Mike froze.

“Undoubtedly,” said Gio as if this were no big thing.

“Will that be all right for you?” Mike asked.

“
Carissimo
, I would lead a very difficult life as an opera instructor if I spent the rest of it avoiding that aria. It is perhaps Puccini’s most famous composition.”

Mike didn’t believe it would be that easy for Gio, but he let it go and distributed the sandwiches.

The show began a short time later. It opened with some long orchestral piece that Mike thought sounded vaguely familiar. Then singers trotted onstage, sometimes solo and sometimes in groups of two or three, always in elaborate costumes or ball gowns and tuxes. Gio quizzed the girls on their knowledge of each song, asking Emma to name the opera it came from or the song’s context in the story.

As the night went on, they shifted positions on the blanket. Gio sat next to Mike, within touching distance, though he kept his hands to himself. Emma and Isobel sat close and had a series of hushed conversations. From what Mike could pick up, the topic bounced around from the show to the cute boy sitting three blankets over—and he was cute but also way too old for a couple of fourteen-year-old girls to be gawking at—to how gross the vegan cookies were. Mike rolled his eyes at the last bit—the cookies were sort of flavorless, but they were the best Mike could do on short “Izzy is still vegan and can’t have anything with dairy and eggs, remember, Dad?” notice.

The performances bored Mike a little, if he was honest. It was hard to pay attention to words he didn’t understand. At least at the Met, they showed the English translation on the little screen in front of each seat, and most of the time, he could follow along that way. Here, there was a screen above the stage that had the lyrics, but the glare of the setting sun made it difficult to read. Still, once the sun started setting, the humidity seemed to thin out as well, and it was a nice night, all told. The girls were enjoying themselves, a nice breeze wound its way through the crowd, and he was sitting next to an intriguing, attractive man who was, against all odds, capturing his heart. Mike leaned back on his palms, closed his eyes, and let it all drift over him.

And then there was a change on stage, and Mike looked up. A man in a tux walked onto the stage, and a hush descended on the audience. Mike wondered if the singer was someone famous.

“Gianni Robelleschi,” Gio said.

“What does that mean?” asked Mike.

“He’s a famous tenor, Dad,” said Emma. The “duh” was implied.

Mike glanced at Gio, who looked uneasy. Mike took his hand and held it in the space between his and Gio’s thighs. Gio laced their fingers together.

“
Buona notte
,” the man on stage said. “Before I sing, I wanted to pay a brief homage to the great men who have sung this song before me.”

And Mike got it.

On stage, Robelleschi said, “Many recordings have served to make this song one of the most famous in opera. Domingo, Pavarotti, Boca. Each man put his own spin on the song, and each recording demonstrated such aching emotion. It’s an odd song to have become so famous, as it makes little sense taken out of the context of the opera, but it is so beautiful that it is no wonder it is one of the best-loved arias in all of opera.” Robelleschi paused and looked down. “A little birdie told me Giovanni Boca is in this very audience somewhere.”

A murmur went through the crowd, and everyone started looking around. Gio bowed his head. Luckily, the waning twilight made it difficult to see anyone’s faces, Gio’s included, so he seemed relatively safe.

“Gianni, no,” Gio whispered.

Mike squeezed Gio’s hand.

On stage, Robelleschi laughed. “Well, if he is here, I certainly hope he does not laugh me off the stage. So now, I give you ‘Nessun Dorma.’”

The little orchestra on the side of the stage started up softly and rose up. Robelleschi took a step back from the microphone and then opened on a strong note, one Mike had now come to recognize.