That day, I teach, and I play, and I teach some more and play some more. It’s not the New York Philharmonic, but in many ways, this is better. Less stress and more job security.
At one time, I looked at musicians like me, hustling with side gigs, and I pitied them. They’d clearly failed in their chosen career. Now I know better. I am happier here than I ever would have been as first viola in a major orchestra. For every kid who sulks through my lessons, there’s another who loves it the way I did or an adult who comes home from a long day and cannot wait to make music. Then I play with my small groups, all of us playing for the sheer love of it, with an audience who is there by choice, no one suffering through while reminding themselves that they’re supporting the arts.
After an 8 p.m. outdoor performance, I should be dragging my ass home, but I’m floating instead. This evening, Marco has back-to-back tours through the Capuchin Crypt and Catacombs of Priscilla, and we’re texting as I walk home. That’s normal for us. When we’re together, we talk as if we haven’t seen each other in weeks. When we’re apart, there’s a casual back and forth that can last for hours, an unhurried exchange that’ll go twenty minutes between responses while he’s busy with his tours and I’m busy with my lessons or performances.
Tonight, someone suffered an emotional break down in the crypt bone chapel. It happens. The chapel is an artistic display of monks’ bones with a singular message: someday, this will be you. It’s a powerful memento mori. Too powerful for some. Marco handled the situation with grace, as always. He has a degree in psychology, and while he’s never used it—as far as I know—he has a therapist’s knack for dealing with stressed tourists.
As I walk, I pause on the Garibaldi Bridge to gaze out at the lights reflected in the Tiber below. Tourists pass, a dozen languages of excited chatter swirling around me. It’s a gorgeous night, and I’m walking alone through the streets of Rome, and I have rarely been happier. My youngest student performed her first piece today. I got to play a solo in a historic Roman park. And my lover is keeping me entertained with amusing missives from tour-guide life. I fairly float over the cobblestone roads, and then swing up my endless flights of stairs and stumble into my apartment, where I will raid the fridge for a late dinner on the terrace. I’ll also suggest that Marco stop by for the night since his tour ends a half mile away.
I’m barely through my apartment door when someone raps on it. With that knock, every good thing in my day evaporates, vaulting me back to the night before.
Another knock. I check the peephole to see a young woman in a delivery-service uniform. My gut twists, and I back away from the door. Then I steel myself and yank it open.
“Jenny?” she says.
I smile with relief, and she hands me a steaming box. When she’s gone, I open it. Inside is dinner—piping hot carbonara pizza from Dar Poeta. There’s a receipt attached, with the sender’s name, though I don’t need to check it. Only one person knows that I use Jenny for deliveries. Say, “Genevieve,” and you spend five minutes spelling it.
I send Marco a text.
Me: You’re amazing. You know that, right?
Him: I do. Someone told me that just last night.
Him: Oh, wait. That was you.
Him: This is why I was being nosy, asking when you’d be home.
Him: I know you had a long day, and you seemed a little off this morning. I figured you could use a pick-me-up.
I start to type “Best boyfriend evah!” I delete it, and I tell myself it’s because I’m fifteen years past being able to use evah, even jokingly.
Instead, I send “Thank you!!!” as if the multiple exclamation marks compensate for my inability to say the b-word.
Me: If you come by tonight, I can thank you properly.
I add a few suggestive emojis after that.
Him: You’ll make me stuffed eggplant? Awesome.
Me: If you’d rather have eggplant, I believe I have one in the fridge.
Him: LOL. No, I’ll take what you were really putting on the menu.
Me: Good, and I might even save you a piece of pizza.
Him: I’ll understand if you don’t.
As we sign off, I’m already slurping strands of gooey bacon-and-garlic-flecked cheese from my pizza. I cut off a slice and put it on a plate for Marco. Then I grab the pizza box, napkins and a bottle of fizzy water and head for the stairs.
As I’m turning, I spot a white envelope on the floor.
My heart thuds, and I cover the distance in two running steps, pizza box slapping onto the table as I dive for what I’m certain is yesterday’s envelope, which I’d forgotten to burn. Even as I grab it, though, I know it’s not the same one.
This letter hasn’t been opened.
There’s a new envelope on my floor. Under my table. I eye it and exhale with a soft laugh. Okay, a courier pushed it under the door, and it slid beneath the table. Mystery solved.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, I turn the envelope over.
Lucy Callahan.
The name isn’t in Isabella’s handwriting. It’s typed onto a label, cold and informal. No sender. No postage marks.
Two days ago, I wouldn’t have opened this. At best, it would be the ravings of a crazed Colt Gordon fan, still determined to make me pay for my “sins.”
After receiving Isabella’s letter, I know the timing of this one is not coincidental. Is there some fresh threat that she’d been trying to warn me about? Is this envelope connected to her letter? Someone found out she was contacting me and did the same?
Colt?
Tiana or Jamison?
The last two make me shiver, hairs on my arms rising. I’ve spent fourteen years struggling not to consider what monstrous role I play in Tiana and Jamison’s personal mythology. I might be furious with Colt and hurt by Isabella, but if you asked me who I most dreaded seeing again, it would be their children.
I open the envelope to find a typed letter. My gaze moves to the sender first. Isabella.
I curse under my breath. Then I pause. Is this really from her? A typed letter after a personal handwritten note makes no sense. Someone must be impersonating . . .
My gaze skims the first few lines, and my question is answered.
Lucy,
Please excuse the formality and impersonality of this letter. I know the package I sent was delivered Wednesday afternoon. It is now Thursday evening, and I haven’t received a call, which suggests I’m not going to. So I’ve prevailed upon a local acquaintance to print this letter and have it hand delivered.
I don’t blame you for not calling. I had hoped you would, but I can understand why you didn’t. You may even have seen my handwriting and torn up the letter unread. I would understand that, too.
I really do want to put this right. Someone in my life has helped me to understand that what I feel is no longer anger. It’s guilt. I did wrong by you, and I need to remedy that.
I realize it’s selfish to ask you to come here. I’m still asking. Below you will find the number of a local travel agent who has been instructed to arrange for a first-class round-trip ticket to New York and a two-week stay, all expenses paid. Our meeting will not take two weeks, of course, but I thought extending your stay into a holiday might alleviate the inconvenience.