An American Girl in Italy Read online

  Her words slapped Carly in the face. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘This is my Italian debut, and I mean it to be fabulous. I already have three newspapers set up to provide quotes for my biography. Which reminds me—’

  She unzipped one of the bags and pulled out a red, crystal-encrusted gown. ‘Matching dresses! Although mine has a tad more bling because I am the star after all. Isn’t it ingenious?’

  Carly gawked at the sparkly, eye-bleeding fabric wondering how she’d squeeze her breasts in the plunging neckline, and then how she’d play her oboe in it. One bow too low was an immediate wardrobe malfunction. Not to mention being shown up by a voluptuous beauty.

  As if Alaina could read her mind, she waved her concerns off. ‘Don’t worry; I had the dressmakers at Versace alter the fit to accommodate your stick figure. You’ll have no problem slipping it on. So?’ Alaina tapped her long, bright-red fingernails on the dresser.

  Carly felt like a bird trapped in a tiny cage. If she gave Alaina any reason to complain, it could cost her points with Wolf, and Ms. Maxhammer. She knew the gig business enough to play the game. Never burn bridges. Contacts were the most important tool you could have. ‘Okay, I’ll try it on.’

  ‘Wonderful!’ Alaina clapped her hands. ‘But only after we rehearse.’

  Carly gave her phone one last longing glance. ‘Right now?’

  Alaina gave her a blank-eyed stare. ‘Our first concert is tomorrow—the Coliseum, remember?’

  The itinerary flashed through Carly’s mind. She had only briefly peeked at it before the trip, but she did remember something about performing in the Coliseum. Funny how the last thing she wanted to play right now was an aria about a wedding. ‘Oh, all right.’

  Alaina warmed up with an ascending five-note pattern while Carly soaked her reed in her I-love-NY shot glass. She reminded herself to get one for her collection while in Italy.

  They set up as though they were in concert, looking out the window at the darkening sky as the sun set over Rome. Carly started with the cheery oboe interlude of Bach’s typical running eighth and sixteenth notes.

  Alaina took a deep breath and came in right on cue.

  Sich üben im Lieben,

  In Scherzen sich herzen

  Ist besser als Florens vergängliche Lust.

  As Carly played, she thought of the translation, memorized long ago for a music history exam of the Baroque Period. For the first time since she’d practiced the aria all the way back in her New England Conservatory days, the meaning came through:

  To become adept in love,

  to jest and caress

  is better than Flora's passing pleasure.

  Yeah right. She took a deep breath and played through the next interlude before Alaina came back in. To become adept in love would give you one thing: distraction along with a big dose of heartbreak. It was so much more useful to put your time into something tangible that yielded better results, like classical music and her career. Bach had gotten the sentiment all wrong. Love was a passing pleasure, just like spring.

  Alaina stopped singing and Carly realized the song had ended.

  ‘Carly, what’s wrong?’ Alaina’s face fell in true concern, which didn’t happen very often.

  Carly shrugged. She didn’t want to put down Alaina’s aria, but the soprano had asked for the truth. ‘This is the silliest, most superficial song I’ve ever heard. I don’t get the words. Adept in love? What does that mean, really?’

  Instead of flaring up with anger, Alaina simply waved it off. ‘It’s just a song. He probably wrote it for some big commission. It doesn’t matter what it means, it matters how you play it.’ She took a sip of water and cleared her throat. ‘It needs a little more energy, more mischievousness. One more time?’

  Carly sighed, feeling like she’d hit her head against the wall. They could practice the aria as many times as Alaina wanted, but Carly couldn’t play it wholeheartedly if she didn’t believe what it said. She could pretend, but the best of the best would sense her reserve.

  ‘Sure.’ She felt like a broken record playing the song that never ended. Second verse, same as the first…

  Chapter Four

  Wandering Eyes

  Sunlight streamed through the crack in the curtains, warming the back of Carly’s hand. She rubbed her eyes, half stuck in her dream surrounded by jesting and caressing lovers while she lectured Bach on the finer points of writing song lyrics. In German.

  Carly propped her head on her elbow. I don’t speak German.

  She reached out and pulled the curtains back, expecting her view of Boston’s Back Bay. Instead, the bustling streets of Italy sprawled before her, interspersed with red-orange roofs and ancient stone. The tour. Michelangelo.

  Dammit.

  She checked her phone. Seven forty-five. They were supposed to be on the bus by eight for the soundcheck at the Coliseum.

  Hadn’t she set the alarm?

  ‘Alaina.’ She called over to the sleeping beauty in the bed beside her. ‘Alaina wake up.’

  Alaina turned on to her other side, exposing the lacy back of her silk nightgown and grumbled under her breath. ‘More sleep.’

  Carly sprang out of bed. ‘We have to be at the bus in ten minutes.’

  Alaina waved her off. ‘They’ll wait for us.’

  Carly picked up her toiletries and stumbled to the shower. Wolf had hired a crew to film this concert for the local TV stations. There was no way she was going with dirty hair. ‘I know I set my alarm.’

  ‘I shut it off.’ Alaina buried her head in her pillow.

  ‘You what?’ Carly stuck her head out from the bathroom door as the shower warmed up.

  ‘I shut it off. Who wants to get up at seven a.m.?’

  Note to self: next time, lock your phone. ‘I do. That’s when I play my long tones.’ Even now she worried about how she’d reach high A without warming up.

  Alaina held up a finger, the nail bright red. ‘Precisely why I shut it off.’

  Carly couldn’t decide whether to jump in the shower or strangle the diva. Ultimately, clean hair was better than revenge. She tore off her pajamas and chose the shower.

  Twenty minutes later, they approached the bus dragging Alaina’s garment bag with the two matching dresses behind them. Orchestra members filled the seats. Every face stared at them from the windows as they approached. Some of them already wore their concert black, making Carly feel as though such a slouch in her Women Reeds t-shirt and skinny jeans.

  ‘What happened to your limo?’ Shame-faced and frazzled—which seemed to be the theme of this trip—Carly shielded her eyes from the bus. She hoped Michelangelo was not there to witness this next great embarrassing moment in her life.

  ‘I fired him.’ Alaina strutted in her fuchsia heels as thought she was walking the runway in her metallic miniskirt and halter top. She gestured toward the bus. ‘See, I told you they’d wait for us.’

  The doors to the bus unfolded.

  Please, please, please let it be someone other than Michelangelo.

  The Italian hottie jumped down the last two steps and smiled like he’d won a game. ‘There you two are. We were starting to worry.’

  Carly considered blaming Alaina, but thought better of it. He already thought she was a bitch. Better not make that a mega bitch.

  ‘I’m sorry. We missed the alarm.’ Carly handed him the garment bag.

  He offered his hand to her, and Alaina stepped between them and took it instead. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Mio Dio, signorina.’ Michelangelo stepped back as if she’d attacked him. But, he recovered his charm quickly. ‘You must be eager to start your tour?’

  ‘Si.’ Alaina grinned. ‘But not without an escort.’

  ‘I can take care of that.’ Michelangelo escorted her up the steps.

  Carly shook her head and followed behind them. Had she misinterpreted everything that had happened yesterday? Or was he just a big flirt?

  As Alaina reached the top of the stairs
, she waved to everyone on the bus as thought she was the Queen of England. Michelangelo glanced at Carly and winked.

  Maybe he had thought of her after all. She noticed the front seat next to him wasn’t taken. Had he saved it for her?

  ‘I must ride in the front of the bus.’ Alaina placed her hand over her heart. ‘I suffer from severe motion sickness.’

  Michelangelo paused, scanning the seats. His face tightened like a man who’d lost a hand of cards. ‘Of course.’

  He turned to Carly. ‘My apologies, Ms. Davis. There is one seat open in the back if that will suit you.’

  Severe disappointment flustered Carly and she pushed it back. Why the hell do I care if she sits next to the tour guide?

  She pulled herself together as Ms. Maxhammer gave her a purposeful stare. Battling Alaina over a man wasn’t worth her principal oboe seat. Think of all the e-mails you’ll get to answer without him.

  ‘Yes, that’s fine.’ Carly shuffled past them and walked down the aisle. Her gaze settled on the last empty seat, which was slam bam next to horny Al. He wore an old Bruins t-shirt with holes in the front. A Red Sox cap half-covered his oily hair.

  He tapped the seat and grinned. ‘Hey, babe. Looks like you’re sitting with me.’

  Carly resisted the urge to gag. Any man entertained by emptying his spit valve ranked a tad below the maturity line in her book. She tried anything to get away. ‘Where’s your trombone?’

  He shrugged and pouted. ‘They made me put her under the bus for safekeeping.’

  ‘Bummer.’ For both of them.

  He smirked. ‘I’d say there’s a silver lining.’

  She settled into her seat and whipped out her phone. Hopefully, Al would take the hint and leave her alone.

  The bus started to move, and he turned to her. ‘Sleep well last night?’ The faint smell of cheap alcohol wafted from his lips.

  Carly coughed a little in her throat. His question was innocent enough, but coming from him, it sounded sleazy—like he pictured her sleeping in the nude. She finished her e-mail before replying with the least-sexy answer possible. ‘Like a brick.’

  His gaze held expectation, but she wasn’t going to ask about his nighttime escapades. Instead, she returned to her e-mails.

  Al adjusted his baseball cap and leaned toward the window as though he got the picture.

  Maybe he isn’t so dense after all.

  Carly had a few moments of pure e-mail answering bliss before her skin prickled on the back of her neck. The distinct feeling someone was watching her came over her. She glanced over to Al. He’d propped his head against the window and was sleeping like an oversized baby on Nyquil. Probably too much late-night drinking with his brass buddies.

  Carly rolled her eyes. If all men were so simple-minded and easily entertained, she’d have no problem focusing on her career for the rest of her life. Never mind the distraction of dating and the sticky business of falling in love. She placed her hand on her oboe case. You and me, girl. Foreva.

  The prickling sensation returned, and Carly casually glanced around the bus, trying not to weird anyone out. What did her mom used to say? Something about if your necklace chain had turned around, someone was thinking about you. She touched the rhinestone G clef in the nape of her neck. The clasp had fallen to the front. Interesting.

  Pretending to stretch her arms, Carly scanned the bus behind her. A few of the older violinists slept, the percussionist snapped pictures with his phone, and Melody and Wolf whispered in each other’s ears.

  How sweet. She loved her friend but seriously, if she’d had time for breakfast, she’d be hurling it up. Romance was not for her.

  Carly moved to turn back around, but Melody caught her gaze. Her friend widened her eyes in a WTF look and pointed to the front of the bus behind the seat in front of her, where no one else could see.

  So she caught the culprit, eh? Carly turned around slowly, not wanting to give herself away. Alaina was chatting like an energizer bunny at the front of the bus. But Michelangelo wasn’t listening. Instead, he’d positioned his elbow over the seat, allowing him to turn in Carly’s direction. As their eyes met, he gave her another sultry wink.

  Carly dropped her gaze immediately, her cheeks turning into tomatoes. Two winks in one day? Who did he think she was? His secret cohort?

  Behind her, Melody giggled. Carly guessed it wasn’t something Wolf had said.

  *****

  Michelangelo prayed for the bus ride to end soon. Carly’s sassy banter and reluctance to open up had intrigued him, but this opera diva’s ongoing lecture about herself was as boring as a documentary on drainage pipes. Sure, Alaina Amaldi was magnificently pretty, but a challenging puzzle lured him more than a superficial prize.

  ‘When I was only fifteen, my parents drove me to Juilliard to study with the famous Edith Bers, who gave the US premiere of Schumann's Des Sängers Fluch. She said my talent rivaled some of the great opera singers of our time.’

  Michelangelo wished he could sneak another peek at Carly, but Ms. Maxhammer had already caught him glancing in the same direction three times. Better to make the diva happy and bide my time. ‘Schumann, eh? Tell me more about your studies.’

  Alaina took a deep breath as if she was about to hit a high note, and his phone vibrated in his pocket. ‘Oh, one moment, per favore.’

  She creased her perfectly sculpted eyebrows in consternation.

  ‘This may concern the concert.’

  She shifted in her seat. ‘Oh, okay. Go ahead.’

  He pulled out his phone and recognized the caller ID. Dread ate away at his boredom. Even though it wasn’t about the concert, he had to take it.

  ‘Pronto, Isabella. What can I do for you?’

  ‘The real-estate agents are here again.’ Her voice was hushed as if she muffled her mouth against the phone. ‘They’re eyeing the northern vineyards.’

  Merda! Since the new American company took over their lease, all they’d ever wanted was to get them out of there. It seemed that condos overlooking a token vine patch in Tuscany were more profitable than a real winery. He balled his fist. ‘Tell them they’re going to have to talk to my lawyer.’

  ‘But, signore, you don’t have a lawyer.’

  Oh right. That’s what happens when you can’t pay people anymore. As it was, he had no idea how long he could pay Isabella to manage the office. ‘They don’t know that. Tell them he’ll be in contact in the next week or so. It will buy us some time.’

  ‘Si, signore.’ She sounded defeated, resigned. The weight in her voice dropped like a bomb in his heart.

  He changed the subject, trying to cheer her up. ‘How are the little ones?’

  ‘Good. Anna can say bubblegum now, so that’s all she talks about. Camelia’s fighting with her brother, like always, and the littlest one’s kicking like he’s on his way out!’

  Michelangelo laughed, trying to imagine them all. ‘Hopefully he’ll wait another month, eh?’

  ‘You know I can’t control these things.’ She sighed.

  ‘And how’s Rodolfo?’

  ‘His back’s feeling better. He’s in the distillery moving crates now.’

  ‘Good. Glad to hear it.’ Isabella’s family had been working for the vineyard even since he was a little boy. He needed to give her some hope she wouldn’t have to relocate. ‘I’ll be back in two weeks, and I’ll have more than enough to keep the real-estate sharks at bay for a while. Then I can figure out how to purchase the whole property so this won’t happen again.’

  Sure, it’s as simple as a few thousand euros. That’s all.

  ‘Va bene, signore.’ Isabella’s sweet voice rung a little more cheerfully.

  ‘Hang in there. Send my well wishes to Rodolfo.’ He hung up, feeling as though the weight of the bus rested on his shoulders. So many workers relied on him, and he couldn’t disappoint his father, may he rest in peace.

  Michelangelo buried his face in his hands and massaged his forehead with his fingers.

/>   ‘What was all that about?’ Alaina’s penetrating voice woke him up. He’d forgotten all about her.

  Mio Dio. Would I have to explain all my problems to her? Not that she’d listen. Then, he realized the whole conversation had been in Italian. So many Americans only spoke English. However, Ms. Amaldi was a vocalist, trained to sing in multiple languages. He appraised her. ‘Are you fluent in Italian, signorina?’

  She squirmed in her seat as if he’d asked her what her grades were in trigonometry. ‘German and French are my specialties.’

  She must suck at Italian. Thank God.

  He waved it off. ‘Just something about a family matter. It’s not important.’

  ‘Well, as I was saying…’ She continued as if she’d already forgotten about his call. ‘After high school, I was accepted at both Juilliard and the New England Conservatory. Let me tell you, that was a tough decision.’

  Out of the corner of his vision, he saw the stone arches of the Coliseum and breathed with relief. ‘Oh look! What do you know? We’re here already!’

  As the members of the orchestra stood and took pictures, Michelangelo consulted his notes. The conversation with Isabella had shaken him, and he had trouble focusing on all of the details. Sure, he knew some things from his schooling, but exact dates and names stayed in the murky area of his memory. He’d much rather be pruning his grapevines.

  Ms. Maxhammer gave him an encouraging look, and he nodded and turned on the intercom. ‘The Coliseum was built in—’ he coughed, ‘AD 72 under the emperor…Vespasian and was completed in AD 80 under Titus.’

  Isn’t there something in my notes about the original name?

  He glanced at Ms. Maxhammer, who watched him with interest. He couldn’t sneak another peak at his notes, so he bought some time with what he did know. ‘Contrary to popular thought, the movie Gladiator was not filmed here. Most of those images were computer-generated.’

  A few members of the orchestra chuckled, enjoying his momentary excursion into popular culture, but Ms. Maxhammer pursed her lips and tapped her fingers on the top of the bus seat. She had probably never seen it. He should have made reference to 1950s movies like Julius Caesar and Cleopatra.