(Blue Notes 2)The Melody Thief (31 page)

They drank in silence. “The shoebox in your bedroom,” Cary finally said, deciding he had nothing to lose. “You left it out for me to see, didn’t you?”

John swallowed hard. “Yes.” His voice crackled with emotion. “I want you to have it. She would have wanted you to have it.”

“Thanks.”

“It wasn’t her fault. She never complained about how hard things were, but they were hard. I didn’t make them any easier, either.”

Cary stared down at his now empty coffee cup, noting the chip on the handle and rubbing his index finger over it distractedly. “I know. I wish I’d realized it earlier. We weren’t exactly on good terms when she died.”

“Charlene called to tell me when your mother passed. She said your mother was happy you were with her in the hospital.”

“She did?”

John nodded. “She also told me your mother didn’t take your coming out to her very well.”

“You could say that.”

“It was difficult for her. It still is for me. It’s hard to let go of what you’ve been taught. But she loved you.
I
love you too,” he added in an undertone.

Cary stood up and walked his cup over to the sink. He turned around and looked at John with a hard expression. “Saying you love someone is easy.” Cary took a deep breath. He knew he needed to say this, but he didn’t want to give in to his anger, either. And he was still
so
very angry with John.

“It’s easy to say you were brought up to believe certain things and that it’s hard to change. I believe you.”
God knows I’ve changed.
“But what you said last night… I can’t forget it. I don’t think I ever will.”

“Cary, I—”

“Let me finish, John,” Cary interrupted. “I need you to hear this first.”

John just nodded.

“It’s fine to say you love someone,” Cary said. “But it’s not enough. You can talk all you like. You can tell me you always loved me and Justin….” He fought back tears of anger and hurt, taking a moment to regain his composure. “But you waited twenty-eight years to contact me.

“Twenty-eight years of dreaming what it would be like to have a father. Of imagining what it was like to feel loved. Wanted. And now you tell me you love me and that Mom did too.” Cary was crying now, but he didn’t care.

“It’s not enough. I’m not sure it will ever be. So don’t expect me to say those words to you. Because I can’t. You
left
us. Even after Mom died, you waited. You waited because you were selfish. Because you were afraid. You weren’t anyone’s father until you felt like being one. But it doesn’t work that way. It’s not about you. It never was.”

John too was crying, although he did not move from the table.

“Thing is, as angry as I am, I still want a father.” Cary thought of the night before, and of the bar. They weren’t so different, he and John. Where would he be without Antonio? He knew the answer: cruising the bars the same way his father drank. He was sure of it.

“I called Tom. We’re going to talk this afternoon. I told him what happened last night.” When Cary said nothing, John continued, “I can’t promise anything.”

“I don’t expect you to.” Cary sipped his coffee in silence for a minute or two.

“You’re going home, aren’t you?” No guilt this time, just a statement.

“Yeah. It’s time. My flight leaves tonight.” He took a deep breath, then said, “We’ll be back here in March—we’re bringing Massi along too.” He didn’t mention they would be visiting Justin afterward.

“You’d see me again, after what I did?” John’s expression was hopeful.

“Yeah. I would.”
I may be a complete idiot, though.
“But if you pull that kind of shit again with me….”

“I understand. That’s fair.”

C
ARY stood in the doorway of John’s apartment a few hours later, cello and suitcase packed. “I’ll see you in about a month, John. I’ll be in touch about plans once I’ve had a chance to get settled back home.”

John’s smile seemed forced. “I’ll be looking forward to it.” He stepped closer to Cary and hesitated as if trying to figure out if he should embrace his son. It was Cary, however, who took the lead with an awkward hug.

“Take care of yourself… Dad.” It was the first time he’d called John that.

John’s eyes were watery as he hugged Cary. “Thanks, son. For everything.”

T
HE cab dropped Cary off in front of the Milan apartment building around 9:00 a.m. He paused at the front door, key in hand, and took a deep breath. He had never been so happy to be home. After walking into the front hallway a moment later, wheeling his cello behind him, he quietly shut the door and took off his shoes. Sunday morning—Antonio would still be in bed.

He crept down the hallway to the bedroom. Much as he looked forward to seeing Massimo, he was relieved to see Massimo’s room was empty. He wanted some time alone with Antonio before facing the eight-year-old whirlwind of a boy. The door to the master was slightly askew, and he tiptoed inside, pulled off his shirt and pants, and slid under the covers.

Antonio stirred and rolled over, his eyes opening slowly at first, then widening in surprise. “I’m dreaming.” He offered Cary a gentle and heartfelt smile.

“Yep. You are.” Cary took Antonio in his arms and gave him a tender kiss. “Just don’t forget that the next time I piss you off when I leave my underwear on the bathroom floor.”

He could feel Antonio’s chuckle against his cheek. “It’s good to have you home. The best surprise.”

“Thought you might like it.” Cary kissed him again.

“Have you checked your messages?”

“Not since I landed. Why?”

“Check them.”

Cary laughed. “Must be something important. But I kind of had something else in mind.”

“Check them,” Antonio repeated.

“Okay, okay!” Cary reached for his phone, then tapped it several times and put it to his ear.

“Congratulations, Cary,”
came David Somers’s voice.
“My agent called to tell me you’ve been nominated for Best Classical Instrumental Solo for our Brahms. You might want to book a pair of tickets to Los Angeles for the Grammys in February.”

Cary laid the phone down with a shaking hand, then turned and launched himself into Antonio’s arms. “You up for a trip to LA in February?”

“Is there any question? Congratulations, caro. I’m so happy for you.”

“Have I told you recently how much I love you, Tonino?”

“Not recently enough. No.”

Cary sighed and kissed Antonio. “I love you.” He paused for a moment, then asked with a crooked grin, “Still up for getting fucked into the sheets?”

“Is there any question about that, either?”

Chapter 27

T
HE
O
NLY
T
HING
C
ONSTANT
IN
L
IFE

A
WEEK
later, Antonio was bent over a cutting board, slicing vegetables, when Cary got back from the post office, having mailed a birthday gift to one of his nephews. He was feeling pretty good about himself for remembering all of the boys’ birthdays this year. Cary figured if Antonio could remember all of
his
nieces’ and nephews’ birthdays, the least he could do was handle his own three nephews’.

“You’re home early,” he said, grinning broadly and kissing Antonio on the cheek.

Antonio didn’t turn around but grunted and kept chopping.

It was Roberta’s night off, and Cary had actually been looking forward to cooking. Cary had discovered that he wasn’t as terrible a chef as he had once thought, once he actually put some effort into it.

“I told you I’d take care of dinner tonight,” Cary said as he put his hand over Antonio’s to still the knife.

“Do you have something against my cooking?”

Cary debated how he should answer. The last dinner Antonio cooked had been an unmitigated disaster—a beef roast that had tasted only slightly better than the hockey puck hamburgers he remembered his mother cooking when he was a kid. When Antonio had struggled to chew the overcooked, dried-out meat, Cary had insisted that it was “a good first try” in an effort to reassure his partner. They had laughed about it later, Antonio admitting that perhaps he was better suited to choosing wines.

“Well….” Cary worked his arms around Antonio’s waist and pressed his cheek against Antonio’s back. “There
are
other things you’re better at.”

The muscles in Antonio’s back tensed, and Cary realized that what he had meant as good-natured teasing wasn’t going over at all as he had planned. “I’ll never get any better at it if you never let me try,” Antonio said, putting down the knife with such forcefulness that Cary nearly jumped at the clattering sound.

“I only meant—” Cary began, but Antonio pulled out of his embrace and stormed into the living room without a word.

Shit.
Cary stood in silent shock.
What the hell just happened here?

It wasn’t as if they hadn’t had their disagreements, even after John had left Milan. But those disagreements had been quickly resolved, and usually of Cary’s own making.
He
was the one prone to snap at Antonio when he was nervous about a new piece or just antsy because he hadn’t performed in a few weeks. Antonio had always been the calm one, reassuring him and gently pushing him to realize that the anxiety brewing beneath the surface was of Cary’s own creation.

This was different.

He followed Antonio to the living room, where Antonio was seated on the couch, reading the newspaper. The newspaper he had already read that morning.

“Hey.” Cary sat down next to Antonio, one leg casually crossed beneath him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Antonio interrupted. “It’s nothing. I’m tired.” His eyes never left the paper.

“Is something wrong?”

“Why do you ask?” Antonio’s entire body seemed tense.

Cary took a deep breath and gathered his courage. “It’s just that I’ve never seen you quite so tense. Well,” he added after a moment’s thought, “maybe once before. When John was here.”

“This isn’t about you, Cary. It’s not always about
you
.”

Antonio’s words stung, but Cary did his best not to show it. Instead, he leaned over and kissed Antonio again. “What’s wrong, Tonino? I know you. Something’s wrong. I can feel it.”

Antonio put down the newspaper but remained silent, as if debating how to broach the topic. Then, after a minute, he said, “Francesca called me today. She’s thinking of interviewing for a job curating her own gallery.”

“That’s great news. She’s been wanting to do that for years.” But the look on Antonio’s face told Cary that the news wasn’t as wonderful as it sounded.

“The job’s in London.”

Cary’s throat tightened. “Massi?” His voice was shaky, thin.

Antonio nodded.

“But you’re his father.”

“It’s not that simple. We always agreed he would stay with her… that she would be the primary parent.”

“But—” Cary began to protest.

“But nothing. I won’t fight her on this.” Antonio’s words and his tone were unequivocal. “I always knew this might happen.”

“But it’s not fair.”

Antonio managed a soft laugh, although Cary could see his body was still tense. “It’s not about fair. It’s about Massi and what’s best for him.”

“It’s best for him to be near his father.” It sounded so simple, but even as he spoke the words, Cary knew it wasn’t so simple. This was Francesca’s
dream
.

It’s not as though Antonio won’t be able to see Massi, either.

“Sometimes life gets in the way of what we want, Cary. You know that better than most. And it would also be good for Massi to see his mother do what she loves. London isn’t so far that I couldn’t see him every few weeks. And he could still come here over the holidays.”

Cary wanted to protest that it wasn’t the same—that visits over the holidays weren’t the same as having Massi here, with them, or seeing him nearly every day. And then it struck him:
he
was horrified at the prospect of losing Massi. He, Cary Taylor Redding. The guy who used to say he hated kids.

It wasn’t only that Massi thought of him as a second father. Cary thought of Massi as his son. His
own
son. The bratty kid who complained when he had to take a bath. The “little stinker” who interrupted him constantly. The same boy he tucked in at night. The one he kissed on the forehead.

I love him too.

Cary wanted to shout. To tell Antonio it was wrong—that he should fight for Massi. But he knew Antonio was right. Even if he knew in his heart that Francesca shouldn’t leave, that it would be bad for Massi to be so far away from his father, he wouldn’t say it. Instead, he reached for Antonio and drew him close.

This isn’t the way I wanted it to be.
He had longed for the day he would be able to comfort Antonio. And yet now he fought the urge to be comforted himself.