Page 6

Normally, Thursdays are my least favorite day of the week. It’s my busiest, gone from dawn until dusk, with barely enough time to grab an espresso between gigs. Today, though, I thank God it’s Thursday. It keeps me too busy to think of that letter.

It’s a ticking clock, warning of impending explosion. I will not allow the explosion this time. I’ll wait it out and pray Isabella takes a hint and backs off.

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 the 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 breakdown in the crypt.

It happens. The chapels are 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, planning to 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 don’t have time to open the fridge when someone raps on my door. With that knock, every good thing in m y 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! but then 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 t o 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.

We must talk, and it will be worth your while. I don’t mean the airfare or the hotel – that is incidental. I am going to repair the damage you suffered. I can give you back your life, Lucy. I just need to speak to you in person.

No, Isabella, you do not need to speak to me in person. You do not need to speak to me at all. I’m sorry if you feel bad about what happened…

Am I sorry?

No, actually, I’m not. That’s the old Lucy bubbling to the surface. She’s like a childhood friend I remember with alternating spurts of affection and exasperation. The Lucy who, as Nylah rightly said, couldn’t hang up even on a telemarketer.

I’m not pleased that Isabella is suffering. I’ll never be that cold or vindictive. Yet I won’t fly to New York to clear her conscience. She says she can give me my life back, but I already have that. There’s nothing more she can offer.

I’m still staring at the letter when a familiar bang-ba-ba-bang sounds at the door, and I scramble to tuck the letter, envelope and all, into my bag. Then I yank open the door, throw my arms around Marco’s neck and pour all my frustration into a kiss that leaves him gasping.

“So… good pizza?” he says.

“I’ve barely started it. I was heading outside when I got distracted. Emails.”

He looks down at me. “Everything okay?”

“Just messages that needed an answer.”

“Ah.”

His gaze bores into mine, and I squirm under it. I replay my words, my tone, and it all sounds very normal. Even the kiss at the door isn’t out of character.

I only need to see his expression, though, to know I’ve failed to pull off the “I’m okay” charade.

As usual, Marco doesn’t call me on it. I just get that searching look and a pause that I should fill with “Actually, yes, something happened.” When I don’t take the hint, he only gives me a smacking kiss on the lips, granting me my freedom and my privacy.

“All right, then,” he says. “Let me rummage something from the fridge.”

I hand him the plate with a quarter of the pizza. He smiles and accepts it with thanks. Then I miraculously change my water into wine – grabbing a bottle of red from the counter – as he gets glasses, and we head out onto the terrace.

Night two of not sleeping. This time, it’s that letter calling my name.

The more I think about it, the angrier I get.

How dare Isabella invade my privacy? How dare she send the box under my old name?

All it would take is for someone along the mailing route to say, “Hmm, why does that name sound familiar?” and follow it to a Colt Gordon fan board and post “Hey, I found where Lucy Callahan lives. Anyone willing to pay for that information?”

If Isabella wants to make amends, she can damn well leave me alone. That’s what I want from her. All I want from her. Does she really think I’m going to squeal in delight at a cashmere shrug and a first-class plane ticket? I’m not that girl anymore.

And yet…

I’ve said I will fight this, and fighting it does not mean ignoring Isabella and hoping she goes away.

If I even think that’s possible, I’ve forgotten everything I know about the woman.

To truly fight, I must go to New York. Take this meeting.

Tell her I’m glad she has had this epiphany, but if she really cares about helping, she’ll leave me the hell alone.

I could do that on my own dime. Lift my chin, buy my own ticket, reserve my own hotel room… and blow my meager life savings on this trip. That’ll teach her.

If Isabella wants to throw money at me, let her. While I’d never be spiteful enough to rack up a bill with room-service caviar and champagne, I will enjoy the trip, and I will get what I need from it. Peace, at last. My past buried not in shame but in quiet reverence for a life I’ve left behind.

I send a message agreeing to the trip.

Sleep comes easily after that.