I frowned and kept driving. Right now I had more important things to worry about. I tried to call her as I drove, but the phone went straight to voicemail. Again.
Thankfully, I didn’t have to deal with much in the way of traffic. It was still relatively early on Sunday morning, the summer light still faint as I drove north out of Boston. The grey sky suited my mood. But I had one thing going for me.
I had hope.
It took forty minutes before I pulled up to the address on Chestnut Street Madeline had scrawled on a sheet of paper.
I parked in front of the house and took a breath, suddenly terrified. A white two-story home, with three dormer windows cut into the attic. A small structure, originally separate, must have once housed a kitchen or garage. A knee-high stone wall bordered the edge of the property, and the breeze blew the leaves off several old trees towering over the house. Somewhere inside, Savannah had lived, briefly, after returning from Moscow and before we went on tour.
I opened the car door and got out, then slowly walked up the front walk. My upper body was tense, my throat tight. Something told me this was my only chance to make it right. Because I’d been so fucking cold on the phone. I’d been so angry. It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t anything she’d said or done. It was just the timing. And my own carelessness.
I don’t have time for this is not something you say to the love of your life.
I found myself wondering what death row inmates feel like when they are walking toward their execution. Was it this tension? This fear deep in the gut? I swallowed my fear, reached up and knocked on the door.
Nothing.
After a full minute, I hit the knocker again. This time, from deep in the bowels of the house, I heard a female voice calling out, “Just a minute.”
And so I waited.
Almost a full minute later, the door opened, and I stood there dumbly confused for a moment. I’d so anticipated Savannah being there that I was confused when Nathan Connors’ girlfriend, the harpist, answered the door. A moment later Marcia, my former student and Savannah’s roommate, approached the door.
“What are you doing here?” Marcia’s voice wasn’t hostile, but it wasn’t exactly friendly either.
I coughed. Then I said, “I need to speak with Savannah.”
Marcia’s eyebrows drew together. And then she burst out the front door, standing in front of me, and poked me in the chest hard with her index finger. “What the fuck did you say to her last night, Gregory?”
I staggered back. I had nothing I could say. No defense. Because her reaction was confirmation of what I’d already known ... that my angry response on the phone last night had destroyed what little trust Savannah had in me.
“Please ... just let me talk to her.” And I was horrified. Because for the first time in my adult life, my voice cracked.
Marcia’s eyes widened. She whispered, “What the hell happened between you two?”
I looked away, ground my teeth, and said, “I lost her. And … just ... please ...”
She shook her head, looking terribly sad. “She’s gone.”
“What do you mean, gone? Where did she go?”
“Back to Russia. She … didn’t come home last night ... called early this morning to let me know she’s going straight to the airport.”
I staggered back. “Back to Russia?”
Without transition I found myself sitting on the edge of a flower planter next to the front walk. Potting soil and water soaked into the back of my pants as I shook my head. “Why?” I asked, my voice at a whisper.
Marcia shook her head. “You tell me. I’ve never heard her sounding so distraught in my life. Whatever you said to her Gregory ... you hurt her. Badly.”
“Fuck,” I groaned. I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees and my head in my hands.
“Can you get off my flowers?” she asked, her voice edging toward annoyed.
I sighed and stood. “Sorry for … wasting your time.”
My shoulders slumped; I walked back toward my car. And just to cap the morning, as I unlocked my car, Nathan fucking Connors drove up and parked behind me. I almost got in and drove off before he could get out of his car, but something told me to wait.
He got out of his car. His expression reflected disgust when he saw me.
“Fitzgerald.”
“Connors.”
“What are you doing here?” He closed his door and leaned against it.
I shrugged. “I came ... to see her. But I was too late.”
He shook his head and walked toward me, then leaned back against my car. Presumptuous as usual, but I didn’t say anything. “I just saw her off at the airport.”
“She’s going back to the Bolshoi.”
He nodded.
“She’s done with me. For good.”
He nodded again.
I leaned against the car, next to him, and said, “I didn’t mean to break her heart. I’d do anything to take it back.”
“Little late for that,” Nathan said. “Twice, Fitzgerald. Twice, I’ve had to put my friend back together after you tore her to shreds. Just ... stay away from her. Let her heal and get her life together and don’t … don’t hurt her again, all right? She deserves a whole man. You understand what I’m saying? The one thing you couldn’t ever do—put her first.”
I closed my eyes and groaned. He was right. Everything he was saying was right. I never had. It has always been ... the conservatory. My career. The music. Karin. It was always something else, anything else, when it should have been her. No fucking wonder she felt the way she did. I had the arrogance to ask her to wait for me, to ask her to set aside her career, her entire life, to stay in Boston while I fumbled through whatever the hell was going on with my marriage.
And I couldn’t even take her phone call.
I gasped. “Don’t you ever say anything to anyone. But ... nothing else will ever matter again. Not after losing her.”
Nathan made a disgusted sound and shook his head. “I’ve spent my whole morning dealing with the fallout from your carelessness, Fitzgerald. Don’t ask me to feel sorry for you on top of it.”