As I approached Savannah, my pulse raced. I had to meet Vita.
“It’s so good to see you, darling,” I heard Vita say as I got closer. While I was excited at the prospect of meeting one of the best opera singers in the world within a few seconds, I was now completely invested in how Savannah was close enough to Vita Carulli to have her calling her “darling.”
Before Savannah could respond, she caught me standing there out of the corner of her eye. “Oh, Mr. Fitzgerald … hi.” She seemed caught off guard as she bit her lip and looked between me and Vita.
“Hello, Ms. Marshall.” I nodded my head once. “I don’t meant to interrupt here, but, Ms. Carulli, I wanted to tell you that I was at your performance tonight and, truly, it was one of your finest.” I took her hand and kissed it once, catching Savannah as she scrunched her forehead and rolled her eyes. I didn’t know what I had done to elicit such a reaction from her.
“How kind of you … Mr. Fitzgerald, is it?” Vita’s speaking voice was just as gorgeous as her singing voice, which I didn’t consider was even possible.
“Yes. Gregory Fitzgerald.” I looked between Savannah and Vita for a moment, a sense of familiarity rising through my chest.
Savannah let out a slight sigh. “Mom, this is Gregory Fitzgerald, cellist for the BSO, and teacher of my music theory class.”
Did she just say Mom?
“Mr. Fitzgerald,” Savannah continued, somewhat hesitantly, “this is my mother, Vita Carulli.”
What? My eyes moved to Karin, who gave a pointed nod toward Vita Carulli, as if to say, See? Musical royalty. I returned my focus to Vita and then Savannah, whose normally soft features seemed cold and stringent.
“It was a pleasure meeting you, Ms. Carulli. See you in class, Savannah.”
Savannah held her head high as she gave a curt nod and a poor excuse for a smile.
I wandered back to the table impressed that Savannah hadn’t spent the last few years, to my knowledge, throwing her mother’s name around in the game of Who has better genes that the students insisted on playing with each other. Those students, though, needed that game. Their talent didn’t stand up to that which Savannah possessed. Whether through hard work or the genetic lottery, Savannah Marshall could be remarkably successful given the proper attention.
When I reached the bar and picked up my gin and tonic, now watered down with melting ice, I took one last look over my shoulder. As Nathan’s hand rested on the small of Savannah’s back, my jaw tensed. That was not the kind of attention Savannah needed to produce the results she was capable of.
She needed someone who took her career seriously.
Someone who took her seriously.
Savannah
“Aren’t you freezing, Savannah?” Nathan pulled me close as we walked quickly down the sidewalk to the dance club.
I stopped and twirled once on my tiptoes, allowing the skirt on my bright red dress to flare up around me. “Hell yes.” I laughed. “But, at least there’s no snow on the ground, so my feet won’t get wet.” I kicked up a heel of my silver strappy heels before maintaining our stride.
“You’ve been a little quiet in Fitzgerald’s class the last two weeks,” Nathan said out of nowhere.
“Nothing to say, I guess.” I shrugged.
Nathan stopped half a block from the club and turned me toward him. “Nothing to say? Come on, Savannah, I know you better than that. What gives? Yesterday he said something more archaic than usual and looked right at you, and you didn’t even bat an eyelash.” The dimple in his left cheek deepened as he grinned mockingly at me.
“Come on,” I sighed, “you saw how he looked at me when he met my mom…” I wrapped my arms around me as the wind whipped down the alley.
“Not this again, Savannah.” Nathan sighed and looked to the sky.
“Yes, this again. This always. People know who my mom is and they get this look on their face, like by knowing me, they’ve somehow touched the greatness that is Vita Carulli.” I was a little heavy-handed in my sarcasm, but this situation called for just that.
“Has he said anything to you?” Nathan shrugged and furrowed his brow.
“No, but the way his eyes lit up—”
Nathan cut me off. “What the hell do you care what he thinks?”
“I don’t …”
Did I? Shit. I did.
“Fuck it, then. You’ll be done with him after this semester, and it won’t matter what he thinks of you ... or your mom.” He wrapped his arm around my shoulders again and chuckled as we finally made our way to the club door.
“I guess you’re right,” I admitted.
Still, I felt I had enough of a hard time getting Fitzgerald to take my thoughts seriously without him knowing who my family was. And, I couldn’t decide if his knowing about my mom would work in my favor or not. Either way, I didn’t want it to have any bearing on my success in his class. Though, as the semester wore on, I was caring less about what grade I received, and more about my point being received by him. His ideas were so fixed, so rigid, I couldn’t imagine ever having to put up with him as an instructor. He was at the top of his field, no question, but I would bet good money on his students developing serious OCD. Even as a classroom student of his, I found myself wanting to impress him. But I wasn’t willing to change my opinions to accomplish that.
As soon as I stepped through the door of the club, I was swallowed by heat and music. The sounds of the live band, filled with trumpets, drums, flutes, and everything else needed to make Spanish music work, was shocking the atmosphere with excitement.