“Well, I have the most vivid memories from the Teatro dell’opera di Roma. My mother spent most of her time in Milan at the Teatro Alla Scala, but what’s beautiful about the theater in Rome is, the shows aren’t held in that theater in the summer.”
Her smile turned genuine and her face lit up. “In the summer, they move the theater and dance performances to the ancient Baths of Caracalla …” her voice trailed off along with her eyes.
“That must have been beautiful,” Madeline interjected.
I was stricken speechless by Savannah’s seemingly perfect Italian accent as she spoke the names of the theaters, leaving me to wonder if she still spoke any, as I’m sure she had to know some when she was younger.
Savannah’s hazel eyes grew wide as she looked to Madeline. “Oh, Madeline, you have no idea. There’s absolutely nothing on earth like opera under the stars. The first year my mother was prima donna there, Malcolm Carroll was conducting, and it was ... a powerhouse. Just ... amazing.”
Closing my eyes for a second, I put myself there. Under the stars in Rome, watching the opera with Savannah.
“Your father is a French horn player, right? Why did you choose the flute?”
While James’s questions were bordering on interrogation, I wanted to hear the answers as well. She’d told me before, in the coffee shop as she played with my hands. I seemed to have gone deaf the second her skin came in contact with mine because I had no recollection of what she’d said.
“Right,” she nodded, her smile fading, “he’s horn, and my mother…” Savannah continued on to the story she’d told me that day.
I found myself drawn to her hands. Remembering.
“Anyway,” she continued, “I always thought the flutes and the strings sounded the most beautiful out of the entire orchestra.”
“Strings, huh?” I interjected, growing slightly uncomfortable in my own silence. “What made you settle on the flute?”
A mischievous grin played on her lips. “The flute was prettier.” She shrugged unapologetically.
“How honest of you, Ms. Marshall,” I teased, chuckling a little.
“My mother was as supportive as she could be, and my dad …” Savannah sighed, leaning forward and running an index finger along the rim of her mug, staring again into her untouched coffee. “My dad was as supportive as he could be for knowing what kind of life I was preparing to lead.”
I chose an entirely different career path than my parents, leading to decades of tense half-conversations over the phone and tight greetings on holidays. Apart from her mother, I knew Savannah’s father was an accomplished musician, as well. To willingly step into a life mastered by one’s parents, and to try to make it one’s own? That took a certain constitution. Backbone. She wanted to do this, and not rest on her parents’ laurels. At least, that’s what she started out wanting. Her enthusiasm for instruction was growing more concerning. I’d caught her practicing after instruction was done for the day, and she was gaining ground in technique. She had to keep playing. Savannah straightened her shoulders, which pulled the fabric on her dress tighter across her chest. I checked my watch.
“Tired, Gregory?” Madeline set her now-empty mug on the coffee table, eyeing me teasingly.
I was tired. But, I wanted to listen to Savannah tell more of her story. Her history. Truth be told? I wanted to sit and listen to her voice until sunrise. It was as melodic as the notes that came from her flute.
“I know I am.” Savannah yawned and stood. “Thank you both for dinner, it was lovely.” Her eyes lingered on mine and I couldn’t look away. I didn’t want to.
James held out his hand for Madeline. “I’ll walk you to your car.”
“Thank you,” Madeline whispered.
As they walked through the door, Savannah stepped forward and around the coffee table. As she slid past me I caught a whiff of her perfume. She still smelled like lilies. Clearing my throat, I caught up to her as she reached the door.
“Savannah, I enjoyed chatting with you this evening.” My voice shook with an unsteadiness foreign to me.
Her tender smile calmed the buzzing through my body. “I did, too, Gregory. Thank you.”
As she turned for the door again, I found myself not wanting her to leave. But I had no reason for her to stay. Maybe just a few more seconds. “Savannah, you didn’t touch your coffee, was something wrong with it?”
She said she’d like some coffee, I’m sure of it. I’d asked if they wanted to stay for coffee, and she said, I’d like that. With her back to me, I watched the tops of her ears lift a bit as she smiled.
Looking back over her shoulder, she spoke quietly. “I don’t drink coffee.” Biting her lip, her eyelashes brushed the apples of her cheeks as she looked down and away and headed toward Madeline’s car.
My heart raced as I watched them pull out of the driveway and down the street.
I don’t drink coffee, either.
Savannah
It had been a few days since Madeline and I had dinner with James and Gregory, and here the four of us were, sitting in the faculty ensemble together near the end of the first week of orchestra camp. While most of the staff played together in the BSO or other ensembles, I felt like I didn’t belong. At all. Sure, they were all nice and welcoming when I sat down. But, as James handed out a few sheets of music he wanted us all to play, my nerves started firing.
I can’t blame it all on the music though. Gregory was only a few seats down from me, sitting behind his cello. I knew that was the one. I couldn’t remember the maker, or how old it was, but I’d read in Music Trades that he’d taken out a mortgage on his family home on Beacon Hill to purchase it.