We hid some bills under our plates and tried to sneak away before the Benzinos saw us but the nonna must have had her eagle eyes trained our way because she sent her son darting after us with the money, remonstrating about our underhand trick and reminding us that family didn’t pay. Then he kissed us both, thrust the notes into Sebastian’s hands and hurried back to his business. How they ever made any profit was beyond me.
We wandered through the Gaslamp Quarter, admiring the Victorian architecture and old world charm, enjoying the sun and warm air, people-watching and relaxing in a way that was new and rather wonderful to me.
We heard the sounds of jazz filling the summer morning long before we saw the band. Strolling out of an alleyway into a large plaza, I could see that one side had been converted into a mini stage where the musicians performed, decked out in black jeans and Tshirts, and wearing dark sunglasses; presumably to show that they were jazzmen, if the music didn’t already prove it. They looked young enough to be students and were playing a sort of hyped up version of Dixieland jazz mixed in with a more modern, fusion sound and some Latin rhythms. A couple of girls in their late teens were already dancing, losing themselves in the music. Soon other people were joining them and the crowd steadily grew.
We didn’t want to waste any money by sitting at one of the café tables that ringed the plaza, so we joined a group sprawled out on the pavement. Sebastian gallantly pulled off his sweatshirt so I wouldn’t have to sit on the floor.
He did these things so naturally, with no fuss or embellishment that my heart expanded with delight and pain each time. Sebastian always put me first. I wasn’t used to that.
We sat shoulder to shoulder and he casually draped his arm around me, turning every now and then to kiss my hair. I wished the moment could last forever.
I couldn’t help noticing that his feet and hands moved constantly with the music, keeping up a contrapuntal rhythm, his fingers drumming on my arm.
“Have you ever learned a musical instrument?” I wondered.
He smiled. “No, but I always wanted to play guitar.”
“We should get you one when we get to New York. Not electric, though, please! An acoustic guitar.”
“I thought you were a rock chick at heart. Which reminds me – I still have to go beat up Anthony Kiedis!” He paused. “Did you ever learn to play anything?”
“Not really. I had piano lessons when I was eight. I hated them. Mom wanted me to do it but I begged papa to stop the torture and he did.”
He hesitated for a moment. “Will you tell your mom…?” His words trailed off.
“When I leave David? Yes, I suppose so. Eventually.”
He held my hand tightly and kissed my fingers. “At least you had your dad: that’s one more good parent than I had.” He considered for a moment. “But I’ve got Shirley and Mitch: they’ve been more like parents to me than my mom and dad. I hate not being able to tell them about you.”
He frowned and I stroked his arm, trying to soothe away the hurt; or, if that were impossible, to show that I understood.
“I know: I hate it, too. But when this is all over, if… if they forgive me, maybe we can…”
He lifted my chin with his fingers to make me look into his eyes.
“There’s nothing to forgive,” he said, his voice forceful. “We fell in love: it’s not a crime.”
But I still felt like a criminal. Sometimes.
He kissed me on the lips, trying to lighten our suddenly bleak mood.
“Come on,” he said, pulling me to my feet. “Let’s dance!”
“What? You can’t dance, can you?”
“Oh, yeah? Is that what you think? Let me show you, baby!”
And he could, he really could!