Caine drove a stick shift, a little old Porsche that had been meticulously maintained. I don’t know anything about cars, but I suspected it was a classic and had more value than a new one. It seemed to fit him—expensive, yet sexy and understated.
I’d never been so happy to be stuck in traffic. Caine had to constantly change gears, and something about the way his large hand gripped the shifter just worked for me. Not to mention his forearm…and that damn vein. God help me. I was still finding a vein attractive.
Caine noticed me watching him. “Do you know how to drive a manual?”
“No. I tried once, and I hurt my nose.”
His brows drew down. “You hurt your nose?”
“I kept stalling, and the car would jerk. On the fifth or sixth time, I was letting off the clutch and starting to move, and then the damn tires screeched to an abrupt halt, and I lurched forward and hit the steering wheel. I thought I broke my nose.”
Caine chuckled. “I think you might be a little too tightly wound to drive a stick.”
“Me? You’re more tightly wound than I am.”
He side-glanced at me. “Did you forget how we first met?”
“That was different. I thought you hurt my friend.”
“So rather than determine if I was the person you thought I was, you jumped down my throat. You’re wound tight.”
My first reaction was to argue the point with him, which I realized would only prove his conclusion further. “Maybe you’re a little right.”
“Just a little.”
“You know, that’s how I became interested in musical therapy. Growing up I learned to use music to relax.”
“Did you have music on when you tried to drive the stick shift?”
I thought back. “You know what? I didn’t. I was nervous and didn’t want to be distracted, so I turned off the radio.”
“Maybe you should have left it on.”
“Hmmm…I never thought of that. Maybe you should let me drive yours and see if that works.”
Caine laughed. “I like my clutch too much.”
The drive to Umberto’s in New Jersey was normally about forty-five minutes on Sunday mornings, but today it was more like an hour and a half. The GW Bridge was closed except for one lane, and we crawled to cross. Once traffic opened up on the other side, we started to talk about my research.
“Tell me about Umberto.”
“Well, you read the basics in my summary, I’m sure. He’s seventy-three, late stage or stage six Alzheimer’s, has spent his entire life living in the home he grew up in—even had his medical practice in the house. He was a general practitioner who still made house calls up until ten years ago. He’s been married to Lydia for fifty-one years, and she visits him every single day. They have one son who lives on the West Coast and comes to see them a few times a year. Most days Umberto doesn’t remember Lydia anymore. He went through a two-year period of depression and found some happiness with a fellow patient, Carol. Sometimes Umberto and Carol sit and hold hands while Lydia visits him. I’ve never seen the kind of love his wife has for him. The man she spent her entire life with thinks he’s in love with another woman, and she’s happy for him. It’s the most selfless thing I’ve experienced. She wants him to truly be happy, even if he finds that happiness with someone else.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. It’s something beautiful in an otherwise tragic disease.”
“And the music he’s responding to, it’s in Italian?”
“Yes. When I first started to visit the center, I was working with a larger group, trying to find a few candidates to study individually. Umberto didn’t have much interest, even though his wife has control of his medical decisions and had signed him up for the study. I’d interviewed the families to learn about some music from the individual patients’ histories, and each week we’d play music and do exercises to see if I could get a response. Umberto had never reacted to anything one way or the other. He seemed to enjoy music, but neither his wedding song nor anything from other memorable times in his life sparked any type of special interest.”
“So what made you try Italian music?”
“It was just a whim, really. The week before, I’d heard Umberto respond to something the nurse asked him in Italian. I hadn’t even known he spoke it fluently. Apparently he slipped into speaking it every once in a while. So the next week, when I came, I thought I’d try an opera. People tend to really respond to the music at a show, so I figured, why not play one?”
“And Umberto responded?”
I clutched my chest. “He started to sob. It was heartbreaking. But it was the first reaction at all I’d gotten from him with music—negative or positive. That day was the most lucid he’d been in years. He started to tell old stories about his mother that his wife didn’t even remember. I wasn’t sure if it was the opera itself or the music that brought back a memory.”
“What do you have planned for today?”
I’d been alternating weeks between English and Italian music. This was actually an English week, but I’d decided to change things up a bit. Maybe a little part of me wanted to show off for the sexy professor.
“Le Nozze di Figaro.”
“Ah. Mozart.”
“You’re an opera fan?” I asked.
“I’m a music fan. Doesn’t matter what kind. I actually saw Figaro’s Wedding in undergraduate school—Composition Two. The whole class went as part of the course.”
“I’ve never been to an opera.” We approached the turn to Regency Village, the assisted-living community where Umberto lived, so I pointed up ahead. “Make your next left. You can’t really see it until you’re almost past it. It sneaks up on you because it’s hidden behind those trees.”
After we pulled into the parking lot, I started to get a bit nervous. I’d worked on my thesis for over a year. What if Caine found my research flawed or didn’t believe it was the music that brought Umberto’s memories back to the forefront? While he always enjoyed listening, not every session brought the same reaction.
Caine killed the engine and turned to face me with one arm casually slung over the wheel. “I’ve read your research. Your arguments are strong. You’re going to do fine.”
I hadn’t mentioned my nerves out loud. He must have read the confusion on my face.
His eyes pointed down to my wrist. “You play with your watch when you’re nervous.”
I’d been fidgeting with my watch. I immediately stopped. “When else did I mess with my watch that you noticed it?”
“The first day of class after it emptied out and you had to come down the stairs to talk to me.” We stared into each other’s eyes. “Earlier in your apartment, when I noticed you weren’t wearing a bra.”
Embarrassed, I looked around the car to avoid his stare. To my surprise, when my eyes returned to his, he was focused on my lips. Which caused me to jump from one nervous habit to another.