Had I been ten years younger, I wouldn’t feel so impatient either. As if I were reaching my expiration date, I felt this urgency to find someone quickly so I could experience something before it was too late. That was no way to live.
“You’re a smart cookie, Nonna.”
“I keep tellin’ everyone!” She waved her fist at me.
I grinned.
Amusement seeped into her gaze, and she gestured toward the registers. “You go back to work, polpetto. I don’t think I need your help with the rest. Your father’s picking me up.”
“You sure?” If he was picking her up, it meant she was going to the salon. Otherwise, she usually took the bus—with or without Nicky. It was his thing to meet up with her at Sahadi’s once a week.
“I am sure. Go.” She nodded and placed two containers of dates in her cart. “You need your music, Anthony. It always guides you.”
I knew what she meant. I made my best decisions when I was surrounded by music because it cleared my head. Another trait I’d inherited from Nonna. She’d once been a singer. I’d seen old tapes.
I dipped down and kissed her cheek, promising I’d see her for dinner on Sunday, and then I made my way toward the exit.
Music worked.
Music always worked.
Travel jitters had set in by the time I had my next class with James the following week, but his playing helped. It was just the two of us in one of the rehearsal studios—the two of us, two grand pianos, and two spotlights.
“Für Elise” had once been James’s biggest goal to master. These days, it was his preferred piece to use for warm-up and to wind down. This was the winding down part.
We played together, and after running through the piece a few times, we were in perfect sync.
Each bar brought back memories of when he’d once struggled with the shifts in the theme, but now he played flawlessly. And he often had a small audience outside the studio, peering in through the viewer’s window. Today, that audience consisted of Nicky and nine members of our local church’s gospel choir in Williamsburg.
James paid them no mind. Only his playing existed, his fingers on the keys, the music sweeping through him.
My fingers flitted across the keys too, and I smiled to myself as the light, flowing melody turned dramatic. Right around here, James had once suffered a complete meltdown because he, in his words, couldn’t get his fingers to cooperate. He’d been thirteen.
I drew a long breath and closed my eyes.
When was the last time I’d left New York? I’d been to Canada a couple times with buddies when I was younger. I’d been to Florida twice, Miami and Key West, and in the beginning of my relationship with Shawn, we’d gone up to Provincetown for a weekend. That…yeah, that was my most recent vacation. Three days in Provincetown nearly two years ago.
I hadn’t taken time off work in over a decade, though. I’d bowed out countless times, instead. When friends were off somewhere, there was nothing weird about taking Friday off to extend a weekend trip. But there’d been no possibility for me to just cancel classes. So unless the trip would fall on a federal holiday…
Now was different. Nicky had gone from part-time instructor to being my partner in the Initiative, and he’d be in charge for a while starting this Friday. Because at eight PM on Thursday, I was leaving New York behind for a whopping twelve days.
I felt like an uncultured idiot for being nervous about traveling. I wasn’t even leaving the country. But that hadn’t stopped me from packing and repacking my bag three times, not to mention all the times I’d organized my tickets and made sure I had everything in order, including the confirmation from the motel I’d be staying at.
It wasn’t just my vacation and the food festival either. My initial reason for going to Nashville was a music festival. I’d submitted a demo on a whim last year, and we’d been accepted in the first round. We, being the band Nicky and I were part of. A band without ambitions. It was just a hobby. A small group of friends who played together when busy lives allowed it.
For this festival, we’d included a few members of the choir Nicky and I worked with from time to time, and it would be the biggest stage we’d performed on.
The music faded, and I ghosted my fingers over the keys in silence. Waiting. Was James done for the day, or did he want another round? The dozen or so students who required one-on-one sessions or smaller groups were evenly divided between the instructors with the right credentials, and the classes were scheduled near the end of the day so we didn’t have to rush any students. James was my last student on Mondays.
Nicky and I had added a private rehearsal with the choir because of our upcoming gig, but there was time. Chris, our bass player, hadn’t arrived yet anyway.
“What can motivate me to compose more on my own?” James asked. “Having my work discovered forty years after I’m dead isn’t really doing it for me.”
I chuckled quietly and grabbed my water bottle next to me. “Valid concern—back in the day, at least. We have technology today, James. Your work wouldn’t be hidden in some leather binder, collecting dust in someone’s attic. You’d likely upload a recording to a streaming site.”
“True,” he replied pensively. Then he got up and started gathering his sheet music and notebooks. “Mom and Dad want me to write my own stuff, but I don’t know where to begin.”
“With whoever you compose for,” I answered. “Don’t think about notes. The object of the work is your lyrics. If you want to create something for your mother or maybe your sister, you keep them in your thoughts, and you start playing.”
He chewed on his lip and carefully closed
