Chapter 1 #2
Bedroom, bathroom, and kitchenette finished off the suite of staff-rooms-turned-apartment.
A quick inspection of the kitchen revealed that Drostan had stocked the fridge and cupboards for her arrival.
A package of turtle chocolates waited on the two-person breakfast table, and that feeling hit her again.
Still rusty from disuse, but she recognized it faster this time.
Safety. Being cared for. Famiglia.
Shaky, she dropped into one of the kitchen chairs. Babbo, she sent the thought out to the sky, not really knowing if her father still existed in any form that could hear her. I miss you.
A breeze blew in from the open balcony, caressing her face with its melody.
She didn’t push it away this time. The music she heard from the world had haunted her since childhood.
Real or not, she was never sure, but she kept it on a short leash.
Even now, as she began to sing sotto-voce, lullaby-like, and with no one else around, she didn’t allow the notes around her to push their way into her voice.
She slid a turtle from the package and wandered to the balcony, savoring the caramel and chocolate.
The hills beyond the sales lot shone in the evening sun, baked gold in the August heat.
She and her father used to spend hours driving the back highways to enjoy those hills.
And to see how fast they could take the curves in whichever fantastic import he’d been working on for whichever wealthy owner had sought out his skills.
He always said the hills reminded him of his native Toscana.
He’d died before taking Cadenza to Italy, but now she had a chance to get herself there and jumpstart her career.
She pulled up her mother’s email on her phone to read for the hundredth time.
Cara mia, (Cadenza had snorted at this the first time she’d read the email. Since when had she ever been “dear” to her mother?)
I have good news for you. A good chance.
There will be a festival here in Venice this fall.
I had the idea to speak to the direttore about you, and I have pulled some of the strings.
(Another lie. Cadenza had found out later it had been her eldest sister Giulia’s idea for their mother to use her clout as a big-name guest artist on Cadenza’s behalf.
But far be it from her mother to let others take the credit.
Cadenza still wasn’t sure what Giulia was going to want in exchange for this favor.) If you can put together funds for your plane ticket, you will have a place in the chorus.
And in Teatro la Fenice, cara! You can stay with me, it will be fun, like a party!
But I need to know soon. You must have your ticket by the end of September, or they will give the part to someone else in time for rehearsals.
—Ilaria
Ilaria. Not Mamma. Not even, Your Mother.
Just her name. Cadenza rolled her shoulders and sighed.
If living with Ilaria was a party, it was a party where Cadenza was the one serving the drinks and cleaning up afterward.
After this many years, the lack of maternal affection shouldn’t get under her skin.
It wasn’t as if it were a surprise. And she had already told her mother she’d do it.
Never mind that she barely had the cash to make the minimum payment on her maxed-out credit card every month, let alone buy a plane ticket to Venice. But she still had time. She had just over a month to scrape together the money. She would make her dream happen.
Starting tomorrow.
The shrouded car caught her eye again through the window overlooking the garage. It wasn’t like Drostan to leave a vehicle unrepaired. His friendship with her father had started because Drostan’s passion led him to search out the best. What was he keeping down there?
Her curiosity sparked, she jogged down the stairs to check it out. Dust billowed in the air as she yanked off the sheet, and she waved it away, coughing. When the air cleared, her eyes widened in surprise.
Why was Drostan keeping a Ferrari F12 Berlinetta hidden away in storage?
Breath held in reverence, she traced the sleek sides with her fingertips.
She circled the machine, taking in the efficient angles, the night-sky-black paint job.
She could almost hear the growl of the engine, and she hummed a tune to match.
She tried the handle on the driver’s side, and the door opened with a small snick.
“In storage and open?” She shot a glance over her shoulder, but the garage door was shut.
No one could see in. Guilt lost a lightning-fast battle with her appreciation for beautiful machinery, and she slid into the driver’s seat.
The black leather interior matched the outside of the car, and a pattern was carved in bas-relief across the dashboard where the Ferrari logo should have been.
“Not exactly standard issue, are you?” she said, tracing the ridges of the carving.
The line wove under and over itself, leading back to where it had started.
A stylized wolf ran in the middle of the design.
As a kid, she’d seen enough examples of Celtic knotwork in Drostan’s office to recognize it when she saw it.
She supposed it made sense for Drostan to add his own flair to it—the wolf matched the tattoo that wound around his left forearm.
But if this car was that special to him, why keep it hidden away and nonfunctional?
Over the last year of near homelessness, she’d been forced to dump or donate many of her possessions, but she had kept some of her father’s tools, and his intricate knowledge of Italian imports still lived in her head.
If she got the Ferrari running again, it might show Drostan how much she appreciated his help.
“You who are made to outrace the angels,” she whispered to the Ferrari. “You ‘don’t want to go’ anymore? You’re content sitting here in this garage, going nowhere? I don’t think so.”
Closing her eyes, Cadenza laid her fingertips over the wolf, this time searching for the music.
She found…nothing.
An empty spot gaped between the melody of the cement floor and the faint sound of brass horns coming from the walls, like an orchestra where someone wasn’t playing their part.
She opened her eyes, brow wrinkling. The earthsong was so eager, she’d always been able to call it at will.
Hiding was not something the music did. Just like leaving a gorgeous import alone and broken was not something Drostan did. Weird.
Her phone dinged with an alert from the plane ticket price watch she’d set earlier that week. Tickets from San Francisco (SFO-San Francisco Intl) to Venice (VCE-Marco Polo) went up $25.
She rocketed out of the car. “No. You don’t need a mystery right now, Cadenza. You are here to earn money and get the hell out of this town before it sucks you back in, and then you’re going to Italy.” She planted her feet, breathing hard. “Seven hundred dollars. Eight, counting checked bag fees.”
But five hundred of that’ll come from this job.
The taste of turtle chocolates lingered on her tongue.
Drostan could easily find a local volunteer to sing for the races, and recording radio jingles was a day gig.
To say nothing of giving Cadenza a place to live.
He’d gone above and beyond, and she knew it. A lump formed in her throat.
Maybe just while I’m here anyway. For Drostan. She climbed back in the driver’s seat. Tried again.
A sense of something old and sleeping crept over her. Old and sleeping, but with a tune buried underneath. She coaxed at the song, trying to tease it out. A few notes peeked through, tasting almost familiar, then slipped out of reach, like a radio station just out of range.
It’s a start. Her fingers caressed the buttery leather of the interior, coming to rest on the carved wolf.
“I think I can convince you to go again.”