Chapter 11
Eleven
Taran wasn’t at the track the next day to hear Cadenza sing.
He had told her he wouldn’t make it, but she found herself scanning the bleachers for a glimpse of tawny hair anyway, her stomach hollowing when she didn’t find one.
The Sunday crowd hollered their appreciation for the national anthem, sloppy and more drunk than usual, but she kept her performance face on.
She chanted her mantra in her head. Temporary, temporary.
Her performance finished, she grabbed her sheet music binder from her apartment and drove up to the sales building. She’d had an idea that morning that she wanted to run past Drostan before heading down to her lesson with Thomas and her second performance at the club.
“Caddie.” Drostan looked up from the front desk as she entered. “Are you off then?”
She nodded. “I had a question for you first though. A favor, really.” She twisted her fingers together, pride warring with her mother’s deadline change.
“I’m going to try to sell my car. I might be able to get the rest of what I need from it.
But I need it till I leave, or at least I need a car, so I was wondering, if I manage to sell it, would it maybe, possibly, I mean, could I—”
Drostan interrupted her with a gentle smile. “Caddie, my team will have that thing sold by next week, and you can use any car on my lot until you leave for Italy. And I’m glad you asked. I still wish you’d let me help you more, lass. You know I would.”
She swallowed. “I know. But this is perfect. I want Ilaria to know that I didn’t hold anything back to get there.”
“I understand.” He shook his head. “That woman…”
Cadenza crossed behind the desk and hugged him tightly. “Thank you.”
“Och, well.” He patted her head. “Best get to your lesson.”
“Right.” Eleven days left, but when her sedan sold, she’d have what she needed.
Because Sonora is only temporary. A different thought interrupted. Is Taran only temporary?
Thomas tapped his chin in thought and watched Cadenza from the piano in his office. “You need to let go, Ms. Cavalieri.”
She shifted uncomfortably. All her previous voice teachers had focused on technique, presentation, showmanship. Picked apart her German pronunciation. Any discussion of emotion had been in the context of performing.
Thomas’s lessons felt more like therapy sessions.
“You leave for Italy at the end of the month, correct?” he asked. She had filled him in on her plans this morning, not wanting to spring it on him at the last minute. His support for the idea, despite the fact that he would have to find a replacement, had surprised her.
“Yes, that’s the plan.”
“Are there obstacles to this trip? Or anything you might be holding onto?”
Her cheeks heated and again the thought pressed her, Is Taran temporary?
“Ah, if I guessed someone of the male persuasion, would I be wrong?”
She gave a small laugh, not meeting his eyes. “Maybe not entirely.”
Thomas waved a dismissive hand. “Let go of him. Enjoy him now, leave him behind when you go. There will be no end of young men for you in Italy.”
She blinked. That was not the advice she had expected.
Thomas studied her, appraising. “But I think a boyfriend is not what’s causing that tightness we spoke of.”
Cadenza dropped her gaze. Boyfriend? Was that what Taran was? The memory of rhythm tingled on her lips as she thought of their kiss last night. Was that what Taran thought he was? They’d kissed, but not defined anything, and he hadn’t come that afternoon.
“Why do you sing?” Thomas continued, chin in hand.
She floundered, unsure what he meant. “A singing career is what I’ve wanted since I was a little girl.”
“But why?”
“Singing is what my family does. My mother, my sisters,” she listed them off.
“Your father also?” Thomas asked.
“Well, no. He worked on sports cars,” she said. Maybe part of why my mother left—too much grease under his fingernails.
“I understand that you have family in performing careers. But why do you want that?”
She stared at him, flummoxed. She’d been raised on opera.
Opera connected her to her Italian roots.
As the youngest, she’d watched her sisters take lessons and audition and get phone calls from Ilaria when they met some accomplishment.
As soon as she’d been old enough, Cadenza had followed in their footsteps.
What else would she be besides a singer?
Was there another choice?
“Let me put it this way,” Thomas said. “What do you want from music?”
“What do I want?” She thought of the earthsong, a part of her since before she could remember.
Wild, untamable. But beautiful and rich.
“I want…I want to be a part of the music.” She couldn’t tell Thomas what she heard or about the struggle to stay one step ahead of it, so she couldn’t tell him the truth—that she didn’t want to need to stay ahead of it.
She didn’t want to fight it all the time.
But she didn’t want the earthsong to leave her either. A silent world was not worth living in.
Thomas nodded, cleaning his wire frames on his shirt hem. “As I said before, you have a truly enchanting instrument. Your sound is pure and clear. And yet”—he tilted his head—“if you want to be a part of the music, I think you need to learn to trust the music.”
Trust the music? How could she trust something that blew out the lights, or made her spin out of control when driving? A lump hardened in her throat, and her eyes stung.
Stupid therapy session…voice lesson…thing. How was she supposed to sing with her throat all swollen? She cast around the room for a distraction and found a picture frame on the bookshelf.
A woman gazed out of the portrait—not a photograph, but a painted portrait, like those of financial donors that hung in theaters or university performing arts departments.
Silver wove through the woman’s brown hair, and she held her hands folded in her lap, but her chin lifted, like she was used to being obeyed.
“Who’s this?” Cadenza asked.
Thomas’s face softened. “She was my wife. She’s gone now.”
She looked up at him. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s been a good while now. I should be used to it.” He picked up the frame and traced the woman’s face. “But I still miss her every day.”
Cadenza wrapped her arms around her chest, remembering her father’s hugs. “I know how that feels.”
“Who did you lose?” he asked quietly.
“My father.”
Thomas nodded. “A grief that only those who have experienced can truly understand.” He handed the picture frame to Cadenza. “Would that she were here now. She’d make a far better teacher for you than this old man.”
Cadenza didn’t answer. Thomas was talking about performing music that everyone could hear, but she didn’t need a lesson in being one with jazz or opera. What I need is someone to teach me about the earthsong.
“Harriet understood how to be a part of the music like none other I’ve met.
” Thomas continued. “She used to say that you have to let the music play its part. Find the place where you can feel the song all around you, then move with it. Like a duet.” He interlaced his fingers. “The parts have to play together.”
Thomas held her gaze, eyebrows lifted, expectant. A note unlike any she’d heard before reverberated from the room around her, deep and ringing, like running a finger around the rim of a wine glass. She stared at the walls. What if Thomas wasn’t talking about normal music after all?
A question formed in her throat. If she could just not be alone in whatever this gift of hers was. She almost asked. That look he gave her—like he wanted her to ask. And the note ringing through the room, like it wanted her to recognize it, or like it recognized her.
She almost asked.
But she swallowed the words. Thomas couldn’t hear the music. No one could. And she couldn’t afford to lose this gig by sounding insane. The ringing note faded.
“Thanks,” she said. “I’ll try to work on that.”
Taran sat cross-legged in the center of the field behind the cottage.
The exact center.
He knew where the exact center was, he’d paced it off years ago. Only so much to do on the same 227 acres of land.
The estate.
He snorted and threw a rock into the darkness. It flew past the tree line and down the hill, until he heard it splash into the creek. 977 feet away.
He’d measured that too. One should know the limits of one’s cage.
A stick cracked near the dirt road. Seven and a half seconds later dry grass crackled as Drostan lowered himself down next to Taran with a grunt.
“Gorgeous night.” His father pointed at the stars. “Or morning, I suppose, since it’s three a.m.”
Taran didn’t look at him. “You’re getting sloppy. I heard you coming from the road.”
Drostan shrugged. “Soft living. I can’t remember the last time I bothered to stay up for three a.m. stars before you came back.”
Taran barked a laugh. “At least I’m good for something then. We need to get your pudgy self back into shape.” He eyed his father’s waistline. “You really should lay off the biscuits, athair.”
Drostan rolled his eyes. “I don’t see what for.” He tossed a rock toward the creek, and a splash sounded back to them.
“Not bad,” Taran said. “Perhaps you haven’t lost all your skills, old man.”
“Old man?” Drostan huffed. “You always did have cheek, lad.”
Taran grimaced. “Aye, too much. That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”
“Maybe.” Drostan chewed the inside of his cheek. “But I’m glad you’re back. Six more months and it would’ve been too late. And then what would I have told your mother when I finally shoved off from this old world?”
Taran didn’t answer. Six months. Had he really come so close? But then, that had been the point. To reach the end. To free his father from having to worry about him. From being tied to this spot.
“Sorry,” he said, voice hoarse. “Next time I’ll bring a watch.”
Drostan chuckled. “There’s my boy. Always joking.” He sobered. “Speaking of joking, I want to talk to you.”
Here it comes. Taran steeled himself for whatever lecture his father had planned.
“What exactly do you think you’re playing at with Cadenza?” Drostan asked.
Taran flinched. He should’ve seen that coming.
He and Cadenza had spent every evening together since Canon’s proposal four days ago.
She’d kissed him that night and plenty since.
This evening they’d walked the trail to the back fence and then talked in her apartment until she couldn’t keep her eyes open anymore.
When he said goodnight, he’d asked once more where she would go if she could go anywhere.
She’d pulled him back down to the couch, laid her head on his chest, murmured, “The ocean,” and fallen asleep.
Taran had stayed and held her for a few hours.
He couldn’t stay all night of course. That’d be awkward come sunrise.
When he slipped out of her arms, she woke enough to capture his face between her hands and kiss him again.
She tasted like caramel.
Taran leaned back in the dry grass and closed his eyes, remembering.
“That!” Drostan said. “That look right there, that’s exactly what I’m talking about. What are you playing at?”
“I’m not playing.” Taran leapt to his feet and launched another rock. Every time he was around Cadenza, every time she touched him was like running full tilt under a bright moon.
The rock scribed an arc in front of the stars and hit a stand of oaks.
A great horned owl flapped out of the trees, hooting its irritation.
He watched its flight, noting the markings down its back.
It was the same owl he’d seen with Cadenza the first time he’d run into her at the bridge. It must have a nest here in the field.
Taran allowed himself a smirk. Could pretty-sales-boy see in the dark like that? Didn’t think so.
“If you’re not playing, I’d like to know what you think you are doing.
” Drostan stood and shook his head. “She’s leaving this place.
Going to sing in Italy. She’s wanted out of this town since she was a wee thing, Taran.
She’s not staying. And you”—he jabbed a finger into Taran’s chest—“can’t leave. ”
A growl rumbled in Taran’s chest and his nostrils flared. Like he needed the reminder. Anger vibrated through his legs and the earth beneath him groaned.
Drostan held out a hand. “Steady, son.”
Taran took a deep breath and pulled the tremors back.
He knew he shouldn’t care about Cadenza the way he did, and when she needed to leave, he wouldn’t ask her to stay.
But she pulled on him like the moon on the tide.
He had so few choices left to him. Whatever time she granted him, he chose to accept it.