LITMIR.BIZ

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sister—and Uncle Daniel took me in. They lived in Toronto, which is where Mom grew up. I’d just started grade twelve in Cold Lake, so finished in Toronto. Anyhow, what with life insurance and my inheritance, I had enough money to pursue my musical education and buy a house. So I went—” She broke off and slid her hand free from his as a waiter approached with a plate of sautéed mushrooms, mostly portobello.

      When the waiter went to put the plate in front of him, Giancarlo said, “In the middle, please, so we can share.” Then he urged Rina, “Taste,” and picked up his own fork.

      The mushrooms were firm, not overcooked. The garlic, lemon and basil made an effective combination. “Good,” he said. “Yes?”

      “Excellent.”

      She put down her fork but he said, “No, we’re sharing. Remember?” When she’d speared another mushroom, he said, “Go on, tell me what happened after high school. And, did you choose the clarinet in the end?”

      She chuckled. “Yeah, your advice was good. I had an amazing teacher in Toronto. And then…” She paused, then finished quietly, “I went to Juilliard.” He saw the glow of pride in her eyes.

      “Juilliard,” he said reverently. “You did make it to Juilliard.” She’d wanted it so badly. They both had, back then.

      She nodded, her lips curving as if a smile was fighting to get out. “My Toronto teacher had a connection there—one of the instructors—and I could afford to go to New York and take a couple of lessons with him. Then, not to boast, but I aced the audition. Piano and clarinet.” Now she let herself smile widely. “You remember that it was one of my dreams to go there?”

      “Of course. Rina, that’s wonderful. Sad, though, that it was your parents’ death that got you to Toronto, and the instructor with connections.”

      Softly she said, “Yes, though I know they’d have been so happy I got in.”

      He reflected a moment. “The house was one of your dreams too, wasn’t it? You said you wanted to find a cozy home in a lovely place, and no one could ever again force you to move.” After a sip of champagne, he went on. “Juilliard, the house, first chair in a major orchestra, and a husband and kids.” He put his glass down. “You said you’re not married. No kids?”

      She was about to answer when Francesco dropped by to top up their champagne and ask if they were enjoying the mushrooms. Giancarlo told him even his mamma couldn’t better them.

      Rina sat back, enjoying the banter between Giancarlo and the restaurant owner, who was treating the two of them like celebrities. No doubt the star treatment had far more to do with Giancarlo’s status in the entertainment world, not to mention the fact he was Italian, than to her own charms.

      She sipped champagne. Like sunshine distilled into a glass. She’d recognized the label, knew this was the real stuff, but had no idea how much it must cost.

      Was she in the middle of a fantasy? Another crazy dream?

      The man across from her was easily the most handsome she’d ever met. Had she had the slightest clue he’d have morphed from gawky kid to GQ cover model, she’d never have had the nerve to e-mail him. But, despite his transformation, she could still see the old Giancarlo in the curve of his lip, the sparkle in his eyes, those lovely long-fingered hands, his enthusiasm for food and wine. And his apparent interest in her.

      The man had focused on her as if she was the most fascinating woman in the world. Ten minutes ago, three extraordinarily striking young women had walked by on their way to a neighboring table and he’d never even glanced up. His gaze had been intent on her face.

      And when he’d held her hand…it felt like they were alone in the world.

      Maybe she should stop drinking. She was so confused.

      For minutes at a time she’d forget the years that had passed and feel like it was the old Rina and Giancarlo, the fat girl and the skinny boy, taking up where they’d left off.

      Then she’d refocus and really see him. See how those mischievous curls now framed a strikingly masculine face, see the breadth of his shoulders and the great musculature revealed by that sexy V-neck sweater. Note the silky quality of that sweater, not to mention the flashing ring on his finger that could only be a diamond. This man was very different from the boy she’d known.

      This man could have pretty much any woman he wanted. And probably had.

      And yet here he was, being charming and apparently sincere with her. Plain old Rina Goldberg. The fat girl with the big shnoz.

      Her fork had been sneaking toward the mushrooms and she hurriedly pulled it back. Sure they were vegetables, but she knew damned well they’d been sautéed in butter and olive oil.

      “Eat, eat,” Giancarlo urged, and she realized Francesco had departed while she’d been musing.

      “You sound like my aunt.”

      He laughed. “And like my mamma. Now, on the subject of mothers, you have no children?”

      She shook her head. Kids were still one of her dreams, but he didn’t need to know that.

      “And the music? You’re still playing, of course?”

      “I’m principal clarinet with the operatic society. I hope to make it to first chair with the symphony orchestra.” Should she mention the audition?

      Before she could decide, he was saying, “Of course you will. You were very talented even then, before Juilliard.” He raised his glass to her. “And what else with your music? Where else do you play? And I imagine you teach?”

      “Yes.” She smiled. He knew how tough it was for a musician to make a living. “I play for the CBC Orchestra, and I’m part of a quintet that does a fair number of gigs. I teach clarinet and piano—classical—to adults and kids, and love it.” Not all her students had talent, but she felt such joy at helping others develop an appreciation for music.

      For her, music was such a huge thing. Spiritual, uplifting. Her mother had stressed the Jewish creed of tikkum olam, repairing the world. Though Rina wasn’t a practicing Jew, she felt that filling other lives with music was her way of practicing tikkum olam.

      “And where, after the Vancouver Symphony Orchestra? On to New York? Chicago? Philadelphia?”

      Damn, he had to ask that. He’d unerringly named the three top symphonies in North America. Slowly she said, “My home’s here.”

      “Truly? Forever? I mean, yes, I understand you want stability after all the moving, but you’d cut off your career because of a house, a city?”

      He was right. The VSO wasn’t a top, or even second-rank, orchestra. Maybe she did have the talent to play in one of the best. But she’d have to move again. Leave Vancouver…

      “It’s not just a house,” she said softly, “it’s my home. For now, that matters a lot. Once I make it to the VSO, I’ll see if I’m happy there. For the rest of my musical career.”

      He squinted at her. “The opportunity to play with the best in the world versus a home?” She could tell from his expression that he didn’t get it. All the same he nodded slowly and said, “I can see how, for you, that’d be a tough decision.”

      For her. Not for him. It seemed pretty clear he’d always put career ahead of home. And yet, this music video thing of his was so different from the career he’d once dreamed of.

      She tilted her head. “How about you, Giancarlo? You were going to be a concert pianist. You wanted Juilliard, too, then to perform all over the world.”

      Was it the restaurant lighting or did a shadow cloud his eyes for a moment? He waved a hand dismissively. “A child’s dream. Even more, it was my parents’ dream. The truth is, I didn’t have the talent.”

      “You did! You were brilliant.”

      He

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