by A. Constanza
I may have been smiling at her, but she looked over her shoulder and shot me a nasty scowl that made every positive feeling in me instantly die. Her brown eyes turned cold, wicked even, they looked like they were prepared for murder and I was her victim. She snapped her head away and continued to prepare the salad.
There was still so much unresolved pain behind those eyes. If I gave her my truth, then maybe it would help her in some sort of manner, but she didn’t want to talk to me. She made it clear as day.
How could we have known that we would be in this situation? It seemed that the universe was persistent in having us meet again. I expected Estella to have been out the door by now, but she was staying for the same reason I was: respect for our elders.
Substituting for Nonno at the church had filled me with an uncomfortable feeling. I hadn’t played the piano ever since that night with Estella, and I didn’t intend on having my first time in years to be in front of a crowd, one that consisted of gossipers and those who wished ill on me, such as Estella. Now, I was in a room with her.
The whispers of the churchgoers echoed in my mind.
I heard he was working with the traitor.
Like father, like son. We need to keep an eye on him.
I understood everyone’s reservations about my father; he fought tooth and nail to demolish the city and modernize it—that was until they came up with a compromise. I worked for him, but I didn’t support his actions. I was a man who just wanted some sort of a relationship with his estranged workaholic father, yet I was seen as the bad guy. I didn’t want to be the bad guy anymore.
Norah noticed that I stood by the kitchen archway. “Don’t be shy,” she said, smiling. “Come in here and meet my girls.”
Why must they be related?
I was raised in this cottage, yet Norah seemed far more comfortable than me. She reached over for my arm and fluttered her eyelashes. “Girls, I would love you to meet my hero and Emile’s grandson, Ignacio.”
From the corner of my eye, I saw Estella roll her eyes.
“We’ve met before, actually,” Salem said, squeezing my hand a little too tight. I watched her gray eyes turn into steel.
She knew about me.
“Oh, how?” Norah asked with a big smile.
“The café,” she said, simply, but her eyes were telling another story.
Norah didn’t pay too much attention to Salem. “And that’s Estella.”
I know.
Estella stood at the end of the kitchen and flashed a pirated smile that disappeared as soon as it appeared, then lowered her head back down to the salad bowl.
“Pleasure to meet you two,” I said.
“Well, we have forty minutes until the lasagna is ready. Let’s sit down and get to know each other,” Norah chimed, walking out of the kitchen.
Salem sent me a death glare and then faced Estella, extending her hand out. Estella held it tightly, and Salem brushed past me without another thought.
***
Nonno walked us out to the garden terrace and asked everyone to take a seat. We bounced in and out of conversation, but nothing substantial. Estella and Salem excused themselves out of the conversation to walk around the spacious backyard. I took the opportunity to escape the heavy tension and went to the piano room.
It was one of my favorite rooms growing up. The honey-colored walls complemented the dark-stoned chimney, his chestnut grand piano, a brown two-seater where Nonna and Nonno would sit once I felt practiced enough with a composition, and lines of books about the great pianists in history and stacks of Nonno’s own masterpieces.
There was still a lingering aroma of the cigars that he used to smoke. He stopped smoking the day Nonna had passed away. Nonno told us he went to smoke in the backyard because Nonna never liked to see him smoke, and she decided to water the plants in the front. When he was done with his cigar, he went to see her in the front, but she was collapsed on the floor.
She had a heart attack while she watered the plants. It took Nonno weeks to pick up the watering can that had fallen from Nonna’s hand. He blamed himself for her death or at least, not being there with her while she suffered. He threw away all the cigars that he had on hand and never looked back. I believed it was Nonna’s way of keeping Nonno on Earth for a bit longer. He would’ve been on the brink of lung cancer had he not stopped.
A timer went off in the kitchen, and I closed one of Nonno’s leather composition journals to tend to the lasagna. I reached the kitchen but was internally shocked that Estella stood before me. She placed the lasagna on the counter and slid off the old, green oven mitts.
Estella’s eyes darted over my shoulder and to the archway that led back into the hallway.
“I’m sorry,” I said, stepping aside to let her out. I was experiencing actual physical pain in my apology. I wasn’t only apologizing for being in her way, but sorry for everything that had happened between us.
She stepped back, crossing her arms around her chest, only to trudge forward. Her arm brushed against mine, and I spoke to her again. “I can go, if it makes it easier,” I offered, softly.
“It’s okay,” she whispered. “I’m not actually related to Norah; I mean, neither is Salem, but that’s not the point.” She paused for a moment and huffed. She became noticeably flustered and placed her hands over her blushed cheeks. “I’m not a Russo or an Amatore. I’m a Salvador. I should be offering to leave.”
Thank God she wasn’t related to Norah. Fewer complications.
“Salvador?” I whispered, the surname sounding familiar. “Are you E. Salvador?”
“Yes,” she exhaled, deeply. “Those figurines that you bought were made by me.”
“The fox on the piano, is that me?” It all started to make sense now. The fox on the piano with a beautiful young woman that looked like her, and then the peony, the same kind of flower that I had given to her that night in Paris.
“You tell me.”
Her body had been positioned to face mine, and I breathed her presence. She was so close, yet so far from me. I had craved this moment for the last five years.
“Don’t go,” I responded, sensing her need to get away from me.
Please, stay here. I need you near.
“I’m staying because I know how important this is for Nonna Norah and Emile.”
I nodded in agreement.
I expected her to dart out of the door, but she didn’t move and neither did I. This closeness felt so good. I only wished that I could give her the same feeling.
“I need to explain my side of that night, Estella.” I sighed.
Her breath hitched, and she pulled away. “No, I don’t want to hear it.”
“Please,” I begged.
“Lor-Ignacio,” she corrected herself and shook her head. “No.”
“Estella, I haven’t been able to get you out of my mind,” I expelled. She had to know that I never forgot about her. That night in Paris was a significant moment in my life, not some cheap one-night stand.
She placed her hand up, firmly shielding us. “I don’t want to hear it. Not today.”
Not today. There was still hope.
“Would you like me to return the figurines?” I asked, just wanting to hear a little more from her.
Estella tore her chocolate-brown eyes away from me and headed into the hallway. I heard the back door open, and the door proceeded to close. I looked out the window, and Estella pointed to the cottage and everyone cheered.
I wasn’t as excited as them for the dinner.
ELEVEN
Estella
The lasagna came out phenomenal, and dinner went smoothly. Ignacio didn’t overstep; if anything, he remained quiet most of the time. He would answer Nonna’s questions but kept talking to a minimum. He didn’t like talking about himself.
I tried not to make eye contact with Ignacio, but at times, I caught myself stealing glances. We made eye contact one time throughout the dinner
, and it startled me. He lowered his gaze and the corner of his lips turned upward.
Crap, he caught me.
“Should we do dessert now?” Norah asked us. “It’s tiramisu.”
Everyone agreed with mumbled yeses and head nods.
Emile went into the fridge to retrieve the dessert and placed a perfectly cut piece onto each plate. Nonna Norah handed us each a plate and sat down, glancing at Emile with a serious expression.
“So,” Emile started. “The incident at the church.”
With that line, Emile had all of Ignacio’s undivided attention.
“I wanted to thank you, Ignacio, for rising to the occasion. It’s not a mystery that my hands are starting to fail me.” He sighed. “I was speaking to Norah while you all were roaming around, and I’ve decided to take a break from playing the piano.” It was clear that his words pained him. Asking a pianist to live without the piano was similar to asking a human to live without air. Not possible.
But this also meant that my lessons were ending. Emile watched me process his words and form all the connections.
“I’m sorry, Estella,” Emile huffed. “There is a lot of potential, but I can’t do it,” he said, lifting his hands in disappointment.
“It’s okay, I understand,” I responded, softly.
“But that only means the end of us, but when one door opens, another one closes,” he said and turned to Ignacio who sat up straight. “I know you two had a lesson together. You both agreed that it went decently, correct?” His gaze moved between the two of us.
Ignacio and I nodded our heads unsurely.
“Well, I believe that with more practice, you two will make a terrific duo. Ignacio learned from me, and Estella, he can teach you what I know and more.”
Oh no.
“Nonno,” Ignacio mumbled and craned his neck to the side.
Emile glared at him. “Yes?”
“I go back to work tomorrow,” he said.
He was trying to say no. Good.
Emile didn’t conceal his annoyance at Ignacio’s response. “You do not work; you are kissing your father’s ass. Big difference.”
Ignacio opened his mouth and inhaled, but he bit his tongue and shook his head.
He was embarrassed.
“Is it money? Is it fear? Why is it that you insist on working for him? Ignacio, you are not him. You are a man of music, not business.”
Both men looked annoyed with each other. It seemed that Ignacio working for his father was a sensitive topic. By the looks over their face, there were some unresolved issues and Emile wanted to address them now.
Ignacio kept his eyes locked on his plate of untouched cake. “I’m sorry.”
I winced at his words, sensing the guilt in them. He apologized to me earlier, and I wasn’t sure if it was for anything in specific, or sorry for everything. Hearing the same painful apology again, I could vouch that he was apologizing for everything.
Emile ignored his apology, just like I did. But, I didn’t feel good about it.
“It’s okay, Emile. I’m going to be busy with orders and helping Salem. Maybe it’s for the best.”
I had to say something to steer the conversation away from Ignacio. No one deserved to be jabbed at in front of other people.
“Non-sense,” Emile protested. “Are you passionate about learning?”
I nodded.
“Then we will figure it out, okay?
“Okay.”
I wanted to learn how to play the piano, but I only wanted to learn from Emile. I couldn’t be in the same setting with Ignacio; it would be too much for me to handle. It would remind me of that night, and I didn’t want to do that to myself. Everything that I adored about Ignacio five years ago was still present. His looks. His talent. His presence. It all made me weak.
This was supposed to be the time to free myself. To roam like a butterfly, learning about myself and the world, but it didn’t feel possible anymore. I wanted to continue playing the piano; every time I played, I felt in control of my life again. It was the one thing I didn’t want to be taken away from me right now, and now it was gone.
“Well, that was all delicious,” Salem interjected.
“It was,” Nonna Norah said, collecting everyone’s plates.
Somehow, I felt responsible for the tension in the room. It was all because of my piano lessons. “I will clean up,” I offered.
“No, it’s fine. Ignacio can do that,” Emile said.
“It’s okay,” I insisted.
“Help the girl,” Emile ordered Ignacio and headed out of the kitchen.
“Ignacio, he’s upset about his hand. Please, don’t take his words to heart,” Nonna Norah said, noticing that Ignacio had been affected by everything Emile had spewed. “Salem, come with me and tell him that joke about the hunters. Maybe it will lighten his mood.”
Salem looked at me with a conflicted expression. If Nonna Norah needed her, she had to go with him. I gave Salem a little nod to confirm that I would be okay with Ignacio. She turned to Ignacio and flashed him a warning with her sharp eyes.
I collected the remainder of the plates and placed them in the sink. “I’ll wash, and you can dry them.”
Ignacio didn’t respond, and I didn’t turn my attention toward him to see if he nodded. I had just finished cleaning the first plate when Ignacio appeared next to me with a towel in hand. I handed him the plate, and he took it, dried it, and placed it in the cabinet.
The water ran, the dishes clattered, the cabinets opened and closed, but the silence between us was deafening. We worked through the chore without exchanging any words. We barely acknowledged each other. He kept his distance, standing a foot away from me, and kept his eyes on the dish on hand. The only part of him that came in contact with me was his warm and woody cologne that invaded my personal space.
God.
He smelled absolutely devouring. His cologne brimmed with the sweet notes of all things feminine and masculine. Leather, rum, cigar wrappers, spice, vanilla. It wasn’t the same cologne from years ago, but it reminded me of the jazz club from five years ago.
Ignacio set the towel to the side and slid his hands into his pocket as he leaned against the counter, unsure of what to do next.
I was also unsure of what to do and decided that maybe asking him a question about his childhood would alleviate the tension.
“Your nonno’s cottage is very nice,” I said, my voice sounding small. “Did you come here often as a child?”
“I did. I would visit in the summer as a child, but once I turned ten, it became my home.” He kept his eyes on the floor and his voice low.
I couldn’t help but notice that at the age of ten, he didn’t categorize himself as a child anymore. I also noticed that the whole sentence itself was heartbreaking. My heart started to feel heavy, and I wanted to scold myself for making matters worse again. I didn’t want to feel sorry for the man that had hurt me, but I didn’t want to hurt him.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured.
“For what?”
“Asking that question. I didn’t mean for it to lead to a sensitive topic.”
“It’s okay, you wouldn’t have known.”
“Right,” I whispered.
Ignacio raised his head, and his amber eyes flickered in my direction. “Could you tell Emile that I left?”
I nodded and watched him leave the kitchen, then heard the front door close behind me.
My heart hammered against my chest, and even without Ignacio in the same room as me, I found it difficult to breathe. He wasn’t here, but he was also here. This was his childhood home; his scent still lingered in the air; his words echoed in my head.
I inhaled deeply and walked to the garden terrace to inform Emile about Ignacio’s departure. Nonna Norah and Salem were taking pictures of a bird on a tree while Emile sat on a wicker loveseat, facing them but mentally somewhere else.
“He left, didn’t
he?” Emile asked, his eyes still locked ahead.
“Yes.”
“My boy,” he whispered and looked down at his hands. “I hate being upset with him, especially when it comes to his father.”
“Is his father your son?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“What happened, if I may ask?”
Emile snorted, but none of it was humorous. “I wouldn’t know where to begin, Estella.”
I wasn’t sure if that was his way of shutting down the conversation, or if he was waiting for me to ask for specifics. I shouldn’t pry, but a part of me wanted to know about all the hurt that Ignacio had gone through.
“He said he was raised here,” I said, giving us a place to start.
“That’s correct. He moved in with us the day he turned ten. Alessio, my son, and his father always saw Ignacio as an inconvenience. Alessio is a businessman and Florence, Ignacio’s mother, is an actress. I worked with her decades ago, and I introduced her to Alessio because they had the same passion and drive. Work, money, status were their top priorities. I thought it would have been the perfect match, and it was until Ignacio was born.”
“They didn’t plan on being parents,” I figured.
“Exactly. They didn’t want children and I thought it was some ridiculous claim they made, but they were right. They were incapable of thinking about anyone else other than themselves and money. They made a mutual decision to have him live with us until he was eighteen. They rarely made contact.”
I had no words. I couldn’t imagine not having my parents around. Being four thousand miles away, I spoke to my parents more now than I had when I lived with them.
“That’s pretty devastating for a child to experience.”
“It is, and yet he runs back to his father as if nothing happened.”
He shook his head in disgust. I wasn’t sure if it was directed toward his son, Ignacio, or both. Emile didn’t share anymore, but his pensive expression solidified that he had only told me a fraction of their issues.
