Page 8 of Lost Dreams

Of course, she knew better than to show her fear that someday, Raffaello would get rid of her the same way the Sydney Opera House guy would get rid of his opera singer. She knew that she wouldn’t be a young and beautiful prodigy forever. Her days were numbered.

She told herself not to think about that, not now.

The dinner was a six-course menu. The flavors were exquisite and precise, each bite launching Lorelei back through time to her mother’s dinner table. She had to fight her instinct to call her mother to tell her about this restaurant. She also had to fight her instinct to eat quickly. She knew that she needed to be ladylike.

She picked up her white napkin and dotted it tentatively across her lips. She laughed at a joke the Sydney Opera House guy told, although a moment later she couldn’t remember what it had been about.

“I think it’s time we meet the chef,” the Sydney Opera House guy said to the opera singer, smiling grandly. It was clear he liked being the kind of guy who could snap his fingers and produce the chef at whatever restaurant he was at.

“I think you’re right about that,” Raffaello said. “This must be the best restaurant in Roma right now. Don’t you agree, Lorelei?”

Lorelei nodded and blushed. She wondered if she’d been eating quicker than she should have been. Maybe Raffaello had noticed. He noticed almost everything.

After learning they wanted to meet the chef, the server left and returned with a man in his mid-to-late twenties, a handsome and charming and slightly shy Italian man who introduced himself as Roberto Russo. Lorelei felt her stomach flip over, especially when Roberto reached for her hand.

“You must sit with us,” Raffaello said to Roberto.

“Yes,” said the Sydney Opera House owner. “I had no idea you’d be so young! We must learn everything about you.”

The opera singer smiled, but Lorelei felt it was false. She wondered if the opera singer knew that she was going to be let go—not only from her professional position but also from her romance.

“I suppose I can sit for a bit,” Roberto acquiesced.

“Bring a chair for him,” Raffaello ordered the server. “Set it up here, directly beside our beautiful piano prodigy.” He grinned, as though he were playing a prank on Lorelei.

Roberto sat beside Lorelei, and the server brought him a wineglass so that he could have some of the very expensive Primitivo red wine that he’d ordered earlier. Roberto raised a glass. His movements were awkward, as though he was unaccustomed to sitting at a nice table in his own restaurant. Lorelei sensed he would have preferred to be back in the kitchen with the kitchen crew.

“Thank you very much for your generosity,” Roberto said.

“And thank you for your exquisite talents,” the Sydney Opera House man said.

For a little while, Lorelei observed without speaking. She was nervous to say anything stupid, especially in front of Raffaello, so she sipped her wine and listened. Roberto explained that he’d begun working at this restaurant four months ago and had completely refurbished the menu himself.

“Last I was here, it was that other chef,” Raffaello said thoughtfully. “I thought the menu seemed dried-out and dull. I told friends that we shouldn’t return here. Oh, but you’ve breathed new life into it!” Raffaello smiled over at Lorelei, then hesitated, as though something had just occurred to him.

Time seemed to stand still as his eyes clicked from Lorelei to Roberto, and back again.

“Look at these young people,” he said finally, breathily. “Look at how remarkable they look together. They’re the new generation of artists. Goodness, it’s like looking at the world’s future.”

Lorelei thought Raffaello was being sarcastic. Her cheeks were hot.

Roberto turned to look at her. Lorelei could hardly bring herself to meet his gaze for fear that he would make fun of her, too.

“I’ve been talking nonstop about myself,” Roberto said. “What about you? I have heard about your piano performances, but I admit, I haven’t seen any myself.”

“You absolutely must!” Raffaello said. “We’ll get you tickets the next time she performs in Rome. Front-row seats so that you can see the concentration in her eyes. It’s simply incredible. She’s unlike anyone else.”

Lorelei smiled nervously.

“What’s it like up there?” Roberto asked. “When I ‘perform,’ I’m hiding away in my kitchen and able to concentrate because nobody is watching me. I can’t imagine how terrifying it must be on stage.”

“Yes,” Lorelei said. “It’s scary. But I try to channel that energy into my performance. I try to let the nervousness become excitement, if that makes sense.”

Raffaello clapped his hands. “Look at them!” he cried. “They’re simply the most beautiful pair of twenty-something artists in all of Rome.”

“Let’s not get carried away, Raffaello,” the man who owned the opera house said, raising his glass.

Happily, the conversation soon shifted to something else beyond Lorelei’s talent and beauty, and she sat silently, waiting for the night to end. When Raffaello stood and said he was going to go home, Lorelei again felt Roberto’s eyes on her.