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“I might. I haven’t exactly been living on another planet, you know.”
He folded his arms and gave her a wry look. “Tell me the names of bands you’ve listened to lately.”
Kate bit her lip and gave him a defiant look. “I’ve heard of Beyoncé, Coldplay…” She trailed off, searching her mind. “Adele!” she added with a note of triumph.
He threw back his head and laughed. “So, we have Beyoncé, Coldplay, and Adele as options. Anyone else before you admit that you have no idea about the music scene today?”
“Paper Kites,” Kate said, her tone smug. “They’re still around.” At least she thought they were, though the last time she’d listened to them, well, she couldn’t remember. They would probably still be on her iPod if she could find that. She decided on a nonchalant approach and gave her best imitation of a Gallic shrug. “I don’t really listen to contemporary music, much.”
She started to say she listened to opera and classical, because those were the concerts that Giancarlo took her to, but decided against it. It would probably sound as pretentious as Giancarlo sometimes made it. Not to say that she didn’t like classical or some of the operas, well, a few of them, but sometimes there seemed more performance surrounding the attendance than the actual music itself. She knew Giancarlo had to endure it because of his business, but he was so natural at it, so much better at it than she was,
“What do you listen to, then?” He tilted his head. “Let me guess. Classical?”
She flushed and nodded a moment later.
“Nothing wrong with classical,” said Ethan. “I can always learn something listening to them.” He tapped her hand. “And you’re right. Paper Kites are still around. And so are the others.”
“But none of them are the band you’re writing songs for, I take it.”
He laughed again. “God no. Paper Kites and Coldplay do well enough on their own.”
“So who is it, then?”
He looked at her and sighed. “Prometheus Bound.”
She repeated the name. “Really?”
He nodded. “Have you heard of them?”
She shook her head. “No, sorry.”
He snorted. “No need to apologize. I didn’t think you had.”
She shoved his arm. “Hey. You were doing so well there. Classical, remember? Anyway. I’d like to hear some of their songs. Well, your songs. What kind of music do they play?”
He scrunched his nose. “Kind of grunge meets indie rock.”
She nodded. “Right. Okay. And you write those songs.”
He sighed. “Yeah, for my sins.”
She grinned. “Sinful enough to have your liver pecked at?” she asked, alluding to the band, who obviously took its name from the Greek myth.
He chuckled. “Yeah, it’s a bit like being chained to a rock and having my liver pecked at, to tell you the honest truth.”
“And all for giving mankind fire. You naughty boy.” She noted the joke had lightened his expression, the dark, grim look that had shadowed him since he’d appeared, now gone. “How long have you been writing songs for them?”
He frowned. “Long enough.”
“Waiting for the chains to be broken? Waiting to get off that rock?”
He toyed with the crumbs that were the only remains of his cupcake. Her own was only half-eaten. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Something like that.”
She’d been joking, her tone lighthearted enough, but his answer wasn’t, not so much for what he said, but for what he didn’t say. She could understand that. Her own chains, invisible like his, weren’t attached to a boulder of a different kind, it seemed sometimes, and though no eagle was pecking at her liver, she did feel like she was dragging that boulder around with her wherever she went. Only occasionally had it released her, and even then it would reclaim her unexpectedly. Like the other day with Mark. For now, though, she would enjoy her cupcake and try and forget about those chains.
Fifteen
Kate yawned and stretched, staring out of the living room window. It was nine, and she needed breakfast. She hadn’t slept well, her mind crowded with ideas for her art pieces. Outside, she could see Tom wielding a rake with determination against the carpet of leaves that covered the front lawn. She had planned to do it the next day, but Tom had beaten her to it. It was strange to see Tom raking the leaves when all her memories had her father doing it, especially when they were young. Then, he’d made it into a kind of game with the two of them helping him gather great piles of leaves, Max’s predecessor, Butterscotch, barking and snapping at any stray ones drifting down from a tree. It was a kind of a race for her and Tom, so that they could jump in the piles before Butterscotch created his own chaos with them. Now, seeing Tom on his own, her father upstairs still in bed, she felt tears well, another small piece of evidence of the changes that were coming. How was she going to manage?
