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“This is exciting.” Rose smiles, waving at me. “I love the hair.”
Heat crawls up my neck, and it’s probably more visible now because I have nothing to hide behind.
I cringe. “Thank you. It will take getting used to.” I try to tangle my finger at my waist, but there’s no hair there anymore.
That’s one way to break the habit.
“I’m sorry you and your husband won’t make the auction tonight.”
“Don’t be, honey. I hate those events. I much prefer to look at the ocean with a glass of wine.”
I almost swoon.
Me too.
Jay-Jay takes his seat. I nod at him and tap my feet. “Ready?”
He dips his chin confidently.
“One, two, three, four.”
He begins, and after a couple of beats, I join in on my end, but I know the notes so well, I spend my time watching him getting lost as he plays, remembering how it felt when I was his age. How amazing it was when all the practice finally came together.
Concentration pulls his brows down, like he’s commanding his little fingers not to slip.
My mother and father would stand at the doorway just like Rose and Jake, and they’d watch me play, sometimes for hours, because I would demand they stay until I got it right.
Eyes watering, I swallow the emotion clogging my throat when the piece comes to a close.
“Giochi come un angelo,” I whisper.
My body freezes, too trapped in a memory to realize what I’m saying.
Why the hell are those the words that came out of my mouth?
Eyes narrowed, Jay-Jay looks up at me as Jake and Rose clap.
“What does that mean?”
“Oh.” I smile, but it falters. “It means ‘you play like an angel.’”
“Do you speak Italian, Claire?” Rose asks, the same curiosity on Jake’s features.
Choosing honesty, I shake my head. “Not a word. My father’s side of the family is Italian. He always said that after I played. It slipped out,” I explain, ignoring the tremble in my hands as I fumble with a thread on my shirt dress.
I’m blaming the haircut.
The memories trapped in my hair must have escaped.
“Italian? With a name like Russell?”
It’s an honest question. She doesn’t mean anything by it, but it doesn’t stop my throat from closing.
“Russell is my mother’s name.”
I don’t tell her why I changed it. Maybe it’s the color draining from my face or the obvious tension in my shoulders, but she doesn’t ask anything else. She simply smiles. It’s warm, and I immediately relax.
I don’t look at Jake.
