(Blue Notes 2)The Melody Thief by Shira Anthony

once been a cellar for a store. The tables were set with candles, the walls were hung with paintings of the city, and the music was classical: baroque, understated. A hint of garlic hung temptingly in the air, and the meal was one of the best Cary had eaten in Milan, except perhaps for a dinner at home of Roberta’s paella, a recipe that had been handed down to her by her Spanish grandmother. It was also dirt cheap. Antonio had obviously taken pains to make sure that Cary didn’t have to spend a lot of money.
    Throughout the meal, he and Antonio talked comfortably. The bottle of red wine they had nearly finished between them put Cary at ease, and he found himself focusing through slightly hooded eyes on the top button of Antonio’s white cotton shirt. A hint of downy hair peered out above the button, the same dusty blond of the curls that had a habit of falling onto Antonio’s forehead when he spoke animatedly.
    “So,” Antonio said as they ate Signora Tuzzi’s cannoli (Antonio said it was Massimo’s favorite, and after tasting it, Cary could understand why), “what kind of music do you like?”
    “Any, really. Jazz, classical. I’m not a big country music fan, except maybe the classic stuff. I love rock too.”
    “What is it you like about rock?” Antonio asked.
    “What do you mean?”
    “What does it make you feel?”
    Cary paused to think about the answer. It was an interesting question, and one he had never really considered. “I don’t know… free, I guess. And a little dangerous.”
    Antonio chuckled. “I think you’re usually dangerous. But I understand what you’re saying. It’s the same for me when I listen to classical music.”
    “The dangerous part?” Cary said as he chewed on his lower lip.
    “It makes me feel something. I forget about the little things that get to me, and I just feel .”
    Cary stared down at his empty glass, the warmth of the conversation fading as he had a momentary vision of himself, the first time he had performed. He had been four or five years old. He’d felt something then: excitement, to be sharing the music which had up until that moment been only his. Love, even? How long had it been since he felt anything even approaching that?
    “Are you all right?”
    “I could use some more wine,” Cary said with a tilt of his head.
    “Of course.” Antonio poured Cary the last of the bottle, and their eyes met.
    Cary shivered, suddenly cold in spite of the warm restaurant and his wool jacket. What was it about those blue eyes that made him feel as though they could pierce his skin and see inside of him? It was as if Antonio knew ….
    Cary shrugged off the thought and gulped his wine.
    “Good?” Signora Tuzzi asked with an expression of eager anticipation.
    Thank God , Cary thought, relieved at the interruption. “ Perfetto !” he said aloud. “The best I’ve ever had.”
    The woman left, and Antonio reached across the table and laid his hand on Cary’s. It was an unexpected gesture that took Cary by surprise.
    “I remember the first time my papà took me to La Scala,” Antonio said. His expression was pensive. “He loved opera. We saw La Traviata . It was so beautiful, I remember wanting to run up on stage and join the singers. But I never could sing.”
    “Funny, isn’t it? And I remember thinking how much fun it would be to play football. My brother was really good. I tried, but my mother always worried about me. She didn’t want….” Cary’s voice trailed off at the realization that he had told Antonio far more than he intended.
    “We all wish we could be someone else sometimes.” Antonio squeezed Cary’s hand gently and met his gaze.
    “Yeah. I guess that’s true.”
    More than you know.
    Cary wanted to look away, but he couldn’t. He wanted to tell Antonio the truth, but the fear that Antonio would push him away was more than he could face. In the end, he said nothing.
    Just one more night. The clock strikes midnight and Cinderella is