So, if she wasn’t here for her instrument, what was she here for? Michelangelo leaned toward her, wondering if his flirtatious tactics had worked. ‘I wonder what those are.’
She stepped back, her face turning into a professional mask. ‘I’m picking up a trombone for Al Greenwood. The case should be black.’
Was that the man she’d sat next to? A current of jealousy rippled through him, even though he had no claim on her at all. Seems he had some competition. ‘He can’t pick it up for himself?’ What was with these American men? Was there no sense of chivalry?
Carly scratched her forehead above her left eye as if considering what to say, which only piqued his interest more.
She leaned over and whispered in his ear. ‘Let’s just say he had a little too much fun last night and is searching for a bathroom as we speak.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.’ So Carly liked the party boys? Somehow he had a hard time believing that.
Michelangelo reached in and brought out the case with Al’s name on it. He handed it to her, their fingers brushing. Heat traveled up his hand to his shoulder.
Carly looked away. Either she’d felt it too and couldn’t handle it, or she felt nothing at all. She turned toward the main entrance of the Coliseum.
A cord tugged on his heart, as if she’d lured him in with a fish hook and hadn’t let him free. Michelangelo wasn’t ready to say goodbye. ‘Ms. Davis?’
She whirled around, swinging the trombone in the air. ‘Yes?’
He pointed to the grand arches behind them. ‘What do you think?’
She wrinkled her perfect little button nose and shrugged. ‘Looks old and crumbly to me.’
Before he could respond, she’d turned back to join the rest of the orchestra.
Michelangelo laughed, his mood lifted from the earlier call. Ah, how I’ve missed Carly’s sass.
Chapter Five
The rehearsal and soundcheck dragged on forever. Sure, it was neat to play where Roman gladiators had once battled to the death almost two thousand years ago. But the newness wore off pretty quickly, turning into two hours of measure counting. To make matters worse, Wolf had crammed the orchestra into the part of the Coliseum where the tourists could walk, because the rest of the structure was too old and too precious. She had no idea where the audience would sit. There was so little space as it was that the back row of violas threatened to impale her with their every up-bow.
Not that a whole bunch of Italian people were going to drop their normal routine on a Wednesday and come watch an orchestra during their lunch break.
Forty-nine-two-three-four, fifty-two-three-four. Her mind wandered to Michelangelo. Putting down his country’s most famous iconic landmark was downright mean. He was a tour guide, for crying out loud. He must love ancient history. She vowed to apologize and find something nice to say the first chance she got.
Melody elbowed her from her principal flute’s seat. ‘Sixty-two!’
Carly blinked in surprise. She must have lost count, which hadn’t happened to her since her high school orchestra days. Sticking her way-too-dry reed into her oboe, she hoped the first few notes would come out.
Wolf gave her the cue, and she took a deep breath. Her first note came out like the squawk of a duck. Mortified, she adjusted the air stream and the pressure behind the sound, smoothing over the next set of notes.
Cursing Alaina for not letting her play through her long tones, she finished her solo with a sweet taper and breathed. She wouldn’t admit it was because of her own preoccupation with a certain tour guide. No way in hell.
Wolf held the last fermata in a glorious swell of sound, ending the song.
He placed both hands on the podium and his blue-eyed gaze scanned the orchestra, settling on Carly. A muscle twitched in his temple, making her anxiety level spike.
Oh no, here it comes.
‘Excellent job, my friends. We will give this audience something to remember.’ Wolf closed his score with finality.
Carly let go of a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. Maybe losing your bff to the conductor had its advantages? He was less inclined to pick at her mistakes. Still, Carly missed her time with Melody. She’d rather be called out than have to sit with Bertha and Al.
Wolf grinned, bringing out the harsh angles of his German face. ‘I have a treat in store for you. Our fabulous tour guide has arranged a picnic lunch right here in the Coliseum. He’s ordered some of Italy’s finest meats, cheeses, and breads. Please help yourself and have a breather. We are scheduled to be back on stage, dressed and ready to play by one o’clock.’
The orchestra muttered in agreement and began packing up. Carly opened her case and ran her lucky cleaning rag over her oboe.
‘Are you okay?’ Melody leaned over as she polished her flute.
Carly furrowed her eyebrows, feeling like a five-year-old who’d bruised her knee. ‘I’m perfectly fine, why?’
Melody shrugged sheepishly. ‘You never miss entrances. Usually you’re the one that helps me come in.’
‘Must be the jet lag. I’m still getting used to the fact that it’s still sunny at midnight.’
‘Yeah, that is strange, isn’t it?’ Melody closed her case and stood, stretching her legs.
‘Eating with Wolf?’ Carly tried not to sound jealous.
‘Actually, he had a meeting with Ms. Maxhammer so I was hoping…’ Melody batted her dark eyelashes. ‘You’ll take me back.’
‘I don’t know. I was really looking forward to talking about World War Two with Bertha and Trudy.’
Melody laughed. ‘What have I done to you?’
Carly smiled and waved her away, feeling like the old Melody had returned. ‘Made me get out of my bubble, that’s what you’ve done. I had to join the world sometime.’
‘True, but how about a little reminiscing?’ Melody waved to Wolf, then turned back to her.
Carly winked. ‘Only if we get to gossip.’
Melody hiked her flute bag over her shoulder. ‘Boy, do I have some fodder for you, and a few questions of my own.’
Carly’s heart dropped to the stage. Would Melody ask about Michelangelo’s wandering eye? If she backed out now that would certainly make the matter worse. ‘All right. But I can’t promise anything too juicy.’
Melody pushed her music stand down. ‘You don’t have to promise anything at all.’
Michelangelo was nowhere to be seen when they approached the table with all of the packed lunches. Guilt panged Carly’s chest. She still had to apologize to him. But not here, not in front of Melody. Her friend would take that one little I’m sorry and run with it, making something grand out of nothing at all.
Or, at least she thought it was nothing.
They picked up two mini picnic baskets and found a quiet spot outside the Coliseum on the grass. Carly gazed up at the part where the delicate carvings on the top broke off into the arches below. The shadowy stone gave her the creeps, as if ghosts of spectators lurked in the depths.
Not that she believed in ghosts. But