Let Me Fall in Love Read online

  “Camilla keeps whining about the venues I’ve suggested. She said she wants distinctive, to be the talk of the town, and then suggests Paris. It’s the city of love; how is that setting yourself apart? It’s almost too romantic. I’m speaking pure logic, but she isn’t willing to listen.”

  Paris.

  I hadn’t been there in five years. I refused to go back to the city of reckless mistakes. If Marcelo and Camilla were to wed there, then I’d be fully convinced that it would be an evil omen for divorce. Honest to God, I probably wouldn’t attend even if I had the honor of being the best man.

  There was so much chaos during my stay in Paris, but there was one shining evening that could never escape my mind. An indelible mark on me. Estella.

  She had been extraordinarily beautiful, her dark eyes and hair set off by the white dress tailored to her slender body. She was quite young, actually. Not even in her twenties. She was alone in a private booth, hidden by a white curtain, her chin in her hands, sketching something on her napkin which I still have as a reminder of the night we first met. To remind myself that it was all real.

  I had approached her with the intention of taking notice that she enjoyed the music and offering her a safe means of transportation. All my senses jumped out the window when I saw her eyes glisten in adoration at the sight of my beloved Fazioli. Other than my grandfather and instructors, I hadn’t met anyone else with an immense fascination with piano or classical music in general.

  Instructing her was my method of keeping my need to sleep with her at bay, along with wanting the opportunity to teach someone. I had taught a handful of rich kids who only studied piano for their parents’ approval, and none of them appreciated the lessons. Estella absorbed every word, every move, every ounce of life that the piano created. I had connected with her in a way that I never knew was possible.

  Then when it was time to part ways, I parted her legs instead. I should’ve left our interaction to just a piano lesson, but I ached for her after seeing that studious side of her. With her posture upright and her thick, brown hair spilling over her left shoulder, it was hard to resist, especially with the strawberry-and-cream scent intoxicating my senses. I longed to place my lips on the back of her neck and gently kiss her, but I forced myself to continue working until I couldn’t anymore.

  “Asshole, are you listening?” Marcelo hollered.

  “Yes, Paris is a no-go,” I said, trying to ignore the swelling in my trousers.

  “Sure, in short, no Paris,” he said, annoyed that I summed up his ten-minute rant into one simple line. “Good luck to your future wife,” he huffed.

  “Whoever said I was going to get married?” I sighed, looking out across the vast, blue lake. Estella had set my standards too high for other women. They had to look like her, be fascinated by and passionate about music like her, and have the quiet confidence that she had. No one could replicate her, and I knew that I would never see her again.

  I would never find a girl like her, nor would I ever find her again.

  THREE

  Estella

  Present

  I smiled as I watched Salem make the final touches to her new café and obnoxiously sing traditional Italian songs. There was something about her spirit that made me feel at home. At the age of twenty-four, Salem Russo and I made the conscious decision of moving to Italy for a year just for the experience. There wasn’t much for us back home other than family.

  And a toxic ex-boyfriend that I needed to be oceans apart from.

  I was pretty hesitant about moving to another country because the last time I went to a foreign country, I ended up in a dark place. Granted, I made the idiotic decision of sleeping with a handsome stranger, thinking I would awake to him after a long, passionate sex session. My first sexual experience ended up being a tragedy. So, this time around, I vowed to myself that I wouldn’t delve into the world of romance. Italy was my fresh start—to create a new me. Estella 2.0 who didn’t fall for men like Mr. Pianist or ex-boyfriends named Cesar.

  To my surprise, my parents urged me to move to Italy. They were tired of seeing me work in their tiny Latin market during the day and as a waitress at Mr. Russo’s restaurant at night, cooped up in my bedroom, and most importantly, wanted any reason for me to avoid Cesar. They knew that he wasn’t a good boyfriend, but they never knew the extent of it.

  “Norah’s Panetteria is going down!” Salem grunted.

  “Salem, shame on you. That’s your nonna!”

  “Nonna or not, she has competition, and I’m winning.”

  “Of course, because she’s closing her bakery to work for you, instead of being in charge of one, and giving you her recipes.”

  Salem batted her eyelashes, and her lips formed a tight line. “What do you gain from calling me out?”

  I shrugged. “Riling you up is a pleasure.”

  “So disrespectful,” she said, shaking her head.

  “Ciao, mie belle nipoti!” Nonna Norah greeted, entering the café. Hello, my beautiful granddaughters!

  Nonna Norah was a small, round woman with gray hair twirled up into a bun. I wasn’t her granddaughter, but she insisted on calling me one since I befriended Salem in sixth grade. Salem wasn’t biologically related to her either; she was adopted into the Russo family at the age of four. The only trace of her old life was her unique name.

  “Nonna!” She smiled, running over to her grandmother to embrace her. “I was telling Estella here that we could never compete with you. You’ve been here for five years, creating a name for yourself. We are frauds, really.” Salem placed a dramatic hand over her chest.

  Nonna wasn’t buying it. “I’m sure that is exactly what you said.” Nonna handed Salem a thick, brown book.

  “Yes, thank you!” Salem cheered, running over to the counter to look through all of Nonna’s most beloved desserts.

  Nonna walked over to the end of the café and gazed at our shelves of ceramic art pieces. “Estella, did you make all of these?” she said in awe.

  “Yes.”

  “So beautiful,” she said, reaching over to a piece that I had made of a young woman playing the piano alongside a fox.

  Story of my life. Literally.

  I specialized in making customized knickknacks and anything ceramic. New York was too large of a state to make a name for myself, so I decided to bring my talent to the small city of Castel Vecchio, Italy. I had seen many painters and needleworkers, but no sculptors. There wouldn’t be any competition for me here. Then again, I wasn’t planning on launching a massive business. I aimed to create art in the backroom of Salem’s restaurant and renovate it into my own little studio.

  “I love this one,” she said, picking up a cherub figurine. “Consider it your first sale,” she declared, handing me twenty euros.

  “Thank you.” I beamed.

  “Well, I’m off to my book club. I will let the ladies know that you’re opening tomorrow; it might be our new spot.” Nonna wiggled her eyebrows in delight. She had been working nonstop until five days ago. She ached for a slower pace of life, and honestly, she deserved it. She was a busy woman, so she still wanted to work and be involved, but not take the reins. I respected that.

  “I can’t wait to see you around,” I said, wrapping an arm around her shoulder.

  She was four inches shorter than me and went on the tips of her toes to place an aggressive kiss on my temple. “My sweet Estella.”

  Salem had been too enthralled by the cookbook to say her goodbyes. “I’m going to have to stay here until midnight in order to perfect all of Nonna’s treats,” she huffed.

  “This is your bakery, Salem. Make it you. Make all the treats that you’re great at creating. Cupcakes, donuts, macarons, cookies, and maybe add three of Nonna’s special items for a touch of Italy.”

  “Maybe.” She hesitated. “Will you help me figure out what three special menu items we should add?”

  “Of course, I can even help you make t
hem, but after my Italian class.”

  Salem collapsed onto the counter and groaned. “I need help now.”

  “It’ll only be an hour or two,” I reminded her. “I need to be there in thirty minutes.”

  “I told you that I could help you with your Italian.”

  “I need to know more than curse words if I’m living here for a year.”

  “Curse words are the foundation of a language.”

  “Bye, Salem,” I said, waving my fingers goodbye.

  “Ugh, fine, leave me,” she whined.

  I slipped on my brown, leather backpack and headed out through the back of the café. My sky-blue Vespa scooter waited for me, and I eagerly plopped my helmet onto my head. Salem and I both received gently used scooters for our travels around the city. It was a gift from Nonna Norah, but Salem said that an admirer of Nonna’s had bought it for us. Nonna was a secretive lady so I believed it. Either way, I was grateful for whoever bought it.

  Castel Vecchio was picture-perfect. The population was less than three thousand, and everyone knew everyone eventually. I had befriended most of the older women by our small cottage near the lake. The lake was vast and bluer than the sky. The sun was out with great fortitude, and the water glistened as I rode down the path to the small community college.

  I’d never been out in the countryside, but the fresh breath of air was delightful. It was nice to escape the city smog, the raving car horns, the phone-obsessed pedestrians, and the fast-paced life. New York City always seemed too rushed for me. In this little, old city, the kids were outdoors playing with grand smiles plastered on their faces, people bicycling with each other, birds fluttering above and singing beautiful songs. You’d be lucky to hear a bird sing this well in Brooklyn. The poor birds had their lungs infected from all the air pollution.

  The community college was a medium-sized building made out of red bricks with two archways that led to the only level of the building. It was the tallest building I had seen in the city but definitely paled in comparison to the properties that were across the lake. Salem had been wanting to explore Castel Nuovo, but I urged her against it. I was certain there was nothing of great value in that area. Rich people were obnoxious everywhere you went, whether it was Manhattan, Tokyo, Paris, or Castel Nuovo.

  I parked my scooter by the edge of one of the building’s walls where everyone else had theirs lined up. There was a young man playing the guitar by the entrance of the university, and he flashed charming smiles to all the girls that walked past him. His light brown eyes met my gaze, and he winked. I stared blankly at him and walked away, ignoring his flirtatious gesture.

  No love, no romance.

  The building had an old-town feel to it, but it was refreshing for me. I had grown tired of seeing industrial buildings taking over the city, so seeing a city with its original architecture had me appreciate the culture a lot more. I easily found the library in it, as well.

  There were only two study rooms, and only one of them had someone sitting in the room with a thick textbook. Leonardo, my Italian tutor, had informed me that he was in the study room, so it had to be him. Nonna Norah had referred him to me for a tutor but never gave me a physical description. I knocked on the door, and he glanced up, smiling widely. Everyone in this part of Italy was friendly.

  “Estella?” he said, opening the door.

  “Si! Leonardo?”

  “Si,” he said, appreciative of my Italian response. “Should we start?”

  “Si.”

  “Bene!” he said, clapping his hands together and signaling to the table.

  Leonardo deserved more than what I was paying him, and I insisted on paying more, but he happily objected. I stumbled over words, had him repeat himself over twenty times, and probably made an already painful experience even more aggravating. I thought only learning to converse instead of learning all the grammatical technicities would have been easier, but I proved myself wrong.

  We went over the basics: hi, how are you; what’s your name; what would you like to order? All the basic phrases that I would need to say at Salem’s café. I understood that Salem was the baker and had to stay in the back most of the time, but it didn’t make sense to have someone who didn’t know Italian work at the front. Maybe I could have Nonna Norah take over the front.

  “I’ve heard a couple students talk about the café,” Leonardo said. “They are excited for the opening.”

  “Oh no,” I whispered.

  He looked at me in bewilderment.

  “I mean, I’m happy but I’m nervous.”

  “Andrà tutto bene,” he assured.

  “How about you come in tomorrow and I will give you a treat on the house? It’s the least I can do for all of this.”

  “On the house?” he asked, tilting his head and his light grey eyes searching mine for an answer. I took a minute to appreciate his looks. For the past hour that we had been studying, I had been too stiff to absorb his facial features. Looking at him with a newfound peace of mind, he was actually quite handsome.

  “Gratis,” I said.

  “Ah, okay,” he said, nodding in approval.

  “Ci vediamo mercoledì?” I asked very slowly, hoping that I said Wednesday and not another day of the week.

  “Yes, we will see each other on Wednesday,” he confirmed.

  “Ciao!” I hollered, slinging my backpack over my shoulder.

  The singer was no longer outside when I left the small university; it would’ve been nice to hear him play the guitar again. As much as his forthcoming flirtations didn’t sit well with me, I always appreciated a musician, just not too much or too personally.

  I hopped onto my scooter and had my helmet hovering over my head when my ears were hit with a beautiful melody. I lowered my helmet and searched the open area for the direction in which the music came from but couldn’t determine it.

  I entered the building again, the music sounding stronger but still untraceable. The music created a beautifully haunting tone as I walked down the vacant hallways. It definitely wasn’t an original; I’d heard the song before. I couldn’t pinpoint it, and it was virtually impossible to know the name when I’d listened to thousands of classic songs.

  After walking farther into the building, I heard the music fill the hallways with vibrations, and that’s when I knew I was close to the source. I hadn’t been this captivated by piano playing in the last five years ago, since in Paris. Every ounce of logic told me to back away, to not even tempt myself with the sight of who was playing. It could be him.

  No, impossible. In a world of 7.6 billion, what are the odds we’d meet again?

  I peeked into a room, and to my surprise, found an older gentleman playing on the piano. His body swayed from left to right as his fingers danced along the keys, his body somewhat hunched over. I pressed half of my body against the door frame and admired the talent that the man exuded. It was clear that this wasn’t just his career, it was his life.

  The song ended as quickly as it began, and I waited for him to play another song, but instead, he closed the piano and sat in silence.

  The man sighed deeply and swirled around only to find me staring at him. His amber eyes widened in shock. He clearly wasn’t expecting an audience.

  “Mi dispiace,” I apologized. “I didn’t mean to startle you…” I continued to fumble over my words as the man stared at me. “Non parlo Italiano.”

  “I speak English,” he said, placing his hand on his lap. He had an accent but not as thick as everyone else in the town.

  I placed my hand over my chest in relief. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I heard you play from outside and had to follow the music.”

  “Do you play?” he asked.

  “Oh, no. I haven’t touched a piano in five years.”

  “Why?”

  How do I explain to a stranger that I’d associated the piano with one fateful yet fragmented night? So much pleasure, so much pain. This was
n’t information you shared with anyone but a best friend because it was ludicrous and downright embarrassing.

  “School,” I answered simply.

  “Too much talent has been lost because of school or business,” he said, seeming as he spoke from experience.

  “Probably.” I sighed. “You’re amazing.”

  “I’m not too bad,” he said, humbling himself. “I’ve only composed for a number of films and shows.” A simple brag. I appreciated it.

  My mouth dropped open and I started to grow nervous. “Oh, my God,” I whispered.

  “Would you like to hear more?” he asked, his smile widely enthusiastic.

  “It’d be a pleasure,” I said, entering the room and walking toward a nearby chair. “What’s your name?”

  “Emile,” he responded as his fingers moved swiftly into a more playful tone. “And yours?”

  “Estella.”

  “Star,” he smiled. “Lovely name.”

  “Grazie,” I said.

  “What brings you to an old city in Italy?”

  “A journey of self-discovery.”

  “It is the perfect place for that.”

  “How about you? A man of your talent should be in New York performing concerts.”

  “I’m too old for all the traveling and back-to-back performances.” He stopped playing and began to rub his hands and wrists. “My body is beginning to fail me.”

  I looked down at my hands and couldn’t imagine what Emile was going through. I wasn’t a pianist, but I was a sculptor and needed my hands in order to create visual art as he needed his to create auditory art. To be betrayed by your own body was heart-wrenching.