“That’s amazing news. Yes, I want to!” My one sadness about loving Milo was that he might have to forgo certain needs on my account. Now, even if he didn’t want to share me, he could take me to the dungeon he’d help build, and let out some of that wildness that attracted me in the first place. “Although, if we go back, you might hurt me there,” I whispered.
“Don’t flirt with me. Not now, when I can’t do anything about it.”
“We’ll be in Milan in a few hours, if you really want to do something about it.”
“You realize we won’t be in the same room, right? Knowing my mother, once she finds out we’re a couple, she’ll make you bed down in a whole different wing of the house.”
“Then I’ll sneak over to your wing after dark. I’m not afraid of your mother.” I thought a moment. “Actually, I am a little afraid of your mother. Do you know the name she decided on? The one she picked for my violin?”
“She might not know it herself yet. She’ll want to pick it up first and see what it’s ‘telling her.’ All Fierro matriarchs possess special violin-communicating abilities.” His fingers tightened on mine, and he gave me a look that made my heart pound wildly in my chest. “Maybe you’ll be the next one, Alice. You’re pretty good with violins, even if you’re not Italian.”
All I could do was stare at him. So many things flashed through my mind: music, children, a happy marriage, and waking up next to Milo every day, kissing him good morning and running my fingers through his tousled, bedhead hair. “I’ll sully the Fierro family line with my ginger-Swedish genes,” I joked, to cover my deeper feelings. “Maybe we’re not a good idea after all.”
“There are ginger Italians too. It’s possible you’re stuck with me, Lala. We’ll see.”
Our relationship was young, with plenty of years to develop, but it also felt old as time, especially when he called me Lala. I closed my eyes and rested my head against his shoulder, dreaming of Italian weddings and spirited ginger-Milo babies. In a way, I couldn’t picture any of it, because the dream was too wonderful and gigantic, but in another way, it felt like it’d always been meant to be.
*
We’d flown through rays of sunshine when we left Atlanta, but we landed in Milan under a pall of dark clouds. The Italian skies poured down summer rain, so we had to stow the violin case in a protective plastic pouch before we left the terminal. Even with umbrellas, and a car to pick us up, we arrived at Casa di Fierro in uncomfortably wet clothes. Milo’s parents welcomed us at the door, and my parents emerged from the kitchen, passing around hugs even though we were soaked.
Then our parents all stood back and looked at us, and I thought, they know. They see it. They know we’re in love with each other. Luciana Fierro wore a huge smile, but no one made us profess our feelings after all these years.
Milo went to change in his childhood room, and I was shown to my guest room, not in a different wing, but definitely at the opposite end of the hallway. My parents’ room adjoined mine, and we spent time catching up on news in overlapping Swedish while I changed and unpacked. My mother worked the conversation around to Milo as soon as she could.
“Will you stay at his place through the summer?” she asked. “Are you still looking for apartments?”
“Well, kind of,” I said. “But not really.”
“I told you, Freja,” said my father, laughing. “She’ll move in with him, but she’ll never move out.”
“Is there a romance between you, finally?” My mother’s voice went soft when she was excited. “Have you fallen in love?”
“Yes, I think so.” I grinned, accepting their ecstatic hugs. “But you can’t tell Milo’s parents. You know how they are about cohabitation before marriage and all that.” My Swedish parents were considerably more lax on the issue. Only my impending birth had nudged them into the registrar’s office for an official marriage certificate.
My mother held me, squeezing me in her arms. “My sweet girl. We wondered how long it would take both of you to realize that you ought to be in love.”
“Well, I’ll tell you, it took a bunch of arguments and misunderstandings, but it also took no time at all.”
“Will the wedding be in Italy or Sweden?” my father asked. “Sweden, I hope.”
“New York,” my mother said. “To keep the peace.”
“Don’t say anything about it to anyone,” I pleaded. “Everything’s very new. There may not be a wedding. Maybe we’ll break up next week.”
“Maybe,” said my father. “One never knows.” But his stern blond brows waggled, expressing disbelief and making me laugh.
An hour later, we sat to eat a late Italian lunch on the covered terrazza. The sun had finally emerged, with birds chirping and flitting outside the screen as we enjoyed fresh bread, salads, lemon-braised fish, and wine. I wondered if Milo had gotten the same probing questions from his parents as I did. He was smiling beside me, but still tense. The violin sat at the end of the table, propped on its case, overseeing the proceedings.
At the end of the meal, when the dishes were cleared away, Milo’s father brought more wine, and his mother took the violin in her hands, turning it over with careful scrutiny.
“O, mio figlio,” she sighed. “It’s a beautiful violin.” Her sparkling eyes fixed on me. “You’ve played it already, no?”
“Many times. But not in public,” I added. “I was waiting for the name.”
“I have a name,” she said in her thick accent. She turned it over, her finger tracing over the tiny, camouflaged heart as if it was an obvious feature. “We’ll call it the Heartsong, for this heart, and the one that came before it.”
Milo’s eyes darted toward his father. The older man smiled. “Yes, I saw it. You think I didn’t? I let it go, since, somehow, it improved the violin’s tone.”
Tears welled in my eyes. The Heartsong. It was an unusually emotional choice for a top-flight instrument. Now the heart, our heart, would be a named feature of the violin. Eyes would seek it out in the grain, and fingers would trace it for many years to come. “I love it,” I said. “I love that name.” I met Luciana’s eyes as she handed it across the table to me, and some of the tears spilled over. My mom gave a loud sniff, and my dad suddenly became very interested in his napkin.
Milo handed me his napkin so I could wipe my eyes, since mine had disappeared. “I thought I hid the heart so well,” he said.
“You can’t hide your heart from those who see it,” his mother said in a soft scold. “Once they know it’s there.”
I’ve always seen your heart, I thought. I’ve always known it was there. When I met his dark, fond gaze, all the tears I’d wiped away started overflowing again. “I’m so grateful for this,” I said to him. “I can never explain how much… Well, I’m going to treasure this.” I took a shaky breath. “My Heartsong violin.”
“I’m glad you like the name,” he said. Then, in front of everyone, he tilted up my chin and kissed the tears on my cheeks. Time seemed to stand still as he leaned closer and kissed my lips, a slow, lingering, but mostly chaste kiss. “I love you,” he whispered, just for me, then he turned to our parents and said, “I love her. I’ve always loved her, but now I…” He paused and fixed his gaze back on mine. “Now I really love her. And Ma…” He stood to go to her. “You picked the perfect name. Thank you.”
My mom was openly sobbing now, and Luciana wiped her eyes, rising to give Milo a kiss on both cheeks. I was next, and afterward she took my face between her hands and looked at me with unfettered glee. “I knew you two would end up together. A mother knows the woman who deserves her son’s heart. When you’re
ready, we can start thinking about the wedding. Until then, maybe you can move to our house in Chappaqua. We have plenty of room.”
“Ma,” Milo protested.
“That would be best, no?” she said, ignoring his complaint.
“It’s fine for her to stay with me. She sleeps in the guest room.”
Luciana shook a finger at her son. “I know you better than that.”
“I think Alice can decide where she wants to stay. She’s an adult.”
“These are matters to discuss later,” Milo’s father interrupted. He nodded at the newly christened violin, still clutched in my fingers. “Let’s hear it played. Let’s hear this Heartsong violin, and see if it lives up to its name.”
The others around the table agreed, cheering and clapping. I stood beside Milo, composing myself, bringing the violin to rest beneath my chin, where it had already come to feel natural and right. Milo handed over the bow from my case. I played a few long, slow notes to show off the instrument’s resonance, then launched into Vivaldi’s Violin Concerto in G major.
Luciana clapped her hands, delighted. Heads nodded as my fingers flew through the rollicking notes and my bow tipped back and forth across the strings. This had been one of my first recital pieces—in a simpler version, of course—and still a song that brought instant joy to my heart. My heartsong, played on my Heartsong, which had been given to me by my heart’s own dream. The notes I loved sounded brighter and clearer than they’d ever sounded before.
Later that night, I crept down the hall to Milo’s room and let myself in, turning to close the door without making a sound. Before I could finish, I was grabbed, a hand pressed over my mouth to muffle the instinctive scream.
Milo. I love you. When he felt me relax, he closed the door himself.
“Did anyone see you?” he whispered.
I shook my head, and his hand moved from my mouth to circle my neck. I let out a slow breath, pressing my back along his front.
“I need you,” he said, pulling me with him toward the bed. “I’ve had Vivaldi in my head all day. I need to be inside you.”