Every Step She Takes Read online

  Footsteps sound on the stairs. I grab a glass from the drying rack and fill it as Marco descends. It’s only when I turn that I see the opened envelope still on the table, with “Lucy” screaming on the front.

  I dart between the envelope and the stairs.

  Marco blinks at me. “Everything okay?”

  I lift the glass, half-filled with water. He nods and yawns.

  “You want one?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. Then he sniffs. “Is something burning?”

  “Outside, I think.” I wave at the open window.

  When he reaches for me, I hesitate. I want to go to him, to fall into his arms and take comfort there.

  I have this new life, Isabella, and you cannot touch it.

  Except she can touch it. The envelope proves that, and I cannot let Marco see it. So when he reaches for me, I lift the water glass. He takes it with a chuckle and says, “I’ll put it on your side of the bed,” as he retreats.

  Once he’s gone, I snatch the envelope and tuck it into a stack of music books for later burning. Then I follow him upstairs.

  Chapter Four

  The Hamptons 2005

  The cab dropped me off at the end of a long, curving drive. Nylah had joked about Mary Poppins, but that was who I felt like as the car pulled away, leaving me standing there, clutching my bag.

  This couldn’t be the right place. Admittedly, I didn’t know much about Hollywood stars, but I was certain someone of Colt Gordon’s caliber summered in a gated community, his house fenced and patrolled by gun-toting guards with Rottweilers. According to Nylah, this was a family who couldn’t take their kids to school without attracting a conga line of paparazzi. Yet here I stood, at the end of a gate-free driveway, having passed through zero security on my way in.

  It had to be the wrong address.

  Or I’d been scammed.

  I trusted Mr. Moore, but I’d had no direct contact with Colt Gordon or Isabella Morales. I’d only been interviewed by a woman named Karla Ellis, who claimed to be Colt Gordon’s manager.

  She certainly seemed like a celebrity manager, all designer pantsuits and cool efficiency. It also made sense that Colt Gordon and Isabella Morales would let their manager handle staff hiring—running background checks, getting NDAs signed—and Ms. Ellis had done all that. I might feel inadequate for the position, but if I pushed aside my lack of confidence, I did have the experience: years of babysitting, children’s music lessons and lifeguard summer jobs. Ms. Ellis had checked my references, so the job did seem real.

  When she’d offered car service from the airport, I should have accepted. At least then I’d be certain I had the right place.

  As I made my way down the long drive, I spotted a gardener. The front yard was clearly the work of experts—at least a half acre of rolling green lawn and gardens filled with tall grasses that swayed like ocean waves. In one of those gardens, a woman knelt, tugging weeds.

  As I walked over, she twisted to toss a weed into the bucket, and I saw her face.

  Isabella Morales.

  I stood there, mouth opening and closing in the perfect imitation of a beached fish. She saw me—or heard the gulp-gulp of my fish breathing. As she turned, she fixed me with the smile that smote a million telenovela addicts, and I nearly did a schoolgirl swoon.

  “Ms—Ms. Morales?” I managed. “I—I’m sorry for sneaking up. I thought . . .”

  “That I was the gardener?”

  I was about to say yes. Then I noticed her smile had dimmed, and I realized how that sounded—mistaking a Latina for the hired help. Which wasn’t the case at all—I’d only seen her back and giant sun hat.

  “No,” I said. “I thought I had the wrong house. I expected . . .” I gestured like an idiot. “Armed guards and piranha-filled moats.”

  She chuckled and pushed to her feet. “We leave our piranha in LA, where they feel more at home.” She peeled off her dirt-crusted gloves. “The security here is far more discreet. It’s a very small community, and the summer residents contribute generously to the local law enforcement. The neighborhood also hires private security to patrol. I’d warned them you were coming today, but I still expected—”

  The buzz of a cell phone. She took it out, glanced at the screen and smiled. “And there it is. A text telling me that your taxi was spotted.” She tapped out a reply. “We’re spoiled out here. It’s a chance to give our kids the illusion of a normal life, but it really is an illusion. I’ll need to send your photograph to the security firm and the local police department, or the first time you go out walking, they’ll escort you to the village border.”

  As she pocketed the phone, I got my first good look at her. She was smaller than I expected. Maybe five feet two. A scarf barely contained her long black curls. Oversized sunglasses covered half her face, but the skin below it was flawless and makeup-free. She wore a sundress under a gardening apron, and the dress showed off the curves that were as much her trademark as that smile.

  Isabella Morales had the kind of figure that shouldn’t be possible—lush curves with a tiny waist. I’d read tabloid articles that insisted her waist was the result of industrial-strength corsets. Yet there was no way she had shapewear under that sundress, and the apron was cinched tight enough to show her waist in all its enviable glory. My waist might not be a whole lot bigger, but only because I had the narrow hips and chest to match.

  When Isabella reached for the weed bucket, I picked it up and got a smile for that. Then she said, “The kids are out back. Colt’s inside, I think. I suppose you’ll want to meet him.”

  She said it lightly, as if aiming between wry and teasing, but a note of tightness cut through.

  When I didn’t answer, she glanced over, her brows rising. “Not a Colt Gordon fan?”

  My face heated. “I . . . I’ve seen Fatal Retribution. The first one, at least.”

  Nylah had gifted me DVDs of the other two, and I’d meant to watch them, but I’d run out of time. I stumbled on with, “I liked it. I’m just not really into action movies. I’m more a telenovela fan. Mi Hermana was just . . . It was amazing, and it got even better after you started writing for it and . . .”

  My cheeks blazed, threatening nuclear-grade heat. “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to fangirl. I won’t do that while I’m here. I promise. I know it’d be awkward. I’m just . . . My abuela got me into telenovelas, and I’ve followed your career and—”

  I swallowed hard. “God, that sounds stalkerish, doesn’t it? I’m so sorry. I’m just a fan of your career, what you’ve accomplished, and I didn’t angle for this job. I didn’t even know it was you. Mr. Moore said it was for Colt Gordon, and I didn’t recognize his name and—” I stopped in horror.

  She laughed, a throw-back-her-head laugh that echoed through the yard as I prayed for the earth to open up and swallow me.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Morales,” I said. “I’m babbling, and I—”

  She reached out and squeezed my upper arm. “You’re fine, Lucy. We just won’t tell Colt that you didn’t know who he is.” She grinned, dark eyes sparkling. “Don’t worry—following my career isn’t stalkerish. The real stalkers don’t give a rat’s ass about my actual achievements. Now, come and meet my family.”

  * * *

  Isabella led me into a cool, shady house, every window thrown wide to let the sea breeze waft through. There was nothing about the decor that screamed, “interior designer,” but it was the kind of beach house that you saw in a magazine and tacked up on your dream-life wall. Every piece of furniture whispered a siren’s call, inviting you to curl up with a book and a lemonade. Even strawberry lemonade would be fine. No need to worry about stains. This was a house for sandy feet and spilled wine and wet hair.

  “Colt?” Isabella called as we walked through the living room. Then louder, “Colt?”

  She turned to me and shook her head. “Either he’s gone for a run, or he’s in the exercise room. That’s what happens when you hit forty and dream of being the next Jam
es Bond. Once again, I am grateful to be working off-camera.”

  Isabella opened one set of patio doors. The back wall was all window with multiple doors. She led me onto a stone deck surrounding an in-ground pool.

  “Yes, we have a pool two hundred feet from the beach,” she said, sounding almost embarrassed. “The water can be cold and . . . Well, while it’s a private beach, the waterfront is public. We certainly do let the kids use the beach, but if passing boats linger, please let us know. And if you see a camera . . .”

  “I’ll bring the children in immediately and let you or Mr. Gordon know.”

  “Colt. He will insist on Colt, and I’ll insist on Isabella. Now, speaking of the kids, they should be right over here.”

  We passed a low wall to find a boy swimming. That would be eight-year-old Jamison. He was reedy with sun-bleached hair and peeling red skin on his shoulders. The older girl reading on a lounge chair was Tiana. At ten, she had her mother’s brown skin, sturdier build and dark wavy hair.

  “Jamie,” Isabella said with a sigh. “Where is your swim shirt?”

  “Same place it always is,” Tiana said without glancing from her book. “Not on him.”

  “I don’t need it when I’m swimming,” Jamison said.

  “It’s a swim shirt, dork,” Tiana muttered. “When else would you wear it? While skydiving?”

  He started to respond. Then he saw me, his freckled nose scrunching. Before I could say hello, he dove.

  “That’s Jamie,” Tiana said, and now she looked up, her sunglass-framed eyes on me. “He’s not being rude. He’s just avoiding conversation, which sure, is kind of rude, but he doesn’t mean it like that.”

  She set the book down and rose with a grace as mature as her words, and when she extended a hand, I hurried to shake it . . . and tripped over the leg of a lounge chair. As I stammered apologies, Tiana’s lips pressed together. She lifted her glasses onto her head, and her eyes met mine.

  “We’re just kids,” she said.

  Behind me, Isabella admonished her daughter, but I knew what lay behind Tiana’s very adult look of disapproval: years of people stumbling over themselves around her family, years of not being treated like a normal child. And oh, look, here was her new music tutor, starstruck already, stammering and stumbling, eager to e-mail her friends with “OMG, I’m here!!!” complete with surreptitiously snapped photos.

  When she said, “We’re just kids,” I paused only a heartbeat before coming back with, “And I’m just a klutz.” I took her hand in a firm clasp. “Lucy. Your Mary Poppins for the summer.”

  As I said it, I realized the reference might not mean anything to her, but she snorted and rolled her eyes.

  “You gonna teach me to sing and dance on rooftops?” she asked.

  “Sing, yes. As for dancing . . . you did notice me tripping over my own feet, right?”

  Another snort, but some of the disapproval leached from her eyes. She lowered herself onto her lounge chair again and picked up her book. I glanced at the cover, expecting something suitably tween-friendly. It was 1984.

  “Nice beach read,” I said.

  The corners of her mouth twitched. “I thought so.”

  Behind us, Isabella held the swim shirt over the pool edge for Jamison, who was ignoring her by swimming underwater. I kicked off my sandals, took the shirt and jumped in, not even thinking of what I was doing until the water closed over my head.

  I caught Isabella’s laugh of surprise and Tiana’s muffled voice, but I stayed under, holding the swim shirt out for Jamison. He saw me, his dark eyes widening. We both surfaced, and he took the shirt with a crooked smile.

  “That’s one way to do it,” Isabella said, still laughing.

  I swam to the side just as feet slapped on concrete, and Tiana said, “Hey, Dad.”

  I glanced up, straight into the sun, and squinted. I could only make out the shape of a man. I started to heave myself out. Then I realized I was wearing a soaking-wet sundress and dropped back into the water.

  “Jamie was being a goof,” Tiana said, “pretending he couldn’t see Mom with his swim shirt. Our summer Mary Poppins fixed the problem.”

  A low chuckle. “I see that.”

  The figure bent at the poolside, and a hand appeared from the sun-shaded shadow. I squinted up into a face that sent a jolt of recognition through me. I might have blanked on Colt Gordon’s name, but seeing that square jaw, the cleft chin, those bright blue eyes, I instantly recognized him.

  Those eyes met mine in a direct look that only lasted a second before they moved on, to my relief. I was an eighteen-year-old girl in a movie star’s house—I didn’t want to catch his attention. But he met my gaze only perfunctorily, quickly shook my upheld hand, and then rose, calling to Jamison.

  “Give me a minute to change, buddy, and then I’ll join you while Lucy gets herself settled in.”

  Jamison nodded, and with a peck on Isabella’s cheek, Colt strode into the house.

  I exhaled and climbed out as Isabella handed me a towel.

  Chapter Five

  Rome 2019

  Normally, Thursdays are my least favorite day of the week. It’s my busiest, gone from dawn until dusk, with barely enough time to grab an espresso between gigs. Today, though, I thank God it’s Thursday. It keeps me too busy to think of that letter.

  The canary in the coal mine, warning of impending explosion.

  I will not allow the explosion this time. I’ll wait it out and pray Isabella takes a hint and backs off.

  That day, I teach, and I play, and I teach some more and play some more. It’s not the New York Philharmonic, but in many ways, this is better. Less stress and more job security.

  At one time, I looked at musicians like me, hustling with side gigs, and I pitied them. They’d clearly failed in their chosen career. Now I know better. I am happier here than I ever would have been as first viola in a major orchestra. For every kid who sulks through my lessons, there’s another who loves it the way I did or an adult who comes home from a long day and cannot wait to make music. Then I play with my small groups, all of us playing for the sheer love of it, with an audience who is there by choice, no one suffering through while reminding themselves that they’re supporting the arts.

  After an 8 p.m. outdoor performance, I should be dragging my ass home, but I’m floating instead. This evening, Marco has back-to-back tours through the Capuchin Crypt and Catacombs of Priscilla, and we’re texting as I walk home. That’s normal for us. When we’re together, we talk as if we haven’t seen each other in weeks. When we’re apart, there’s a casual back and forth that can last for hours, an unhurried exchange that’ll go twenty minutes between responses while he’s busy with his tours and I’m busy with my lessons or performances.

  Tonight, someone suffered an emotional break down in the crypt bone chapel. It happens. The chapel is an artistic display of monks’ bones with a singular message: someday, this will be you. It’s a powerful memento mori. Too powerful for some. Marco handled the situation with grace, as always. He has a degree in psychology, and while he’s never used it—as far as I know—he has a therapist’s knack for dealing with stressed tourists.

  As I walk, I pause on the Garibaldi Bridge to gaze out at the lights reflected in the Tiber below. Tourists pass, a dozen languages of excited chatter swirling around me. It’s a gorgeous night, and I’m walking alone through the streets of Rome, and I have rarely been happier. My youngest student performed her first piece today. I got to play a solo in a historic Roman park. And my lover is keeping me entertained with amusing missives from tour-guide life. I fairly float over the cobblestone roads, and then swing up my endless flights of stairs and stumble into my apartment, where I will raid the fridge for a late dinner on the terrace. I’ll also suggest that Marco stop by for the night since his tour ends a half mile away.

  I’m barely through my apartment door when someone raps on it. With that knock, every good thing in my day evaporates, vaulting me back to the night b
efore.

  Another knock. I check the peephole to see a young woman in a delivery-service uniform. My gut twists, and I back away from the door. Then I steel myself and yank it open.

  “Jenny?” she says.

  I smile with relief, and she hands me a steaming box. When she’s gone, I open it. Inside is dinner—piping hot carbonara pizza from Dar Poeta. There’s a receipt attached, with the sender’s name, though I don’t need to check it. Only one person knows that I use Jenny for deliveries. Say, “Genevieve,” and you spend five minutes spelling it.

  I send Marco a text.

  Me: You’re amazing. You know that, right?

  Him: I do. Someone told me that just last night.

  Him: Oh, wait. That was you.

  Him: This is why I was being nosy, asking when you’d be home.

  Him: I know you had a long day, and you seemed a little off this morning. I figured you could use a pick-me-up.

  I start to type “Best boyfriend evah!” I delete it, and I tell myself it’s because I’m fifteen years past being able to use evah, even jokingly.

  Instead, I send “Thank you!!!” as if the multiple exclamation marks compensate for my inability to say the b-word.

  Me: If you come by tonight, I can thank you properly.

  I add a few suggestive emojis after that.

  Him: You’ll make me stuffed eggplant? Awesome.

  Me: If you’d rather have eggplant, I believe I have one in the fridge.

  Him: LOL. No, I’ll take what you were really putting on the menu.

  Me: Good, and I might even save you a piece of pizza.

  Him: I’ll understand if you don’t.

  As we sign off, I’m already slurping strands of gooey bacon-and-garlic-flecked cheese from my pizza. I cut off a slice and put it on a plate for Marco. Then I grab the pizza box, napkins and a bottle of fizzy water and head for the stairs.