The Prelude (A Musical Interlude Novel) - By Kasonndra Leigh Page 0,2
The pain reflected in his eyes tells me his decision will be one that haunts him forever, the same way the ache of this moment already threatens to destroy me. I lift one numb foot after another and make my way up to the porch.
“Won’t you even let me say goodbye?” a cracked voice says behind me.
I want to turn around, to run to him and embrace him the way we did in what seemed like another lifetime. “No,” I say, instead.
But I can’t bring myself to give any more of my soul to another person that will leave me. I continue to stand on the porch, staring at the front door, wondering who will fix the holes that our dog Phoebe made in the bottom of the screen. I stand there until I hear Sam’s car crank. Tires crunch across our gravel driveway, the one Dad never finished updating for Mom.
The sob starts as an echo in my mind. Soon enough, it rages through my body, shaking me to the core. After a few more moments, I am nothing but one complete ball of tears and choking gasps.
From inside the house, my mom plays the song Jada was supposed to recite at the music hall on Saturday. At once, the tears ease up. The music calms me down. Jada says the prelude is the part of a song that pulls you in, hypnotizing you with beauty. The beginning of a song hooks people inside its spell and never lets the person go until the last note trickles through their mind. Today’s musicians don’t know how to appreciate the beauty of the first note.
She told me that was what made the masters from hundreds of years ago so special. The Bachs and Tchaikovskys got it right. I told her that was a stupid theory. Now I fully understand what she meant.
As I prepare to enter the front door, I make a silent vow. Love, I have this to say to you: “You tore open my heart. You made me feel pain when all I wanted to feel was joy. So now, I will remove your power over me. I’ll never kiss anyone or trust in any dream that you can take away from me.
I will never believe in you, ever again.
Chapter One
Five Years Later…
One hundred French designer gowns arrived today, and not one of the damn things came in the colors or sizes that I ordered. Ever since I arrived in Milan six months ago, not once have I experienced anything quite like this screw up.
“Holy hell.” I wait for the rush of heat to pass over me. I continue to shuffle through each gown, my dread deepening as I examine each lime green disaster.
I glance beside me. Our new intern, Carla Voltiero holds her breath and squints. Nerves rule over every part of Black Butterfly Designs, Inc. newest designer. All I need to do is say “boo” and she gets all tensed up the way a yorkie does during a thunderstorm. It’s hilarious, and yes, I know it’s not right for me to pick on her that way. But sometimes I just can’t control the devil inside me.
“I’m sorry, Signora Angelo. I don’t understand what happened. I specifically ordered the red and black ensemble. I even cursed at their customer service person,” Carla says, putting an emphasis on each syllable she speaks. She doesn’t realize I’ve lived in Italy for almost two years now. I no longer find it difficult to speak the Italian language.
I almost laugh. The design house I work for has finally made a mark here in Milan. For two years, I attended a study abroad program at the Fashion Institute of Technology, or F.I.T.’s Florence location and even graduated early, receiving top honors with my eccentric designs. I worked my ass off. I can even still feel the after effects of all the caffeine I guzzled to keep awake at night while I studied. And here out of the blue comes one stupid incident that can blow everything right out of the water.
Out of all the hundreds of design houses here in the world’s fashion capital, the director of the Milan opera house chose our little shop to provide the costumes for one of the largest productions of the year.
“I can call them back and use more curse words the way you told me to do,” Carla suggests. I glance at her and her eyes widen. “You handle yourself so well, you know?”