Entanglements - Rachel McMillan Page 0,1

the sitting room.

“And you cannot use the excuse of you wanting to learn,” Nic continued when his father twice more corrected him for speaking in Italian, “Because in the past year or so, your English has improved immensely.”

His father’s English had improved with his health. With the daytime hours not spent overseeing production at the factory, he was able to spend time actually learning the language of his long adopted home.

Though his father and mother had both emigrated from Italy, Nic was born and raised in Boston to parents who ensured while he bore the physical characteristics of his heritage, his English was perfect. He could speak Italian fluently but rarely did at home. Then there was his one-syllabled name. Easy for the Americans to pronounce, his parents decided.

Just Nic.

Nic spread lemon jam over bread, careful to avoid the intense study of his father’s eyes.

“I want you to go to graduate school.” His father swallowed a measure of tea. “Compose. Pursue every dream you ever had. The dreams you would still have if …”

“Dad, I am happy. Just as we are. I told you. I don’t need to go to graduate school. Father Francisco…”

His father waved his hand dismissively. “Father Francisco has been more than generous, but you were meant for something more and I am imprisoning you here.”

Nic was torn. On the one hand, his father was speaking English with a competency he hadn’t before the accident. On the other, Nic wondered if his secret: his suffocation at the perfunctory, routine walls of the neighbourhood—was so obvious his father had noticed.

“You are not imprisoning me. Do you know how many men like I lost their family that horrible day last year? Dad, I am glad you are alive. I need you. I am only doing what any son would. Besides, I get to play piano! That is what I have always wanted.”

Dad shook his head. “No, my boy. It is not. You aimed for the moon and now you are sunk somewhere in the stars…”

“The stars are beautiful. Stella. Sono Molta Belli.”

“English, Nic!”

Nic set his half-eaten slice of bread on a plate and gripped his father’s good hand. “I will never leave you. Are people expected to just be happy? I am finding a way to blend the music I love with the money that puts food on our table. It is a blessing. As long as I have a way to find a piano, to spend time playing and composing, I am happy to teach those young vagrants their fractions.”

“Father Francisco called round while you were out today.” His father said after a long sip of tea.

“Oh? Does he need someone for Sunday, then?”

“A Mrs. Mayweather from Charles Street in Beacon Hill needs her piano tuned.”

Nic gave a low whistle at the address. “She’s a little high end for my usual clients, Dad.”

“She said that calling would be worth your while. Perhaps money. It could help you save for graduate school.”

Nic sipped tea, found the first prick of star out the window pane where it settled saucy and high above the uneven rims of North End rooftops. “Worth my while? I am sure there are far better tuners in Beacon Hill.”

“Father Francisco assured her you were up for the task.”

“I suppose I am.”

“You are, Nic.” His father searched Nic’s face fondly. “You need to go out more. You’re so busy teaching and tuning. I want you to meet a nice girl.”

Nic choked a laugh. This was a new one. “A nice girl, huh? Where am I going to find a girl who can string Mozart and chess into the same sentence?” Nic took a beat. “Speaking of, shall we resume our game?”

Esther Hunnisett had the voice of an angel. Unfortunately, if she were to ever use that voice to state her opinion of her fiancé, Thomas Weatherton, it would speak in a tone far from the celestial realm.

It was too easy to dwell on his limitations.

For one, he was a terrible chess player. Esther’s only means of honing her skills on the board were found in tips and strategies at the back of the Saturday Herald. Also, Thomas failed to realize the Bach and Gonoud version of Ave Maria was superior to the Schubert. Not that Esther had anything against Schubert. She loved the Austrian composer captured in numerous paintings with a well-tied cravat and those little glasses on his Patrician nose, the cleft in his chin. (Ironically, Thomas had the same cleft but knew as much about