that mood. Is it work?’
‘No.’ He sounded very definite.
‘What, then?’
‘I don’t know. It’s just this feeling of something…’He shook his head in obvious frustration. ‘Something missing, I suppose. I can’t explain it. If I knew what it was, I could do something about it. But there’s just this black hole staring at me.’
‘Your music?’ she guessed.
‘No. I still play, for me.’
And he’d played for her, too.
‘You could go back to it. You don’t have to expand the café chain—it’s doing fine as it is. Take a sabbatical,’ she suggested. ‘Be a musician.’
‘How? Busking on street corners?’
She shook her head. ‘There’s nothing to stop you playing a concert once in a while. An arts centre, a gallery—even in Giovanni’s. You’re thinking of opening one evening a week in Holborn for the book group. Why not open another evening a week as a classical music night, maybe at Charlotte Street? Play the music you love for people?’
He took a deep breath. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know if I’m good enough, any more.’
‘What you played for me was good,’ she said. ‘OK, so I’m not a music critic and your technique could’ve been all over the place, for all I know—but none of the notes sounded wrong. I liked it. And there are plenty of people out there who’d like to relax with a decent cup of coffee and one of Ingrid’s fabulous cakes and listen to something to help them chill out.’
‘Be a musician.’ He stared at her, though it was as if he wasn’t seeing her. As if he was some place far, far away. ‘I don’t know, Fran. The more I think about it, the more I’m sure that being a musician wouldn’t have been the right life for me. I don’t want to be constantly on the road, or doing bits and pieces and trying to scrape a living. I know I wouldn’t have had the patience to teach.’
‘Are you sure about that? You did a good job of teaching me to make espresso.’
‘Which is not the same thing at all as teaching someone who can either sing in tune, but has no sense of rhythm, or can sing with the beat, but is completely tuneless. That’s more like nails scraping down a blackboard, and I’m not noble enough to pretend it doesn’t matter and gently guide whoever it is into a better technique.’ He sighed. ‘I just feel I’m looking for something, Fran. Searching. And I don’t know what I’m looking for or even where to look.’
‘Maybe you’ll know when you find it.’
‘Maybe. But right now I feel like the most selfish man on earth. I have so many good things in my life. I love my family, I have free rein in my job, I like where I live. So why can’t I be satisfied with what I have?’
She held him close. ‘I can’t answer that. But I do know your family love you, your employees respect you, and you’re a good man. Don’t be so hard on yourself.’
‘Hard on myself? That,’ Gio said wryly, ‘is most definitely the pot calling the kettle black.’
‘But that’s not up for discussion.’
He rested his forehead against her temple. ‘Now who’s being difficult?’
His breath fanned her cheek, and it was, oh, so tempting to turn her head slightly, let her mouth brush against his. Kiss his blues away. But that wouldn’t solve anything: that would just put off the problem. Right now, he needed her to keep this light. ‘Not me,’ she said with a smile. ‘Come on. Let’s go and dance your blues away.’
After a few minutes of throwing themselves into the music, she was relieved to see that his bleak mood lifted slightly and he was starting to smile again. But somehow they’d moved near to the stage, and the singer had caught sight of them.
‘Gio! Come up and play with us, my friend,’ he called when the song had finished.
Gio shook his head. ‘No, I’m fine in the audience, thanks.’
‘Come on,’ the singer wheedled. ‘You know everyone would love to hear to you play. And sing.’
‘I’m fine right here,’ Gio repeated.
The singer refused to let it drop, and Gio’s face darkened. Considering the conversation they’d just had, for a moment, Fran thought that he was going to walk out.
And then Nonna placed her hand on his arm. ‘Gio, piccolino, do it for me. Or if you won’t do it for me, sing for Francesca,’ she said softly.
Tension was coming off him in almost visible waves. But then he nodded. ‘All right. I’ll do it for Fran.’
He climbed up on the stage, to loud applause and cheers from the audience. ‘OK, so it’s August and not October, but there’s a certain song I want to sing tonight. For Francesca.’ He winked at her, as if telling her that it was going to be OK, he wasn’t going to make a scene; then he turned and mouthed something to the pianist, who nodded. And Gio made no protest when the guitarist handed him an electric guitar—just checked the tuning.
And then he counted the band in to a soft, jazzy number Fran recognized: ‘Moondance.’
It was a song she’d always liked. But hearing Gio sing it somehow gave it something extra. He had the most beautiful voice. So beautiful that it hurt; she found herself wishing that Gio was singing this to her for real, that he wanted to dance with her and call her his love and make love with her.
But his eyes were on her as he sang. And just for a moment she could almost believe that he really was singing this for her. Could imagine what it would be like to run into his arms and dance in a frost-covered garden with him on an October night, the moonlight shining through the almost-bare branches of the trees and turning everything magically silver.
The song ended with him pleading for one more dance with his love. Then he smiled. ‘Thank you. That one was for Fran,’ he said, and handed the guitar back.
‘Oh, come on, Gio—give us another one!’ someone called.
‘It’s my birthday party and you want me to work?’ he retorted, laughing. ‘Now there’s a first. I thought you lot all wanted me to slow down.’
‘Just one more song,’ someone else pleaded.
‘One’s enough. Now I’m going to dance with my girl and hand you back to the real singer. Enjoy your evening, everyone.’ He stepped down from the stage and joined Fran again.
‘I didn’t know you could sing that well,’ she said. ‘That was pretty amazing.’
‘Nothing that a thousand pub singers in London don’t do every Saturday night,’ he said, making a dismissive gesture. ‘It’s not a big deal. Dance with me?’
The singer had followed Gio’s performance with another Van Morrison song, a slow ballad; Fran stepped forward into Gio’s arms and swayed with him to the music. If only she could ease his troubles, the way the singer was telling them the love of his life did. But all she could do right now was hold him.
And even when the next song changed tempo and became upbeat again, Fran and Gio remained dancing close, just holding each other and swaying to the beat. Cheek to cheek. So close they could feel each other’s heartbeat.
With shock, she realised that this was what she’d been waiting for. To be in Gio’s arms. She couldn’t pin down the exact moment, but at some point over the last few weeks she’d fallen for Gio—and the whole Mazetti tribe. Which was stupid, because this wasn’t for keeps. Their relationship would end when Nonna went back to Italy.
And the knowledge broke her heart.
Gio sensed the sudden tension in Fran, and pulled back slightly so he could see her face. ‘OK?’ he mouthed.
She