Page 44 of Lost Dreams

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It wasn’t till the end of July that Roberto felt comfortable enough to take control of the White Oak Lodge kitchen. For weeks, he perfected recipes, wrote menus, demanded that the Whitmores taste-tested what he’d made, and discussed an endless array of ideas with Francesca. After all, Francesca was the ultimate authority when it came to the White Oak Lodge kitchen.

But Lorelei sensed that Roberto was more creative than he’d ever been, that coming to Nantucket had regenerated him. It was exciting to watch. It also scared her. What if everything fell apart again? What if they put all their eggs into this basket, only to watch them crack?

The day that Roberto was meant to take over the kitchen for good, Lorelei and Roberto woke up early and went for a long walk along the beach. Seagulls swept overhead, coming closer and closer, as though sure that Roberto and Lorelei had food for them. Lorelei wondered if they could smell all the recipes that Roberto had been specializing for upward of fourteen hours a day.

Occasionally, Lorelei and her husband held hands, their palms warm against one another. But for nearly an hour, they didn’t speak and simply luxuriated in the beauty of the morning.

Sometimes words were too weak for what was really felt.

“I heard you playing last night,” Roberto said suddenly, just when Lorelei wondered if they would ever speak again. They were at the edge of the water, barefoot, watching the waves rush up closer and closer.

Last night, just as she had many other nights, Lorelei had snuck out of the kitchen to practice the piano. After performing a few times with Carter, it was as though she’d been bitten by the music bug again, and she couldn’t get enough. Her fingers craved it. Her ears demanded song after song. All July long, she’d found herself falling in and out of old concertos she’d practiced in her youth. She’d returned to Rachmaninoff and Ravel and Schumann, all of her old friends. She thought that Roberto coming to Nantucket had regenerated her love for music, too. It felt as though she had endless energy for the things she loved.

“I’m sure I sounded terrible,” Lorelei said meekly.

Roberto wrapped his arms around her and kissed her neck. “You sounded better than ever,” he told her. “I spoke with Francesca, and we want you to perform during dinner tonight. Would you be up for something like that?”

Lorelei was stricken. Officially, she hadn’t performed any of her classical pieces since that night in Berlin, the day she’d discovered that she was pregnant with Pino. She still remembered how harrowing that night had been, when, for the first time ever, she’d forgotten what she was supposed to play next. Her memory had failed her. Thirty seconds had passed without a single note. And then, she’d pushed herself through the rest of her performance, called Roberto, told him about the baby, and decided never to get on stage again.

Had she been too hasty?

“I don’t know,” Lorelei told her husband now. “I’m retired, remember?”

Roberto furrowed his brow. “I’ve been thinking about that. About how you said you never wanted to perform again. On the one hand, I respect your decision completely. Only you can say what you’re capable of. Only you can say what you really feel. On the other hand, I can’t believe you’d walk away from such a profound talent. When we were younger, when you were pregnant with Pino, and we were getting ready to start our lives together, I decided to take you at your word. You told me you were done with music, so I thought, all right. She’s done! But hearing you last night, I realized I should have fought you on that. You’re a born performer. You’re a musician, through and through.” Roberto looked sorrowful for a moment. “I hope you didn’t give up music for me and those stupid restaurants. My stupid dreams.”

Lorelei squeezed him harder. “Your dreams aren’t stupid,” she said. “They never were.”

Roberto kissed the tip of her nose. “Play tonight,” he urged her. “Francesca wants you to, and you know better than to go against Francesca’s commands.”

Lorelei scoffed. “My mother doesn’t always know best.” But even as she said it, she knew that was not true in the slightest.

Later, two hours before the restaurant at the White Oak Lodge planned to offer dinner, Francesca stormed into the kitchen and demanded to know why Lorelei wasn’t preparing for her show. “You can’t wear that,” Francesca said, gesturing at Lorelei’s all-black outfit, which she’d planned to wear to act as a server and serve Roberto’s food. “Not if you’re going to perform. I have many, many people coming, not only to experience Roberto’s food but also to hear my daughter play. You hardly ever performed in the United States back in your twenties, you know that? People couldn’t get tickets! This might be their only chance! Oh, and your father, he never once saw you perform. Consider his feelings! He’s so anxious to see you.”

Lorelei’s cheeks burned. But when she glanced back at Roberto, he winked at her and mouthed, “Go!”

Lorelei realized this was her chance to prove herself—not only to the guests of the Lodge and the residents of Nantucket and her father Benjamin, but to herself. Years ago, she’d stopped believing in herself. She’d given up on the beauty she’d once been able to create.

Back in the room that she continued to share with her husband (although there had been talk of looking for a house on Nantucket of their own), Lorelei changed into several different dresses, stirring with anxiety. None of them were perfect. But she didn’t have time to dip into a shop anywhere. She had to make do with what she had.

There was a knock on the door. Thinking it was her mother, Lorelei cried out in Italian, “Mama, I’m nearly ready. I’ll meet you back in the restaurant.”

But instead, Aurora opened the door, her eyes wide.

“I’m sorry, honey,” Lorelei said, hating how panicked she’d sounded. “I’m performing tonight, and I don’t know what to wear.” Panic rose up in her, and she went on hurriedly, “It sort of feels like your grandmother is forcing me, and I don’t think I’m ready. I mean, I’m going to be about half as good as I was in the past, if that⁠—”

“You look beautiful, Mama,” Aurora breathed, interrupting her. And it was true that Aurora looked captivated, as though Lorelei really did look the part of a concert pianist, as though Aurora had never seen her like that before.

“Lipstick?” Aurora suggested, walking to Lorelei’s makeup drawer and removing a dark red shade. “Something mysterious and slightly sexy?”

Lorelei laughed. “Isn’t it too much?”

“No,” Aurora assured her. “Put it on.”

Lorelei dotted her lips with lipstick, keeping one eye on her daughter. Over the past week or so, Lorelei had noticed that Aurora and Kenny had been as thick as thieves, roving the grounds, working in the stables, and talking as though they would never run out of things to say to one another. Of course, Lorelei would have given anything to know more, but Lorelei hadn’t dared ask what had transpired between them.

She had to hope that Aurora would tell her what was going on, soon—that there was a flow of honesty between them, now.