Another Saturday, another EditorWard update!

Thank you for propelling Behind The Ivories past 500 reviews this past week! I read and treasure every one of them.
Also thank you to Team Momo, who work tirelessly to help me make this readable. My stories wouldn't exist without them and I'm so grateful they're in my corner.
Alice's White Rabbit and Midnight Cougar are in the editing chairs. AGoodWitch, IAmBeagle, Driving Edward and RobsmyyummyCabanaBoy pre-read.

The inspiration behind this story for me is two-fold.
First, an actual Italian composer by the name of Giovanni Allevi, a non-conformist, shy, quirky guy who writes beautiful music, has filled up theaters worldwide, played at the Blue Note in New York (the inspiration for Sharps & Flats), and has been the target of pretty much the same kind of classist, elitist criticism that's aimed at Bella in the story. Most of the pieces Bella plays are also Giovanni Allevi pieces. There's a playlist to go with this chapter, and I'll post a link for it below and on my profile.
Second, the free press, and specifically, the free press in situations of conflict. This was inspired by a dear family friend of mine, who's been a foreign correspondent for decades. She's reported from everywhere: after starting with crime reporting in Sicily in the 80s, she reported from Bosnia, from Palestine, from Iraq, and from Rwanda. Before she went to Rwanda, she called my mother and said, "This is what to do in case I don't come back." That phone call and the anxiety we had in the coming months, watching the news to see if she'd be on video, safe and sound, stayed with me. She's the inspiration behind Edward and Mac, even if her career never entailed something as traumatic as they did. She's a documentary filmmaker now. One of her works is on Netflix, it's called "Parallel Stories". Check it out.

When I started writing this story four years ago, I never imagined I'd be posting it during a major conflict. Four journalists have been killed so far in Ukraine. The CPJ is tracking the conflict and its impact on the foreign correspondents reporting on it. Their names are Brent Renaud, Oleksandra Kuvshynova, Pierre Zakrzewski, and Yevhenii Sakun. This chapter today is for them.

And here we go, back to Edward, who finally gets to listen to Bella's music.


BEHIND THE IVORIES – CHAPTER 10

"Am I catching you at a bad time?"

After scratching my beard as I fight an impending yawn, I manage to catch a breath and answer my mother's phone call.

"Morning, Mom. No, but I just woke up, so if I'm scattered, I'll blame it on caffeine deprivation."

"Oh, shoot. I didn't notice the time," she protests.

In my defense, it is Saturday morning, and I'd be fully entitled to sleep in on my day off—which I was trying to do until the shrill ring of my phone interrupted my slumber. The curse of every reporter—waking up whenever a phone rings regardless of the hour and day of the week—hasn't left me to this day.

"Don't worry about it, Mom. It's not the ass-crack of dawn. I'd be getting out of bed in a bit anyway. What's up?"

The distinctive sound of paper rustling through the speaker is a telltale sign that, despite the weekend, Esme Platt-Cullen is already hard at work. I can already picture her perched behind her desk in her home office—papers strewn all over it, with Post-it Notes tacked here and there for stuff to fact-check, phone numbers, sources, follow-up questions, and whatnot.

"So, that campaign fundraiser at the Gardner. It's next week, I believe?"

I don't even attempt to suppress a groan. I did end up burning the engraved invitation. Over-dramatic, perhaps, but it felt cathartic at the time. When I told Emmett, he gave me a slap on the back and took me to Alistair's for a pint. At lunchtime.

But … but. That doesn't mean I forgot the date or the event. It's a matter of survival. I need to avoid the entire thing unless I want the Caulfield clan to annihilate me if I end up in the wrong part of town on the wrong day. So, yes, I do remember the date of the fundraiser. It's the day before the grand opening of Sharps & Flats.

"And it should matter to me because ...?"

"Don't you get flippant with me, Edward Anthony. I'm your mother; it's my prerogative to worry about you. It just occurred to me …"

"I'm sorry, Mom. I didn't mean to be cross with you. Kate had the gall to send me an invitation. With a personal note."

Now it's Esme's turn to groan. Or growl, rather. Katherine Caulfield and her antics are a sore subject for my mom. "Tacky. So tacky. Classless bunch of self-absorbed …"

"Mom, stop. I'm fine. I trashed the invitation. That's all the attention it deserved. I'm curious as to why both you and Mac decided to bring it up, honestly."

"How come Mac knew, but you didn't think to tell your own mother?"

I shrug, fully aware that she can't see me, and maneuver my way out of bed and into the kitchen. The conversation is proving a little more involved than a casual check-in with Mom, which means it will require coffee.

"Because that's all the importance it had for me. Zero. Mac happened to know only because he came over the day I got it. You know him. He can't resist gossip. Trash-talking Kate was an added bonus."

"Still," she answers with a sigh, "I feel like you're hiding things from me, Edward. It worries me."

She's not wrong. Not really. But she brought it up, so there must be a reason.

"We're having lunch together on Monday, aren't we? You'll have an hour or so to grill me to your satisfaction."

"I guess that counts," she concedes.

"But back to the matter at hand. What about that damn fundraiser?"

"Well, the date got me thinking. What if Kate decides to show up at Sharps & Flats the next day?"

"Are you sure you're not hanging out with Mac? Because he wondered about the exact same thing."

"He's a smart lad, that one," she quips. "But anyway, what do you think?"

"I'll tell you the same thing I told Mac," I reply. Balancing my phone on my shoulder, I go about the serious business of loading the percolator and starting a new pot of coffee. "It's not their turf. It's a jazz club not the country club. It's not one of her events or a campaign event. She wouldn't show up on a terrain she doesn't control or where she's not the guaranteed queen bee of the evening."

Mom hums through the phone, mulling over my answer no doubt. At long last, she seems to agree with me. "Well, I can tell you've given this some thought."

"Not actively, I assure you. I'd hate her to cause any kind of scene at Sharps & Flats, though. Those people have nothing to do with this and don't deserve this sort of drama." And they've had drama from yours truly to last through the next year.

"Good point. After all, she's always been a self-centered, attention-hungry bitch. Why change now?"

"Precisely, Madam Editor."

"And still he gets snippy with me," she quips, but without a trace of pique this time.

The percolator dribbles its black nectar of the gods into the pot, and after putting my phone on speaker and setting it on the counter, I finally pour myself a cup.

"I sense you've got other things on your plate, sweetie. I'll leave you to it. Want to come over for dinner tomorrow?"

"Where else would I be having dinner on Sunday, Mother?" At this point, she's fishing for information, but she's my mom. She gets a pass.

"Well, I can't know if you won't tell me, right? See you tomorrow night."

"And on Monday. I made reservations, so don't stand me up!"

She wouldn't. Unless a scoop materialized in front of her at the right (or wrong) place and time.

"As Mac would say, hell no! All right, son. I'll have to love you and leave you."

"Love you too, Mom. Bye."

&&&IVORIES&&&

On Monday, Mom walks into the restaurant as if she owns it, with her auburn hair sweeping about her face in the whirlwind of February air she's brought in from outside, and her cheeks pinked from both the cold and the exercise—because I bet she walked from the office. After all, it is just around the corner.

I stand to greet her and help her out of her coat. "Hi, Mom. You look lovely today."

"Hi, sweetie. Don't start with the flatteries. I see through you, Edward Anthony."

I've barely spoken and she's already middle-naming me. I wonder what I did wrong this time.

"And no, you did nothing wrong, but I'm putting you on notice," she retorts, taking the seat I pulled out for her. "I'm not letting you skate by with evasive pat answers today."

"Didn't you just interview the Massachusetts GOP Chair?"

She shudders, taking a cursory look at the menu. "And reached my quota of meaningless blabbing for the month. So predictable." Then she sets the menu aside and unleashes her keen emerald gaze on me. "I've been reading your editorials. Will you finally tell me what's going on with you, sweetie?"

I lean back in my chair and run a fidgety hand through my hair, which has been standing on end since I removed my beanie ten minutes ago. Great—now I look like I've been playing with electric sockets. I shake my head to the side in a fruitless effort to improve the situation.

"You need a haircut," Mom quips.

Both her further comments and my answer are stymied by the server who comes along to take our orders. After we rattle off our food and drink selections, Mom looks at me with an indulgent smile.

Her attempts at invasiveness sometimes rattle me, but it's just because I've always been used to being self-sufficient. I guess it's the perpetual curse of the only child. Or of the brooding bastard, as Mac calls me when I'm in this mood, which happens often.

"Yes, well. I still have cowlicks like a five-year-old."

"Age has nothing to do with it. The cowlicks are genetic, but you'll have to take it up with the Cullen side of the family." Only, Dad's hair is too short and trimmed to show their devastating effects, so Mom might have a point. I'm past the "shaggy" stage by now, but like a lot of other things, my hairstyle's fallen to the wayside while my mind has been wading into rabbit holes of the social media variety. "But back to my original question, sweetie. What's going on with you?"

I shrug before answering, as I psych myself up for it. After all, I have shit to own up to. "Same old shit, different day, Mom. You've been reading my editorials; you should know what I've been mulling over."

She nods, taking a long swig of her iced water. "Well, I'd rather hear it from you. Is it because of that interview again?"

Dammit. I should have known she'd figure it out. "Yes, mainly."

"I thought the issue per se had been resolved. Or hasn't it?"

I take a deep breath and pause, gathering my thoughts as best I can. The waiter interrupts my momentum to deposit our plates, but scurries away when he catches my stormy countenance. Great—now my brooding ass is also a frightening ass.

"It has, but you know me. One thing leads to another, and my brain ends up in strange places. I still wonder, sometimes, if I shouldn't have taken this job after all. If I should've stuck it out as a field reporter instead, you know. Grown some balls, and just gotten over it."

Mom's expression turns impossibly tender, and that's when I realize I'm being a self-centered jerk. This doesn't just hurt me. The brooding, pondering my perceived misfortunes, contemplating my failures, whatever I want to call it. It affects her, too.

"I wish you weren't always so hard on yourself, Edward. We're all human; we all have limits. You went through a dangerous, life-threatening, traumatic experience. Nobody ever expected you to get out of it unscathed. It was bound to leave traces behind, and I'm not just referring to shrapnel and explosion debris scars on your body. Those healed but won't be erased into nothingness. The same goes for your mind and heart—only, the scars are invisible to human eyes. Be gentle with yourself, my darling son. You've come a long way, and all your feelings are valid, as confusing and rattling as they may be. Nobody can tell you what to feel, or how to feel—but please remember, you're not alone. Your father and I are here for you. Mac, Jasper, Alice—they're all here for you. There has to be a person out there who will be there for you, through thick and thin."

She's right. She's 100 percent right. Of course, she is. In my head I know she's right, but getting my heart to catch up enough to forgive myself and be content with where I am, I guess, is harder. "Thank you, Mom. I needed to hear that today. And my brain knows, I swear. It's just that …"

She nods, taking a bite of her food. After she's daintily dabbed at her mouth with her napkin, she responds. "I suppose being thrust 'in the field' again with that Isabella Swan interview brought old doubts and insecurities to the surface. I hate that Jasper's mishap forced you into all these thoughts. You were doing so well."

Before I can check myself, my expression twists into a grimace Mom doesn't miss. "I don't know that I ever put those demons to sleep for good, Mom. Five years ago, I couldn't be in the field. I tried, but it was too much. The memories, the anxiety, the nightmares—all daily occurrences. Yet, knowing I couldn't do it didn't mean I didn't miss it. Or didn't feel like a big fat failure for not having the balls to go out and do it. I'm not the first …"

She interrupts me, heading my torrent of self-hate off at the pass. "No, Edward, please. Don't do that to yourself. You almost died, for Christ's sake! For days, we didn't know … anything. We had no idea if you'd wake up, or how you'd recover. The fact that you're here today—strong, healthy, recovered, living a full life … I'm sorry. I shouldn't make this about me. But … did you ever stop to look at this from a different angle?"

Part of what she's saying is a well-known tack she's taken with me before. That last question of hers though? It sounds different. And unexpected. So unexpected that I don't quite know how to react. "How so?"

"Have you ever stopped to wonder what your life would have been like if Homs hadn't happened? Where would you be now? Doing what? With whom?"

Fuck. I've never thought about it in those terms. Not once in six years. Partly because my therapist encouraged me to focus on the present, on my reality, rather than on what-ifs that could be comforting but unproductive. What-ifs wouldn't have helped me learn to cope with my new normal. But Mom has a point; so, for once, I follow her reasoning and go down the rabbit hole.

"I might or might not still be in the field. Maybe I'd be chief foreign correspondent somewhere, which would mostly have me behind a desk, à la Andrea Mitchell. Maybe I'd have my own show. Maybe I would've written a book or two."

"Yes, but that's work. That's your professional life. What about your life, Edward?"

Dammit. Kate. "Ugh. I would've probably stayed with the she-devil, wouldn't I? And she would've stabbed me in the back anyway at some point."

"I hate to speak ill of other people, but I'll make an exception in this case. Who am I kidding? I have zero qualms speaking ill of that shrew. Kate has always been all about Kate. At some point, something would have driven her higher, better, faster, more, farther …"

"Away from me. So what you're saying is that maybe the entire trifecta of clusterfucks I went through was the catalyst for me to forge a new life? A new way forward?"

She nods again, this time with understanding brightening up her eyes. "Yes. Look at all of this as a possibility, not as second best. Not as a stopgap to something else that's unattainable."

If I weren't sitting on the other side of this table, I'd be hugging my mom right now. "I don't think I've ever had this kind of breakthrough with my therapist. Thank you, Mom. I just needed your wisdom to look at this through a different lens."

She pats my hand with affection and signals for a waiter. "That's because I know you, sweetie. I think we need chocolate to celebrate. Two of your lava cakes, please," she tells the waiter, who nods and scurries away. "Now, see that your heart catches up with your brain, Edward. You deserve to live life to the fullest, especially after what you've been through."

"Speaking of chocolate …"

"Yes? Did you get round to trying that recipe?"

Boy, did I. Tanya hasn't shut up about it. I've kept the entire newsroom in chocolate cake for the past week. "It was quite a success. Thank you for sharing it."

"Well, I'm glad it served you well."

And hopefully, it will serve me well this Friday when it's delivered to its intended recipient—one Isabella Swan.

&&&IVORIES&&&

All too soon, February 9th and the grand opening of Sharps & Flats sneak up on me. Given the respective locations of the Tatler and the club, I planned with Mom and Dad that I'd get to their part of town, and we'd all have dinner together before the show. Knowing Mom's tastes, Dad directed Shelley to book a table at Rowes Wharf Sea Grille. I haven't been there in ages, but it's one of Mom and Dad's favorite eateries.

As I sit in the back of a newish, nondescript Buick SUV, trying to fend off conversation from the Uber driver, I tick off in my brain everything that's been happening this week. Every single step that led me to this.

I dismiss the botched interview and its aftermath with barely a thought. After all, I'm trying to keep my promise to Mom. I'm trying to look at my life as a landscape of possibilities, not a burial ground for dashed hopes. But in keeping with my newly acquired attitude, I recognize that without the botched interview, I might've never reached this epiphany. As they say, per aspera ad astra. My lunch with Mom on Monday now represents a watershed of sorts—between my monotonous, morose existence in the last few years since the accident in Homs and whatever lies thereafter. There's another after … to my after. Who would've thought.

Mac has been dropping hints about the concert and Bella all week. I indulged him, but something in the way he always seems to steer the conversation toward her sounds suspect to me. If I didn't know him better, I'd think he was putting the moves on her. The truth more likely lies in the fact that he likes to needle me on occasion. This would be one of those occasions.

My covert op with Tanya went off without a hitch—she liaised with Ross Whitlock to get flowers and the chocolate cake delivered to Isabella at the club. There's a card signed by all of us to go with the flowers—providing me exceptionally good cover. I let Tanya choose the flowers with one stipulation: they all had to be in shades of blue. Getting the cake delivered was a tad trickier, but Tanya worked her magic again, and my mom's chocolate cake has probably made it to the club while my hired ride is still hauling me through downtown Boston toward the waterfront. Unlike the flowers, the cake doesn't come with a card. I had no idea how my overture would be received and even less of an idea what to write on the card itself. Anonymous gift it is.

Despite traffic, I get to the restaurant in plenty of time. The host ushers me toward Mom and Dad's table—a prime location in the back with a view of the waterfront, which once again validates Shelley's chops as an assistant. I'm sure she has a file somewhere with Dad's preferred table locations based on restaurant, co-diners, work/leisure meal, season, and whatnot.

"Hello, Mom. Hi, Dad," I greet them as they stand to welcome me, both still in their office attire.

"You're looking good there, son," Dad says with an appraising look at yours truly.

"I figured I'd spruce up a bit for our wild night out on the town," I quip back to Dad's chuckle and Mom's indulgent expression. I wore my good pair of dark-washed jeans, and I traded in my leather jacket for a sport coat. That's the extent of my "sprucing up." After all, we're going to a jazz club, not the opera.

"I'm not talking about your fashion choices, but have it your way if you want to be cryptic," Dad replies, beckoning a server to our table now we're all here.

After this, our dinner passes without much ado and relatively fast since we're on a schedule. Another Uber vehicle picks us up from the restaurant and ferries us to Sharps & Flats.

A small crowd waits outside the club—Mac's frame towers over them as he waves in our direction. What he lacks in subtlety, he makes up for in enthusiasm. We barely have time to walk closer when he's already dwarfing my mom in one of his bear hugs.

"Momma C, it's been too long! How are you? Gorgeous as usual, of course. Why do I even ask? When are you ditching the old counselor for a younger model?"

And inappropriate is his other middle name. "Put my wife down, McCarty. She will not be leaving me either, so live with it," Dad protests with an ill-concealed chuckle.

"If you say so, Carlisle. But shouldn't it be her choice?" Mac fires back with a beaming smile, his mischievous expression and boyish dimples on full display. This is how he could get away with murder. Theoretically, of course.

My dad's answering grunt puts an abrupt stop to this conversation, and after Mom insists on more civilized greetings that don't require twirling her in mid-air, we make our way to the club's front door.

"How does it work, Mac? Have you figured it out already?"

He nods. "I ran into Triple B earlier. The guy at the front door has a list with our names on it."

"A list. Wow." I surmised Black would want the grand opening to be a full house, but evidence seems to be contradicting me. It's possible he'd rather go for quality than quantity. The reasoning has merit, especially with a club that's just opening and might need a while to find its footing.

"Even better. It's by invitation only this week. That Jacob is a shrewd one. This will generate a ton of buzz, and having a list saves him from the headache of undesirables showing up and demanding admission. Then next week, they can switch to general admission, but at least, we get to feel special tonight," he explains.

A hulk of a guy—taller and stockier than Mac, if that's even possible—stops us at the door. "Names?"

"McCarty and …"

Another towering figure emerges from the doorway, interrupting Mac's helpful announcement to the bouncer, who retreats in good order—he can't very well start arguing about potential guests with his own boss.

"Cullen. Welcome to Sharps & Flats. Come inside. I've got a prime spot set aside for you," Jacob Black says, opening the door wide for us.

In the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of Jazz and Alice seated at a couple tables by the stage. Tanya is also there, talking to Alice while they sip colorful drinks complete with the requisite cocktail umbrellas.

Mom turns to me with an appreciative expression that conveys how pleased she is at the preferential treatment we're getting. When we get to our seats, Black stops and signals one of his employees, who detours toward us to gather our coats and leave drink menus on the table.

"I'm pleased to see you here, Edward. I hope we'll get a chance to talk more later, but now … I have a club to run," he announces with a nervous chuckle and a nod of his head toward Mom and Dad. Mac waves at him as he disappears into the darker bowels of the club.

We all take seats, and predictably, Mom ends up ensconced between Mac and Dad. I take the last available spot beside Jazz.

"Hey, man. Ready to face your nemesis?"

My huff of protest erupts without restraint. "Why is everyone assuming there's bad blood between me and the artist du jour? Why?"

Jazz chuckles. "I was actually referring to her manager, who's walking in our direction."

"Semantics. No bad blood there either. Jeez, people. Get yourselves a hobby."

"What has you all in a tizzy, Mr. Cullen? Are the accommodations not to your satisfaction?" Ross Whitlock asks, now standing by our table.

I rise to greet her. "Miss Whitlock, nice to see you again. Of course not. Jasper here was being facetious," I retort, throwing Jasper a stink eye extraordinaire.

"It's Rosalie or Ross to you. I told you the last time. Relax, we're all friends here. Oh, thank you for the flowers. They're gorgeous."

"I'm glad you liked them. Well, you and Miss Swan," I reply.

Jasper—the bloody moron—just threw me to the crocodiles in the proverbial moat and has now abandoned me to my cruel fate. That is, if being forced to talk to a gorgeous, statuesque blonde is a cruel fate.

"Bella. She'd chew you out again if she heard you call her Miss Swan. She hates it."

"I'll try to remember that," I reply, puzzled by her determined effort to be friendly to me. After a few pleasantries, she walks away when one of the club employees attracts her attention.

A second later, Mac vacates his seat to slither by my side. "Dammit, Ed. Triple B was here, and I missed her. You suck."

"What did I do now?"

"You could have … I don't know, steered her in my direction? Called me over to say hello?"

My expression, which must be hovering between unsurprised and a tad disgusted at Mac's antics, stops him in his tracks. "Or not. Fine. Be that way."

Right there and then, the lights in the club flicker and a disembodied voice wafts through the room from the speakers.

"Esteemed guests, good evening. From the stage of Sharps & Flats in Boston, for the very first time, I give you … Isabella Swan!"

The lights go out. With bated breath and cloaked in absolute darkness, we all wait for the artist to appear on stage.

After an endless minute, a spotlight shines on the piano set in the middle of the stage.

I remember her. I remember the impression of her. I remember the look of her, both from the day we met and from my covert, obsessive googling.

But nothing compares to or has prepared me for this. I've set eyes on this woman—live and in the flesh—a grand total of two times, and both times I find myself unprepared. Woefully unprepared.

The piano—an imposing, high-polished, immense Bösendorfer grand—dwarfs Isabella's diminutive figure as she sits at the bench. This gleaming, ebony slab of wood and strung keys almost hides her from view. Were it not for the spotlight trained on her, I would hardly be able to tell anyone was sitting at that piano. But she's there—in her usual all-black stage uniform of black skinny jeans, black hi-top Chucks, and a black T-shirt. The only splash of color? Once again, a cobalt blue scarf braided into the haphazard, riotous mass of her curly brown hair.

Another endless minute passes before any sound emerges from her, but anticipation sizzles through the air. It's palpable—all other noises have faded into electrified silence. An impossible, almost unrealistic acoustic void. She hasn't played a single note yet, and the audience is already under her spell. Now, I'm starting to get what the fuss is all about.

But as usual, I'm unprepared for the real thing when it hits me. Without warning, she starts.

When she plays, everything but the music fades away. Not just the club, or the piano, or the dozens of people sitting on either side of me. Now, I get why she insists on wearing all black, all the time. She fades into the background. A human and a piano on a stage—countless artists have tried this combination, with varying degrees of success. Most of them created masterpieces. But in no other instance has my grunge-loving heart ever witnessed a more stripped-down, back-to-basics version of this. This eclipses all pretenses of any "Unplugged" shows MTV has ever dared to stage.

I only see her fingers flying up and down that keyboard. A long, gigantic keyboard that looks like an insurmountable wall before her. And yet, she commands it—every single key of it.

The haunting, crescendo melody of the first piece she plays flows in a torrent of notes that hits me square in the solar plexus. Breathless, and yet at peace, I hang on every note she coaxes from that array of ebony and ivory keys. This is uncharacteristic for me since I normally dislike instrumental, classical-sounding music.

After innumerable measures, the piece ends. She plays with economy of movement, without flourish. She isn't making herself into a showpiece. She isn't treating this as a performance where the piano player is the attraction. She blends into the background until the only thing that fills the air is her music.

And for the first time, I truly understand what Garrett told me months ago.

"But if you could see her, hear her play, seated behind the ivories …"

I see her now. Oh, do I see her.

All too soon, her voice filters through the crackling silence that blankets the audience.

"Good evening, folks. Welcome to Sharps & Flats. I see some Ducklings over there. Welcome, my friends."

A gaggle of concertgoers donning blue scarves erupts into enthusiastic cheering at the other end of the room from another table close to the stage.

Although half-drowned by the sudden noise, Jasper takes the opportunity to whisper in my ear. "Those must be from her fan club, the Duckling Army of social media fame. You can tell by their scarves."

"Isn't it invitation only this week?"

He nods but manages to blurt out a whispered answer. "A few tickets a night were up for grabs in a competition through Isabella's website. Or her Instagram stories. I forget which."

Alice shushes him without too much ceremony when Isabella announces the next piece. "This is 'The Essence of You'."

I recognize this one. The Ferrari ad—that's where I heard it. Another haunting but soothing melody fills the room. It reaches my core; it lands into my being like a long-forgotten caress. Peaceful, like a lullaby. If I had someone playing that for me every night, maybe the nightmares wouldn't come back. Ever again. Maybe.

Too soon, it ends. And Isabella speaks again. "Thank you. I also want to thank my friend Jacob Black. Where are you, Jake?" She cranes her neck here and there to spot Black among the audience. She nods when she finally spots him. "There. So, thank you to my friend Jake for inviting me to play here tonight. It means a lot to me. Jacob gave me a chance when nobody else would. When everyone else in the music industry regarded me as either a deluded girl or a fraud. And the rest … well, the rest is history. The next song is 'Fly Away'."

Now, this one's different. This is no haunting lullaby. This is unbridled, boundless joy. A spoonful of sugar. A few of her favorite things. Yes—I'm going all the way into Clichélandia for my comparisons and possibly doing a big disservice to Isabella's composing expertise. But that's the first impression this piece gives me. I might be vastly off the mark; after all, this is no Eddie Vedder. But it's a torrent of notes. An explosion. An organized, bubbling, enthusiastic chaos. This is what being happy sounds like. I wonder what moment in her life prompted it.

More moments in time, more memories, more pieces of music follow this composition. Some faster, more energetic; others sound darker, somber notes, and spread a reflective canopy around me. None of her pieces lends itself to unequivocal interpretations, and that might be the beauty of instrumental music—no lyrics there to tell you a story or what to feel. Let the music transport you whichever way it will.

After a good forty-five minutes of playing, Isabella takes a short break, only to reappear on the stage to deafening applause. If that's how her crowd greets her in a relatively small venue, I can't imagine what the effect of a sold-out Carnegie Hall or Madison Square Garden cheering for her might be. Both feats, I've learned, thanks to my internet sleuthing, she's achieved.

Once again, the limelight shines on this slip of a girl. A halo of light around her, she sits behind the ivories.

"Thank you, truly. This will be the last song tonight. And it's a new one. But before that, I'd like to thank the Cake Fairy. You all know I love chocolate. Well, it seems Boston is under the spell of a chocolate cake fairy who delivers chocolate cake to unsuspecting girls. The cake is delicious, by the way. I ate a huge slab of it before coming on stage. But still, I have no clue who the Cake Fairy is or how she got to me. So, thank you for the cake, you mysterious purveyor of chocolate delights."

Laughter and chuckles rise from the audience as I school my features into blasé indifference. Tanya—who has my number any day of the week—bends backward in her chair to throw me a wink and a thumbs up.

Then Isabella speaks again.

"Now, the new song. Sea glass is beautiful. To me, it symbolizes the ultimate comeback. It's waste, but it comes back as something else. Decoration. Mosaic. Jewelry. In all shades of blue and green, it emerges from the depths of the ocean that regurgitates it back after untold years at sea. Have you ever picked up a piece of sea glass on the beach and wondered how long it had been in the ocean? How many times it had been twisted and turned by the tide, by the waves? How many storms it had survived? It may have lost its original shape, shine, and function. It's a remnant. A broken piece from a whole that no longer exists. But it's nonetheless beautiful, to the point that we upcycle this waste into jewels and decorations. We marvel at its colors and shapes. And yet the strife it has been through disappears in the face of its beauty.

"Sea glass is both. It's beauty, and it's strife. And it's also all possible shades of green. And I've been wondering a lot about strife and coming out alive on the other side lately. This is 'Sea Glass'."

As she utters those last words, she turns, directing her gaze straight at me.

No judgment. No blame. No resentment. No rejection.

And I feel like I'm also coming out alive, on the other side.


All the pieces Bella plays here are Giovanni Allevi songs.
You can find them here: youtube DOT com/ playlist?list =PLY8eRMUudPE2v1MZaAoDxQxtCObF_tBFF (delete the spaces).