The Gift, page 21
“What do you mean that? Why are you not giving yourself enough credit? You made it to the last round of auditions for a place you always wanted to work at, Toni.”
His aggressive cheerleader role isn’t working for me.
“I know,” I mumble, not wanting to say the second half of my thought. The part that can’t fathom getting what I’ve wanted for so many years when my heart has leapt to a new endeavor.
“I don’t think you do. I want you to give yourself a pat on the back.”
Who is he?
Wait…
He’s someone with his own agenda. Of course! No winery means no arguments and his formerly lifeless wife returning. Focusing on my cellist career means everything returns to normal—his normal. My body tightens.
“I did something for you,” he says.
I look at him from a side-eye. “Yeah?” What now?
“I got us two tickets to see your favorite cellists, 2CELLOS. They’re coming to the Hollywood Bowl in January.”
How can I feel both eager and angry at the same time?
“Well? Say something.” He crouches down to catch my full eye line.
“Thanks. That’ll be fun. I do love seeing them live,” I say, mustering up more enthusiasm than annoyance.
“I thought it may cheer you up. You left in a mood yesterday. See, I always know what you need.” He walks off with a sneer.
Biting my lip to not blurt out how I’m in a mood due to him, I instead murmur, “Mm-hmm.”
The nerve of him, to be proud of himself for trying to buy my affection. And with no responsibility for his own actions, like I’m the whole problem in our marriage. It’s obviously both of us growing apart and what I see increasingly now is the A word Flora mentioned.
A shiver chills my bones.
I don’t know how much more of this I can take. I’m certain that he’s not the man I married, and there doesn’t seem to be any chance of that man’s return.
Chapter
Thirty-Eight
"I wish I had better news for you, Ms. Agosti.” The pity in the banker’s eyes could have told me the same message without his actual words. “You’re too risky for the bank to give you a business loan.”
With a fire under my butt, since I can’t stop picturing myself in that last winery for sale, I called out of work—don’t judge, okay?—and headed straight to our bank this Monday morning, hoping to prove Christian’s information wrong. Now, firefighters—called bankers—are soaking my flames with a hose full of water then stomping out the smoldering embers and blowing the ashes to the curb. Talk about a great start to the week.
“Can you explain a little more, please?” My toes curl in my sneakers, bunching up my footie socks.
“Yes. Without owning anything at this moment—no cars, homes, or businesses—the bank wouldn’t be able to liquidate assets if you failed to pay back the loan.”
“So, I have to own something to own more? That doesn’t make much sense, sir. I need help to own something in the first place. With all due respect, know what I mean?” It’s like when you need a first job to get experience, but someone needs to give you a first job so you have experience. Am I living on Mars, where this would be logical?
“I…” He pauses. “I understand. And I feel your pain. Believe me, I most often have to give this news rather than the news I want to give.” He dips his head and looks down at the papers in front of him.
At least he’s compassionate while being the Grim Reaper.
“But I have amazing credit. And…if things work out the way I want, I’d have a large down payment for the property.” I’ll have to make a miracle happen and convince Christian to use our savings, but it’s worth asking about here no matter what.
“Those are pluses, but they still don’t allow the bank to view you as a good investment. I’m so sorry, Ms. Agosti. But you know what?” His eyebrows raise.
“What?” I want to brace my aching chest amidst instrumental “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” playing in the background.
“You can think about getting a co-signer. Do you know any business owners? Anyone with enough assets?” he asks.
A glimpse of potential tries to peek through the smallest black hole in the distance. Any business owners…hmm…uh, nope. “None I can think of, unfortunately. My family members are pretty simple people.” Too bad I’m not more like Flora, because she had no problem getting a loan with her smart financial choices in the past. Why couldn’t we be more than twin-like in appearance?
He tightens his mouth and angles it to the side. “Well, what I can tell you is not to give up, if this is what you want. Think about all of your choices.” He leans toward me, across his deep wooden desk, and whispers, “Even going to a smaller, non-national bank or a credit union may give you more opportunity, but you didn’t hear it from me.” Now he smiles.
I return a smile and say, “Thanks so much. I appreciate your time.” Forcing myself to move the heaviness of my body, I rise and say, “You have a good day.”
Walking through the doors of our possibly too large bank (huh?) for the past decade, I feel an urge to call Lesley. I can’t lose that winery. The blanket of vines and cool, rich soil flush my senses.
As soon as I start my car and Bluetooth connects, I hit her number in my contacts.
She answers on the first ring. “This is Lesley.”
There may be some luck in today after all.
“Hi, Lesley, It’s Toni Agosti. We met on Saturday.”
“Don’t be silly. I know who you are, boonoonoonoos.”
I giggle, not sure if from the sound of that word or from me thinking she may forget me in two days’ time. “Do you have a minute?”
“Of course I do for you.”
“I’m just leaving the bank because I wanted to apply for a business loan. I’ll need it to be able to afford the last property we saw.”
“Oh, I didn’t know you were that serious about making an offer sooner than later. Wonderful!”
“Yes, I am.” Even as I say it, the trial week at LA Phil lingers in the back of my thoughts like a nagging fly that won’t leave your ears. Buzz, buzz, aah! “But it seems I can’t qualify for a traditional loan, I guess. I don’t have enough collateral, so I’m risky for them.”
“Never take no for an answer, my sweets. You have the best broker in Temecula Valley for a reason, so let me help you. For one, have you thought about an agricultural loan?”
“Oh, I can’t say that I have.” Damn, how clueless am I? The answer is: a lot.
“That may be the way to go for you. Let me send you some info and a friend I’ve been doing business with since before you were born.” She laughs.
“That would be much appreciated. I can use any and all guidance.”
“You got it. I’m about to show another property, so it may be a few hours, but I won’t let it slip my mind,” she says.
“Thanks so much. I’ll look out for the text. Or will it be an email?”
“I’ll email you. That way it’s easier for you to keep.”
“Alright, thanks again. Talk soon, Lesley.”
“Have a good one.”
All of this will be my little secret from Christian. Seems like everything I do or want has to be that way now. Maybe counseling would be a good idea. When I took those wedding vows, it was for better or worse, so this counts—it’s definitely worse.
Chapter
Thirty-Nine
Turns out there’s more to having a winery than running through vines and drinking the fruits of my labor. I know, I know, I want to stay in that image too, but I’ve been reading online about growing grapes—from canopy management to harvesting, crushing, fermentation, aging, and finally bottling—and it’s consumed most of my free time in this busy holiday season. Having a day away from planning seasonal concerts and providing the last letters of recommendations to colleges for my seniors at school and in private lessons is a welcome change, even with the news today. So, let’s continue my wine education to get me to that image.
While Vivaldi’s upbeat rhythm keeps my fingers and my mind moving, I notice how healthy my plants look on the opposite side of the room. “My little lioness, look at the garden I’ve given you.” I stick my neck out toward Nala.
She stares at me from the floor in her famous flat expression, keeping her head atop her fluffy paws and barely moving her eyes a notch higher to catch my eyeline.
“Nala, I could be a farmer with an agricultural loan soon, starting here and ending with acres of grapes. See.” I point to the flourishing greenery that pops against our bland white walls. Even though they’re the same color as the bright tasting room I love, they don’t have as much promise, as much purity, and not nearly enough happiness due to a certain person who’s becoming just a roommate in this space.
As if on cue to avert my current train of thought, two texts from Uncle Roberto ping on my phone laying next to me. He must have finally received help! I can hardly grab it fast enough to view the contents—I’ve already waited since yesterday, my God.
Tap.
Only two pictures appear in the text chain, without words.
The first picture is a document, which I’ll get back to in a minute because the second picture is the one. There’s Pietro’s feet, his new wedding ring, consisting of five lines making the shape of a star, shining from his finger, and a quarter of his face—chin and corner of his mouth only—standing next to his bride and a vase of flowers on a stand. I remain staring at my phone as my eyes grow wet.
I can’t see all of Pietro’s face, but I can see a clip of his joyous day all those years ago. How unbelievable that a photo like this even exists so many decades later. Yellowed with age and what looks like that water damage Uncle Roberto warned me about doesn’t even matter. I’m filled with pride at the privilege of possessing such a beloved piece of family history.
Pietro’s wife wore a simple yet elegant straight-fitting white dress with a floor-length veil. Her headpiece burst with flowers along the front. Interesting how she isn’t smiling, but other pictures I’ve seen from history show the same expressionless poses. How times have changed.
Ding.
Words come through before I can view the next photo, so I return to the chain of messages.
Uncle Roberto: Toni,
This is your Uncle Roberto. How are you? I have sent you two photos now.
His rare texts always read like he’s writing me a letter, humoring me with the formality each time. I’m sure whoever is typing for him also gets a kick out of it.
There is one that is the deed for Pietro’s land in California. The other one is his wedding photograph. On the back of the photo, there was writing that said it took place in 1901.
Love,
Uncle Roberto
Toni: Thank you SO much! I’m so grateful for you sending me these. Love you too!
What a gift, words from my favorite uncle and these photos. Clicking on the deed picture, I have to zoom to read its content, including that it’s from 1911. The top paragraph states the location of the property, just as my uncle said.
Beginning at the oak tree on the northwest corner of Macy Street and Mary Lane thence southeasterly along Ramirez Street thence westerly along Lyon Street, thence westerly along Aliso Street, thence northerly to Alameda Street to the oak tree.
Whoa. I practically need a translator for this document. I guess Agosti Cellars was on Mary Lane. Mary Lane? I don’t remember seeing that road downtown. But I like that my mind jumps to Flora and my new friend Mary who runs a thriving business all on her own. She’s an inspiration, giving me hope that I can do it too. This street name has to be a good omen.
But back to the present.
Opening Google, I search 1911 Mary Lane downtown Los Angeles. I’m not sure why properties in Minnesota populate, along with random houses all over the country, but none of these listings show a street with the right name. How strange. The deed can’t be wrong.
After minutes pass and Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons” masterpiece transitions into the last movement of “Winter,” my insides match the allegro tempo of the music in a climax. A map of 1911 city of Los Angeles streets shows Mary Lane, nestled between Macy and Aliso Streets. Comparing that image to a present-day map of downtown, I find the 101 freeway is now running by the noted section of Aliso Street, and Macy Street became Cesar E. Chavez Avenue. So, Pietro’s winery was almost parallel to Olvera Street. Christian and I must’ve walked on his land a few months ago and didn’t even know it.
I rest the phone on my lap and daydream about what that land looked like during the early twentieth century. Was Pietro’s vineyard as large as the one I’m eager to purchase? That couldn’t be right. The land down there is so cramped…now anyway. The grid of roads must have been overflowing with tiny wineries, then. To have as many as history tells us, there couldn’t have been much room for anything else.
Going back to the picture from Uncle Roberto, I scroll to the bottom of the deed and notice Pietro’s signature. I’ve seen that P somewhere. But where?
In a millisecond, the light bulb flashes in my mind. I drop my phone on the couch cushion and run to my bedroom. There’s a trinket box my dad gave me when I moved to The Cromwell Conservatory. He left a note in it that he said meant I could always return home and to never be afraid of changing directions, a statement of great comfort as I ventured away from home for a new one almost three thousand miles away. Life is short, so do what you want. Holy cow. How did that message not come into my brain before right now? Midlife crisis brain, I guess.
Although I keep the scrap paper with the P in that box with Dad’s aging message, I laid it on top and never thought to re-read the other contents. Opening the red and black jeweled quilted square top, my eyes meet the writing I just saw on my phone. NO way.
It’s the same.
I clutch the scrap paper and bring it back to the couch, awakening my phone again. I’m not a handwriting expert, but comparing the two, I’d say they’re almost exact matches. Now, logical Toni knows this can’t be Pietro’s writing that flew to me at the beach that day, but dreamer Toni can believe it. There’s no harm in that, right?
I remain on the couch, holding a magical piece of paper in one hand and my phone in the other, mesmerized and doing what I want.
I was wrong. Today is a fantastic start to the week.
Chapter Forty
The audience gives a standing ovation to my students at the first of two winter concerts. I turn around from my conductor’s stand and move aside, waving my arms toward the kids then joining in on the clapping. They shined tonight, and I’m a proud momma.
One of the violinists disappears behind the side curtain then reappears with a bouquet of flowers. He walks toward me and smiles, saying, “Thank you, Ms. Agosti. These are from all of us seniors.”
“Thanks to you for all of your hard work.” I extend my words to the orchestra of students I’ve taught all quarter and some for years. I know most can’t hear me above the whooping friends and family, but they seem to get the sentiment, smiling in return and clutching their instruments in glee.
Once the crowd stops their jubilation and students jump off the stage to go home, Mr. Caloosta makes his way over to me. “Well done once again, Ms. Agosti. What you do for our students can’t be beat.”
“How nice of you.” I don’t feel guilty one bit that I’ll be leaving for one reason or another faster than the sixteenth notes in the last song. Nope.
“It’s the truth. Go and celebrate tonight. I know we’ll be right back here next week for your other concert.”
“You know it. What a busy time of year.” My long, black skirt shifts toward the ground, catching on the buckle on top of my flats, so I bend down to fix it. “Sorry.”
“December is always that way,” he replies, unfazed. “Speaking of busy, make sure to speak to me when you come in tomorrow. I may need to shift your days again next quarter.”
I concentrate on keeping my face straight and professional when I look at Mr. Caloosta again, but I really want to shout at the top of my lungs to leave the schedule alone, with the addition of a bunch of curse words. Instead, I inhale air for strength and exhale pleasantries. “Okay, I’ll come by your office on one of the breaks between periods and try to find you.” Insert fake smile.
This is just what I need at the most demanding time of year for a musician. December should be renamed Deathofateacher. And this season is even worse than usual with my rehearsal with LA Phil next week, preparing their pieces on my own, final grades, trying to learn a whole new career and set of skills…
Take a breath, Toni.
Mr. Caloosta replies, “I look forward to it. Now go and be with your husband. I see him waiting in the wings.”
He walks away while Christian comes into view from the shadows of the stage.
“Let me gather up some things, and I’ll meet you in five,” I say to Christian without eye contact but with a new ache in my stomach.
“I’ll be here. Good show tonight, Tone Tone.” He slips his hands into his pockets and has a face as emotionless as Nala.
How can his loving name for me that I used to adore cause illness now?
I give a close-mouthed grin and continue my clean-up tasks. Looking around to make sure no personal items—and especially no instruments—are left behind, time flies, and before I know it, there’s nothing else to tidy. I have to meet Christian. It’s time to approach him on a sensitive topic, so I’ve probably been delaying the car ride home. Maybe.
Once in my passenger seat and not being able to procrastinate the needed conversation any longer, I start easy. “Thanks for coming to the concert tonight. That means a lot to me.”
