Champagne Nights || Shawmila [Completed]

two

As he held his trumpet, the polished brass surface reflected his distorted image, and Shawn couldn't help but notice how much he resembled his father. The neatly styled waves of his hair, held in place with a touch of grease, the prominent, straight nose, and the hint of a beard that he meticulously shaved every day. If someone had compared their photos, they could have mistaken them for brothers. Shawn had no doubt that their striking resemblance was due to the small age difference—only seventeen years—but he also knew that his admiration for his father had further contributed to it.

He had learned everything from him: how to dress, what to read, how much to talk... Shawn had been his shadow, following him wherever he could, silently observing. Even though he had lost his mother at the age of five, he never lacked parental affection. His father had taught him everything, including how to play music.

He had grown up in a modest house, with little to live on aside from his old man's honest work. Yet music was always present in the Mendes family. The piano and trumpet they owned had been passed down for generations, a cultural heritage, a symbol of beauty that transcended time. Those were the words his father used to describe music. He had never been a great musician, but he knew enough to liven up an evening of celebration. Shawn remembered those summer nights when the neighborhood would gather to dance to the rhythm of the Charleston, his father's lively trumpet and the fast-paced sound of the piano accompanying their steps.

Over time, Shawn had proven to be a much more skilled musician than his old man. His fingers moved swiftly across the keys, with precision and delicacy, with fervor and passion. He was a natural. Even George had noticed it, which was why he wanted to invest in him. Usually, the pay as a musician wasn't anything to boast about, but George was a more than generous employer. In the first two weeks of work, Shawn had managed to save enough to afford a new pair of leather shoes. Their soft and shiny leather contrasted with his old pants and worn-out shirts. He would have to wait a couple more weeks to address that, but it wasn't a problem for him.

He truly enjoyed his job. Being confined to a dark and claustrophobic basement for eight hours a day didn't bother him. He had the opportunity to play his music, without following directions or sheet music. He could improvise, create, follow the flow of the evening and the moods of the people. The only time he was given precise instructions was during Camila's performances. The brunette never stayed on stage for long, at most half an hour, but Shawn knew that everyone present was there for her.

George's wife had an awe-inspiring voice. It was clear, mesmerizing, with a range that few could reach. It was nearly impossible for her to hit a wrong note, and any occasional imperfections that slipped through were masked by her stage presence. Camila never wore excessively revealing dresses, but she embraced the fashion of the era. Her clothes were adorned with beads and fringes, with colors ranging from deep red to emerald green, from elegant black to fresh summer white. The lightweight fabrics draped perfectly over her, swaying with her graceful movements and illuminated by the dim light of the speakeasy.

With his fingers on the piano keys, Shawn didn't have many opportunities to admire her, but every now and then, he allowed himself a second or two of distraction. In those moments, he would catch glimpses of her swaying hips, the graceful rotation of her slender wrist, and her feet moving to the rhythm of the music. She was a true vision.

For a long time, those stolen glances were the only form of interaction between them. Camila was like a precious and brilliant ruby to him, admired from a distance. But one evening, everything changed. The venue was exceptionally crowded, with alcohol flowing freely. Shawn had no idea what arrangements George had made to facilitate the circulation of illegal goods, but they seemed to be effective. Even officers would occasionally come to the bar to enjoy a glass of rye whiskey.

It was one of those hot southern evenings when the dense air from the nearby swamps crept into the city center. The humidity clung to people's skin, causing their clothes to stick to their warm bodies and weighing down the hairstyles of the ladies. Inside the venue, Shawn accompanied the evening with fast and dynamic music. On the dance floor nestled among the tables, lovers, vibrant youth, and bored businessmen let loose, following the lively rhythm of the piano. Then, it was Camila's turn to take the stage. Her performance enchanted everyone, as usual. The ladies fanned themselves, alternating between a breath of air and a puff of cigarette, while their partners raised their glasses more frequently than on any previous evening.

In the end, the mixture of alcohol, smoke, and crackling energy culminated in a disastrous brawl. What started with a few drunken punches quickly escalated, turning the room into a chaotic boxing ring. It took half an hour and more than a few threats from George to clear the venue.

The following morning, Shawn was called in exceptionally to help with the cleanup. The damage wasn't extensive—mostly a few wobbly chairs, broken lamps, and glasses—but there was plenty of work to be done. To his surprise, George was absent. Instead, a fresh-faced and unadorned Camila greeted him at the entrance. "George has important matters to attend to," she said calmly and sweetly.

Shawn had never seen her like this. The image of the elusive star faded into a distant memory when confronted with her natural beauty. Without flashy makeup and fancy clothes, her big dark eyes stood out on her delicate features. Her curls were neatly styled in soft waves, and her tanned skin shimmered in the peach-colored dress she wore. For a brief, fleeting moment, Shawn allowed himself to indulge in fantasies, imagining what a life alongside this marvel would be like. But he quickly averted his gaze, fearing being caught.

He and Camila began working without much conversation. The radio played Louis Armstrong's trumpet, its static-filled sound filling the air, and Shawn caught glimpses of Camila humming and dancing to the music. Behind the counter, she rinsed glasses and meticulously arranged them on the shelves, her focus unwavering as the cloth glided swiftly across the surfaces.

Shawn took care of moving the heavier furniture, straightening the tables that had been flung from one side of the room to the other, and putting the chairs back in place, discarding the damaged ones. Near the stage, the rarely used instruments intrigued him. The cello and drum set were covered by a cloth, only unveiled on the rare occasions when a band performed. Nearby, abandoned sheet music gathered a thin layer of dust. Shawn examined them, imagining the melodies described by the musical notations, and he nearly jumped when Camila spoke from behind his shoulder. "If you like them, you can keep them."

"Don't you need them?"

Camila shrugged. "I can't read sheet music. I simply sing along to the melodies. But you could put them to good use." He smiled and thanked her, carefully folding the pieces of paper and slipping them into his shirt pocket. Camila continued to gaze at him, a half-hidden smile playing on her lips. "You're truly talented at playing, you know?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Am I?"

She nodded. "If I hadn't been performing in this venue since I was a young girl, I might be envious. A talent like yours could easily overshadow me and my silly little songs."

"Believe me, there's nothing silly about what you sing, and it takes much more than an unknown musician to overshadow you." Camila's melodic laughter warmed Shawn's heart. Could it be that every movement, every word that escaped her lips had the power to enchant him? "You know what?" he continued. "Maybe I can help you learn to play the piano."

She looked at him intently, a myriad of thoughts invading her mind in just one second. "That's not a bad idea at all.