The Secret Door: A Phantom of the Opera Novel

by J. Smith

  “Lotte?” she questioned the intruder with confusion. “I haven't answered to that name in years.”

  “Christine, don't you remember me?” he asked, a laugh in his throat! “Surely you recall the day you lost your red scarf in the ocean, and I jumped into the water, fully dressed to retrieve it for you. I almost caught my death of a cold after that.”

  “Oh, Raoul!” Christine exclaimed, and Erik tensed as he saw recognition finally light her eyes. “What are you doing here?”

  “Well, I am the new patron, Christine,” the man said with pride coloring his voice.

  “You're the Vicomte?” she asked in surprise.

  “The very same,” he sniffed a bit in the affectation of nobility, obviously a bit over-proud of his birthright. “Tell me, Lotte,” as asked, continuing to ignore the fact that Erik was in the room, “Do you still have your red scarf?”

  “Oh, probably somewhere, Raoul,” she said, waving her hand in the air. “But I haven't worn it in years. I have a lovely black one that I favor now.” Erik could not help but smirk a bit at the look of rebuff that appeared on the Vicomte's face. “Now,” Christine said, pointing a finger toward the door, “Both of you, shoo. Erik,” she squeezed his hand. “I will meet you outside—I'll only be a moment. Raoul,” she turned to him, still holding Erik's hand, “Do be sure to find Meg Giry—the Prima Ballerina—at the ball tonight. I am certain she would love to share a dance with you. I shall be spending the evening,” she glanced back up at Erik with a smile, “dancing with my Maestro.”

  40 FOREVER

  Jenna put in her second earring and was slipping into her heels just as the buzzer rang.

  “Would you get that for me, Red?” she asked the cat who was lazily grooming himself on the bed. Mreeeeow! was the only response she got. “I knew you were going to say that!” she retorted, rushing toward her apartment door. When the buzzer rang a second time, she asked into the intercom, “Who is it?” smiling, because she knew exactly who was requesting entrance.

  “'Tis your escort for the evening, my lady,” answered the jovial voice she knew so well. “Come to whisk you away for a birthday celebration filled with fine dining and high romance!”

  With a quick chuckle, she responded, “Well, then, by all means, come on up!”

  Jenna smiled to herself as she waited by the door for Chris to climb the stairs that would lead him to her apartment. In the six months it had been since her accident, he had been her rock, staying close to her while she was still in the hospital for observation after waking from the coma. He had gotten her through the grueling effort it took to strengthen her weakened muscles after her long stay in the hospital bed. There had been many nights when she was exhausted from the exercises and the sheer exertion that it took to walk, that he would eat dinner with her in the rehab facility, and then read to her afterward while she rested, holding her hand as she fell asleep. When she was released, he'd aided her in finding this very apartment, and on moving day, he'd barely let her lift a finger. She remembered how he had carried box after box up several flights of stairs, and as she and Aunt Penny unpacked and arranged, she had regaled Jenna with tales of the truly valiant efforts Chris had gone to on her behalf while she had been in the coma. “He really took Dr. Charleson out?” Jenna had asked, when her aunt told her of the fight that took place between Chris and the doctor she had always thought of as a sleaze.

  “Broke his nose, and knocked out a tooth or two—all because of how he treated you,” she confirmed. Penny had not been proud of her own involvement with Blaine, but Jenna understood all too well how easy it was to become caught up with the wrong man, especially when emotionally overwrought. Still, she was happy that the hospital had begun malpractice action against Blaine Charleson and had revoked his privilege to practice.

  Once Jenna and Red had moved into their new home, she and Chris had begun dating. If she had thought he was special before, in the way he supported her and took care of her through the hard times in her recovery, as her “boyfriend,” he was truly wonderful. Always there to listen, and to make her smile, she was clearly the top priority in his life. He was always sure to make time for her, even after working exhausting hours in the hospital. He was equally comfortable taking her out for a lavish night on the town or staying in to watch a movie while sharing pizza and beer—and a cat. He listened to her and he laughed with her, and for the first time ever, Jenna truly felt like a queen. Well, she heard that voice in her head, not ever… True, she had to concede, there had been one other time in her life when she had been treated like a queen. But she still wasn't certain if that time even been real.

  Thoughts of Erik rushed to her mind, and just like that the pain of losing him was new again in her heart. Her relationship with Chris was sweet and romantic and wonderful—he was caring, he was patient, and he was accepting of her need to go slow, understanding the emotional trauma surrounding her medical ordeal. It should be so easy to fall in love with him. But memories of Erik kept holding her back.

  Erik had been exhilarating and maddening and yet, at times, so very tender. Despite her efforts to hold herself back, she had fallen totally and completely in love with him. And yet, one look at the beautiful, unique eyes through which Chris gazed at her now, and she was reminded that none of it had been real. She had not traveled back through time, and opened a secret door to the darkly seductive home of a lonely genius. She had simply been lying in a hospital bed, allowing the suggestion of a song, and fragments absorbed from the reality happening around her create a magnificent dream to occupy her brain while it healed. There had been no cheeky Persian, no haughty soprano, no seamstress in search of an angel. If she thought hard enough, she could even recall moments that must have been slivers of the real world breaking through her mirage—like when the stitches simply disappeared from her head, or when she thought she heard a voice calling her from so far away. She remembered several instances when she had started to reach for reality, but she had been pulled back—always drawn back to the dream by Erik's song.

  It had seemed so real, but it was only her imagination. Her feelings had been so strong, yet they were inspired by a fantasy. So how could she be sure if the feelings she was now beginning to have for Chris were true or if they were merely more fabricated illusions? It was all so confusing and unsettling, and when she thought about it too long, she found herself feeling dizzy—dizzy and wistful for a man who had never been more than a dream

  Erik was real, her heart screamed at her. But her mind knew that could not possibly be true.

  She shook her head to clear her thoughts of the impossible assertion when she heard the gentle knock announcing that Chris was there.

  She was greeted by a huge bouquet of red roses, and a melodious voice saying, “Hello Beautiful.”

  She giggled a bit, despite her melancholy memories, and took the roses from him, so that she could reach up and greet him with a kiss. “Hello, Hotty,” she returned, and stepped away from the door so that he could come inside.

  When the door closed, she took a deep whiff of her bouquet. “Thank you, Chris. These are lovely!”

  “Not half as lovely as you, Jenna,” he said, and his voice was low and hushed as he took the flowers from her hands and placed them on the kitchen counter behind him. He then wrapped her fully in his arms for another kiss, one that lingered until they heard the loud, mreeeeeeeeoooow from behind them.

  Chris pulled back and winked at Jenna as he dropped to his knees to greet the interloper who had emerged from the bedroom at the sound of his buddy's voice. “Hey Big Guy!” Chris said happily, gently scratching Red behind the ears.

  “Oh, now you come out!” Jenna teased her furry companion. “Where were you when I asked you to get the door?”

  Mreh! was Red's simple reply as he began to purr in response to his former roommate's attentions.

  Smirking, Jenna picked up the roses and took them to the sink, grabbing a vase from the cabinet and filling it up with water. She removed the
florist's paper from the bouquet and caught her breath a moment when she saw that it was secured with a silk black ribbon tied in a bow. It's just a coincidence, she told herself. Florists tie roses with ribbon all the time. She swallowed once and placed the roses in the water, trying to ignore the aching in her chest as she carried them over to her dining room table.

  “Now, they aren't a snack, Red.” Jenna heard Chris forewarn the cat, who cheekily mreowed his response.

  “That's right, Red!” Jenna chimed in, grabbing her coat from the entry closet. “I expect them to be intact when we return from our evening.”

  Red simply sat quietly, with his back turned away from them, which told them he was insulted that they would even suggest he might tamper with the roses—all the other times notwithstanding. These were birthday roses. He would at least let them live for…the night.

  Chris rose to his full height, and took her coat from her, wrapping it around her shoulders as he pulled her back into his arms. “Are you ready for your birthday celebration, my dear?”

  “I'd be even more ready if you'd tell me where we were going.” She smiled up at him sweetly.

  “Not a chance, Jenna,” he answered, leaning over and giving her a quick kiss on the mouth. “This is to be a night full of surprises.” He took her hand in his and led her out the door.

  Jenna's heart shattered into a million pieces, as she heard the final, mournful words from the unmasked Phantom on the stage. No, she thought, as her sobs grew even more inconsolable, it wasn't supposed to be this way.

  Chris glanced over to her and tightened his arm around her shoulder. They had had a wonderful evening together—one about which he had fantasized ever since she was still lying in her coma. He had arrived at her door with a dozen roses, and taken her to dinner at a four star restaurant, and then presented her with front row tickets to Broadway's longest running musical. Though her smile had not seemed to reach completely to her eyes when she saw them, she thanked him profusely and insisted she was thrilled to be going to the show. She had long wanted to see the darkly beautiful musical, she'd insisted, and she'd seemed to enjoy herself during the performance. She had teared up during the sad moments, as most of the women in the theater had. But now, as the cape was removed to show only the mask remaining on the Phantom's throne, she was inconsolable, tears of absolute agony pouring out of her eyes.

  “Jenna,” he whispered, pulling her even closer, as she tucked her head into his shoulder. “Honey, what's wrong?”

  “I just…” she tried to talk, though the crying was making it difficult. “Chris, please, just take me home.”

  Immediately after the curtain call, they made their escape, and Chris hailed a taxi to take them back to her apartment. Jenna sat silently staring out the window on the ride, and Chris sat there wondering what he had done wrong. He longed for nothing more than to make Jenna happy, and yet, no matter how hard he tried, there always seemed to be something that held her back, something that kept her from completely surrendering herself to the moment. Something that kept her from falling in love with him.

  He remembered the days when she was in her coma, and he would spend long hours just praying that she would wake up. He'd sworn so many times that it didn't even matter to him if she shared his affections, that all he had truly wanted was her well being. But the truth was that it hurt. Since she had awakened, his feelings for her had grown. No longer did he have to be content imagining her smile and dreaming of her laughter. Now he could experience the beauty of both first hand, and he did everything he could to make them happen as often as possible.

  And yet he had still not been able to tell her all he wanted to say. He had wanted so many times to tell her that he loved her, that there would never be another woman for him—that she was his forever. But though her kisses were sweet and he could tell she had deep affection for him, he could feel that for some reason she still held back. He told himself it was the trauma of the accident and everything that surrounded it, but what if he was wrong? What if it was simply that she didn't love him the way that he loved her? What if she never would?

  He paid the driver and they walked the stairs to her apartment. Once inside, Jenna collapsed on the couch, staring off, unseeing, at the wall. Chris took one look at her, and turned toward the kitchen, returning a few moments later with two cups of tea.

  “Your tea, my lady,” he said, offering her a cup, seeing the tears once again spring to her eyes. He set the mugs down on the coffee table and knelt down in front of her, taking her hands in his. “Jenna, please tell me what's wrong,” he pleaded with her. “Did I do something to upset you?”

  “No, Chris!” she insisted right away, reaching out and brushing an unruly lock of hair away from his eyes. “You are everything that is perfect and right and wonderful. You have done absolutely nothing wrong.”

  When she finished, there were tears streaming down her face, prompting Chris to ask the question, “Then why are you crying?”

  “Because…” Jenna took several deep breaths, trying to stop herself from shaking, before springing to her feet and declaring angrily, “Because it wasn't supposed to be that way.” She began pacing back and forth as she poured her heart out through agonized tears. “He wasn't supposed to pretend to be an angel to trick her into loving him. He was a man, not an angel or a … a ghost. He deserved to be loved, to be cherished—to be told every day how wonderful he was. He deserved a woman who would adore him the way he adored her, not one who would drop him like a hot coal for the affections of a handsome Vicomte!” she spat out bitterly. “He deserved a woman who would look at his face and see beauty, not accuse him of being the monster he was already so quick to call himself.” Jenna sat back down on the sofa, burying her head in her hands, as she whispered. “Christine was supposed to love Erik. She was not supposed to leave him alone in the dark.”

  Chris watched her weep bitterly into her hands for a few moments not quite understanding why the play had resonated so deeply with her, but knowing that he had a way to help with her sorrows.

  “She didn't,” he said, sitting next to her on the sofa, putting his hand gently on her back.

  Jenna continued to sob, saying, “She didn't love him? Yes, that's clear.”

  “No Jenna,” he corrected her quietly, “She didn't leave him.”

  Slowly, Jenna raised her head from her hands and looked over at him. It broke his heart to see her eyes so wet with tears—those beautiful eyes that were meant for laughing, never crying. “What…” she said, her sobs quieting to occasional hiccups. “What do you mean?”

  Chris ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath. “I can't believe I'm going to tell you this, Jenna,” he began, looking sheepish. “It's not something I ever talk about, because I find it so embarrassing, but if it will make you feel better, then I will. But you have to promise not to think I'm some kind of mental patient, ok?”

  “Chris,” Jenna responded, once again, thinking of Erik, “I would never accuse you of being a mental patient.”

  He sighed, “OK. Well. Let me start by telling you that the tale of the Phantom of the Opera is true. But the play is not the correct story. Neither is the book or any of the movies. I know this, you see, because I am a descendant of the real opera ghost.”

  Jenna looked at him with eyes growing wide. “What?” she asked. “How is that possible?”

  “See,” he chuckled, turning a bit red in the face, “I knew you were going to think I was crazy.”

  “No, Chris, please.” She touched his arm to encourage him. “Tell me.”

  “Well, Leroux had obviously heard about the strange events that happened at the Opera House in Paris—and he knew enough to know that the Phantom was responsible for some of them—but most of what he wrote was just sensationalized fiction, designed to enthrall the reader. He didn't know what really happened. That story—the true story—you see, was handed down from generation to generation in old family journals. When the play became so popular, my father actua
lly got them out of storage and re-read them, and then he passed them on to me. The journals were written, you see, by Christine herself—who happened to be my great-great-great-grandmother. And her husband was the Opera Ghost.”

  “Erik…” Jenna murmured.

  “Yes…at least that part is true,” he continued. “And it was also true that Erik was horribly disfigured—and he did initially approach Christine by pretending to be the mysterious angel sent by her dead father, because he was afraid she would want nothing to do with him when she saw his face.”

  “He was afraid she would think him a monster,” Jenna added, sadly.

  “Yes,” Chris nodded. “He was. But that all changed the night of her debut at the Opera Garnier.”

  Jenna's eyes lit up. “The night of her debut?”

  “Yes. You see, according to the journals, he came to her in her dressing room that night, and he told her everything. That he was a man and not an angel, and then he gave her a rose—all tied up in a ribbon of black—like the roses I brought you tonight,” he added, looking somewhat sheepish.

  “I love them,” Jenna smiled at him, putting her hand on his arm. “They're beautiful.”

  Chris smiled and looked down, “Anyway,” he continued, “He took her to the ball that night.”

  “He did?” Jenna asked, her voice barely a whisper.

  “Yes, he did. And from that night forward they continued their vocal lessons in person, and eventually, he brought her down to his home beneath the opera house, to coach her from there. The story goes that Christine was already half in love with him when she thought him an angel, but she lost her heart completely when she began to know him as a man. In her journals, she described him as sweet and gentle—to everyone, that is, except his best friend, a Persian not even mentioned in the play, whom he loved to tease mercilessly.”