Born to Sing, no. 1

by Donna Del Oro

  “Hmm, there was a love triangle, wasn’t there? You and D.J.—I mean, Darren McKay—and this baritone. Does he keep calling this guy ‘the baritone’ for fear of a libel lawsuit?”

  “A love triangle? Not in the traditional sense, I suppose. D.J. was advised against libel, that’s true, but he kept the man’s identity a secret mainly for the sake of the baritone’s daughter…uh, children. Later in D.J’s memoir, he calls him ‘the baritone from Hell’ when he confronts him in Naples and—ah, well, only a few people among the opera cognoscenti know the man’s identity. No one really cares, anyway, in the overall Big Scheme of Things. It’s just grist for the gossip mills. You’ll know it by the end of my story? This man’s identity must stay off the record.”

  “Yes, sure. I won’t write about the really personal stuff but you’re making me want to write your biography.” Serena smiled wryly. “I’d love to do that, you know. But getting back to you and Darren McKay starting out as professional opera singers. Your summer together sounds wonderful,” the girl added, skillfully changing the subject, “Performing together, I mean, and traveling.”

  “Oh yes, it was the best time of my life. We added a new opera to our repertoire, learned to love shepherd’s pie and dark ale, stayed in places I’d only read about, like the seventeenth-century manor house of a duke in Coventry, an old palace overlooking the Firth of Forth in Edinburgh, a converted Elizabethan inn in the lake country of western England. That wonderful summer, we sang our best to the most wonderful and appreciative audiences. Those roles—the two lovers, Marcello and Musetta—were perfect for us at that time. Perfect for our voices, our youth, our relative inexperience. Our confidence as professional singers soared, thanks to those wonderful and kind Brits.”

  Eva gazed at the silver ring on her pinkie finger, right hand. The design was a Celtic knot, the ring a gift from D.J. to commemorate their summer tour in Great Britain. She’d never taken it off, not even during her marriage to…

  She whipped her thoughts back to that summer.

  “There were promo write ups in local newspapers, lauding our performances—we were described as The Two Texas Larks. We were even interviewed on local TV stations in Great Britain. It was a magical time and we loved each other like there was no tomorrow. I think we were the happiest we’d ever been. It was the beautiful sunshine before the ugly storm.”

  “Hmmm,” muttered Serena unhappily, “I sensed that was coming. You were just postponing the inevitable, weren’t you? The inevitable breakup, I mean.”

  There was a knock at the door. Eva was astonished that she still had an appetite for lunch. What followed would be difficult to talk about, even now after so many years. Yet, she was no wimp. Even the sorrow of separation and their bitter breakup were part of her story.

  She stood up, glanced at the suddenly saddened girl reporter, and tossed her a small smile.

  “Yes, the inevitable breakup. But now let’s take a break and eat something, shall we? We’ll need the sustenance to get through the next part.”

  Chapter Four

  As she and Serena dipped into their tomato bisque, they sat in companionable silence. It was not until they began to dig into their Asian chicken salads that Serena spoke.

  “What is it like, performing in an opera? I mean, time wise? And salary? How much are you paid if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Most productions require a two to four-week rehearsal period, depending on the complexity of the production, what the artistic director, stage director and maestro want to do, their creative vision. Then the actual performances follow which are normally strung out over a four to eight-week block. Usually, there are no more than four performances per week but that also depends on how many roles an individual singer is playing. In the world-class houses, the salaries are phenomenal and increase with your reputation. Most include travel costs. Can you imagine what it cost the Met to fly in Pavarotti every time he sang? But, of course, he was such a big box office draw. Some companies even pay a per diem for housing and meals. The smaller, regional companies, of course, pay far less but then you have a stable home for the season. Ideal if you have a family.”

  “When you perform on any given day, how many hours do you spend at the theater?” Emily asked.

  “Perhaps six to eight, counting the time traveling to and from the theater—most of us don’t live around the block from an opera house. Makeup and costume, warming up vocally all take some time. If an artist is doing a long opera, like a Wagnerian, the time commitment is much more. Then, there are publicists, agents, assistants, and for the working mothers, nannies—well, it’s a busy life. But rewarding in many ways.”

  Emily smiled. “Do you have children?”

  “Yes, three. My oldest daughter is a freshman at Rice University in Houston. The other two, my sons, are in high school.”

  “I’ve noticed your ring. You’re married?”

  “Yes, I am. My second marriage.” The girl was referring to the simple gold band on her left hand, ring finger. Inside was an inscription…a sentiment inscribed in her heart as well.

  When Eva returned to her salad, so did the reporter but there was a new, speculative look in the girl’s face. They continued to enjoy their lunch in silence.

  Meanwhile, Eva’s mind wandered back to that summer of 1986.

  * * * *

  “I’m going to freeze my butt off! This is supposed to be summer, Evie. What do these Scots do in the winter to warm up, I’d like to know,” D.J. groused, wrapping his arms around her. His cold nose nuzzled her cheek, half buried in a thick wool scarf she’d purchased only the day before.

  They were standing on the ramparts of Edinburgh Castle, perched on the highest hill overlooking the port city like a medieval sentinel. They were gazing out over the city’s buildings, the park at the base of the hill. A crisp, damp wind was blowing off the Firth of Forth and stirring up the air and dust in the city streets. Not good for their throats but what could they do? Who wanted to stay indoors when there was so much sightseeing to do?

  They’d hiked the Royal Mile just to get this view. From their vantage point, Eva could see the gray-slated roof of the Memorial Auditorium where they’d give that evening their twelfth performance of La Boheme.

  “Well, this isn’t a Texas winter, that’s for sure.” She snuggled more deeply into the front of his body, feeling his hard thighs with her denimed rump.

  “Hey, don’t wiggle too much or we’ll have to find a dark corner in that dungeon to, y’know, take care of business. And if I have to take off one stitch of clothing, I’m gonna get frostbite. Makes you wonder how these Scots ever got around to fornicating, it’s so damned cold!” D.J. turned up the collar of his wool pea coat.

  Spying a family of tourists with young children approach their location on the ramparts, Eva giggled and hushed him at the same time.

  “The early Scots snuggled up at night near a fire under animal skins. Shoot, this wool scarf is making me itch—I can’t even recall the last time I wore wool.” She had to keep her neck and throat warm so she tolerated the discomfort. “So that’s what you call what we’ve been doing every night? Fornicating?” she added with lowered voice.

  “Yep, every morning, every night. Fornicating, I call it. I don’t see a ring on your finger, Miss Villa.” The harsh tone of his voice and the subsequent, quick change of subject took her aback. “Look at the fog rolling in, Evie. We better get back to the hotel before we get lost in this city. All I know is we cross that bridge down there and head north. Turn right, then left. Or was it right and right again? Oh well, we’ll find it.”

  He helped her down the already slick rock steps onto the cobblestones and they wended their way through the crowds, past the portcullis gate and out of the castle keep. Halfway down the Royal Mile road, she pulled him into a Starbucks store. What he’d just said up on the ramparts was filling her mind with all sorts of questions. What was he really saying? Was he being critical or disapproving of their present situation? Th
ey were lovers, traveling and working together. Wasn’t that what he wanted?

  She settled herself on a stool by the window and watched the streams of tourists walk up and down the ancient cobbled road but her thoughts were troubled and mixed. Raised a Catholic, mostly at the insistence of Grandma Villalobos, Eva thought she should have felt some guilt about their current arrangement but she didn’t. Her parents were born-again hippies returning to nature; free love, hang loose and home-grown food were their mottos.

  A college education had enlightened her sufficiently so that she now regarded her religion as a kind of secular humanism with a strong Catholic influence. She still loved gospel music but seldom went to church services. Although she knew D.J. was Catholic, nothing in his behavior belied any devotion to the teachings of his church and they never talked about their religious beliefs. Did he actually feel some guilt or discomfort about their love affair?

  “Here’s yours, sugarpie,” D.J. said, handing her the coffee. When he sat next to her, he followed her gaze for a moment, then took a Frommer’s travel guide out of his pocket. “The guidebook says there’s a Scotch whiskey museum around here somewhere. Maybe I’ll send Dad a bottle or two of Glenfiddich for his bar. It’s supposed to be the best of the single malts.”

  She turned to look at him then. “Sure, let’s stop there.” She was going to drop it and ignore the questions swirling in her mind but no, she couldn’t. “Come clean, D.J. Do you have less regard for me because we’re…we’re having an affair?” She placed both hands on her face in mock horror. “An ILLICIT affair. Good grief, I mean, I know how you’ve been raised—it just sounded strange, you calling it…”—in dramatic sotto voce—”for-ni-ca-tion.”

  Evidently not appreciating her melodramatic tone, he frowned, took a sip of his coffee and shrugged.

  “It’s just a word, Evie, don’t take it personally. I’m not making judgments. I know you don’t want to get tied down, you’ve made that clear enough. You’re putting your career first and foremost, and at the end of this month, we’ll go where the offers take us. Personally, I hope an offer takes me to Italy or the south of France, anywhere the sun shines hot and heavy.” He hunched over his coffee and lowered his voice. “So meanwhile we’re fornicating our brains out, enjoying every second of it while it lasts. When we’re not on stage or on that damn motor coach, we’re having fun and growing closer. We’ve made some friends in the cast, seen the sights of England and Scotland and it’s all going to end in two or three weeks—”

  He broke off and shrugged again but not before Eva detected a nuance of stiff resentment in his voice.

  They sipped their coffee in silence. His pale, no longer tanned cheeks, nose and chin were rose-spotted from the cold, his hands gloved as he raised his cup of coffee. His blue eyes turned icy-hard on her before he blinked and averted them.

  At times she thought she had D.J. McKay figured out; other times, he surprised her with opinions, gestures and behavior that were new to her or unexpected. Of course, they were still getting to know each other and being on tour together was really the first time that they’d lived together. They were still closing the bathroom door for individual privacy, so she knew they both needed boundaries of intimacy. But it was certainly true that they’d grown much closer these past three months.

  “Well,” she replied, hitching up one shoulder under her down-filled parka, “this is what we wanted, wasn’t it, D.J.? We’re getting professional experience, we’re together and the pay is good. God, it’s the most money I’ve ever made in my life! I even sent a check home to Mom to help out with the bills now that Daddy’s back in the hospital again.”

  Complications with her father’s emphysema, diabetes and high blood pressure had landed him back in Intensive Care but this wasn’t the first time. Ever since his return from Vietnam ten years before as an army staff sergeant, her father’s chronic poor health had been an issue. In addition to his emphysema, he suffered from chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, what his doctors called COPD. Recurrent bouts of pneumonia had weakened him and wasted his once strapping body. The once husky farm boy and amateur musician turned soldier had all but disappeared.

  Her older brother, Enrique—Rick, they called him—had been forced to give up his own dreams and take over the farming responsibilities. Fortunately, the vet hospital was only an hour’s drive from her parents’ farm but the semiweekly visits her mother and younger sister were

  making to Tyler took a toll on the family’s limited finances.

  It weighed on her mind. “I’m glad I can finally send home a check.”

  “Y’know, Evie, I want to help your family out any way I can,” D.J. offered, looking back at her abruptly. “Just say the word—”

  Her flung up hand and fulminating glance hushed him on that score. The Villalobos family took money from no one. Not even their well-off Tito Blanco. Their pride would not allow it. End of story.

  “Thanks, D.J. for offering but no, we’ll work it out. We always do.”

  She was reluctant to give further explanations out of embarrassment and shame. What would Liz McKay say if she heard Eva’s mother worked part-time at the local Wal-Mart and made homemade salsas and tamales to supplement the family income, her sister Vonnie was having to postpone college so that she could contribute her retail job’s measly paycheck to the family’s coffers, and her brother was selling home-grown marijuana on the side?

  D.J. had never met her family although he’d wanted to in the spring. In all truth, Eva had been afraid she’d lose him all too soon if he’d actually seen the circumstances of her upbringing. Let him—and the McKays—imagine her family as rural, kind of middle-class farmers with upwardly mobile intentions, who just happened to be suffering under temporary hardships. The shabby genteel, as the Brits would call it. That’s not what the Texans would call them; to the McKays, they’d be more like poor Mexican trash.

  “So what’s bothering you, D.J.?” she finally got the nerve to ask. “Don’t try to weasel out of it. Get it off your chest.”

  Here it comes, Eva thought miserably. He’s already tired of me, wants to break up. That soprano who’s playing Mimi, the attractive French girl—the one he’s been talking to backstage. They’d been flirting—who wouldn’t flirt with D.J.? He was handsome, talented, charming and spoke with a disarming Texas drawl. Around pretty women, he was especially dazzling. It was instinctive with him, probably how he managed to wrap his mother and all other females around his little finger. Like catnip to felines.

  So now he was bored and wanted to move on! Of course, why wouldn’t he?

  “I-I…” D.J. began, then trailed off. He locked gazes with her, unflinching and steady. Eva held her breath, feeling her heart race. A pulse throbbed in her head and she started to feel faint. Holding onto the edge of the table, returning his stare, Eva began to silently pray. Dear God, give me the strength to get through this…

  “I-I want…” D.J. tried again, stopping to cough into his fist and then clear his throat. “I want us to get…uh, get married.”

  “Huh?” was all she could manage. She frowned, feeling ashamed. Heavens, she could speak fluent Spanish, college French, could sing in German, French and Italian, and all she could say was, Huh?

  “Yeah, you heard me, darlin’. I want us to get married, Eva Villalobos. Now, today, here. In Edinburgh.”

  “You’re…you’re not thinking straight, D.J. Y-your brain’s frozen up.”

  They sat there, frowning at each other. Slowly, a smile formed which curled up one side of his mouth. A hard, sardonic smile. His dark lashes narrowed on his vivid blue eyes.

  “You’re afraid.” He stared at her in silent rebuke as if fear was the worst possible excuse for rejecting him.

  She blinked. Once. Twice. Her mouth felt cottony all of a sudden. Liz McKay the family matriarch would have a conniption, maybe even force D.J. to annul the marriage. If there ever was one. Or the McKay family would disown him despite Big Jim’s being taken with her. D.J
. couldn’t bear losing his family if…if…No! Once his family met hers—no! No if or when. It wasn’t going to happen, she scolded herself. It can’t happen. Don’t even think it!

  “I guess I am,” she admitted. Her heart sank. She’d never been more afraid of anything in her life.

  “We can make it work, Evie. Our two singing careers. Even if we have to be apart occasionally, we’ll have a home base and meet there once or twice a month. If we both get jobs in Europe, we can get together every week during our days off. We can make it happen.” He leaned over to her. “I know you love me. You tell me you do every night. God knows I love you. I can’t think of a life without you, Evie. I try to imagine living in some European city without you, flying here and there for these opera gigs, free and flying high. It-it just doesn’t feel right, y’know. For me, YOU…you are home. You’re what it’s all about.”

  With one gloved finger, he tilted up her chin and pressed his mouth against hers. His lips, warmed by the coffee, tasted heavenly and she replied by taking a tiny lick with her tongue.

  “Mmm, is that a yes?” he asked, smiling.

  Her heart leaped with boundless joy. Should she? Could she defy his mother’s warnings? What if…? For a black moment, her mind raced through all the dire consequences of a legal union with the irrepressible D.J. McKay. He wanted HER. D.J. McKay wanted HER. Wanted her to be his WIFE and MOTHER of his…

  Eva was so happy, she could not finish that thought. Instead, against her greatest misgivings and self-doubts, she began to laugh quietly.

  “Yes! Yes!” she cried, giving him a fervent kiss. They hugged each other as best they could, despite table between them and the layers of bundled clothes that separated them.

  D.J. stood up and held aloft her hand in Olympic-Gold triumph. “We’re engaged, everybody! She said yes! This lovely creature’s agreed to marry me!” he hollered to the throng of strangers inside the Starbucks store. Eva’s mouth fell open. The ham in him had to make a show of it and the drama queen in her couldn’t let him hog the limelight. She stood and they both bowed. It was like curtain call on opening night!