“Eva, darling, what’s wrong? Don’t you feel well?” In his expression was the avuncular concern of a kindly mannered friend. However, only David knew of my recent heartbreak. The pain was too new, too deeply felt, for me to share it with anyone other than David. And my new husband, in all his arrogance and misplaced love, felt I should’ve flung off the heartbreak like an old coat. He had no idea how deeply I’d felt about D.J. Staring back at the director, I pretended I was still emotional over my father’s death.
“You know my father died a few months ago…” Was it so terrible to use my grief as the reason, I wondered. Would Daddy mind it so much? Only I knew the REAL REASON.
I was grieving the loss of two men I’d loved very much.
“Yes, darling, we all know that and we truly FEEL for you, sweetheart. We TRULY do. But there are thirty stagehands, twenty dressers and makeup artists, ten fulltime seamstresses, two set designers and construction crew of twelve, a cast of twenty-eight, not to mention forty-five musicians and the maestro, himself, depending on you to pull yourself together. Oh, and did I mention the MONEY behind this production?”
Clayton put his hands on my shoulders and moved his head slowly up and down. “I know, DARLING, the weight of this production is lying on your relatively inexperienced shoulders…pretty ones that they are— “ He smiled flirtatiously at me but I knew that expression was meant to pump up my ego and spirits. “They must bear the burden. If not, we will have to get a more experienced soprano to step into the role. THAT, my dear, will NOT be easy and it is certainly NOT what I want. I think you are ABSOLUTELY PERFECT for Violetta—no, you ARE Violetta. You were meant to sing this role, my dear, and so you MUST do whatever you have to do to PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER. Concentrate, focus, and listen to the orchestra.”
I placed Violetta in front of the baroque mirror again, according to Clayton’s blocking directions, but this time as Violetta, studying my image for traces of age or dissolution. My salon was filled with pleasure seekers, men and women desperate to escape the constraints of an overly censorious society. It was late nineteenth-century Paris and Violetta was a successful, affluent courtesan who flouted the rules and conventions of that age. The young, aristocratic Alfredo had shown up to partake of the champagne and the frivolous companions, and I had my predatory eyes set on him.
This time I slipped totally into the role.
The transformation was complete: Violetta whipped her skirts around, lifted up her champagne glass and walked toward David. Alfredo, a nervous but handsome young man, was a novice in the art of seduction. Having heard of Violetta’s beauty and charm, he was sitting on the round velvet settee, centerstage, staring at her. There was naked adoration in his look. In her eyes, there was conquest but in her gestures, coquettishness. She would play him like an exquisite violin.
The maestro in the orchestra pit raised his baton and seconds later, the beginnings of the Violetta-love motif resonated through the hall. I breathed deeply, filling my diaphragm and head. The first notes trilled out effortlessly…
* * * *
Eva spun around, breaking the memory. To her surprise, tears streamed down her cheeks. Embarrassed, she dabbed at her wet face and swiped the tears away.
“It was difficult, Serena—oh, so difficult. I had to compartmentalize my emotions so that my concentration during rehearsals and performances wouldn’t suffer.”
“How did you do that?” Sincere sympathy softened her expression. The girl looked genuinely intrigued, apparently having struggled with heartbreak, herself, and the need to carry on.
“I told myself, I could think of D.J. only at night, before drifting off to sleep. It would be like a special time to remember, to reminisce, to wallow in self-pity if necessary, to curse him if I had to. I managed to do that and after a while, it got easier to, y’know, bear the pain of it all. The same with the grief I felt over my father’s death. Knowing I had to help my family financially also strengthened me. I guess my heart eventually healed although the scars were red and raw. That’s how I visualized it, anyway.”
“So you never heard from him after that?”
She shook her head. “Not for nearly a year. He called once, was quiet, didn’t speak. I knew it was D.J. and I asked him. He finally spoke and we exchanged a few words. He said he’d heard I was married. He wanted to know how I was doing.”
Sighing deeply, Eva returned to her chair and sipped from her now tepid tea. “I knew how much that call cost him emotionally. He should never’ve called me.”
“Why is that? Wasn’t he just trying to be friends?”
“I don’t know. But after that…That phone call precipitated a bitter fight between David and me. It was never the same after that. I think David finally realized the woman he was taking to bed wasn’t really me. I mean, emotionally I was in absentia.”
“Oh yes, David. I forgot. You ended up marrying him, didn’t you? Tell me how THAT happened.”
“May this be a lesson to all young women, Serena. Never…NEVER marry someone on the rebound. Rebound romances never last. They’re doomed from the start. At least, mine was. The way it happened, though, seemed to make sense at the time.”
* * * *
David and I had just seen the musical revival of Showboat, and had ended the evening with a late supper at Francois’. It was wonderful to have a friend like David, who enjoyed the theater scene as much as I did. And he was older than me. That alone had set him apart from the rest of my college friends. He’d become like an older brother when we were at UT.
After high school, he’d spent four years in the Air Force, playing in an Air Force orchestra that toured all over the world, entertaining troops and dignitaries. All the while, David honed his skills playing string instruments and singing, often as the featured soloist. It was because of his Air Force experience that he’d won a scholarship to study voice at UT. Although his father played the European opera houses, David had always felt disinclined to follow in his father’s footsteps. He’d seen firsthand how the long separations had destroyed his parents’ marriage, prompting him to want a steady job in one venue. When he learned about the advantages of regional opera, he’d made up his mind.
David was six-feet tall, three inches shorter than D.J. He was prone to stockiness but his frame carried the extra weight in his barrel chest and hips well. His hair was straight, lank and always parted on the side, the dark blonde tones mixed with ash and brown. When I looked into his velvety-brown eyes over the dinner table, she saw warmth, humor, friendship. There was a steadiness and constancy in David’s character whereas D.J. was capricious, impulsive, and temperamental at times. No doubt it was this impulsive nature of his that had invited the blonde fraulein to his bed. In David, I sensed a trustworthiness and reliability that I now craved.
I was done with the highs and lows of passionate love.
“This Coquille Sant-Jacques is really good, Eva. Don’t you find it so?”
“Yes, delicious. I love the sauce.”
I’d showered and changed into a new, black jersey dress after David had helped me move into a studio apartment. He’d surprised me with the Showboat tickets as a way to celebrate my new home, however humble and temporary it was. It came with a Murphy bed, something I’d never encountered before, a bureau and desk, a kitcheonette and tiny bathroom. We joked about how you had to bend over, bathroom door open, if you wanted to brush your teeth at its miniscule sink. There was barely room in the shower for one slender person and the commode nearly blocked the ingress and egress from the shower stall. But it was my abode for the rest of the opera season. Then I’d see whether Chicago wanted to renew my contract or whether I’d get an offer from another opera house.
David was smiling at me, his eyes dipping occasionally to my bust line, generously revealed by a low-cut neckline. I was dressed to kill.
“David, what do you plan to do for Christmas? It’s only two weeks away. We have Christmas week off, so I thought I’d go home to Texas. What about you?”
I thought he looked especially handsome in a slimming black tux, which he wore as Alfredo. But the brown-tweed sports jacket and pale yellow turtleneck, which set off his coloring, worked to his advantage, also. He was twenty-seven to my almost twenty-three and he had no steady girlfriends. I’d asked him once why his romance with my college roommate, Cheryl, hadn’t lasted. He’d been flippant in his answer, saying something to the effect that he was waiting for something better.
“Would you like to join me—my family—in Texas for Christmas Eve? You could try out my father’s steel guitar. We always have a family musical evening. Neighbors and friends come over and join us. It becomes a real jam session.”
“Yeah, I think I’d like that, Diva-Eva. You don’t mind if I call you that, the old college nickname?”
“Hey, you just helped me move all my stuff. You can call me anything you like.”
I laughed, recalling the boxes of books, CD’s, reams of sheet music, and two large suitcases of clothes that David had carried up the stoop of my boarding house and up one flight of stairs. “It’s the least I can offer you, Alfie.”
“Ah, Eva, it’s so good to hear you laugh again. But I’ll accept your invitation ONLY if…” He smiled slyly.
“Uh-oh, I don’t like the sound of that,” Eva replied lightly, hoping they could keep their friendly banter on a carefree, lighthearted level.
“ONLY if you fly with me from Houston to San Diego for my mother’s Christmas Day dinner. I want you to meet my mother and help me thaw out a little. We’ll warm up our freezing bodies on the beach and maybe go down into Tijuana, eat some authentic Mexican food. What do you say? It’s my treat—the airfare, I mean.”
“No, if I go, David, I’ll pay my way. Well, let me think about it. I’ve never been to California, believe it or not, and I’d like to see the ocean AND meet your parents. You’ve been such a good friend. You helped me find this job, gave me a place to stay, lugged up boxes—” She stopped as David averted his eyes and frowned.
“I don’t want your gratitude, Eva. I want your love.”
“You’ve always had it, David,” she insisted, taking his hand after he put down his glass of wine.
When he turned our clasped hands upside down and opened my palm, I just stared at him. With his forefinger, he stroked the tender inside of my palm. His touch felt good, the first human touch outside of the stage that she’d felt in several months. Was this what I needed? Was this what D.J. had needed when he took that blonde to his bed?
For the first time in my life, I wondered what it would be like to kiss David—not the stage hugs and kisses that Violetta and Alfredo gave each other, careful not to muss our wigs or makeup—but really hold and touch and kiss this kind-hearted man who was sitting across from me.
He dropped the subject and they returned to making Christmas plans. Stopping in Las Vegas on the way back to Chicago, he suggested, might be fun, also. They could take in some shows. He’d seen an advertisement about Frank Sinatra and his rat pack of old buddies appearing at one of the casino showrooms.
Later that night, when the cab dropped them off at her place, I invited him up. We were sitting on the sofa, having a slug of brandy, when he kissed me. His face was cold but his lips and tongue were warm. Even his big hands, now ungloved, were warm on my face and neck. I’d missed D.J.’s caresses, his mouth, his long, muscular legs across mine, his lean torso covering mine…
Here was David doing the same things to me that D.J. had done…and I felt nothing. Well, not NOTHING. Twinges of need and desire burned deep within me. There was an all too familiar throb between my legs. David’s hand was moving there under my dress.
At the same time, I wanted to weep, just let the tears roll forth. How could I make love with my good friend and be wanting another man? A part of me wanted to cry out, NO! STOP!
I finally did. Cry out, NO! Okay, you fool, I told myself, stay faithful to D.J. And for what purpose? How did he repay my loyalty? By sleeping with the first pretty thing who came along and tweaked his libido.
Still, I told David to stop.
“I can’t, David, not yet. It’s too soon.” I fought back the tears that burned my eyes and throat.
He pulled himself back and sat up, heaving a few breaths.
“Okay, sweetheart, not yet. But soon. I’ve waited for you a long time, Eva. Won’t hurt to wait a little longer.”
When he said goodnight at her door, I kissed him lightly with gratitude, relieved that he understood. And when I finally lay down on the Murphy bed, pulled the coverlet up around me and closed my eyes, it was D.J.’s hands I felt, not David’s. Yet the sexual and emotional longing that stirred in me that night was at David’s hands, not D.J.’s.
D.J. was gone forever.
As I yielded to the haze of sleep, my last thoughts were of the husky, blonde, mild-tempered man I’d known for five years.
That counted for something, didn’t it?
* * * *
“We flew to Houston, drove up to the farm, had a wonderful Christmas Eve with my mother, brother, my sister Vonnie and about a dozen friends and neighbors. Vonnie knew how D.J.’d broken my heart, how things had turned out between us. She liked David, and so did my mother. Ricky was the only one who was noncommittal, saying very little that evening. He played fiddle in Dad’s place, Mom the autoharp, me the piano and Vonnie and David, on acoustic and steel guitars. It was a wonderful evening and David didn’t mind sleeping on the couch. He didn’t seem to mind my family’s simple country life. Or the sprinkling of Spanish my mother always spoke with.
“I began to ponder his mother’s reaction to our dating. My mother was fine with it, saw that I was no longer wearing my engagement ring, and said in private that D.J. was way out of my league, anyway. Meaning we weren’t suited, class-wise. She said the McKays would never’ve accepted me and I suppose she was right on that score. D.J.’s mother had made it perfectly clear that night at the barbecue how SHE felt.”
“I’m surprised your mother said that,” Serena remarked. “That D.J. was out of your class.”
The reporter was now sitting on the sofa with Eva, the girl’s stockinged feet tucked under her. At the other end, Eva had her arms wrapped around her bent legs, facing the young woman. Funny, she’d forgotten the girl was a reporter. Eva was sharing confidential details with the young woman that she’d never be able to share with her daughter, Sara. And that was understandable, she supposed. Sara Fogel didn’t want to hear how and why Eva’s marriage to her father had failed. She loved him, after all, even resembled him physically, from her blue eyes and blonde hair to his stockiness. They were very close and even now, Sara still spent every summer with her father.
Ah well, at least she’d given him a beautiful child to cherish. And he did. Cherish her. Sara was everything to David, even though he’d remarried when Sara was five and had another child. A son.
“My mother always felt I was aiming too high for my own good. The McKay family was too high in her book, in a league by themselves. Mainly, she didn’t want to see me hurt by their rejection of me. Anyway, we flew to San Diego, I met David’s family, and while we were there, we had our outings at the beach. On the way home, we stopped in Vegas. One night, after a few too many drinks and a make-out session in a limousine, we ended up at one of those Mom-and-Pop wedding chapels and got married by an Elvis impersonator. Elvis and rock ‘n roll were the themes of this minister’s little chapel and while his wife, dressed in a fifties poodle skirt, played the organ, we said our vows. We made love that night and I moved in with David when we returned to Chicago.”
Eva couldn’t help but emit a girlish giggle. “So much for my horrible studio apartment.”
“The opera’s publicity guy put an announcement in the papers along with one of our Traviata promo photos. Opening
night was a huge, sellout success, Clayton saying that half of the audience had come to see the newly-weds sing together. I don’t know about that but we were the toast of the town for weeks on end. Even the mayor feted us at one of his fund-raising banquets that endorsed the Arts.”
Serena’s brown eyes were big and staring.
“So you fell in love with David, the SOB baritone?”
“I never said that. I loved David and I always will. I vowed to love him and I did. Just not in the way he wanted me to. God knows I tried. But how can you tell your heart to feel something it doesn’t or can’t?”
Eva twisted around and stood up, stretching her legs. She walked over to the window again and touched the frosty glass. That winter in Chicago was like this, everything always cold. D.J. would’ve hated it. But then, didn’t he say he hated the winters in Munich, too?
“I’m a good actress, Serena. That’s part of an opera singer’s craft. I faked it as well as I could. Especially after I learned I was pregnant. A month after we were married, David persuaded me to stop taking the birth control pills. I became pregnant with Sara almost immediately. I thought having a baby would cement our relationship, make me love David even more, the way he wanted me to love him.”
“It didn’t,” the girl cut in, “having a baby never does. Were you able to keep on performing?”
“Oh, yes, I think it was the only thing that kept me sane. I had obligations to my family, had signed with Chicago City Opera for another year, and yes, I kept singing. David insisted that I work as long as I could. The pregnancy was an easy one and I’d always been healthy and active. So up until two weeks before her birth, I sang the role of Joan of Arc in Tchaikowsky’s The Maid of Orleans. With loose tunics and robes, I was able to conceal my bulge. We hired a nanny to help care for baby Sara afterwards.”
Born to Sing, no. 1 Page 9