“Yes, absolutely. You don’t need a man. You need a champion.”
Serena cocked her head to the side. “Yes! That’s exactly it! I need a champion. “She smiled warmly. “You’ve found yours, haven’t you?”
“Ah, yes.” The hotel phone rang. Eva jumped up to answer it. It was her limo driver, announcing his arrival at the hotel. The snow flurries were thick and heavy now, she noted, glancing at the windows. They’d have to leave for the airport in five minutes, he’d said, for traffic was expected to be in a snarl, especially getting out of Manhattan.
When she hung up, she sprang into action.
“Serena, I have to leave now,” she said simply. The girl was already on her feet and stuffing her notebook into her outsized leather bag. “I’m afraid this is it.”
For a brief moment, the girl looked stricken but she quickly composed herself.
“I’m dying to hear the rest of your story.”
Eva smiled. “Me, too. Our story’s not over yet. Well, write me up well and maybe we’ll invite you to the ranch so we can finish this interview. Here, take my card. Send me a copy of the article you’re writing, okay?”
“Yes, for sure. If you approve, would you consider letting me write an authorized biography of you? Or a combined biography of your and D.J.’s life together?”
“Hmm, let’s see.” Eva’s thoughts turned to what faced her at home. So much was up in the air that she couldn’t commit to anything right now beyond getting home and tending to her family. “It’s not a bad idea. In fact, I’m flattered that you’d even consider it but…right now, I can’t say.”
She led Serena to the door. “Oh, don’t forget the fox coat!”
The girl squealed, spun around and grabbed the fur from the sofa’s arm. Holding her voluminous bag between her legs, she shrugged into the exquisite fur and clutched it to her. Eva smiled at the reporter’s excitement, pleased that she could do such a favor for a young woman who would take the time to spend half the day with her and distract her from the anxiety and sorrow she faced at home. It was inspirational, being able to recall and relive her and D.J.’s romance. Those wonderful memories would generate the strength she’d need soon enough.
“Oh, it’s lovely! Thank you so much! I’ve never had anything like this.”
“I’m happy you’re delighted with it. Now off you go, Serena. Stay in touch. Tell your son hello for me.”
“You, too, Miss Villa. Give my regards to your family. Have a safe flight home.” The girl stood there uncertainly, her lower lip trembling a little. Then she flung herself into Eva’s arms and hugged her warmly.
A moment later, the girl was gone.
The sorrow Eva had successfully pushed aside for the past few hours now came flooding back.
What would she find at home?
Chapter Eleven
Eva settled into a window seat in the First Class section of the airliner. After the plane filled and noticing that the seat next to her was vacant, she shed her black wool coat and placed it on the seat. Suddenly overcome with fatigue, she stretched her neck, straightened her back and rolled her shoulders in an attempt to ease her growing tension. A well-dressed, male passenger across the aisle smiled at her and invited her to join him in a drink once they were airborne but she declined graciously. She was no longer in a mood to socialize.
The jet took off and Eva watched the snow-covered runway, baffled as to how the plane’s wheels could find traction on tarmac slippery with snow flurries. Well, it was a mystery to her, one of the many mysteries of life for someone like herself with little science background. Years ago, though, she’d become more knowledgeable about the human body since studying with a variety of vocal coaches and learning how the human voice was produced. And since D.J.’s bout with bladder cancer five years ago. Soon, she’d learn more about human biochemistry, she mused uneasily, from oncologists at the medical center. More than she’d ever wanted to know.
But enough of that for now, she decided, pushing down the rising dread that threatened to engulf her every time her thoughts strayed back to D.J.’s latest news. Stay positive, think good thoughts, never give in to despair…
A little heartened by her own pep-talk, she leaned over and picked up her black croc-embossed handbag. Inside was a palm-sized album of photos that she always traveled with—photos of D.J. and her children. Even separated from them, she felt connected by these photos. Each one represented a marker in her life, a milestone that seemed to overshadow all that came in between.
One of the flight attendants came by and Eva, ignoring the man across the aisle, gave her order: A vodka martini, just to take the edge off. D.J. had his shots of whiskey, she had her vodka martinis. But only in moderation.
Balance. That seemed to be her motto in life. Balance held the key to personal happiness. Not too much of one thing or another. There was her career to which she’d devoted half of her life to. But there was her personal life as well, a husband and children that she loved deeply. Without them, nothing else mattered. THEY made it possible for her to enjoy her career. HER CAREER made it possible for her to cherish THEM. It was symbiotic.
But now that her opera career was over, at the fairly young age of forty-eight, what would happen to her? And if D.J., her husband of twenty years, were to succumb to the cancer—
No! She wouldn’t even consider such a possibility. Never! It was physically impossible for her to accept such a thing—
Her mental and emotional state, her sense of fulfillment from doing what she felt she was born to do—ALL of that was dwarfed by the crisis that now faced her family.
When the persistently flirtatious man across the aisle raised his drink in a silent toast, she responded in kind, hoping that would satisfy him and he’d leave her alone. Sinking back into the overstuffed, leather seat, the cocktail beginning to have its effects, Eva opened the album.
The first photo showed her and D.J. at their wedding reception in a ballroom of the finest hotel in Austin, the Clarion. Eva was wearing an ivory-colored gown and wearing the golden-hued pearls that D.J.’d given her as a wedding gift. In a black tux, D.J. looked drop-dead gorgeous, so debonair—like a tall, young Pierce Brosnan. In the tux, he reminded her of the dashing Count Danilo, the hero of The Merry Widow, the heartbreaker of Maxim’s. A part of her, the part that craved a diet of fantasy in her life, had fallen in love with Count Danilo. She couldn’t help but wonder if D.J., also, ever made love to one of the fantasy-women he occasionally made love to on stage.
Stifling a giggle, she recalled how once he’d called her Hannah in his sleep, while he was reaching for her in bed. When she asked D.J. the next morning if he’d dreamed of Danilo and Hannah making love, he’d said he couldn’t remember having such an erotic dream but that he’d give it some thought if he ever needed a jump-start one night. But she’d caught him in a white-lie, for his face had reddened, giving him away. In his dream, she’d concluded, he’d been Danilo making hot, passionate love to Hannah Glawari, the “Merry Widow.” Odd, that was; he’d cheated on her but only while in the skin of a fantasy character, Count Danilo. She wondered if this was an outlet for him, making love to fantasy-women. Was this common in both men and women?
Was SHE more appealing as Hannah? Or was it that D.J. felt sexier as the roving, irrepressible Danilo? Minus the disapproving father and the controlling mother. Minus the cancer. Was their domestic life together diluting his sexual drive? And hers? They certainly didn’t make love as much as they used to…
The relaxing effects of the vodka running languid warmth through her veins, Eva turned to the next photo. Ah yes, their son’s birth. Little Jamie, named James Enrique Villalobos McKay, after both grandfathers, was just a little, red faced, black-haired bundle in her arms, born ten months after they were married. The proud father was bending over his son, beaming in joy, as a few members of the McKay clan—and her mother—stood behind the bed. There was a look of exhaustion on both her and D.J.’s faces, but for different reasons. Big Jim wa
s cradling the newborn in his massive arms.
She recalled THAT day with a mixture of fond nostalgia and exasperation.
* * * *
I woke up, feeling an urge to go to the bathroom, but with a stab of pain, realized I couldn’t move. Tethered to IV drips and a catheter, I sank back onto the pillows, the haze in my mind slowly clearing.
My baby! What happened? Where was he—as ultrasound shadows had already informed them as to the baby’s gender. Then I groggily remembered. I’d had a Caesarian, an emergency one for the baby had presented itself breech and the OB doctor had advised against a vaginal birth. They’d given me a spinal, then administered a little gas…
Slowly, flinching with the pain from her sutures, I sat up and pressed the Call button. My mother entered my private room just then, jangling all of her bracelets, her long, dyed ponytail swishing back and forth halfway down her back. At fifty-five, Cassandra Villalobos was still a pot-smoking, hippie-earth mother who lived and loved according to her own philosophy of life. She still worked part-time at the Wal-Mart and spent the rest of her time stitching quilts which she sold at the weekly farmer’s market. Kept her own chickens, pigs and vegetable garden.
D.J. loved her, thought she was a hoot; I’d always felt a mixture of admiration and embarrassment over the woman’s strong, eccentric ways. On the plus side, my mother had a good, kind heart and was always optimistic about people. With the exception of the three-month period after my father’s death, when she’d sunk into that deep depression, my mother had always been upbeat and pleasant.
“You should see him, Eva! He’s darling! Looks exactly like a Navajo baby, with that dark-red skin and black hair sticking out in short spikes. Are you sure you didn’t meet a striking Navajo gentleman and get a little nookie on the side?”
I sighed. “In Prague, I don’t think so.” My mother had her outspoken, amusing ways but this was one suggestion, even in jest, that I didn’t want repeated in front of the McKays, staunch Catholics who took umbrage at the slightest hint of infidelity or family disloyalty.
“Maybe he’s a throwback to one of your Villalobos ancestors. Might’ve been some mixing up with the local Native Americans.” She guffawed over her joke, and stopped when she saw my fatigued face. “The nurses said they’d bring him here after they feed him.”
“But I want to feed him,” I protested.
“No, poor child, they said you’re too drugged up to breast-feed right now. In a couple of days, they said.”
“Did they say when I could leave with the baby?” We were in Houston at the medical center; the nursery at my Kingwood home was all ready for the little one. My mother would be helping out for a few months until I could find a suitable nanny. In six weeks—September— I was contracted to play Violetta in a revival production of La Traviata, a classic hit with the Houstonites.
“When your stitching is healed, Eva. Now if you’re in pain, I brought some weed with me. That’ll ease the pain, girl.”
My mother was already digging into her cloth shoulder-bag, in which, I knew, she always carried a small stash of home-rolled marijuana cigarettes.
“Ma, you know I don’t even smoke. Please, I’ve got enough drugs in me to do the job.” I winced as a pain in my lower belly shot up through me. “Well, almost. Did you get through to D.J. yesterday? Before I went into surgery?”
“Yes, honey. And the McKays in Austin. D.J. said he’d try to get here as soon as he could. He was going to skip a performance.”
D.J. was at the annual Spoleto Music Festival in Italy, performing in a lavish production of Tosca, singing Mario’s role. He hadn’t expected her water to break two weeks before she was due, however, and so the early delivery was unexpected. The plan was for him to return as soon as he’d completed his three performances, which would have been in plenty of time for the birth. Now, if he came back, he’d have to forego one of the performances and break his contract, never a good thing to do unless it was an emergency. Producers and booking agents never forgot that sort of thing, and so I had instructed my mother to tell him it was okay for him to stay and finish his work. What could he do, anyway, except sit around and watch me moan?
“Good,” I said, leaning back and closing my eyes. Now, though, I was regretting my instructions and half-hoping D.J. would ignore them. At the moment, I was feeling a little abandoned. Vonnie was on tour with her girl band, the Rockin’ Cowgirls, playing crossover country rock to fairs all over the Southwest. In September, she’d be back at UT to finish up her senior year. My brother, Ricky, was tending the farm in East Texas and taking forestry classes at the local state college. The only family here in Houston at the present was my mother.
I longed for D.J. to see the baby, whom the nurses and my doctor assured was healthy and thriving. Even little Sara was missing the excitement, traveling with her father and his new fiancée—his soon-to-be third wife—in England for the summer. I would have to wait until their next phone call before I could announce the news that she had a new, little brother.
Without preamble but with his usual fanfare, D.J. in the flesh burst into the room, carrying an enormous bouquet of yellow roses. He was at my side in seconds, after first bussing Cassie on the cheek and tossing the flowers at the foot of the bed.
“D.J.!” was all I could manage. I was beyond surprise—I was bowled over.
He bent over and kissed my lips, the dark stubble on his face chafing my skin a little. Straightening up, he caught up one free hand and kissed the knuckles tenderly. His face underneath the stubble was flushed as though he’d been running. His dark blue eyes, I noticed, brimmed with unshed tears. His concerned gaze ran down the length of my body, absorbing the various tubing that snaked over and under the blankets.
“Eva, I couldn’t stay away.” His voice was a raspy whisper.
“D.J., I’m so glad you’re here. What’s happened to your voice?” Seizing the hand that held hers, I raised it to my lips and kissed him back. God, I was thrilled to see him home so soon! He was my rock, my life, my everything…
“Oh, that. Well, just before I went on last night, Italy-time, I got the call from your mother—” He looked up brashly and winked at Erin. “I couldn’t believe it, the little squirt’s come early. Couldn’t wait for his ol’ dad to finish up, could he? So I told Gianni the good news. He’d come up from Naples to see Tosca, so afterwards, he and a couple of his musician-friends took me out to celebrate. We went to this jazz club and between all the smoke and loud music and trying to talk above it, I strained my voice. No problem, it’ll recover in time for Faust.”
I groaned softly, remembering that he’d made a booking to appear as a youngish, sexy devil-in-the-flesh for the Berliner Oper’s production of Charles Gounod’s Faust. Rehearsals began in one month. We both knew if the reviews were favorable, D.J. might be invited to sing the role for the New York City Met’s production the following year. What a feather in his cap that would be! Playing Mephistopheles, the Tempter, was a role reserved for baritones and basses mostly. That the German director was taking this role in a new, highly creative direction and wanted D.J., a tenor, for it—well, it was quite a coup.
Yet, as happy and proud of his career achievements as I could be, I was beginning to feel left out, that the opera world was passing me by while I stayed home and mothered my children. It was a choice I’d made, though. It was my choice.
“One month! You get only one month with little Jamie!” I made a face, and D.J. looked stricken with guilt.
“Do you want me to cancel?” he asked tensely.
I knew what that’d do to his reputation. “No, of course not. I just wish you had more time with…Jamie, with me.”
Let’s face it, I felt ambivalent. A part of me yearned to get back on stage. It had been six months since my last role for the Houston Grand Opera. I was born to sing…but also born to be a mother. And D.J.’s wife. In all three, I believed wholeheartedly. I knew D.J. felt the same way about his career and personal life.
Torn emotionally.
It came with the territory.
“D.J., did they mind your backing out of the third performance?” I was still grasping his hand tightly, so happy to see him despite my concern that he might be burning some bridges in Europe.
D.J. just smiled ruefully. “They weren’t too pleased but I told them there were complications, you might be on death’s door— we had to get your doctor to verify that, by the way.” I had to grin and roll my eyes, for how many times had he used THAT excuse— “Well, it could’ve been true. You never know what can happen with C-sections. Besides, my young understudy was only too happy to step in my shoes.” He gave a short laugh, which came out as a hoarse chortle deep in his throat.
“I saw him. Our son. He’s cute but…he looks so squashed up and red. And that hair! You didn’t call up that black-haired hotel manager while we were in Prague, did you?” He added the last in jest, kissing my fingers again to show he was just joking, his blue eyes glinting mischievously.
I glanced at my mother, who began to chuckle. “Mama thinks it’s the Navajo man we met in Prague…”
“What Navajo—” D.J. began, and stopped when he caught on. “Oh, yeah. Gianni and his pals and I stayed up all night, then they took me to the airport, stopping first at the hotel to run in and help me pack my bags. I slept on the plane but I’m so whacked out right now—”
No sooner had he said that than he recalled something.
“Oh, Evie, my folks are here. And Matt. They picked me up at the airport and we came straight to the hospital. Mind if they come in? They’re anxious to see the baby.”
I panicked. “Oh my god! I must look a fright. Wait, darling, ‘til I comb my hair and put on some lipstick.”
“Eva, no need to fuss for them,” my mother reminded, ever mindful of our class difference and overcompensating for it by playing the take-me-or-leave-me poor, latino hick family. My mother went out of her way to NOT impress them.
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