Master of the Opera

by Jeffe Kennedy

  Of course she dreamed of him.

  Not of Roman, the handsome, genuinely caring guy who’d been her prince charming all her life. No—she dreamed of the Master. A swirl of dreams repeating themselves, a badly streaming movie that caught itself, restarted, and played again. Over and over, she waltzed with him, held at arm’s length while her nipples stood taut and her groin throbbed. Then she ran down the stairs, calling, shouting for someone. And her foot slipped off the metal step. She fell, dropping through black space, still calling that name.

  Then they waltzed again, in dizzying circles. She pleaded with him, but he stayed remote, holding her only by his gloved hands, his icy-blue gaze focused on the distance.

  She woke, disoriented, in utter darkness. Instead of the rough, over-bleached hotel sheets, expensive cotton flowed against her naked skin. Roman’s house.

  But why was it so dark?

  Finding her phone on the bedside, she saw it was past eleven in the morning. A remote control next to it let her open the blackout shades that had been lowered for her sometime during the night. Like blast shields on a spaceship, the blinds all rose simultaneously in majestic silence along the row of windows, letting in the bright morning sun.

  She found a pink-flowered sundress in the bathroom, along with a cardigan and ballet-slipper flats. Gloria had washed her undies and left them on the hamper. No sign of her jeans and sweatshirt, alas.

  Dressing in the clothes, which fit fine but seemed as if they belonged to some other girl, Christy wandered through the sprawling house, looking for Roman. Or food. Possibly both.

  If anything, the place was even more beautiful in the daylight. Exquisitely decorated in what she’d learned was northern hacienda style. Not the adobe and Saltillo tile, but patterned brick and wood floors graced by rugs with colorful designs. The house could have stepped out of Sunset magazine, and very likely had been featured in it at some point.

  It was the antithesis of the phantom’s abode, the opposite of the eccentric cave deep beneath the opera house. Roman Sanclaro lived like a king, presiding over a world the Master lurked beneath.

  She found Gloria in the kitchen, and the woman awarded her a bright “Buenos días,” along with a mug of coffee, then pointed outside.

  Roman sat at a table by the pool, shaded under an umbrella, working on a laptop. He waved and smiled at her but was absorbed in a phone call, so she wandered around the pool area.

  The day was shaping up to be warm, the tiles of the deck nearly hot under her feet. The infinity pool stretched right up to the edge, water spilling over the far edge to fall into a trough that caught it to recycle back in. Beneath, the high-desert scrub scattered across the sharp incline, a sere contrast to the crystal aquamarine water of the pool.

  “How’s my girl?” Roman’s arms slid around her waist and she leaned back against him. He kissed her cheek and mmm’d appreciatively. “I love your perfume. Sweet, like you.”

  She laughed. “It’s your perfume. Of course you like it.”

  “I do like what I like. And you—do you like my house? Pretty view?”

  “It’s breathtaking. The way this pool seems to fall off the cliff is truly spectacular.”

  “Yes. Though I’ve thought that when I have children, I’ll have to change it—wall it off. Too dangerous, don’t you think?”

  She shrugged. “I haven’t been around little kids much. Surely that’s a ways in your future, isn’t it?”

  He turned her in his arms and she faced him, the sun bright in her eyes so she squinted up at him. The disadvantage of flats.

  “I think it’s finding the right person,” Roman said. “I’ll be thirty before much longer. I’ll need a son to follow in the family business.”

  “And what if you have daughters?” she teased, trying to lighten his serious mood.

  “Then I’ll have to make sure they marry the right boys.” He kissed her, chaste and light. “Do you think your father approves of me?”

  “I’m not sure he approves of anyone.”

  “He likes me. I’m sure of it. Come.” He grinned with charming confidence and steered her back to the table. “Gloria is bringing out some lunch.”

  “I should get back to the hotel—my phone is nearly out of juice.”

  “I’ll take care of that.” He slid the cell phone out of her hand and disappeared into the house.

  Feeling at loose ends, she sat and sipped her coffee. She should be enjoying herself. The digs and the view were certainly far superior to the hotel’s—and, alas, better than the apartment she’d rented. But it was weird not to have her stuff. She nearly went to fetch her iPad, just to have something to do, when Roman, followed by a beaming Gloria, reemerged.

  She clucked at him until he moved his laptop and files off the table, then proceeded to unload enough food to feed ten people, including a pitcher of sangria. Christy eyed it.

  “A bit much for a weekday, isn’t it?”

  “We’re celebrating your being okay.” Roman flashed his white teeth and took her hand. “I want you to rest and enjoy yourself today. I have some work to do, but I can do it from here. I thought maybe you could sunbathe by the pool. It’s supposed to be sunny and warm all day.”

  “This dress isn’t really right for it.”

  “I think it looks great on you.”

  She plucked at the skirt, scattered with blush rosebuds. “I don’t wear much pink.”

  “You should.” He poured her a half glass of sangria. “It suits you—very feminine and sweet.”

  Like you, she finished mentally, then felt bad for being snarky, if only in her head.

  “Besides,” he continued, “I have some extra bathing suits, for guests.”

  “All right, then,” she capitulated, “vacation day it is.” And she added more sangria to her glass, pretending she didn’t see his concerned frown.

  2

  The guest swimsuit was a one-piece, thankfully, if more demurely cut than she’d usually wear. Still, it did the job of covering her stomach, which was the important part.

  Roman spent most of his time on the phone or frowning at his laptop, while she lolled—frankly bored—under a blue umbrella, sipping iced tea. Finally she asked Roman for her phone, saying she needed to call her dad and check in, when he looked dubious. Her dad was in meetings, however, which at least meant he hadn’t been looking for her.

  So she tried Hally. Roman was too far away to hear who she was talking to anyway.

  “Hi, girlfriend!” Hally’s chipper voice answered. “What are you up to—aren’t you supposed to be working?”

  “Long story, but I’m taking the day off. Guess where I am?” Christy took in the view, the glassy pool leading to it like a red carpet, only in translucent aquamarine.

  “Since you never tell me anything, it must be good. Spill!”

  “I am lying by a beautiful pool, taking in the view . . . at Roman Sanclaro’s house.”

  Hally gasped dramatically. “Did you spend the night?”

  “Yes, but no hanky-panky. I stayed in the guest suite.”

  “Well, what’s the fun in that?”

  “I know.” Christy couldn’t decide how she felt. “He’s all old school and gentlemanly about it. His parents want me to come see them this weekend—and he told them we’re dating.”

  “Shut up! Already?” Hally audibly composed herself. “I mean—how do you feel about that?”

  Christy snorted at Hally’s halfhearted attempt to be an objective listener. “Well, we are old family friends, and Roman and I are kind of seeing each other. But it still seems really fast.”

  “Well . . .” Hally mulled it over. Christy could imagine her chewing on the end of her ponytail thoughtfully. “He is close to his family and they are big traditional types. Plus, being family friends, he’d want to keep things on the up-and-up.”

  “But he’s supposed to be this big player and all.”

  “Until he meets the right girl,” Hally crowed in triumph. “Congratulatio
ns—you have been selected as the Sanclaro Sacrificial Virgin! And you win a billion dollars!”

  “Oh stop.” But Christy was giggling along with her. From the table at the other end of the pool, Roman gave her a quizzical look, so she waved cheerfully at him. Just relaxing and having fun. Doctor’s orders.

  “So, what happened last night? This must be quite the story. If you’re sitting by the pool, you have time to tell it.”

  The giggles stilled and went quiet in her chest, making the thumping of her heart sound all the louder. This was the part she couldn’t talk about. Tell no one. She’d been kidding herself, gossiping with Hally about Roman as if that was her entire world. But no. Those two belonged to the sunshine side of her life. To the bars and the pools and the family gatherings.

  The ghostly Master belonged to none of that. Through choice or curse, it wasn’t at all clear—if he was real at all. And yet she’d touched him and felt drawn to him and his darkness. Was it the self-destructiveness the counselors had tried to make her believe lurked in her soul?

  “Christy—are you still there?” Hally sounded concerned. “Was it—” her voice dropped to a deep whisper, though it was hardly necessary on the cell phone “—the ghost?”

  “I can’t talk about it,” she whispered back. Aware she was hunching around the phone, she made herself lie back. The blue umbrella stretched over blond wooden slats, radiating out in a spider’s web.

  “Honey . . .” Hally trailed off. “Should I be worried about you?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe,” she confessed.

  “Okay. We need to talk. How long are you staying there?”

  “I’m not sure. Roman is being all concerned and wants me to rest. He gave me a ride last night, so I have to get him to take me home—or better, to my car—but he’s working, so I hate to interrupt him, and . . .” She trailed off when Hally made a rude noise.

  “Will you listen to yourself? You sound the same as my old auntie bitching about getting someone to take her to the grocery store.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “You’re welcome,” Hally replied crisply. “Now—you want to blow that joint or what? I’ll come get you.”

  The relief rushing through her told Christy all she needed to know. “Oh yes, please. I owe you big time.”

  “Yes, you do. And I know how you’ll make it up to me, too.”

  * * *

  Roman wasn’t thrilled at her abrupt departure. When she glided past him, he barely glanced up from his current phone conversation. Talking about that Taos deal again, by the sound of it. If she kind of made it seem as if she was stepping inside to use the restroom, it wasn’t exactly untrue. She also changed into the dress and ballet flats again—since her clothes were still nowhere to be seen—and got her things.

  When she emerged, fully dressed, Roman raised an eyebrow and signed off. “Too much sun?” He held out an arm, so she went to him for the hug, surprised when he maneuvered her to sit on his lap.

  “No—well, yes. I need to get going, run a few errands while I have the time.”

  “Are you sure you’re ready for that? Maybe you should take another day to rest.”

  “I’m fine.” She smiled to smooth out the irritation in her voice.

  “Well, okay. But you’ll have to wait a couple of hours. I have another call and—”

  “Don’t give it another thought,” she interrupted, not missing the line between his eyebrows when she did. So she leaned in and kissed him. “You’ve done so much for me. Thank you.”

  “I understand you’re impatient, Christy, but I can’t just pick up and drive you around because you’ve taken it into your head to go.”

  Sitting on Roman’s lap and hearing him sound like her father tipped the scales. She stood up, having to tug away from his hold. “I would not impose further. My friend is coming to pick me up.”

  “Ah.” He sat back and folded his arms. “Thus the phone call. I thought you said you were calling your father.”

  “I made several calls.” On my own damn phone. She kept her tone breezy, though this was getting to be a little much. “Do you know where my clothes are? I couldn’t find them.”

  “Gloria has them. Gloria! Bring Christy’s clothes,” he shouted into the house, and Christy winced at his tone. Was this their first fight?

  Gloria came bustling out, wearing her usual radiant smile and carrying a tote bag, not minding a bit. She patted Christy on the cheek and told her to come again soon—or something like that. Roman watched her go with a bemused expression. “She likes you. That’s a good sign.”

  Because Gloria didn’t always approve of the girls Roman brought home, Christy supposed. She checked the tote, thinking maybe she’d change really quickly. But she only found her sweatshirt, sneakers, and socks.

  “Where are my jeans?”

  “Oh,” Roman replied, reading something on the laptop screen. “I told Gloria to get rid of them.”

  “What?”

  Roman looked astonished at her sharp question. “They had holes in them.”

  Christy set her jaw, surprised at the flare of anger. “I wear old jeans to work because I’m going through dusty boxes in old storerooms. That way I don’t mess up my nice clothes.”

  He shrugged. “I’ll buy you a new pair. Heck, I’ll buy you as many pairs of jeans as you want. They’re just clothes, Christy. It’s not a big deal.”

  “I don’t need you to buy me things.”

  Roman threw up his hands. “Okay, so buy your own jeans. Have it your way. I don’t even know what we’re fighting about.”

  She took a deep breath. Blew it out.

  “Hey.” Roman got up and took her hands, giving her his charming smile. “Don’t be mad, sweet girl. I’m sorry.” He kissed her cheek. “Okay?” He kissed the other cheek. “Okay?” He kissed her forehead. “Okay? Am I forgiven?”

  Feeling like she’d been bitchy, she nodded. Roman rewarded her with a long, sweet kiss on the lips.

  “That’s my sweet girl,” he murmured.

  “Hal is here to pick up the missus,” Gloria said, popping her head through the sliding glass doors.

  Roman gave her a look. “Hal?”

  “Hally. She’s my girlfriend. I mean, she’s a girl who’s my friend.”

  Roman’s cell went off, playing some techno ringtone.

  “I’ll let you answer that. Bye!” Christy kissed him fast and took the opportunity to go.

  “I’ll text you!” Roman called after her.

  She tossed a wave over her shoulder and escaped through the glass doors.

  * * *

  Hally lurked on the front patio, leaning a shoulder against one of the hand-carved wooden pillars supporting the portal.

  “Hey—you could have come in,” Christy greeted her.

  Hally gave the front door a brittle look. “I don’t think so. I sure wasn’t invited in. The housekeeper even suggested I wait for you in the car. Like I’m your driver.”

  “Baby, you are my driver.” Christy flounced down the walk, trailing her hand through the air, movie-star–style. “Now, take me somewhere.”

  “I’ll take you somewhere, all right,” Hally grumbled. She got in her little VW Bug, plastered with Blessed Be bumper stickers, and reached over to unlock the door for Christy.

  “Seriously.” Christy tossed the tote in the backseat and ran her fingers through her hair. “I really appreciate you coming to get me.”

  “That’s what friends are for.” Hally’s customary cheer had returned immediately. “Speaking of which, how much do you love the dress you’re wearing?”

  “Roman gave it to me. Too granny?”

  “Way too granny. But with what I have in mind, you won’t be wearing it long anyway.” Hally bared her teeth in a wicked grin and refused to say more.

  She parked in an underground pay lot near the rail yard and they walked a couple of blocks to Hally’s apartment, on the second level of an adobe building on a narrow, twisting half-commercial,
half-residential street.

  “The parking sucks—though they give me a reduced annual rate—but the light is good. Plus I can walk to work.” Hally unlocked the door at the top of the rickety pine staircase and pushed it open. “Don’t mind the mess. You’re not allergic to cats, are you?”

  “No, I—” Christy was still petting the brown one that greeted them at the door when two gray kitties came bouncing around the corner, ready to play, followed by an older black cat, meowing for food. “You have four cats?”

  “Six.” Hally tossed her bag on the counter, took Christy’s, and set it there too. “I figure if I add one a year, with natural attrition, by the time I’m 40, I can officially qualify as a crazy cat lady.”

  “I think you’re already there.”

  “A girl can dream. Want anything?”

  “I’m good.” Afternoon light shone in the windows on the south side. The apartment seemed to be mainly one large room taking up the southeast corner of the building. Hally rattled around in the kitchenette, tucked in a nook beside the front door. A futon on the floor draped in filmy scarves that hung from the ceiling took up the other windowless corner. Books tumbled from several piles near the bed and an e-reader lay on her pillow, looking small, neat, and precious, like a prayer book. The rest of the space was devoted to painting.

  Finished canvases hung on the walls and were stacked against the walls five and seven deep. From all of them, faces looked out at her, gazes veiled or bold, rarely straight on, but sidelong or looking through a cracked-open doorway or dappled by leaf shadow. Some of the paintings showed bodies, clothed, naked, and veiled, but the eyes were always what stood out, dark or bright, all burning with inner fire.

  “Welcome to my chamber of horrors.” Hally stood next to her, sipping a Coke. “You can tell me you hate them—I won’t be hurt.”

  “They’re amazing.” Christy searched for more and better words. Then shrugged. “Why aren’t you famous yet?”