Blitzing Emily

by Julie Brannagh

  “Honey, give him a chance,” her mother said for the thousandth time since Emily finally confessed to calling Brandon. “He’s hurt. You’re hurt. It’s just going to take some time.”

  The Hamilton women met in Meg’s kitchen for a time-honored family tradition: Turkey and cranberry sandwiches late on Christmas night. Margaret passed the cranberry sauce out of the refrigerator to Emily.

  “It’s not going to happen,” Emily told her mother, and turned away so Meg couldn’t see her quivering chin. She never used to cry, and now it seemed like she’d never stop. Amy caught her sister red-handed.

  “Buck up,” Amy said to Emily in a low voice. “You can do this.”

  “I don’t need him. I—I’ll be fine,” Emily insisted. “My career is going really well, and I—”

  “I’ll tell you what you’re going to do.” Amy pulled Emily in for a side hug. “You’re going to put one foot in front of the other, and you’re going to keep trying until he accepts your apology.”

  Emily knew she was just trying to help. Brandon wasn’t relenting. She also knew there would be nobody else but Brandon for her. Ever.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  * * *

  AT EIGHT-FIFTEEN AM on New Year’s Day, Emily was already late for a meeting with her agent, David. She attempted to breeze through the front doors of Seattle’s Grand Hyatt hotel. The non-fat latte clutched in one hand had other ideas. The lid popped off her coffee cup as she pried the door open, splashing foam and coffee over one leg of her pale-oyster colored wool trousers.

  In the good old days of opera, something like this would call for a full-on diva meltdown. She allowed herself one angry “damn it,” and surveyed the damage with a sinking heart: A gigantic stain. The detergent pen in her handbag wouldn’t fix it. She hated looking like a mess. If she wasn’t nervous enough about this meeting already, walking in looking like she’d spent the night camping underneath the Alaskan Way Viaduct wasn’t helpful, either. She’d like a do-over.

  If the rest of the year turned out like the first eight hours of it, she was not going to be happy.

  The concierge flew across the lobby with a handful of tissues. “Let me help.” She wiped at Emily’s dripping hand. “I’m not sure what we can do about your pants.”

  “It’s not like we have a lot of options there. I was due at a meeting fifteen minutes ago in your restaurant.” Emily reached out for the tissues, dabbed unsuccessfully at the coffee stain, and handed them back to the concierge. “If you could point me in the right direction, I’d appreciate it.”

  “Follow me,” the concierge said.

  David was the only customer in the restaurant. He got to his feet as Emily approached, looking impeccable as usual, and holding out his arms for a hug. She resisted the impulse to spill what was left in the cup on him. He wore dark dress slacks, a maroon lightweight knit sweater, and an air of invincibility. It would be nice if he had the decency to look somewhat disheveled on a holiday known primarily for football games and hangovers.

  “What happened there?” he said, indicating the stain on Emily’s outfit.

  “I had a dispute with a door, and the door won. How are you, David? Happy New Year.” She handed the offending paper cup to a server as she sat down at the table. “May I please have another non-fat latte? If there’s any of the non-spill type left, I’ll take one of those. Thank you so much.” She gave him a dazzling smile. He grinned at her in response.

  “Right away, miss.” He indicated the two menus lying on the table. “I’ll be back to take your breakfast order.”

  David sipped his coffee and reached out to pat Emily’s hand across the table. “I’m fine. Late night?”

  “Hardly.” Emily’s New Year’s Eve date had been a handsome, funny, charming, and very successful local businessman she’d met after a recent performance. She did her best to join in the fun at the high-profile party on the top deck of the Space Needle, but her heart wasn’t in it. She couldn’t stop thinking about Brandon, or how badly she’d wanted him to be the man she kissed at midnight. She’d pleaded a terrible headache. The pain was actually eighteen inches lower. She was home in bed alone by 12:30. “Did you go out for the evening?” she said.

  “I watched the fireworks, and I had some champagne. My girlfriend is in Chicago for the holidays.” David picked up his menu. “I have some news.”

  She told herself to take deep breaths. Her career was booming. Her schedule was nearly booked for the next three years. He wouldn’t fly to Seattle to tell her about a cancellation. She draped a napkin over her stained pants and took a sip of water.

  “I was wondering why you asked me for a meeting on a national holiday.”

  David reached out, took the water glass from her hand, and put it back down on the table.

  “The Met called me late yesterday afternoon. They’re presenting La Boheme early next month. The woman scheduled to sing Musette is struggling with some health issues. They need a cover who’s highly experienced with the role and can step in to sing it at a moment’s notice. Are you interested?”

  She opened her mouth, shut it again, and opened it. She looked at him in shock. Heat rolled over her body like a wave. Maybe she was dreaming. Maybe she hadn’t heard him correctly. It was understandable. She’d worked for years to hear those words. It couldn’t be possible that attaining her biggest goal would be this easy.

  A latte with a heart drawn into the foam was set down in front of her. She knew the server was talking to her, but she couldn’t respond. She heard David say, “Give us a minute.” David reached across the table and passed his hand in front of her face as his lips curved into a smile. “Emily. Talk to me.”

  “Please tell me you told them yes.”

  “Of course I did. Let’s have a toast.” He picked up his coffee cup. “Cheers. Happy New Year.”

  THE INITIAL EXCITEMENT Emily felt at the achievement of her biggest goal was swallowed up in the numbness that was her constant companion without Brandon. She wondered if he thought about her at all, if he missed her, too. Two weeks after her meeting with David, Emily found herself driving to Amy’s shop at lunchtime on a dreary January day, a take-out bag next to her on the car seat. Maybe a heart-to-heart with her sister might banish the blues.

  Amy greeted her with a hug. “What’s in the bag?”

  “Lunch,” Emily said. “I hope you still like turkey and Swiss on whole wheat.”

  “Yeah. It’s good to see you.” Amy peered into her sister’s face. “Something’s wrong.”

  Emily dropped the bag on the chest-high table in Amy’s work area and pulled up a stool. “Hopefully you have sodas. I forgot them.”

  Amy was tapping away at the screen of her smart phone. “Pop. I’ll get some,” she said distractedly.

  “Quit texting and get over here.”

  “Hang on a minute. I have to answer this. It’s Brandon.”

  The hair stood up on the back of Emily’s neck. Amy must have been sending him another message. She hadn’t looked up from the screen since Emily arrived. “Since when do you text with Brandon?” she asked, doing her best to sound uninterested. She was anything but. The green-eyed monster was clawing at her guts.

  “He’s checked in a few times,” her sister said. “It’s friendly.” She glanced at the screen again. “He has tickets for this weekend’s game, but I already told him I can’t go.”

  Amy stuck her phone back in her work apron pocket. It was all Emily could do to resist grabbing it away from her. If she gave any indicator of her fear, jealousy, and hurt, she was lost. She concentrated on pulling sandwiches, salad, and cookies out of the bag with trembling hands.

  Amy grabbed three Diet Cokes out of her walk-in cooler and settled onto a stool across from Emily. “You’re jealous.”

  Emily closed her eyes for a moment, fighting for composure. “That’s ridiculous. I’m fine. I’m too busy getting ready for New York to worry about what he’s doing.”

  “He asks me what you’re up to
,” Amy said. “He knows you’ll be singing at the Met on Super Bowl weekend. He’s happy for you.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “He says he’ll retire if the team goes to the Super Bowl. The NFC Championship Game is this Saturday. If they win, they’ll go. You’ll want to see it, Em.” Amy’s voice was soft. “Are you sure you won’t reconsider? I know you’ve worked so hard for this performance, but Brandon’s last game will happen once in a lifetime. Don’t you want to be there?”

  “I have to be on the plane to New York on Saturday afternoon. I can’t cancel.” Her words sounded hollow to her own ears. It was eerie—a windup doll in designer clothes and French perfume kept parroting what she thought everyone else wanted to hear, but the words didn’t come from her heart. She remembered with a pang how many times she and Brandon discussed his retiring from the NFL. She said she’d be there, and he wouldn’t have to go through it alone. He must hate her.

  “He won’t even know I’m there.”

  Amy grabbed her sister’s forearm. “Yes, he will. Think it over.”

  Emily shook her head, and broke off another piece of cookie. She could eat a thousand of them. It wouldn’t make her feel better.

  ONE WEEK LATER, Emily felt her phone vibrate in her pocket as she walked into her hotel room for the evening. She clicked on a newly arrived text from Amy: Sharks are going to the Super Bowl. Are you sure?

  EMILY GOT OUT of a cab at Lincoln Center, home of the Metropolitan Opera, in a driving rain. Standing outside the building was still a thrill. The dress rehearsal was tonight, and she would take the stage as Musette. The diva originally scheduled for the role was resting on doctor’s orders, in hopes she would be able to perform on opening night.

  Dress rehearsal day was always a little stressful. She was early. The other principals had sung here before. To them, it was another work day. They went about their preparations in their dressing rooms. She could hear snatches of vocal warm-ups, the sound of a piano playing, and laughter emerging from someone’s dressing room further down the hall. She paused in front of the computer-generated nameplate outside of her own dressing room. Taking a picture of it with her phone was a little weird, but she did it anyway.

  The guy playing Marcello stepped out of his dressing room and grinned at her. “I thought the paparazzi were out here again.”

  A flush crawled up her neck. “Mom wanted a picture,” she quipped.

  “Of course she does.”

  He went back inside his dressing room, shut the door, and she walked into her own. Most of the colleagues she’d spent the past several days with were known to her from other productions over the years. She’d asked them about their families, caught up with industry gossip and their schedules, but she’d spent most of her time outside of rehearsals on her own. It offered time to think.

  Maybe she needed a little less time to think, especially today. Even the sanctuary of music didn’t make her happy. The euphoria of performing before a live audience, feeling the music as well as singing it, wasn’t there. Maybe it was because she hadn’t actually stepped onto that stage in front of an audience yet. It would come.

  EMILY STOOD IN the wings a few short hours later. Her pre-performance butterflies were worse than ever. She wondered if she’d lose her lunch. She glanced into the audience and noted a full house, most likely full of media and major Metropolitan Opera supporters. “You’ve done this a million times before,” she told herself. “Buck up.”

  The diva singing Mimi reached out to squeeze Emily’s hand and smile. The conductor raised his baton to begin. On cue, she sailed onto the stage.

  Emily was already sweating through her costume. The heavy stage makeup felt like a mask. The pins fastening the wig onto her head were stabbing into her skull. She knew from experience that all she had to do was step out there, open her mouth and sing the first note. The worst would be over. She closed her eyes and concentrated on taking deep breaths. Her self-soothing was so effective she almost missed her cue.

  She’d flounced onto so many stages in her career as Musette, sung “Quando me’n vo” more times than she cared to count, and she reached inside herself for that little bit extra tonight. Her voice soared over the audience. She charmed and coaxed, flirted and played with her co-stars. As the most user-friendly and oft-performed opera, those in the audience had probably seen La Boheme scores of times before. She was determined they would remember her Musette.

  The dress rehearsal went flawlessly. The ovations were deafening. She waited for the explosion of joy at that realization, but it didn’t come.

  Emily walked out of the opera house when rehearsal was over, hailed a cab, and threw herself onto the seat. The sights of New York City whizzed past her window as she headed for her hotel room. She craned her neck to see while pulling her smart phone out of her handbag, and hit Amy’s number.

  “Hey, weirdo.” Emily heard the smile in her sister’s voice. “Been mugged yet?”

  “No.” She had to smile, too. “What’s happening?”

  “Same shit, different day,” Amy assured her. “Just remember. Small business is the backbone of the American economy.” Emily let out a snort. “Oh, laugh all you want. Someone has to do this.”

  “I’d like to send some flowers.”

  “That depends. Are you paying for them?” Amy said. “Who’s getting them?”

  “I’m wondering who might know where Brandon’s staying in Miami.”

  Amy was silent for a few moments. “I could find out. What are we sending?”

  Emily closed her eyes. “I have no idea. Maybe you could suggest something.”

  “Screw the flowers.” Her sister’s voice was fierce. “What are you writing on the card?”

  “How about ‘Good luck on Sunday’?”

  Amy let out a long sigh. “How about, ‘I’m sorry. I still love you. I’m so proud of you. I will never doubt you again.’?”

  The cab pulled up in front of the hotel Emily was staying at. She handed the fare over the seat, grabbed her bag, and stepped out onto the sidewalk.

  “Amy, let’s just go with ‘Good luck on Sunday.’”

  “Fine.” Amy’s tone made it obvious her sister’s suggestion was anything but. “You’re making a huge mistake.”

  Emily stepped into the revolving door at the hotel’s entrance. “I make lots of them, all the time. Let’s do this.” She thought for a moment. “I know he really likes wildflowers. Please charge my card.”

  “I’ll make sure he gets them,” Amy said. “Are you excited to sing tomorrow?”

  Emily was at the elevator banks. She knew she’d lose Amy if she stepped on, so she leaned against the surrounding wall. She swallowed hard. “No. I wish I was.” She rubbed her free hand over her face. “I have to go, Ame. Thank you so much. I’ll talk to you later.” She hung up the phone.

  BRANDON PUNCHED THE hotel pillow again and flipped onto his back. The digital clock radio at his bedside read 2:17 AM. He’d been glancing at it for the past three hours and seventeen minutes. He wondered if he’d be looking at it for the next four hours or so. His wake-up call was at seven AM. It was Super Bowl Sunday, otherwise known as the biggest day of his life.

  He’d spent some time tonight reliving a kaleidoscope of images in his mind—his Pee Wee/middle school/high school/college football coaches’ motivational speeches. The day he got a recruitment visit from the only college he wanted to play for. The tears his mama cried when he packed his bags and went off to school. What it felt like to run out onto the field for the first time at LSU. More tears from his mama as he stood on-stage at Radio City Music Hall with the NFL commissioner as a first-round draft pick. Signing his first pro football contract, and signing a new one two years later. Of all his memories, though, the ones he replayed most in his whirling thoughts involved a curvy redhead he called Sugar.

  He remembered the first time he saw her sweet, sleepy smile from the pillow next to him. The first time he held her hand. The first time he kissed her. She ta
sted so good, he went back for more. The first time he coaxed her out of her clothes. The first time he saw love for him in her eyes. He knew how much her career and her goals meant to her. When he’d needed her, though—and was too pigheaded to admit it—she was there. She’d dropped everything for him, and she’d done it more than once. He glanced over at the computer desk in the dimness of his hotel room. She sent flowers yesterday. He’d read the note a hundred times already.

  Brandon, I’m so sorry. I love you. I’m so proud of you. I will never give up on us. XO

  Amy didn’t answer his text asking for Emily’s information. If it wasn’t 2:17 AM in New York City, he would call every hotel in Manhattan till he found her. It was the most important day of his life, and the emptiest. She wasn’t here to share it with him.

  EMILY’S STOMACH WAS in knots as she awoke Sunday morning. She lay in bed and wondered if Brandon was lying awake in his hotel room, too. This was the most important day of his life. Amy was right, and the realization was bitter: She should be there for him, watching him achieve his biggest dream. Flowers weren’t enough for something like this.

  She forced herself out of bed, showered, and dressed in casual clothing. She threw herself into the backseat of another cab less than an hour later. She needed the quiet of her dressing room, the routine she’d been through so many times before.

  The security guard on duty at the artists’ entrance grinned as she approached. “Miss Hamilton. Your performance isn’t for hours.”