by Erica Abbott
Jill made another calendar entry, for this event wasn’t optional. If she expected the Opera board to be happy with the transfer of their legal representation from Walter to her, she was going to have to show them both her competency and her interest in their legal problems.
She sat back and stared out at the mountains. There was still some snow on the back ranges, but the foothills shimmered in the spring air, deep blue-gray. There were days she didn’t really notice the beauty of the panorama, for like all Colorado natives she often took the mountains for granted. But they were always there, waiting for an appreciative look.
Dressing for events that mixed business and social interaction was always tricky. She couldn’t wear a suit appropriate for the office to a cocktail party, but she could hardly show up in something slinky, dripping in diamonds, and expect clients to take her seriously as an attorney. It was a careful balance, and she couldn’t remember if she had anything in her closet that would work. Her wardrobe was neatly divided into work clothes, golf outfits, and a motley collection of sweats, T-shirts, and sweatshirts from college or law school.
She sighed. She’d have to check her closet tonight, and if nothing seemed right, she’d have to go shopping. She did not like shopping. And did she have the right shoes? Shoe shopping was even worse.
She had plenty of messages to return, a lot of work to do, but she continued to stare out her window, no longer seeing the mountains, but thinking about last Friday instead, thinking about Caroline.
Shock didn’t begin to describe how she had felt when she saw Caroline walk into the restaurant. Over the years, she’d occasionally thought she’d caught a glimpse of Caroline, on a sidewalk or in a crowded restaurant, even when she knew perfectly well that Caroline was in London or Italy or New York. For an instant on Friday, she’d thought she was simply hallucinating.
Then Caroline spoke to her, said her name, and a thousand memories, a hundred emotions, seemed to flood her in an instant. She’d just shut down, unable to even begin to sort through everything she was feeling. She had been just short of rude, she knew, but she simply hadn’t known how else to react.
It was finally sinking in that Caroline was really here, in Denver, sitting in some office a couple of miles away, and she was staying. She would undoubtedly be at the party Friday night, and Jill knew that she was going to have to sort out her feelings before she saw Caroline again.
How did she feel about Caroline? She wasn’t sure, but she did know one thing, for certain. She was not in love with Caroline Prince. Not any more.
A small voice suggested that she was lying to herself, but Jill silenced it ruthlessly. Caroline left you, Jill reminded herself. She made a choice, and she didn’t choose you. You stopped loving her years ago.
Jill thought that if she repeated this mantra to herself a thousand times over the next four days that she might come to believe it to be true.
* * *
Madame Petrovski delicately lifted her teacup to a pair of lips outlined in bright red lipstick. She had to be sixty, at a minimum, and Caroline wondered if she’d been using the same shade of lip color since the 1970s.
“You understand my keen interest in the season, of course,” she said to Caroline in a lilting French accent. Caroline hadn’t quite determined why a woman with a Russian name and distinctly Slavic features was a native French speaker, but the most important fact about Madame Petrovski was that she was in charge of the Opera’s Young Artists Program, the RMO’s minor league system for up-and-coming singers. According to the invaluable Arthur, Madame ran the program with precision and ruthless efficiency. Once a year, all the participants were required to audition, along with any new applicants to the program, and Madame was well-known for her willingness to jettison singers who were not progressing up to her standards.
Most of the aspiring opera singers were still in the developmental stage, but every year there were a few who were ready, in Madame’s opinion, to receive roles in the upcoming season, beginning their professional careers with the Opera.
It was an accomplishment to be plucked from the program to sing in one of the productions, of course, not to mention the fact that the salary, even for a small role, was more money than most of the singers had ever seen before.
“Of course,” Caroline responded smoothly. “The Board and I established the season last week, so we can certainly discuss the students you believe might be ready for participation.”
Madame returned her teacup to her saucer and nodded briskly. “There are two who are ready,” she said. “And one who…well, let us see.”
“Tell me about your singers,” Caroline suggested.
Gratified at the director’s attention, Madame said, “I have a bass you should use this season. He has been progressing nicely.”
Caroline frowned, reviewing the season. “Are you thinking about one of the roles in The Barber of Seville?” she asked.
Madame shook her head. “No. Not yet. His acting needs some work, but vocally he is ready, I judge. A very nice basso cantante, a rather lyrical voice. Perhaps you could use him in Idomeneo?” she suggested delicately.
Caroline considered the Mozart opera the board had selected, trying to remember the roles. “Ah,” she said at last. “The voice of the Oracle of Neptune.”
Madame nodded. “Robert certainly has the voice for it. And it wouldn’t tax his acting.”
Caroline nodded. “A good idea. Who else?”
“A nice lyric soprano, Anna Cabot. She has worked very hard, and has a reasonable voice. Not a star, perhaps, but she has a good career ahead of her, and she has been with us five years. It is time for her to begin.”
Caroline nodded. There were a lot of workhorse roles in opera for reasonable lyric sopranos. “One of the pharaoh’s daughters in Akhnaten, perhaps,” Caroline suggested.
Madame nodded, but Caroline could see that something else was weighing heavily on her mind. Gently, Caroline said, “You mentioned a third singer, Madame?”
Madame hesitated, and then said, “I also have an outstanding mezzo. A voice, and a vocal quality, much like Marilyn Horne.”
Caroline was astonished, and let it show. “To compare her to the foremost mezzo soprano of the twentieth century—that’s quite a compliment,” she said, mildly.
“She is all of that,” Madame said firmly. “She is only twenty, and will be an outstanding singer someday, and we will be able to report that she got her start with us. But…”
Her expression seemed to scrunch up in a mass of tiny wrinkles, visible underneath her carefully applied face powder. As she pursed her lips, Caroline could see the fine lines around her mouth. With a sudden jolt, Caroline realized that she was probably closer to Madame’s age than the twenty-year-old mezzo. Madame continued, “There is a problem with her.”
“What is it?”
Madame shook her head. “I do not know. She has the capacity to be the finest singer I have ever coached, but there is something…I don’t know, something holding her back.”
Caroline frowned, trying to concentrate on what Madame was saying. “A vocal issue?”
“No, absolutely not. Her placement is flawless, her technique improves daily, and her breath control is remarkable. No, not her voice. It is as if she is…afraid of something.”
Caroline reached for her teacup, found it empty, and replaced it with a small ping on the saucer. “Stage fright?”
Madame shook her head again. “No. She performs in class, or in recital, as if she were born to it. She has, as you say, presence. In fact, when she is singing, it is the only time she does not seem afraid. The rest of the time, it seems as if she is fearful of everything. She speaks to no one if she can help it, takes criticism much too harshly. I have seen her jump when another student dropped a book. There is something, I don’t know, wrong with her.”
Caroline shook her head. “Perhaps she really doesn’t want to be an opera singer,” she suggested gently. “Not every singer does, you know.”
Madame lifted her carefully drawn-in eyebrows in astonishment at the very idea. “I hardly think so, Ms. Prince,” she said archly. “No, it is something else, something personal, and if she does not overcome whatever it is, I am afraid it will prevent her from the career she should surely have.”
“Are you suggesting she is ready to sing on stage?”
Madame took a deep breath of her own and said, “I think you should consider her for Rosina.”
Caroline tried to hold back her astonishment. “Madame, I don’t understand. On the one hand you tell me she has some personal issue interfering with her work, and on the other you suggest I should offer her the starring female role in The Barber of Seville?”
Madame said, “I know the role is often transposed up for a soprano, but it is really meant for a mezzo, and Naomi would be perfect.”
“But how can you recommend her?”
After another breath, Madame said, “I know you have begun looking for a big name for your Figaro, yes? Davidson or Cortero, I have heard. He will be your big draw, so you could cast Naomi without damaging your box office. And I can promise you, she will astonish you.”
Caroline had barely sent out feelers to the agents of the two tenors Madame mentioned. The efficiency of the underground telegraph of the opera world never failed to amaze her.
“Even if everything you say about her is true,” Caroline began, lifting her hand to forestall Madame’s protest, “and I assume that it is, how will casting her somehow resolve her personal issues, whatever they may be?”
“Ah,” Madame replied triumphantly, having reached her point at last, “you should be able to discover what they are. She will have to tell you, will she not, if you should make it a condition of casting her?”
Caroline leaned forward and fixed her with an intense look. “You want me to audition her, and then tell her the role is hers if she bares her soul to me? That hardly seems appropriate.”
Madame’s mouth twisted, and she exclaimed, “It is the only way! If we do not resolve this somehow, she will never be able to have the career she deserves!”
Caroline saw for the first time that her real concern was not only professional, but personal as well. Carefully she said, “I promise you that I will consider her. I would like to meet with your three students.”
Madame, reclaiming her composure, asked suspiciously, “You do not trust my judgment?”
“Of course I do,” Caroline used her best mollifying tone. “I simply want to get to know them better, as individuals, on a personal level.”
Madame looked a bit unhappy, but her main goals had been accomplished, so she said, as graciously as she could manage, “Of course, Ms. Prince. I will leave their names and contact information with your assistant.”
Caroline rose and walked to her the door. “Thank you so much, Madame. I know how lucky we are to have you.”
Madame said goodbye with a brief kiss to each cheek. Caroline waited until she was gone to discreetly clean the lipstick marks from her face.
She sat down again, thinking about Madame, and her three singers and, finally, about herself. Hers had been a glorious career, a lifetime of applause and flowers and praise, fame and fortune. Now she had an opera company to run, a smallish one, a regional company to be sure, but her own.
But there would be no more applause, no more cries of “Brava!” as she finished an aria that moved an audience to tears or laughter. And someday she would wake up, look in the mirror, and see her face like Madame’s, lined and worn with a lifetime of music and rehearsals and preparation for a life that she had never really lived. She would be alone in an empty room full of scrapbooks and old recordings.
A wave of loneliness tightened her stomach, and she had to breathe deeply to dispel it.
Oh, Jill. What have I done? What have we done?
Chapter Five
It was Wednesday before someone finally showed up in Jill’s office to campaign for the election of the new managing partner. Surprisingly, it was Walter Calvert himself who appeared in her doorway and asked, “Do you have a minute, Jill?”
Jill gave the only possible answer. “For you? Always. Come in.”
He sat comfortably in her visitor chair. She reflected that in the past he had usually summoned her to his office rather than visiting hers. He’d come to see her twice within a week, a subtle shift in their relationship, perhaps.
Walter was dressed, as always, in an impeccable suit. He wore gray, black, or navy, solid colors only, never risking anything so daring as a pinstripe. “How are things?” he asked.
“Busy, as always,” she answered honestly. “Do you want case updates?”
He waved his hand dismissively. “You’re well beyond the need for any supervision from me. I want to talk to you about the election for my replacement.”
Well, that was direct. “All right,” she answered, trying not to sound as wary as she felt.
Walter looked at her silently for a long moment. What did he see? She wondered. She had always dressed and groomed herself for her work persona—conservative suits, good quality and tasteful jewelry, usually nothing more than the small silver hoop earrings and silver Tag Heuer watch she wore today.
She had cut her hair fairly short after law school, but it was thick and full, though heavily threaded with gray, the light strands clearly visible in the dark brown. Caroline used to thread her fingers through her hair when Jill wore it longer. Stop thinking about Caroline, Jill ordered herself.
At length Walter said, “Have you given the selection of my successor any thought?”
“Not much,” Jill admitted. “What’s going on?”
Walter carefully aligned his fingertips together. “A couple of candidates have emerged.”
She sat back, waiting. Walter liked to drive conversations like this. “George Kirkendall is making a major effort,” he began.
“Litigation department head, right?”
“Yes,” Walter confirmed. “He is certainly a major rainmaker, but there are some who believe that he may be…temperamentally unsuitable.”
Jill didn’t respond. Kirkendall was infamous in the firm for his temper. One legendary story, perhaps apocryphal, was that he actually dumped a pot of coffee on an associate who had made an error during a deposition. Not a cup of coffee, an entire pot.
“As a result,” Walter continued, “another candidate has been suggested.”
“Yes?” Jill prompted him.
Walter cleared his throat, and said, “Yes. Murray has indicated some interest.”
Jill tried to hide her astonishment. “Murray Mortenson? You’re kidding.”
He cocked his head to one side. “Not at all. Why would you say that?”
“I just…” Jill gathered her thoughts, and proceeded carefully. “It’s just that Murray never struck me as the manager type.”
“He does manage the real property section,” Walter reminded her.
“I’m aware of that,” Jill said with some asperity. “I’ve been reporting to him for the last four years. I just never thought he would be interested in being the managing partner.”
“Well, he is,” Walter replied, a little curtly, and Jill began to figure out what was going on. Walter didn’t like Kirkendall, and he’d somehow convinced Murray to compete for the position. Firm politics, raising its ugly head again. She said, “Well, good for Murray. I’m surprised, but pleased. I think he’d make a fine managing partner. He’s certainly been more than fair with me.”
Walter sat back, gratified at her change in attitude. “I’m pleased to hear that,” he said. “Because I’m hoping Murray can count on your vote.”
“Of course,” she said quickly. Murray was far from dynamic, but he was a considerable improvement over a man who threw hot beverages on employees.
“Good. You know, of course, if Murray is elected we’ll need a new head of real property. And I would like that to be you.”
For the second time in as many minutes, Jill tried, and failed
, to conceal her astonishment. “Me?”
Walter smiled at her with the air of a magician who had produced a rabbit from a top hat. “Of course,” he said smugly. “You’ll be a fine manager, Jill. It’s time for you to take on the additional responsibility. You’ve earned it.”
“Walter, I’m…speechless. There are several partners more senior than I am in the department.”
He waved a hand dismissively. “No one who’s particularly interested, or qualified. Peter is good, but he’s not management material. Benjamin’s only interested in sitting in his office and grinding out contracts, good for the bottom line but not for being a manager. And Carla doesn’t want to work more than forty hours a week. No, you’re the best choice by far. You’re my choice, and if Murray is the new managing partner, I can assure you his first job will be to give you the position. Assuming…”
He stopped. Jill had seen it coming, yet it still surprised her that the deal was so blatant: Walter would guarantee her promotion in exchange for his son-in-law’s partnership. “Assuming I don’t oppose Gary’s selection as a partner at the next annual meeting?” she supplied.
Walter dropped his hands and looked at her directly. “I know you’re not fond of Gary,” he said. “Perhaps, ah, perhaps he might be a better fit in another department. Corporate, possibly.”
Jill wondered if the dominoes would all line up and fall as Walter wanted. Murray beating Kirkendall in the managing partner vote, Jill’s vote for Murray paid for by her appointment as department head and her support of Gary’s election to the partnership. As a further incentive, Walter was offering her a way to be rid of Gary: make him a partner, and move him out of her department.
Nice and neat and a little disturbing. But why, Jill wondered, did it come as any surprise? She’d known from the first year she joined the firm that politics played a major role in decision-making—who got what clients, who made partner, who made more money. She’d played the game as well as she could stomach, and now the reward was available to her. As department head, she’d have more power, more opportunity to work with the clients she preferred, even be able to advance some careers and stymie others.