Christmas Flame

by Isadora Montrose

  “Sure. Last I heard, Melanie and Dan were in Guam. I didn’t know they had been reassigned. What are they doing in Frankfurt?”

  “Recovering from Guam! Practicing being the best mommy and daddy in the Air Force. He’s a military attaché too. Mel’s on some sort of leave.” She figured her friends were military intelligence, but that was a guess best kept to herself.

  “Of course. You have yourself a good Christmas with the Gilmores and say ‘Hey’ for me, won’t you?”

  “I sure will. Give my love to your folks. Merry Christmas, D’Angelo.”

  * Phoenix Ablaze

  ** Phoenix Aflame

  *** Phoenix Alight

  CHAPTER THREE

  Genevieve~

  There were three fliers and a long blue envelope in her mailbox. The fliers went straight into the trash can provided by her landlord. The envelope she tucked carefully into her briefcase before she headed upstairs.

  Her apartment was on the fourth floor. There was no elevator. Genevieve took the steep stairs two at a time, savoring the promise of that slim blue envelope. She hadn’t needed the return label to tell her Grant D’Angelo had sent her a letter. Somewhere, probably pressed between the pages of her high school yearbook, she had preserved the card he had sent her for graduation. His handwriting hadn’t altered much in the intervening years.

  The apartment was one of three on the top floor. She had a bedroom and a living room. The kitchen was a narrow counter along one wall with the world’s tiniest fridge and stove. The minuscule bathroom was tucked between the bedroom and the door to the tiny balcony. Genevieve had rented the place on the strength of that balcony overlooking the patch of grass in the courtyard below.

  She headed to the bedroom. She had showered after her afternoon workout, so she just changed her uniform for blue jeans and a sweater. The heat was on and the apartment felt stuffy. She opened the window in her bedroom just a crack, even though the raw, sleety winter air came rushing in.

  It was accompanied by the liquid notes of birdsong. The other tenants had denied hearing it. But morning and afternoon it gladdened her heart. It had to be some acoustical fluke that directed some neighboring bird lover’s recording to her bedroom window.

  Unconsciously she began to whistle a counterpoint to the haunting melody. The song lasted exactly as long as it took her to hang up her uniform and polish her shoes. More plausibly, she dragged out her tasks until the song was over. As the last notes died away, she latched the window against the raw evening.

  In bare feet, she returned to the living room and retrieved her letter. Her heart beat faster. Even though it was desperately unlikely that the Angel of the Opera had abandoned his harem to send plain, prosaic, hefty Genevieve Carson a love note. But a girl could dream. Opening it would spoil her fantasy.

  She needed to start supper and have a glass of Riesling. She could make herself a nice chicken-fried steak with cream gravy and some of those thin green beans she had bought at the vegetable store yesterday. She would spend a happy hour or so cooking and imagining that her lover had written pretty things to her.

  The steak came out well. Not as good as her mom’s, although she used her recipe. But the beans were better than any she had tasted since she joined the Air Force. The sweet white wine had relaxed her. She found her long-handled letter opener and neatly slit Grant’s envelope, tacitly admitting that she would be saving it.

  It contained a single sheet of hotel notepaper and two strips of cardboard. Tickets to the Christmas Eve Performance of Messiah. OMG. She skimmed the short note and then read it again.

  Dear Genevieve,

  Eleanor and Frankie both told me that you too are stationed in Frankfurt over Christmas. Too bad for us both. I hope you will make use of these tickets. Bring your guest backstage after the performance. We will go out for a late supper. I am looking forward to seeing a fellow Texan.

  Yours,

  Grant

  Not exactly a billet-doux. Not even a request for a date. Grant expected her to bring her own. Genevieve swallowed bile. Afterward, she and her date would share an awkward meal with Grant and his Frankfurt arm candy. Only a masochist would go. She got out her laptop and looked up his email. Not the one that went to his website. The one that connected him to his family in Texas.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Grant~

  His phone pinged. Despite Linda’s glare, he picked it up.

  “I’m trying to talk to you,” she sputtered.

  He held up a hand. “I warned you I was expecting something important.”

  “Which I gather has arrived. You look like the cat that ate the canary.”

  “Yup.” He savored the notification. Genevieve had written to his private grapecreek.net address. His server had rerouted it to him. The subject line was an uninformative: Thank you!

  As in: Thank you, but I’m busy? Or, Thank you, but my boyfriend does not care for oratorio? Or, Thank you, I’ll be there with bells on?

  Better not to dash his hopes just yet. He could enjoy his daydream for a few more minutes. “What was it you were telling me?” he asked his manager.

  Mollified, Linda began to tell him about the fundraiser for the Alte Oper. Management expected him to sit at the table and sing lieder for his supper.

  “Is it in my contract?” he asked.

  “Of course. They’re paying you. The only thing we didn’t know was that they auctioned you off last month for forty thousand euros.”

  “Apiece?”

  “I think so. Seven other places at that table. Seven times forty. You do the math.”

  “Am I being paid a quarter mil for this gig?” he demanded.

  Linda snorted. “You are not. Fifty thou.”

  He laughed at her worried face. “It’s a good cause. Even German concert halls need donors. I’ll behave myself – even if I’m landed with seven industrialists.”

  Linda relaxed. She had been nervous about his response.

  “When is this fundraiser?”

  She sighed. “Tomorrow. It’s still tomorrow.”

  “Okay, are we done?” He stood up.

  “Sure. What are you going to do tonight?”

  “Room service. A hot bath. And an early night.” He smiled blandly. And hopefully a torrid email.

  It was not torrid. But it was good news. More or less. Probably less.

  Thanks so much for the tickets. It was very thoughtful of you to remember your sisters’ friend. I too am sorry not to be able to be with my family for the holidays. We are looking forward to the concert and our supper. See you Christmas Eve.

  Genevieve

  We? Who was she bringing? Her boyfriend? Her lover? A nice safe female colleague? Shift and damn. He had no one to blame but himself for sending two tickets. But in four days his mate would be beside him in the flesh. In the meantime, there was always the traditional serenade.

  Grant D’Angelo, Angel of the Opera, tenor extraordinaire, let the spellbinding notes of the phoenix love song pour out of his throat into the heart of his fated mate.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Genevieve~

  She was flying wing tip to wing tip through the hot dry air. Except that she wasn’t in a plane. She was the plane. The hot Texas wind lifted her wings and sent her skittering sideways. Automatically, she adjusted to control her trajectory.

  Instantly, she and the other plane began to spiral clockwise in graceful synchrony. Beneath them the baking Texas hills rolled gray-green and brown. Far beyond the peaceful hills sparkled the Gulf of Mexico. The wind brought her the scent of sage and of her mate. She leveled out at the same instant as her companion, as in tune with his movements as if they were one.

  Below her she could see the creek winding across the land. And the tracks of the pronghorns that had visited it, as well as the muddy ford where cattle had crossed. She let the wind lift her wings and soared above the liquid babble of the stream. She angled herself so she could properly view her mate.

  In midair he began to s
ing to her. Of course. She was dreaming. Anything could happen in a dream and often did. His rich melody hung in the air bemusing her senses. His blazing form dazzled her eyes. A blinding rainbow of colors for which she had no names flashed from his feathers. His great hooked beak was open. He sang as he flew.

  His told her of his abiding love. Praised her desirableness. Assured her he was faithful. She knew herself beautiful, beloved, happy. Come to me, he sang. Come, come, come. Together we will fly forever. Together we will sing the stars to sleep.

  Genevieve woke to beeping. Her alarm. Time for her run. She had spent too many years rolling out of bed at 0500 hours to sleep in when the sun was out. Not that the sun was up yet. Nor that the anemic sunshine of a German winter was any big deal to a Texas girl.

  The last vestiges of her dream floated back. Just what a girl needed -- a gigantic feathery lover. Like Papageno in The Magic Flute. She shook her head at her own foolishness. Like all dreams, last night’s was a blend of desire and frustration.

  Homesick for Texas, heartsick over her best friend’s brother, stuck in Frankfurt for Christmas, confined to a desk. No wonder she fulfilled her longings by flying over the Texas hills with her one true love. As if. As Nana B always said, if wishes were horses, beggars would ride. If dreams were true, Genevieve Hawk Carson would fly. Again.

  Outside her window the lovesick bird lifted its voice to herald the dawn. She matched him in joyful harmony, note for note, the familiar melody lifting her spirits and filling her with anticipation.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Genevieve~

  This new cut was a hundred times better than last month’s. Short and scrupulously neat as was required by regulations, but able to be fluffed into a pretty cap of curls when necessary. Genevieve rubbed a little wax onto her palms and massaged it into her wet hair as the stylist had shown her. She scrunched it and let the natural curl spring in the hair.

  The stylist had wanted to dye it. But Genevieve didn’t care to change the natural color. She supposed it was a little dull, although when she let it curl it did have gold highlights. When she had been a little girl it had been strawberry blonde. But it had darkened as she hit puberty. Only her bush remained a flaming reminder that she once had had a claim to be a redhead.

  A little extra makeup wouldn’t hurt. She never wore much, but tonight was special. She was having dinner with Grant. Grant and his lover. Ah, well. No reason she couldn’t have dark eyelashes to emphasize her green eyes. And a little smoky mauve eyeshadow to brighten the green. Or blush to return her winter paleness to its usual rosiness. And Mama would be shocked if she went to the Alte Oper without lipstick. Mama thought even Air Force officers could be Texas tough and still be Southern ladies.

  She had splurged on a new dress. People dressed up to go out in Frankfurt. Especially to concerts. And this was the Christmas Eve Gala. She had bypassed the skimpy, flirty cocktail dresses that she would never wear again. She had settled on a practical garment that she could wear to some future diplomatic event when her dress blues would not do.

  Her floor-length dress had a boned bodice of dark-purple velvet that covered her from just below the collarbones to her waist. Lace sleeves encased her from shoulder to wrist. Below the V-shaped waistline of the tight bodice, her layered organza skirt reflected the light and skimmed over her rather too generous hips down to her ankles.

  As it was designed to do, the dress turned her stockiness into curviness. The straight neckline of the bodice had seemed boring on the hanger, but the saleswoman had persuaded her that her bosom would make this or any other dress sexy. The saleswoman had been right. Lowcut would have been vulgarly obvious rather than chic. As it was, the deep purple made a sumptuous background for Nana B’s double string of pearls.

  Her blue raincoat was too short. But it was all she had. Buying a long coat for one evening would have broken her budget. She would change into strappy evening shoes when she had removed her black ankle boots. And check them and her coat. The Air Force didn’t exactly encourage untidiness. But there was all the difference between elegance as personified by Grant D’Angelo and mere neatness.

  She wanted Grant to see her as a desirable woman. Not beautiful. That was asking too much. But desirable. Too bad about that too short winter coat. But the dress and the hair made her feel pretty. She gazed doubtfully at her unfamiliar reflection. Was her hair too short for such a girlie dress?

  Probably in deference to the traditional midnight Christmas Eve celebrations, the concert began early. She had eaten a quick snack before she bathed and washed her hair. Even so, it would be nearly 2200 hours before she had that supper with Grant. When her buzzer sounded, kittens were squabbling in her insides and she was tormenting herself with what-ifs.

  Dan was early. He bounded up her stairs and rapped on the door. His arms were full of a black garment bag, but he was correctly dressed in full regimentals including medals. He was short and slight but he still looked great. Nothing like ribbons and medals to make a man look both dignified and festive.

  “I’ll only be a moment.”

  “No rush, Gen. You look good – even in bare feet. Mel sent this.” He held out the bag. “She said otherwise you’d wear your raincoat with your new dress.”

  “What is it?”

  “A wrap,” Dan said. “I think, it belonged to Mel’s grandmother.”

  Genevieve pulled a cape out of its protective plastic. It was beautiful. Old fashioned and faintly lavender scented. Dark blue velvet with tiny rhinestones stitched into its high-standing collar and trimming the edges. Wide braided frogs marched down the front to hold it together.

  “It’s amazing, but it weighs a ton!”

  Dan shrugged. “I think it’s lined with fur.”

  It was. Black Persian lamb to be precise. Dan took it from her and laid it reverently on the couch. “Finish getting ready, kid,” he ordered.

  In the spotted glass of the ancient hall mirror, a magnificent Amazon gazed back. Under the midnight folds of the heavy velvet cloak, Genevieve’s purple skirts floated around her legs. Her sandals were safely inside a black leather handbag with her tiny satin purse. Dan stood behind her grinning, reaching up to adjust the cloak on her shoulders.

  “Beautiful. I better take a photo now for Mel. Turn around.” He whipped out his cell and began to snap.” Let’s go, kiddo,” he returned the phone to his inside pocket.

  He offered her his arm like a gallant officer, but the staircase was too narrow for them to go two abreast. He had to settle for preceding her. He handed her into their cab and went around to the other door. Mel had him well trained.

  “I hate to tell you at the last minute, but I can’t go to supper with you and D’Angelo,” he said as the cab wound through the wet streets. “Mel bought the girls tricycles.”

  “Huh?”

  “Unassembled.”

  Genevieve laughed. “I guess you get to play elf tonight.”

  Dan groaned. “I do. Daddy gets no sleep tonight.”

  Genevieve stroked the soft velvet of the cape. “I guess I owe Mel. You tell her how much I appreciate Grandma’s cloak. Even if you have to bail on supper.”

  “I’ll stop by to give Grant my regards. I remember when he came out to Afghanistan to sing for the troops.”

  “Yeah? How did opera go down with them?”

  “He gave us three hours of spirituals, folk songs and show tunes.”

  She swallowed tears. Grant might be a playboy, but he was also a patriot. The D’Angelos were Air Force legends. General George D’Angelo was retired, but three of his four sons had followed him into the Air Force. As had his daughters. Grant was the odd one out. How did that make him feel?

  “He led us in “The Yellow Rose of Texas” at the end. You never heard such clapping and stomping,” continued Dan. “Just about brought down the roof.”

  “Always nice to have the natural superiority of Texas acknowledged,” she said as lightly as she was able with her throat tight.

  Dan wa
s from Alabama. He sneered. But his face wasn’t made for sneering, and they both wound up laughing. The cab driver kept peering into his mirror in horror at his hooting passengers. Probably thought they were drunk.

  The concert hall was an elaborate, white wedding cake of a building. On the outside, the Alte Oper resembled the original Renaissance style opera house that had been bombed during World War II. It glowed under a heavy freight of Christmas lights.

  “My treat,” Dan told her as they checked her cloak and boots and his hat. “It’s the least I can do when you’ve shared your tickets.” He escorted her back to the opulent lobby. “Wait here.” He parked her at one of the round tables dotted around the parquet flooring.

  Genevieve didn’t mind having a moment to look at what the other patrons were wearing. Predictably, the men were in black and white, relieved only by the occasional honor at throat or breast. The women were all gorgeously decked out for the gala performance. There was a lot of black – black was safe and made such a perfect backdrop for diamonds. But there were enough splashes of color in the other gowns to make hers look normal.

  Dan returned from the bar with two tall glasses of champagne. He was three inches shorter than she was, nine with her heels, but the crowd melted before him. There was no doubt that Maj. Gilmore had an air of command. He handed her a glass. “To Christmas and old friends.”

  Genevieve touched her glass to his and sipped. “Thank you, Dan. This is perfect.”

  “Mel’s orders.”

  “Well, thank her for me.”

  “You can thank her when you come to dinner tomorrow.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “Have you seen the view of the square?” he asked.

  “I’ve been too busy staring at the chandeliers. This place is unbelievable.” It was. As if the war had never happened, high above the crowd, two long rows of white globes hung in clusters from the painted and gilded ceiling, the glass supported by elaborate gold frames.