Haunted Tenor (Singers in Love Book 1)
Page 1
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Epilogue
A Note from the Author
Kathleen Grant wants to solve the mystery of the paranormal force that takes stunning control of her mind and body, impelling her onto the stage of a major opera house in New York City. How could it happen? She's just an opera house employee, not a singer.
Hot tenor JC Vasquez, the Spanish opera star whose performances of Don Carlo she interrupts, accuses Kathleen of stalking him. He sees her as a crazed opera fan who confuses the role he sings with the real man.
As the paranormal incidents and their arguments pile up, Kathleen and JC become romantically involved despite themselves…
Books by Irene Vartanoff
Singers in Love Series
Haunted Tenor
Friendzoned Soprano
Defiant Diva
Selkirk Family Ranch Series
Captive of the Cattle Baron
Saving the Soldier
Cowgirl Rescue
Gothic Romance
Second Chance Reunion
Women's Fiction
A Daughter's a Daughter
Summer in the City
Chick Lit Superhero Action
Temporary Superheroine
Crisis at Comicon
Hollywood Superheroine (coming soon)
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Haunted Tenor
Irene Vartanoff
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, organizations, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or to actual persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. The opera house in which the major events of this story take place is fictitious, as is the opera company.
The uploading, scanning, and distribution of this book in any form or by any means—including but not limited to electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the permission of the copyright holder is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized editions of this work, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Formatting by Polgarus Studio
Copyright © 2017 Irene Vartanoff All rights reserved.
Published by Irene Vartanoff
www.irenevartanoff.com
P.O. Box 27
Gerrardstown, WV 25420
ISBN 978-0-9968403-8-5 ebook
ISBN 978-0-9968403-9-2 print
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Epilogue
A Note from the Author
Chapter 1
Who’s the hot guy?
The raven-haired man in the black leather jacket brushed by me without a second glance, but I noticed him. I was taking the backstage tour of the New York National Opera with a gaggle of opera aficionados, trailing behind the group halfheartedly because I wasn’t an opera fan. I just worked here, and my boss had insisted I check out the enormous building from top to bottom. The dude in black leather was a treat to the eyes, good-looking in a careless way, wearing chinos, with longish curly hair. He quickly diverged from our path and went down a side hall. The others never saw him, but I enjoyed the view as his long legs and lean hips moved him away from us.
The only attractive male I’d seen here. Too bad I had to follow the tour. Maybe he was one of the union guys who moved sets? But he wasn’t beefy like them. He’d looked too refined to be blue collar. A musician?
I reluctantly turned back to the tour group. If I could find out which department he worked in, I could talk my boss into sending me on an errand there, and we could meet. Not that I was desperate or anything, but hot was hot.
***
A couple hours later, Ralph, my boss, made another well-meant suggestion that had the force of a command. “Kathleen, now that you’ve toured the house, you should see an opera.”
I looked up from my monitor. My desk area was outside his office high up in the back of the Manhattan opera house. No glamour here.
“I’m not directly involved with the artistic side.” I gestured at the database I had open on my screen.
“Experiencing an opera performance will help you understand what we do. What’s at stake.” Ralph spoke with the intensity of an aesthete whose entire life centered on opera.
I’d been putting him off ever since I started working here over a month ago, but I couldn’t slide away forever. Plus, I didn’t want to activate Ralph’s high-strung side. Sometimes I heard him on the phone screaming and shouting about obscure operatic issues. Ralph watched every performance at the Nat with an eagle eye and flew all over the world to attend operas at every major opera house. His knowledge of music was only surpassed by the passion he brought to it.
“Are you sure I need to see an opera to be an effective administrative assistant?” I asked, keeping it light because, after all, he was my boss.
“You are part of a very big mission, to ensure that every Nat Opera performance is perfect.” His enthusiasm for his field brimmed over in his urgent tone of voice. “If you knew opera, you’d find everything you do here compelling. Important.”
I kept a poker face, not willing to admit how much I doubted him. Music didn’t mean a lot to me because I had a tin ear. I couldn’t appreciate tone, or distinguish pitch. I didn’t advertise my failings around here, of course.
“Come on, give it a try,” he urged. “You can see the hottest tenor in the world perform.”
“All right.” I caved. I didn’t roll my eyes, but I wanted to. A hot tenor? Really? Opera singers were mostly middle-aged and kind of stocky. I didn’t think Ralph and I agreed on what constituted hotness. He meant musical reputation.
“Wonderful. I’ll get you a ticket to the dress rehearsal of Don Carlo. You won’t have to stand in line for three hours like the general public. It’ll be perfect. The opera takes place in the sixteenth century. That’s your era, right?”
“Yes,” I admitted. My M.A. was in Renaissance history, not a practical field of study unless I got a Ph.D., too. Even then, all I’d be qualified to do was teach. Which I’d already done while in grad school and not liked. Which was why I was on hiatus. If not for my opera singer brother arranging this position, I’d be stuck living with our parents or sharing a crowded apartment and doing some wretched retail job. Administrative work wasn’t rocket science, but as Sean had pointed out, I didn’t have to dumb down my vocabulary around the opera house. In fact, I was learning new words.
“You’ll love this opera. Don Carlo is based on the life of a real sixteenth century royal prince.”
Of course. “The heir to the throne of Spain, at a time when Spain dominated Europe.”
“You’ll find this opera fascinating, I promise,” Ralph insisted. “Plus JC Vasquez,
who sings Carlo, is the most exciting young tenor around. He’s a mesmerizing performer.”
“I thought most opera singers aren’t successful until they’re old—uh, until they hit their forties?”
Ralph didn’t seem to notice my slip. Good thing. He hadn’t seen forty in a decade or more.
“JC Vasquez is only thirty-two. His spinto voice is perfect for Verdi operas.”
Ralph said a lot more about JC Vasquez, and though I kept an alert expression on my face, I didn’t pay much attention because I didn’t understand the terms he bandied about. Like squillo, coloratura, and cabaletta. I knew spinto meant powerful. So the tenor had a powerful voice.
Ralph added, “The dress rehearsal is during working hours. Consider it part of your training.”
I smirked inwardly. My training had consisted of being shown the computer, and receiving a rather helpless plea from Ralph to untangle the mess my nameless predecessor had made. Piece of cake for me, but obviously a nightmare to Ralph. He used computers for email, but handling databases was beyond him. Since my part-time job at the university as an undergrad was doing this exact thing, I’d had no trouble falling right into the work.
Ralph promised the ticket would be waiting for me at the box office tomorrow. I thought no more about it.
***
The next day, I was not surprised to be in a close-in orchestra seat for the rehearsal. Ralph was important in the Nat hierarchy. The general manager consulted him constantly to determine which directors and singers to pursue and hire for upcoming productions.
I turned in my seat to gaze all the way up to the highest balcony four levels above me. I knew the Nat Opera held nearly four thousand people, but hanging out in the auditorium instead of being rushed through it on a tour, I saw it with new eyes. I absorbed its vastness and its luxury, which were overwhelming. Red velvet covered the seats, the walls, even the doors, as if I was inside a jewel box. Sparkling crystal chandeliers and sconces were the gems that lit the house all the way to the ceiling. I looked up, up, up. With no electronic amplification to help them, the opera singers had to sing loud enough that their voices carried all the way to the top of the vast hall. My brother called it a barn. Would JC Vasquez’s singing reach the top balcony?
Which was packed with opera fanatics old and young. They looked like ants all the way up there. Ralph had told me opera fans lined up outside for hours to get the free tickets to this dress rehearsal. I’d seen people this morning standing near the doors, holding signs asking for tickets. Even a dress rehearsal at the Nat Opera was a big deal. Who knew?
Employees were scattered around the orchestra section of seating, wearing headsets. Some sat behind monitors placed temporarily across armrests in the middle of the auditorium. Others walked up and down the aisles, checking whatever. Ralph told me a full technical rehearsal was held previously, but this would be the first time all the elements were together. The full orchestra was in the pit in front of me, and the maestro—the conductor—was there to lead them.
In such a businesslike yet casual setting I didn’t expect to be carried away by my first adult exposure to opera. Somber music accompanied the opening of the enormous gold curtain. On a huge, nearly bare stage, a beautiful princess wandered in the forest near the royal French palace of Fontainebleau. She was lost, but a handsome young man saw her and promised to protect her. He was Don Carlo, the heir to the throne of Spain, to whom she was already engaged by proxy. They had never met before. Now they fell instantly in love.
Me, too. The man playing the tragic prince was young and athletic, with blue-black hair and regular features, and even the hint of a cleft chin. He wore a black velvet costume with intricate silver and gold embroidery in vertical stripes that emphasized his lean height. A large, complicated gold chain draped around his broad shoulders and showed them off. The short, fur-edged cloak swirling around his knees made him an altogether dashing figure, sixteenth century style. He was visually the total romantic hero. The audience seemed to think he could sing, too. He got lots of applause.
The princess wore a long gown, a red velvet number with plenty of fancy gold and lace embellishment, over stiff petticoats. A little ruff was tight against her throat in the style of mid-sixteenth century France. Her formal, fussy clothing suggested what a prisoner she was of her station in life. She seemed barely able to move.
I kept looking at Don Carlo throughout the scene. Staring. Whether he was singing or not. There was something compelling about him. I was on the edge of my seat, waiting for whatever next word he sang. His dark eyes were so expressive. He sang with such conviction. He completely inhabited the role. I noticed every facial expression, every move of his head as he enacted the young man happily in love. The prince looked incredibly romantic. I was riveted.
The fairy tale romance part of the opera ended abruptly when courtiers arrived to tell the princess the engagement was off. Now she was supposed to marry Don Carlo’s father, instead. Princesses were political pawns. Elisabetta and Carlo sang an unhappy duet. Then the curtain fell, leaving Don Carlo all alone, miserable.
And hot. It was the same guy who’d brushed by me on the tour.
Once the act ended, I tried to shake off my unusual feelings. So the singer had a hot body and could act, so what? Of course it was sad that Don Carlo was all set to be happy and now his heart had been broken. But why did I feel it so strongly? I’d been attracted to men in a purely visual way before. Who hadn’t admired some handsome movie star or television personality? But this felt like more than an eye candy situation. It was as if I had been transported beyond my usual persona to a different place. A place where my knees went weak because of a strong, handsome man. A prince.
Around me, people were talking about the singing while we waited for the scene change. I paid them no heed. My hands trembled. I desperately wanted to see Don Carlo again. The singer playing him? Or the heroic prince in the story? I wasn’t sure which one.
***
The rest of the day, I was preoccupied with random thoughts about Don Carlo. That night, I slept restlessly, and I dreamed about Don Carlo, tangled dreams in which I was his princess.
I was in the forest at Fontainebleau. I would become the wife of Don Carlo, Prince of Asturias, this week in a proxy marriage. My girlhood was over. My duties as a wife were soon to begin. I wandered the woods because I was not eager to meet my husband. Somehow, I was alone. Someone had started a fire in the frigid woods. A young man, richly garbed. He spoke to me respectfully. The nobleman’s accents were cultured, but with a foreign tinge. He was young, like me, and had no beard. His chin was pointed and long, and he had the white skin of the aristocrat. I arranged my heavy velvet skirts and sat on the log that was drawn up near the little fire. I warmed my cold hands.
He was surely a member of the Spanish court. He wore black and gold, as most Spaniards did. In my dream, the prince and I quickly moved from eyeing each other to a passionate embrace. Just as he began to kiss me, I awoke.
Wow. Vivid dream.
I shook it off, or thought I did. Before I left for work, my brother, Sean, called. He was in Prague. We caught up on his singing schedule, and then he asked me how my job was going.
“Have you seen any operas yet?”
“Ralph insisted. I don’t know what the big deal is.”
I heard irritation in his voice. “If you’re going to work at the Nat, you should know enough about opera to respect it.”
“What’s to respect? It’s an antiquated musical form whose average attendee qualifies for Social Security.” He was my brother. I liked to yank his chain.
“You do remember that my career is singing opera?” he asked with measured patience.
“Of course, brother dear.”
“I’ve got a big stake in opera continuing. Young idiots like you have to be convinced that opera is not just for geezers.”
“Email is already for geezers. Opera doesn’t stand a chance.” I laughed.
“It’s not the same.
Art does not become outdated like technology.”
“Whether it’s a dying technology or a dying art, it’s still dying.”
“It doesn’t have to. If only the next generation would listen. Opera is the perfect fusion of music and drama.”
I heard the passionate sincerity in his voice. Since he was my brother, not my boss, I didn’t hesitate. “Give it a rest, will you? I get that all day from Ralph.”
“Not a chance. I want to convince you that opera is wonderful.”
“So does Ralph. I’ll make up my own mind.” I can be contrary. I wasn’t about to confess to my older brother that I’d had strange feelings during Don Carlo.
Was I becoming a convert to opera? Nah.
We talked a bit more. He would be in New York briefly to sing in a few performances of Lucia di Lammermoor, and then a couple of months later, he’d return to take a major part in Don Carlo. What a coincidence.
“Everywhere I turn, it’s Don Carlo. What is it with this opera?”
“Have you seen it?”
“Yes, but I don’t understand it. I may go see it again.” I didn’t tell him about the vivid dream that had clinched my intention of returning to Don Carlo.
“There’s hope for you yet.”
“Don’t hold your breath. I’m not converting to a new area of esoterica. My own field is quite geeky enough.”
“Renaissance history. You’re as hopeless as I am.”
I laughed, because he was right.
***