Haunted Tenor (Singers in Love Book 1)

by Irene Vartanoff

  I didn’t believe we were the victims of a merely mischievous ghost. There was a purpose to these weird happenings. A purpose I now believed was to save Don Carlo.

  I threw myself together, which was hard when my head hurt and my stomach was upset. No more binge drinking, ever.

  I all but raced to work, hoping that JC, like Sean, had slept in. They’d both had an exhausting night. I hadn’t known this before, but Don Carlo was nearly twice as long as most operas. It was a marathon that could deplete even a singer with wonderful stamina like JC. Both he and Sean were hoarse last night at the party. They had worn out their voices and needed time and rest to recover. I had a chance to get to Ralph first.

  I was in luck. Nothing had changed. My ID card still let me inside. JC hadn’t turned me into a non-person—they call it being terminated, after all—before I could tell Ralph my side of the story. I hoped he would defend me if necessary. He had always seemed to take a fatherly attitude toward me.

  Ralph arrived shortly after I did. As soon as he’d settled in, I went to stand in front of his desk, my mien serious. “Ralph, may I talk to you?”

  “Of course.” He looked confused. “What is it?”

  “I’m having a problem with JC Vasquez.”

  “He’s been bothering you?” Ralph frowned.

  “Sort of. Actually, he thinks I’ve been bothering him,” I confessed. “I was so interested in Don Carlo that I stood outside the stage door more than once. When JC came to my brother’s farewell party a few months ago, he accused me of being a stalker.”

  “Oh, that won’t do.” He moved as if to make a phone call.

  I gestured for him to wait. “There’s more. Then JC and I dated a little.”

  Ralph’s expression grew concerned.

  “We—uh—we got involved.”

  Ralph looked upset.

  “It was only the one—uh—date,” I said. That sounded better than “hookup” or “one-night stand.” I didn’t think I kept the sad awkwardness out of my voice. “Anyway, he left for Europe two months ago and that was the end of it. No contact.”

  I shuffled my feet. “Last night, JC saw me in the front row. When I tried to visit Sean in his dressing room after the performance, my name had been put on a list of people who weren’t allowed backstage.”

  Ralph made an outraged noise.

  “It’s okay.” I ducked my head. “I made it up to Sean. I understand that JC might still think I’m some kind of stalker. But I’m afraid he’s going to have me fired, too. He threatened to last fall. I need this job.”

  “Don’t you worry about a thing, Kathleen.” Ralph’s back was up now. “I’ll decide if you’re a competent employee. You do fine work and I won’t allow anyone to fire you.”

  I thanked him profusely.

  Did Ralph think that there was more involved? Of course. He was a worldly man. He also knew how wrong it was to have a woman fired only because of some sexual relationship gone sour. Ralph would stick up for me if pressured to fire me. I hoped.

  The test came sooner than I expected. Only half an hour later, Ralph was called into an unscheduled meeting with the general manager himself. When Ralph returned, he looked singed around the edges.

  “I’ve fought the good fight for you, my dear,” he said. “They indeed wanted to fire you.”

  “No.” Oh, JC How could you?

  “Yes,” he said, sitting down heavily at his desk and motioning for me to sit opposite him. “Let’s talk.”

  I sat, my knees trembling.

  “What saved you was that you told me you and JC had dated. Because of that, I convinced them that if you were fired, you could sue on the grounds of sexual harassment. Luckily, legal backed me up.”

  “Oh, thank you. That’s a relief. I hope you know I never would. Sue, I mean.”

  “Don’t relax yet. There’s more.” He grimaced. “Perhaps you won’t mind too much. You’re banned from the auditorium and backstage for the duration of JC’s run in Don Carlo.”

  “Banned.” The threat JC made last night. Before he kissed me.

  Ralph gave a shrug. “It was the best I could do. I won’t be allowed to get you any more tickets to any opera JC is singing.”

  “I can’t believe it.” I said. “That’s—that’s medieval.”

  “We’re a little old-fashioned here,” he conceded. “We take the safety of our singers very seriously. Since it’s your word against JC’s, we had to proceed on the assumption that there was some truth on both sides of the story.”

  At my outraged noise, he held up his hand. “My dear, I am aware that you did not confide the full details to me.”

  I hung my head. Ralph could guess that “dating” JC had included mattress time. I doubted JC told the Nat administrators outright that we’d had sex, but he didn’t need to. They could guess, too.

  “We won’t go into that. Regardless of what passed between you two, the Nat must protect its investment in its singers. We can’t have JC angry and tense before each performance. It would destroy his singing. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

  Was he testing me? “Of course not. I do not wish JC any ill whatsoever.” Maybe a small concussion. His head was obviously very thick, since he still didn’t believe the paranormal was involved.

  “I have stipulated that you will not attend his operas again,” Ralph finished. He’d tried to adopt the tone of a stern teacher. He immediately switched to consoling me. “You may go to other operas. There are many on the schedule. Merely stay away from JC Vasquez.”

  I bobbed my head, hoping he took it for compliance. In reality, I had no intention of accepting that edict. None. I thanked Ralph profusely. He’d saved my hide, and not every boss of a relatively new employee would bother. I was grateful. I didn’t want to rile him with my defiant plan to see Don Carlo again the next time it was performed.

  My bizarre onstage appearances were always attempts to save JC—or rather, to save the man he played, Don Carlo. There was plenty of time that evening and the next to review the other Don Carlo and Don Carlos DVDs, and pinpoint where I was needed most. As a typical geeky historian, I was happy to spend hours researching. I wasn’t in a cheery mood, but the repetition of well-honed research habits was soothing.

  Sean was off somewhere each night, probably with his blonde, Sabrina. He had voice lessons each day, and some rehearsing, too. He took no chances about being fully prepared for his first major role at the Nat. This worked to my advantage, because he wasn’t home to see me constantly researching JC Vasquez, Don Carlo, and ghosts.

  Eventually, after wading through a lot of nonsense about ESP and ghosts, I began to see my new theory taking a logical shape. I decided I owed it to JC to inform him that the ghost was attempting to save him, possibly from genuine danger.

  I knew it could get me in trouble, considering his accusation that I was a stalker. He could use it as evidence to try again to get me fired. Even so, I emailed him. I wrote a simple note, not as stupid as the kind I might have written right after Sean’s party, when I was stinking drunk and miserable. I kept to the point.

  JC—

  I’ve researched the possibility that the ghost fears the ending of this production of Don Carlo. They use special fake “stage” swords in the last scene, right? Please make sure you are safe.

  I’m sorry you are angry with me. I care about you.

  Kathleen

  After I clicked Send, I decided that I had been too vague. My words might even be construed as threatening. I didn’t know for sure what the ghost intended, so how could I warn JC specifically? All I knew was the ghost was using me as some kind of conduit to JC as Don Carlo.

  I hoped he would read my email and reply. Hours went by. He hadn’t replied when I had emailed him before. What made me think he would this time, when I knew he had mixed feelings about me? My hopes were completely ridiculous. He thought I was a stalker.

  He didn’t really think that, did he? He simply knew I was the locus of trouble. But I
didn’t stalk JC during the months he was in Europe and Australia, after those two super-casual emails I sent him. I didn’t write him postcards with cute sayings, or mail him little presents, or use my brother to deliver personal messages. In fact, after our one night together, I all but pretended that we had nothing more to say to each other. I tried to treat it as a casual hookup. But it hadn’t been, not on my part anyway.

  Perhaps he’d gotten what he wanted from me and had no interest in seeing me again. But that kiss. That kiss was not the action of an indifferent ex-lover. That was a man making a burning mark of possession on a woman he knew belonged to him. I shuddered. It was true. I did belong to JC Vasquez, whether he wanted a relationship with me or not. Something about him called to me insistently. I’d been able to deny it when he was thousands of miles away, on the other side of the globe. I couldn’t deny it anymore. I did not want to.

  He was probably out on the town tonight, like Sean. Not with Abbie Fisher, I hoped. Considering where their careers were, getting involved with her would benefit JC. They could become a power couple. That was the current ideal for an ambitious singer, I’d heard. It was not enough to sing well, or to sing in brilliant productions in great opera houses. To become superstars, opera singers today had to catch the public imagination with some story angle. What better one than a high-powered romance with an equally starry singer?

  Not that I believed JC would be so calculating. Still, Abbie Fisher, or any other opera singer offered him the possibility of a relationship in which the other person completely understood any issues he might have.

  Unlike me. Whatever I knew about professional opera singing was what I had crammed in the last four months. Or picked up by living in the same apartment with Sean for a few weeks off and on.

  My thoughts constantly circled back to JC. Perhaps he was practicing today, rehearsing a role he already knew by heart. The next Don Carlo would not be until three days passed since the last one. That was the minimum time between such taxing operas so the singers had enough time to recover from the rigors of their efforts. A chance to rest. Another fact I’d picked up in the past months. Nerdy me.

  What else did an opera singer do between performances? Suddenly I was desperate to know. He wouldn’t be sitting at home answering email. Where would he be? New York was a huge city. I was cooped up in Sean’s tiny safe spot, and life was all around me. I had to get outside.

  Once I was walking on street level, I felt even more alone. Everybody walked so fast in this city. They strode purposefully. I ambled, unsure of what to do or where to go. I had done enough research for one night. My mind whirled with true-life accounts of ghostly visitations and possessions. Possession. That was another concept I hadn’t explored at length. How could I be possessed by one ghost and show up in the opera as two different people? Were all the characters of Don Carlo haunting me?

  I’d had no more dreams. Even during the long months JC was away, all I had dreamed about was him. Being himself. Loving me. Possessing me. That was the only form of possession I cared about. But the ghost, or whatever it was, would not leave me alone.

  I was amid thousands of people on the streets, and I felt completely alone. Finally, I took a bus over to Lincoln Center. I literally returned to the scene of the crime. I could not keep away. I didn’t know where JC was right now, but if I went to the opera house at least I could get closer to him in spirit.

  Rotten pun. It was bad enough to be wildly in love with a man who had reason to distrust me. I also had to deal with the spirit or ghost or whatever was messing with me.

  Aida was playing tonight. The first act was already over, but I could use my special pass to get a free ticket if there were any left. To my amazement, a parterre box seat was available. I was in. The parterre boxes were the fancy seating for the seriously well-off people who went to operas. They were set in a horseshoe above the orchestra seating. A box seat usually cost beaucoup bucks. Good thing I had my pass.

  With the help of the usher, I located my spot at the back of the box. I smiled at the other box seat ticket holders. The house was already dark. The second act was about to begin.

  It was my bad luck that Abbie Fisher was the Aida tonight. The next scene was one in which Aida’s jealous mistress (Aida was an enslaved princess) ferreted out the secret that Aida was in love with the military hero Radames. As Amneris threw her weight about and Aida cowered, and all I could think about was Abbie Fisher and JC. I’d only seen them together once, it was true. Once was enough to make me intensely afraid that JC might prefer being with her to the difficulties of a relationship with me.

  A triumphal march started the next scene. I was surprised to see several horses brought through to make the march more impressive. Another example of how fantastically complicated it was to produce operas. And unlike at a pop concert, this audience was not so high on alcohol or drugs that they forgot to be critical. Very, very critical. The horses were over the top, but come to think of it, I’d heard that sometimes there were elephants.

  The audience was not distracted by the horses. The audience listened for every note to be sung exactly right. Except me. I simply enjoyed the absorbing, stirring drama and music.

  Things did not go well for Aida. Her beloved Radames ended up engaged to her rival and mistress, Amneris. The act ended, everyone took their bows, and the house lights came up. I stood and looked around. JC Vasquez was in the box next to mine.

  He was just as surprised to see me. For an instant I swear he looked happy about it. His expression immediately turned dark. I shrank back from his frown. He left his box.

  The other occupants of my box filed out, chatting with each other. They were in evening clothes, the well-preserved middle-aged women in designer cocktail dresses, the men, all showing more overt signs of age, in tuxes. I was glad that I at least was wearing my go-anywhere little black dress and ballet flats. The parterre boxes weren’t meant for casual garb.

  I stayed in the back of the box, wanting desperately to see JC, but not wanting to run into him in the hall where he might make a scene or even have me thrown out. The half-hour intermission went by slowly. I knew I should leave the building right now, but I couldn’t. I wanted to be near JC.

  The door to the box was shut and locked between acts. Only an usher could open it. When JC’s voice came from the hall, I turned to look. A tiny anteroom, a cloakroom, between the hall and each box, gave it extra luxury. The room was like an air lock. JC leaned against the outer door, looking at me. Obviously, the usher had opened it for him.

  JC was long, lean, and elegant in a dark suit and tie and a brilliantly white shirt. He could have been in an Armani ad. I wanted to rip the shirt off him and lick his chest all over. Then kiss my way down. Or up, I didn’t care which. I needed to touch him. I walked toward him, shutting the door to the auditorium behind me.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked, his bemused words warding me off yet attracting me at the same time.

  “There was nowhere else to go.” My eyes never left him.

  He made a scoffing sound. “Right. You couldn’t find a single entertainment anywhere in this big city.”

  We stood half in and half out of the hallway. No one was around. I held his gaze. “Blame it on my historian’s tenacity. When we research a topic, we tend to go all out.” I shrugged, still trying to keep it casual. I even essayed a smile.

  He played along, his expression neutral. “What are you researching?”

  “Ghosts.” I said it blandly, but bringing up the word between us was a challenge.

  His brow furrowed. “There are no ghosts in Aida.”

  “Sure there are. Aida is haunted by her former freedom and her former status in her homeland. Else why would she dare to love Egypt’s top military commander?”

  “Because he’s lovable?” He asked it rather whimsically. Suddenly, our coded conversation stopped being in code.

  “Do you want to be lovable?” I asked.

  He nodded. “For myself. Not
as the character I play in a role.”

  I bit my lip. “I can’t help it if I care about you and Don Carlo, too. The ghost makes me care.”

  This was too open for him. His frown was back. “You shouldn’t keep following me around.”

  I almost rolled my eyes. “I got a random ticket. Would you still claim I’m following you if my seat were up in the highest balcony?”

  “Why don’t you admit it?”

  I could have kept arguing with him, but we might never talk in private again. I had to say what I felt. I gathered my courage.

  “I love you, JC. I wouldn’t deliberately do anything to hurt you.”

  I’d shocked him. His eyes went wide.

  I backed further into the anteroom, already regretting my declaration, but JC followed me in. The door swung shut. The little room now afforded complete privacy.

  He grasped my arms and drew me close. “Don’t say that and back away from me.”

  “What do you want from me?” I cried.

  “The truth, damn it. Why are you doing this to me?”

  “You’re looking at the truth,” I replied, “but you refuse to see.” I tried to show my honesty in my eyes, in my whole expression.

  JC kept staring at my face.

  “I’m not faking anything,” I insisted. My whole body trembled from being so near him. Just his touch on my arms was exquisite. I wanted so much more.

  He drew me close and softly kissed my lips. Then my eyes, and my nose and my forehead, and the soft lobes of my ears. Gentle kisses. Almost loving kisses. He drew back, and I smiled at him with tears leaking from my softly-kissed eyes.

  “Why are you crying?” he asked.

  “Because you’re so perfect.”

  He kissed me for that, a mere touch on my lips. “That should be my line.” His voice seemed deeper.

  He kissed me again, but this time possessively. He locked me in his embrace. His tongue invaded my mouth and conquered me with delicate touches that nearly caused my whole body to convulse. It was heaven and I was about to ascend.