He didn’t see my pained expression.
“I’ll try.”
Suddenly I couldn’t take any more of his cheery attitude. He’d earned the right, but I was in the opposite situation. “I’m going back to bed. I’m glad it went well for you.”
“Think about coming to the final show.”
Of course I would think about it, and about the one intervening performance, too. How could I pull it off? As the security man had told me, I’d been lucky that JC had intervened to keep them from arresting me.
How had JC known to do so? Had he guessed that I would come to the theater, anyway? Or had he felt any of that restless buildup that I had? No, those photos of me were proof that he had planned ahead. Perhaps he didn’t even know that I had showed up. I hoped not. I didn’t want him to think I was any more a loose cannon than he already believed.
Why hadn’t JC told Sean about the situation? Sean would never have come home in such an upbeat mood if JC had accused his sister of being a deranged stalker.
Sean stuck his head around the corner. “Hey, you still awake?”
“Duh, I am now.”
Sean lounged against the wall, a smirk on his face. “JC has a thing for you.”
I sat up straight. “How do you know?”
“He kept asking me about you.” The smirk got larger.
“What kinds of questions?” Because JC might have been scoping out whether I had a history of stalking other guys, or was a flake who believed in ghosts.
“Wouldn’t you like to know…la, la, la,” he teased.
“Stinker.” I threw my pillow at him, but he dodged it. Older brothers were the pits. “Please, tell me. What did he ask?”
“Let’s see…did you have a boyfriend, were you a high maintenance dame or an easygoing type…stuff like that.”
“Did he say anything about me?”
“Like what?”
“Like, ‘Your sister is hot,’ or, ‘May I have your consent to date your sister?’ Something that proved he likes me.”
“You like me, you really like me,” Sean said in a comic falsetto. I looked around for something more to throw at him.
He tossed my pillow back. “Here. Try again. I’ve got quick reflexes.”
“You are the most frustrating brother ever,” I said. “So did you at least give him my cell number, or my email address? Or tell him how to find me on Facebook or Twitter?”
“No way, little sister. Since Dad and Mom are stubbornly staying in Ohio, I have to look out for you.”
I let out a near-scream of irritation. “You warned him off?”
“Nope. We’re going to double date on Sunday. You, me, JC, and Sabrina. I’ll be your chaperon.”
I shrieked in joy and threw myself on him. “You’re the best!”
Then I sat back. “Wait a minute. Did JC Vasquez really agree to a double date with me as his date? Or are you pulling a con on me?”
Sean held up a hand. “Baritone’s honor. Not that baritones have much honor.”
“I’ve got to think about this.”
“Fine. Take all night.” He laughed, a laugh that spoke of the sheer joy of being alive. He left me.
I sank back into my tiny bed. Why would JC do that? He told me to stay away from him. He banned me from the operas he sang in, and set ushers and security guards on me. Or was he planning to reveal all to Sean, in my presence? Oh, crap. Maybe that was it.
Would JC cancel once security told him the sorry tale of my night’s adventure? Or did he already know? Why did he suggest a double date? Or was it his idea? Wasn’t he furious with me because I hadn’t kept away from the opera house as he had asked?
My hand went to my cheek. It felt hot with fever. I was in warm pajamas because I’d been sitting out in the cold for so long. I had been chilled when I first went to bed. Now I was flushed and my limbs were sweating. I longed for JC to be in my bed with me, teaching me more about the ways a tenor could control his tongue.
Was I merely a lustful idiot? No. I wanted time with JC to get to know him. Including the sex. Beyond the sex. I wanted him to know me, too. How else would it be possible that he might love me as I loved him?
I’d already made a complete fool of myself with JC. I knew he desired me. I wanted to believe he loved me, but my ghostly possessed side kept screwing up my chances of getting him to trust me. What a mess. How could I even hope to have some kind of normal relationship with JC when something kept pushing me to astral project myself into his Don Carlo performances? It was nuts.
My thoughts swirled. I lay awake long after Sean had happily banged around the bathroom and kitchen and then retreated to his bedroom. Sean went through life so easily. I used to, also. No more.
I had gone from despair to elation and back again in the last couple of days. Especially tonight. How could I sleep, tossed as I was between the hope that I would see JC on Sunday, and the fear that he would learn of my betrayal tonight and cancel? I wanted to see him. I needed to see him, no matter what awful scene he planned for this supposed date.
Sleep. Tomorrow was a work day for me. Sean would sleep late, rest long, and then go have a short voice lesson. Nothing strenuous. JC might be doing the same. I must report to work at the Nat offices and hope that Ralph had not been informed of my transgression. If he had, he might choose to fire me after all.
I couldn’t explain my behavior to anyone. There was no justification that anyone would accept. Unless I told them about the ghostly possession and the astral projection that put me invisibly inside the opera. Which I wouldn’t do. I did not want to be considered crazy. Anybody who didn’t see me when I was on the stage would think I was making it all up. Extrasensory perception, ghosts, and astral projection formed a large body of incredible concepts that most people did not believe except in theory. The ESP, maybe. The rest, not so much. Oddly enough, JC saw me every time, but still insisted I was perpetrating a complex hoax. Stubborn man.
I’d find out soon if this ridiculous double date was going to happen at all. Sabrina was nice enough. Maybe she and Sean would cut out early to go have some alone time, and I could be with JC. Right now, I needed to sleep. Instead, I kept thinking and hoping.
Chapter 10
Another morning of dragging my exhausted self to my job, hoping that the ax wouldn’t fall on me. Knowing that I probably deserved it, anyway.
What had happened to me? I used to be an honorable person. I’d never cheated on a test, copied anybody else’s work, or pulled any of the numerous sleazy tricks that other students tried. In my private life, such as it was, I was never unfaithful to an exclusive boyfriend, nor did I try any underhanded strategies to keep one if he lost interest. I never stole a boy away from another girl, either.
Which brought up an interesting question. Was I trying to steal Don Carlo away from Elisabetta? I kept appearing to warn him not to show his love for her. I attempted to get Carlo to consider simple self-preservation. The king would not tolerate a rival for his wife’s devotion, especially since his wife was Don Carlo’s age and presumably more naturally attracted to the son than the father. Although come to think of it, young girls often called boys their age immature and admired older men instead.
Regardless, my motives were questionable because they were partly mine, Kathleen’s, and partly the ghost’s—and I did not know who my ghost was. Assuming there was a ghost at all, and I wasn’t completely insane.
Sean’s apartment was on the east side, and Lincoln Center was in the sixties on the west side. I usually walked north a few blocks and took a crosstown bus to get there. It went through Central Park, which was a refreshing reminder that green living things did still exist. Manhattan in winter was a bleak place full of gray concrete and granite. Each bit of green, whether artificial or an expensive planting in front of a rich person’s residence, was a happy discovery.
I did my standard walk south on Broadway to Lincoln Center, picking up a bagel along the way for breakfast. It was an inspiring walk because
the towers of midtown were all ahead of me. I was in the heart of a great city, connected to a noble enterprise, the dissemination of a high musical art. Now that I knew something about opera, I appreciated for the first time that it was an amazing form of musical drama. It still spoke to people, even young people, although maybe I was not a good example. I’d spent my life in university libraries, studying history. The past. What could be more natural than for me to find myself drawn to what was more and more viewed as an antiquated musical form, not a modern, living one?
At my age, I was supposed to love pop or country music or something. I didn’t. Exposure to opera had taught me its pleasures, well and truly caught me in its grip. Sadly, though, unless and until I could solve my ghost problem, all my new insight and love for opera would be meaningless. I’d probably end up banned from the Nat for life.
Good thing the ushers only worked at night. It would have been humiliating to have to pass by them today, and explain that, yes, I actually worked here. For now. The security guy was nowhere to be seen, either.
Ralph was in early, but his mind was not on my sins. “I’m going to Berlin to see a singer,” he announced. His happy smile told the tale, but I asked, anyway.
“A possibility for the future?”
“Exactly. We’re always looking.”
“Do you ever scout American singers?”
Ralph looked a bit shocked. “Of course. I check out all the winners of major competitions, plus we have our own young singers program and the annual competition.”
“What about the other opera houses? Do you get into fights when you raid their singers?”
He laughed a little. “It’s not like professional sports. Individual singers have contracts, but usually only for specific performances. So if I see an outstanding lyrico spinto in Santa Fe or Milan, for instance, I can make a deal for as few roles and performances as I want to fill.”
“Doesn’t the Nat have any regular singers?”
“We have a few people contracted as emergency backups. We prefer not to use them if we can import a substitute with a rising reputation, such as your brother. Of course, the chorus is the same from year to year. Not the principals.”
I wrinkled my brow. “That’s a pretty insecure way to staff an opera company that holds performances six days a week for nine straight months a year.”
“It’s insecure for the singers, too. Yet they seem to prefer it to being under a year or two-year contract. It’s better for their voices.”
“Not working is better?” My face likely showed how puzzled I was. The world of opera was endlessly confusing.
“It allows them to be in charge of whether they sing roles or not, not us. A singer’s voice can be ruined if he or she takes on a role unsuited to them. This way, even if we offer the wrong role to the wrong person at the wrong time in his or her career, he or she is free to turn us down. If they were contract singers, they’d feel obliged to sing the role. We’d inevitably exert too much influence over their choice. Plus, we’d end up with ruined voices singing our productions. Not what we want.”
It was good of Ralph to explain it to me, but of course he loved to explain anything related to opera. My job here didn’t require me to know the intricacies of scheduling, but now I understood why Sean wandered all over Europe and the rest of the world to pick up certain roles. Why JC did, too. It was their way of protecting their potential.
“So you’re off to Germany. For when should I book your flight?”
“Tonight. I want to catch Saturday night’s performance. I’ve had a tip that there’s a fantastic mezzo subbing.”
“Didn’t you know about her before?”
“I’d heard some things. But seeing how a singer performs under pressure is important.” Ralph paced the hall in front of my desk, as he often did when he came out of his office to speak to me. “Do you follow baseball?”
“Huh? Not really, but I know a little.”
“There are players who are absolute stars on the AAA level—the farm teams, you know. Power hitters with dazzling averages. You bring them up to the majors, to a high-visibility team like the New York Yankees, and some of those players are going to fall apart from the pressure.”
“You’re saying it’s the same with opera singers?”
“This is one of the largest opera houses in the world. It takes a big voice to fill it.” He raised an eyebrow. “Also a confident voice.”
I nodded, “I think I understand. Tomorrow’s performance will demonstrate whether this mezzo might be comfortable at the Nat?”
“Exactly.”
Ralph mentioned several other opera houses he intended to check out while he was in Europe. Then he had me scurrying to make his reservations and check that he had everything he needed for his adventure. We worked hard all morning and into the afternoon on his itinerary and cleaning up his current projects.
Maybe I didn’t deserve a reprieve, but I was glad of it.
Ralph was so busy having last-minute meetings with various management people that he didn’t have time to chide me for my escapade of the night before. If he even heard about it, which I hoped he wouldn’t until after he came back. After it was all over.
It would end, because there was no ghostly interference relating to any other opera. Once the Don Carlo run was done, I would be free. Free to pick up the pieces of my off-again, on-again, completely confused relationship with JC Vasquez. Or more likely, he would leave me again without a word, and I would have no choice but to return to my previous life and try to forget him.
***
That evening, before Sean went out, he told me that he’d heard from JC. “He has to cancel the double date. Something came up.” Sean shrugged.
Right. Sure it had. Obviously, security had informed JC of my attempt last night. I’d expected as much.
Sean said, “I got lucky earlier. I scored you a ticket to the next performance. Monday night. No excuses this time.”
“Oh, wonderful. I promise I’ll be there,” I said. That made it easier, although not a slam dunk. I’d still have to get past all the ushers who had my photo. The next performance of Don Carlo was three days away. I had the whole weekend to think up a way to get in. I would, somehow. I did not intend to sit outside in the snow that had been forecast for Monday.
***
Sunday, while Sean and Sabrina were out and I was dozing and not doing much in the apartment living room, I received a surprise visitor. The voice through the downstairs entrance door PA system was JC’s.
“Let me come up, Kathleen.”
I buzzed him in, wondering at the determined, even desperate note I’d heard in his voice. Within a couple of minutes, he was knocking on the door. I fell back when I saw him through the peephole. I opened up.
Before I could ask what he was doing here, he burst into speech. “It’s no use. I can’t stay away from you.”
He crossed the threshold and grasped my arms with a desperate grip. The look in his eyes was tortured. “Why is it like this? How have you done this to me?”
“What? What have I done?”
“You know, oh, you know,” he accused, his voice deep and pained.
“What?” I begged. “Tell me.”
“I must have you.” He pressed my body against his. I instinctively molded myself to his contours, melting from his fierce heat.
He broke away from me to pace the small living room. “I’ve tried to put you out of my mind. I’ve ignored your polite little emails. I even let you say you love me.” He lifted his eyes to the ceiling, while clenching his fists. “And I said nothing, nothing in reply except to keep away from me.”
The low, passionate words seemed to burst from him. “What kind of man does that to a woman who loves him?”
He turned to me, agony in his eyes. “Forgive me.”
I was backed against the closed door, stunned. JC had never displayed this kind of temperament except when he was acting on stage. He had been cool, or angry with me, or amused.
Suddenly, it was as if his hard protective shell had cracked open.
I wanted to ask who he was. Where was the JC I knew? This man looked at me with love in his eyes. I could see it. I knew my own eyes must have been shining with the joy that I felt. I opened my arms to him. “I love you.”
He enfolded me in his embrace again, but this time, slowly, reverently. His eyes glowed with love as he leaned down to touch his lips to mine. I waited on the moment I would feel their pressure. I ached for it.
Then his face seemed to draw farther away. The room grew suddenly darker, and I could hardly see him. Then he was gone.
I woke up.
It had been a dream.
JC had not come to my door to confess his desperate love for me in a passionate, operatic manner. He had not asked for my forgiveness for the way he had used my body but refused my love for him.
My chest heaved painfully with my sobs, but I had no tears. It hurt too much to have been so close to JC, to receive his confession of love, and then to discover it was only a dream.
We didn’t have to be like this. Unlike Don Carlo and his lost love Elisabetta, JC and I were both free to care for each other. His distrust of me held him back.
Or maybe his lack of love for me. No, I knew he loved me, even though he had never said so. He would not let himself admit it. If I didn’t resolve this ghost mystery, JC would leave at the end of the cycle, and I might never see him again. Because I would not stay here to be miserable without him.
I sat motionless for a long time. Finally, I dragged myself out of the easy chair.
In the tiny kitchen area, I made some cocoa and perched on a stool, looking out the window. If I leaned far to the left and twisted down on my stool, I could see a tiny slice of a plane tree—what they called a sycamore here—with no leaves on it now, of course. Otherwise, only brick walls and blank, curtained windows. Not a bad view for this city, but not what I wanted in my future. Regardless of how this crazy Don Carlo situation ended, I did not want to live in this concrete city. I wanted grass and trees.
Haunted Tenor (Singers in Love Book 1) Page 13