“Three weeks,” I said, “although we’d known each other for a few months.”
Dex looked shocked. “How long ago?”
“Nearly two years.” I sighed and replaced my napkin, neatly folded, on the table. “We met at church events. I falsely believed he must be a good person because he was active in his faith. When we moved beyond friendship, it was a disaster.”
“He’s been stalking you ever since? What’s wrong with him?”
“The same thing that’s wrong with Don José in Carmen. Sexism expressed as romantic obsession.” I decided not to beat around the bush. “Michael thinks he owns me. All because we once had sex.”
“Just once?” Dex asked, a sly smile playing around his lips.
I raised an eyebrow. I would not dignify that with an answer. “It was an extremely short-lived hookup. Not even a fling. Certainly not an affair, or a relationship. Yet he will not put it behind him.”
“If you said go away, I’d accept it.” His eyes burned with open desire.
My face must have shown my cynical disbelief. “Men make many promises before, but do they live up to them after?” I shook my head. “No, they do not.”
“Will I get anywhere with you if I say I’m not like those other guys?” He was almost but not quite smiling.
I gave him an openly sour look. “What do you think?”
Dex’s lip curled in mock amusement. “I can feel the frost from over here.”
“Then you know where I stand. I’m no Carmen. I didn’t come on to you at your charity ball, throw you a rose, and invite you to be my lover. Far the opposite.”
He angled forward and spoke in a low, passionate tone. “That’s what I want, Daylia. I want to be your lover. We’re meant to follow the chemistry to its natural conclusion.”
I made a face. “Carmen did, and ended up dead.”
He leaned back in his seat. “The opera must have been written in the nineteenth century, when the morality the censors insisted on was if a woman had sex outside of marriage, she had to die.”
“You are correct. Do you remember the plot?” I was on more solid ground here, talking about opera instead of sex. “Don José is a Spanish soldier who is on the cusp of committing to a clean life. He is agreeable to marrying the village girl his mother approves of. But then his passionate attraction to Carmen, a free-living gypsy who is involved in smuggling, makes him desert the army. Things go downhill from there.”
“I can see how a man could think the world is well lost for love of a woman,” he said, bending an intense look on me.
I shivered with desire. I must keep dragging the conversation back to opera, where I was on safe territory, and away from the temptation our attraction to each other presented. Despite my effort to cool it, one part of me was calculating how quickly we could go to my condo, or to his office, and how much time we could have together alone to revel in our lust for each other. Yet I had no intention of giving in to that impulse. My folly in hooking up with Michael Rather without knowing him well enough was a warning to be deliberate in my intimate life.
I said, “Once the relationship with Don José sours, Carmen believes she can’t fight the inevitable. She senses he will not accept being kicked out of her life and that he will kill her.”
Dex frowned. “Has that ex of yours threatened you?”
“I broke it off because he was violent.” I shrugged. “But I’m not like Carmen, passively waiting for death.” I shook my head, wanting to drop the subject. “He only bothers me sometimes during the brief weeks of the year when I’m here in DC.”
Dex scowled. “What about a restraining order?”
“I can handle him.”
Dex still appeared concerned.
“Seriously, he’s more an annoyance than a threat. Let’s talk about something else.” I almost put my hand on Dex’s hand to show my gratitude for his concern for my safety, but I thought better of it. We were incendiary together. This topic of conversation was merely the surface of our mutual thoughts, all of which no doubt circled around ways and means to slake our thirst for each other. I saw it in his eyes. He surely saw it in mine.
Dex made an effort to lighten the mood. “Okay. Tell me about the Washington opera scene.”
That was safe. I could talk about opera for hours. “The Potomac Arts Center is my hometown opera company. It’s not the biggest or the oldest local company, but I like it the best. We have enough time to rehearse properly and get deeply into the director’s concept for each opera. That’s often a luxury in the opera world, where typically we’re rushing here and there from one city or country to another. I trained in DC, and I try to perform here every year if there’s a suitable project.”
“You like Carmen?”
“The role is inevitable for a mezzo, so it behooves me to enjoy myself. The music is luscious.”
Dex’s face creased in a reminiscent smile. “When I was a kid, we had some doggerel we sang to the music of the Toreador Song.”
“Really? I’m surprised you knew enough about Carmen’s music to spoof it.”
“High culture was an important part of the private school curriculum.” Dex smirked self-deprecatingly before launching into a very unmusical bit of song. “Tor-e-a-dor-o, don’t spit the floor-o, use the cuspidor-o, that’s what it’s for-o…”
I burst into giggles. “That’s extremely silly.”
Dex appeared pleased to have cracked me up. “What can I say? We were boys.”
I regained my composure, but I felt my face form an unaccustomed smile. “I must talk to our Escamillo and find out if he knows about your spoof.”
“Even if he doesn’t, there’s probably a Sesame Street version he’s heard.”
“I do know that Denyce Graves—she is a mezzo, too—sang the ‘Habanera’ to little Elmo. With different words, of course.”
A thought struck me and I spoke without thinking. “Do you have children?”
He shook his head. “I had a starter marriage, but we both realized our mistake in time. We ended it quickly. What about you?”
I evaded the marriage question. “No children.”
“What about men?”
I drew myself up. “What about them?”
He gave me a cynical look. “You’re a gorgeous woman, Daylia. There must have been men aside from the stalker loser.”
“What makes you so sure I am not involved right now?”
His doubting expression plainly showed he was waiting for me to be honest. Of course I knew what he meant. How could I have kissed him with such abandon only a few nights ago, and why would I be lunching with him now, if currently I had an important man in my life? In a low voice, I said, “I have always paid more attention to my art than to men. Right now, I am very busy with rehearsals.”
“Then I don’t have a rival. Good.” He smiled, “We’re halfway there.”
I drew back a little. “That’s presuming a lot. We hardly know each other.”
He still looked happy that I hadn’t said I was seeing another man. “Okay. Back to Carmen. What makes you like her?”
“I admire her honesty. In this production, she very clearly represents freedom to Don José. He’s been trying to walk the line, and he’s restive with it. His whole life ahead has been mapped out by his mother, and it will be dull.”
“He’s drawn to Carmen because she represents freedom?”
“His freedom. Yet once they are together, he tries to clip her wings, limit her own freedom. Make her change into his little village girl.”
“Except for the sex, I bet.”
I nodded and grimaced. “Which I am thankful could not be portrayed on a stage back in high Victorian times when Carmen was composed. The sexuality in the opera is all in the music, the alluring arias by which she seduces José.”
“By which?” His expression was faintly amused. “You are such a formal speaker.”
“I do not wish to be mistaken for an uncouth, uneducated person.”
He eye
d me knowingly. “Or you don’t trust many people.”
I had no answer. Dex had recognized my innate caution and inability to relax with people I did not know well.
Finally, the food stopped coming. Dex and I had gone through the motions long enough, and gotten to know each other a little. I was due at rehearsal this afternoon, as Ralph had persuaded Régine to forget our incident. “I have to go to the opera house for rehearsals.”
“I’ll drive you there.”
“You brought a car into the city on a weekday?” DC traffic was notoriously bad.
“It’s hired.” Dex made quick work of the bill. We were sent off each with a tiny package containing an amuse-bouche. Something sugary, no doubt. I tried to avoid sugar. I knew it would be ungracious of me to refuse it, so I kept my thought to myself. Although I’d had very little to drink, only sipping at the various wines, I felt curiously lightheaded. Being around Dex threw me off balance.
When we emerged from the restaurant, a private car drew up and we climbed in without ceremony. “The modern limo. Discreet,” I said.
“Maneuverable. For a group of people attending an event, a big limo is fine. Adds to the party vibe. Otherwise, not useful. Too flashy.”
“In opera we often actively seek out the flashy. You must come to see Carmen. See what I do. Then you will have a better idea of the artistic world I inhabit. Carmen performances start at the end of next week.” I explained that if he picked a night I could gift him with a ticket.
Dex grimaced. “I don’t want to wait that long to see you again, but I’m booked solid this week. Never expected to want all my evenings clear.” He gave me a look that scorched me. He had been careful all during lunch, but now that we were alone in his car, his expression openly devoured me.
The memory of how I had clung to him in the dim light of the terrace suddenly rose compellingly in my mind. Dex did not touch me, but I felt as if he caressed me with his eyes.
He said, “I hate cheap clichés.” He cast a glance at our cozy, opulent setting, and the driver who was not separated from us by more than a seat and a few feet. Dex leaned close to me and his voice became a whisper. “I want to touch you right now. But I won’t.”
My whole body went on alert. I suddenly needed to cross the barrier of air between us, to touch him. I wouldn’t. Neither of us wanted to be so tasteless as to ignore the presence of the driver to indulge in our desire.
“Perhaps a classic limo would be more convenient after all,” I said. I wanted to smile and lighten the mood, but I felt too fragile. We each had business to attend to, but if he had asked me to detour to his private office, where we could lock the door and use the couch, I would have agreed. That was how far gone I was merely from being so near him for an hour.
Dex’s expression grew a bit strained as he recognized my admission of my desire to explore our attraction. I had not made a mere pleasantry. We were speaking in code again.
His voice rasped. “I have meetings all afternoon I can’t cancel. Tonight, there’s another event to which I’m committed. Come to me at midnight? I’ll send a car for you.”
Clearer logic was already making me pull back from my rash declaration. I shook my head. “I cannot allow myself the indulgence. I, too, am very busy. And we barely know each other.”
“My body says different. So does yours.”
I bowed my head, acknowledging his parry. “I have been hasty before. I will not be hasty again.” My words were adamant, imperious. With Dex, I did not want to be that woman. I softened my expression. “You tempt me very much, Dex,” I said on a thread of sound.
Dex’s eyes went hot. “Woman, you’re trying to kill me.”
The car stopped. We had arrived at the Potomac Arts Center. As the driver got out and opened my door, I leaned over to Dex and whispered, “Call me.”
I gathered myself and stepped out of the car, aware that other eyes would be on me now. I glanced back at Dex just once. “Thank you for lunch,” I said formally. I wanted to touch my fingers to my lips and blow him a kiss, but that was too lighthearted a gesture to express my feelings right now. Desire was a weight.
I turned toward the entrance of the arts center, and did not look back again, although I wanted to, very much.
Chapter 8
My voice felt clogged after the mysterious food and the amuse-bouche. My body was sluggish. No one was happy with how I sang, I least of all. So far, Régine had not referred to my return to rehearsal after the demon incident, but it was hardly important compared to how badly I was singing.
We worked on Act II, at the tavern of Lilas Pastias, where Carmen and her gypsy girlfriends, Frasquita and Mercédès, were solicited by their smuggler pals to pull another run. Carmen said she wasn’t interested, because she was waiting for Don José to get out of prison. But they all danced. We only had a small bit of singing to go through, because the dancing was the part that needed the most rehearsal. Every stage was different, so the director had someone mark the rehearsal hall floor with tape to show where we were to stand. Once we got through our singing parts successfully, the dance instructor would work with us to get the moves down.
Instead of a rich tone, all I could produce was a thread of strained sound. I wasn’t even on pitch. After a few minutes of trying, I began to mark, to merely say the lines instead of trying to sing them full out. For some reason, I simply could not sing at all this afternoon.
Régine stopped the rehearsal. “What’s happened to your voice?”
“I have no idea.” I put a hand to my head shakily. I had ascribed all my odd bodily symptoms to the overload of desire zinging between me and Dex, but perhaps I had been mistaken.
“Allergies?” Holly, the soprano who played Frasquita suggested.
I nodded slowly. “It could be.”
Régine said, “Let’s continue to the end of the singing part, anyway. Daylia, can you go on, or do you actually feel ill?”
I fought down the lightheadedness and a growing weakness in my limbs. No one would ever call me a slacker. “I can continue.” My voice croaked. I was shocked. I sounded worse than a few minutes ago. “It must be pollen.”
Louis was hanging out with us although his part wasn’t until later in the act. He said, “Tree pollen, plus all the double cherries are in bloom. I’ve got some allergy medicine with me if you want to try it. Over-the-counter stuff, but it works.”
I refused, not wanting to dose myself. We played out the scene, but I continued to mark my singing part, saying it instead of singing full out. My throat persisted in closing over, and then even my ability to mark dried up.
Régine stopped us again. “You should go to the Emergency Room. You’re having a serious attack.”
I tried to gasp out a refusal, but I couldn’t speak at all now. My eyes felt swollen and must have reflected my horror.
Louis put an arm around me. “Here, drink some water.” He offered me his plastic bottle.
Régine said, “I’m calling 911. You need help right now.”
I held onto Louis, terrified. He led me to the nearest chair. This had never happened to me. All singers had moments when some environmental thing bothered us. A dry theater. Cold air. Fake smoke or fog. I put a hand to my throat, where it felt as if a vice was squeezing me.
“Does anyone have an EpiPen?” Louis shouted. “We don’t have time to wait for the EMTs.”
Régine put out a call that patched in to the public address system in the building. She repeated Louis’ urgent cry.
The lightheaded feeling overcame me. I felt myself slump in the folding chair. Someone screamed.
***
I woke flat on my back. Something covered my nose and mouth, but I could breathe again. An oxygen mask. A stocky woman in uniform bent over me. “Honey, can you hear me? Can you talk?”
“I—what happened?” I groaned and tried to sit up, but the woman easily pushed me back to a lying position with her one strong hand.
“Good. She’s responsive now. You f
ainted. Have you been dieting? Did you eat lunch?”
“I—something I ate? A delayed reaction?”
“Or could you be pregnant?” the EMT asked.
I felt the blood rush to my face in embarrassment. I signaled a negative with a curt shake of my head. She asked more questions, wanting me to tell her the date and who the president of the United States was, and my birthday. I sat up, despite her efforts to restrain me. “I am recovered now.” I took off the mask. “It must have been a reaction to something I ate for lunch.”
The EMT regarded me dubiously. “You should go to the ER and get checked out. People don’t faint without there being a cause.” She’d already pricked my finger and declared my blood sugar low.
Remembering the gourmet oddities at lunch, I said, “I ate strange food, that’s all. I’m fine now.” My voice had returned, and with it, my strength. Something at lunch must have caused my reaction, but now that was over.
I had to argue with the EMTs and with Régine, who surprised me with the amount of concern she showed about my physical health. I’d never thought of her as a particularly caring person, not that I blamed her for being cold. She was a woman minority in a tough man’s world, so she had to keep it together and be unbending. There were very few female opera directors. I won the argument because my voice had come back. The lightheadedness had vanished, too. The EMTs urged me to see my own doctor, and I politely thanked them. I had no intention of seeing a doctor.
The EMTs left, but Régine refused to allow me to continue to rehearse. “I’m in charge here,” she said, not unkindly. “What I say goes. You take off the rest of the day. I suggest you call a friend to stay with you tonight. You shouldn’t be alone. Make sure you see a doctor before you come back.”
I called Gayle, of course. She’d stayed overnight at my place many times, and I at hers. I arranged for a taxi to take me home. I also remembered to thank everyone for their concern, especially Louis. “Did you actually shoot me up with an EpiPen?” I asked.
“I would have, but you were still breathing. Régine thought it would be too dangerous. You should get some rest. Maybe go see a doctor, too.” He said it wryly, knowing I never went to doctors.
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