Kimberly Stuart (20 page)

He shook his head, ignoring me. “God's blessed you something fierce.”

“Thank you, Mac.” I looked down, blushing in spite of myself. Very seldom in my line of work did one get to see such unabashed appreciation, no strings attached. “I wish the music industry felt as strongly as you do.”

He shrugged. “Why does it matter what they think?”

“Well,” I sputtered, “they're the ones who control my income. They butter my bread, so to speak.”

“Not really,” he said. “If God can take care of the lilies, I think He can handle a feisty soprano. Even one with commitment issues.”

“Cute,” I said, turning to gather my things on the pew. “I appreciate your pithy sayings, Mac, but the point,
again
, is that we don't understand each other.”

“That's funny,” he said. He'd planted himself in front of me and was making no effort to let me pass. “I see it more that we understand each other perfectly. So perfectly, in fact, that it scares you.”

I scoffed. “It
scares
me?” I said, a little too loudly because a rowdy group of high schoolers talking near the back turned to watch. I lowered my voice. “What are you now, Dr. Phil?”

“Close,” he said, grinning. “Dr. Mac. Hey, that has a nice ring to it. Dr. Mac, relationship consultant.”

I shook my head in exasperation. “I have to go.” I pushed past him, gently so as not to be the reality show for the Calvary Baptist youth group.

He pulled me back toward him. Before I could push back, he leaned down and planted one right on my lips, right in front of a gaggle of open-mouthed freshman girls. He pulled back quickly and said, “I know you do, dang it.” And then he strode past me and up the aisle. His posture was brooding but he still gave a high five to a grinning boy on his way out.

If I'd been a preschooler, I would have stomped my foot and huffed. I had to settle for an internal huff as the teenyboppers were watching for their next installment. I lifted my chin and walked ceremoniously out of the sanctuary, poised and lovely in my silk and inwardly thinking,
Two. More. Weeks.

The Show Must Go On

Mallory rolled her head slowly in an arc from shoulder to shoulder, attempting to loosen the muscles in her neck. The soft lighting in the green room of Moravia's Great Hall contrasted sharply with the stage lights she was readying herself to face.

“You look exquisite,” I said, admiring the fresh, young face. Her expression betrayed a bit of anxiety but mostly excitement for her junior recital. “And it's not just the dress, although you were right about that, too.”

Her eyes shone, luminous and warm with shadow and liner. The dress she'd raved about made her look every part the sophisticated professional. I was pleased, considering I'd seen my share of bad prom dresses on this very stage during the last few weeks of year-end performances. A curvaceous soprano the week prior had glided onstage in a full-length sequined fuchsia gown, low cut and trimmed with feathers. I hadn't heard a single note due to the strobe-light effect every time the girl moved.

Mallory smoothed her pleated bodice and rested her hands on an impossibly small waist. “Thank you.” She sang a rapid scale on
mi
. “I can't believe I'm this nervous.”

“Happens to the best of us.”

“Really?” Her eyes widened, temporarily distracted from her own woes.

“Absolutely,” I said. “I spent the first ten years of my career downing anti-anxiety medication before each performance. Don't even get me started on how many
very famous
people, who will remain nameless, rely on everything from hypnosis to Vicodin to get through the stress of performing.”

She let out a deep exhale. “I think I'll run to the restroom. It's what—ten minutes to curtain?”

“Take your time. Walk slowly and like you're not one bit nervous. Lots of times the body can persuade the mind.”

“We'll see,” she said. She walked carefully to the door and slipped out.

I was sitting on the couch, nursing my chilled spring water with lemon, when the door flew open and Mallory scurried in. She shut the door and blocked it with her body. Her shoulders heaved.

“I never should have looked,” she said. Her eyes filled to brimming with tears that spilled over in a hasty exit.

I jumped up. “What? What's wrong?”

Her pretty makeup forged muddy black inlets down her cheeks and chin. I looked around frantically for a towel to bib the girl. That cream bodice was not mascara-proof.

“She isn't here. I knew it. I just
knew
it.” She slapped her hand against a nearby wall for emphasis and then winced with the pain.

“Come sit,” I commanded, glancing at the clock. Whatever this girl was talking about had to be resolved in quick order. Sounds from the quickly filling auditorium filtered through the stage door. “What happened?” I ushered her over to a small sofa by the window.

She sniffed and made a noise incongruous with the image I'd so enjoyed before she'd left the room. “My mother,” she said, already sounding nasal. “My self-absorbed mother is not here. I saw my dad in the hallway and I could tell by his face.” She took the tissue I held out to her. “He said”—she paused to blow—“he said she called to ask for my address to send a dozen roses. Can you believe that?” A fresh wave of tears fell down her cheeks. “She wants to send roses instead of coming to the single most important night of my life but she doesn't even have her own daughter's address.”

I pulled her to me. “I'm so sorry, Mallory.” She wept on my shoulder, which I'd preemptively covered with my shawl in case of snot. “People can be heartless, even people we love.”

She sniffled on my shoulder for a few moments and then sighed deeply. Her shoulders trembled with the release of tension. “I can't do this.”

I shifted in my seat and gently nudged her to face me. “Yes, you can.”

She shook her head. Her lower lip trembled. “I can't. I don't even want to.”

“Now, just a minute,” I said in my newly acquired professor voice. “You have worked tirelessly the last few months to prepare for this evening. Not to mention all the years of preparation it took to get to this point. The lessons, the exams, the smelly practice rooms.” I wrinkled my nose and she risked a small laugh. “You cannot let a woman who is not willing or ready to recognize your worth destroy what you've worked so hard for.” I swallowed hard, suddenly and unfortunately hit with the similarities between the hurt I saw in Mallory's eyes and what I'd seen in Mac's that Sunday. “Believe me. Speaking as a person well-versed in the art of self-absorption, you shouldn't let people like us ruin your day.”

She shook her head. “You're not like her. She never knew the right thing to say.”

Well. Now. That was a first. Sadie Maddox, knowing the right thing to say.

I glanced at the clock. “We have three minutes.” I reached for my purse and unloaded a heap of cosmetics on the small coffee table in front of us. I looked her in the blotchy red eyes. “Ready?”

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she opened them again, they were clear and determined, much like the day I first saw her in the choir room. This girl was going to be a force, whether her mother acknowledged Mallory's brilliance or not. I hoped she would come to her senses before Mallory closed the door for good.

“I'm ready,” she said and made her face a blank slate for my powder.

Mallory shone that evening. She sang the baroque selections at the beginning with poise and elegance. The German
lieder
became progressively more passionate, and by the finale—a heart-wrenching aria from Floyd's
Susannah
—my cheeks were stained with the tears of a proud teacher. Mallory called me up onto the stage after her encore, a comedic number from a favorite musical. I hugged her fiercely and said into her ear, above the applause, “I have never been more proud.”

She grinned and kissed me on the cheek. We faced the audience, hand in hand and soaking up the sweetness of the moment. Right before we bowed together, I saw a tall man in the back rise from his seat, don a ball cap, and slip out the door.

Ellsworth's clanking but reliable Camry coasted to a stop in front of the sign reading
Departures, All Airlines.
I sat with one hand on the door handle, still amazed at the virtual absence of human traffic in the Maplewood Airport. I heard some quiet sniffling and turned to see Ellsworth reaching for a Kleenex from a crocheted box on the dash.

“I'm sorry,” she said, blotting her eyes. She blew loudly into the tissue but her perm remained strangely unmoved. “I'm not very adept at good-byes.”

I reached out to pat her arm, which brought about a new wave of tears. “You've been very kind to me, Ms. Ellsworth, and I will always appreciate that.”

She drew in a long, shaky breath. “Of course, this isn't good-bye forever.” Her smile revealed a smudge of coral lipstick on her front teeth. “The dean said you'll consider being a part of our concert series next year, is that right?”

She looked so hopeful and that lipstick was so pathetically Merle Norman, my nod was decisive. “Absolutely. Just remind Dean Johnson to call my agent. I'll e-mail you her contact information.”

“Wonderful. Now, that is
wonderful
.” Ellsworth extracted another Kleenex from the box and folded it once before dabbing at her wet eyes. “Well, Miss Maddox, you have been a delight to have on campus. I wish you all the best.” The last sentence was nothing short of a squeak. Ellsworth threw herself at me across the middle console and wrapped me in an awkward but determined hug.

“Thank—thank you, Ms. Ellsworth,” I said, coughing to relieve the pressure she was putting on my neck. She relented and I patted her back in gratitude. She inhaled a few of those convulsive breaths one has to endure after tears have subsided.

“No,” she said. She pulled away but kept her hands on my shoulders. “Thank
you
. Our students simply glowed after spending time with you. Especially Mallory Knight.”

I smiled at the thought of Mallory, the student I'd first thought most qualified to inspire an Aaron Spelling television series but who ended up showing me why people languished on in the field of education.

“She's applying to Juilliard, Eastman, and Curtis for vocal performance. Did she tell you?”

I felt my heart surge and my eyes widen in pleasant surprise. “No, she didn't. But I'm very, very pleased.” I watched a mother and her small child cross the street and giggle as they turned in the revolving door. “I wouldn't say it about many people, but Mallory will be able to make a career out of her singing and do it well.”

“She was lucky to have you come along at just the right moment. The day before you arrived, she was headed to the registrar to change her major to accounting.”

I laughed. “I'm glad I got there in time.”

Ellsworth turned to me abruptly. “Well. I'll help you with your luggage.” She bounded out of the car, black pumps in motion, and popped the trunk. We wrestled together to get my two suitcases into standing position on the asphalt.

I hugged Ellsworth gently and quickly, said a cheery good-bye and pulled my gear toward the check-in. It occurred to me that four months before, when I'd looked at Ellsworth, I had seen merely a bad perm, worse shoes, and a sequestered midwesterner in need of an urban experience. That final morning in Maplewood, though, I knew the sinking feeling in my chest was one of genuine affection—for Ellsworth, for my students, and quietly but stubbornly refusing to go away, for a veterinarian whom I hadn't called to bid farewell.

“Destination?” The redhead behind the counter continued typing madly on the black keys before her. Her eyes had not left her computer monitor. Apparently, airline behavior was standardized across time zones.

I stood for a moment, lost in thought.

“Ma'am?”

I focused on the redhead's face. She waited, hands poised above the keys.

“LaGuardia Airport, New York City.”

There's No Business

The sound of my three-inch strappy summer heels clicked through the otherwise empty corridor. I took a deep breath, trying to calm my heart rate after a particularly hectic morning. Four months in Maplewood had numbed me to the fact that getting places in New York required an amount of time defying spatial logic. I'd been back in the city for three weeks and was gradually finding my way back to my old routine. After two meals at Jasmine, daily trips to my beloved grocery where I purchased four types of hard cheeses from Holland, and a ballet at Lincoln Center, I was feeling at home once more. Some things, though, had taken a bit of acclimation. The caking of city grime on my face and feet caused a twinge of longing for the clean—though pig-infused—air of Iowa. The complete lack of silence at any time of day, in any part of the city, was an adjustment I hadn't anticipated. I'd taken up scouring menus and grocery stores for a
real
pork chop. And the need to leave one's apartment an hour before an appointment, even if the meeting place was less than a mile away, had caused me to be late to the first meeting of the rest of my career.

While still in Maplewood, I'd received from Judith a broad outline of the schedule for the
Pasione
tour, beginning with that morning's initial meeting. Judith and I had been playing a very long game of phone tag since I'd come back to New York, but I hadn't worried, as I knew I'd see her at that first meeting. I stopped to powder my nose and reapply my lipstick when I came to the closed door of the conference room. I could hear muffled conversation from the other side. I smoothed my skirt, fluffed my hair, and turned the knob.

My eyes swept the room, taking in the singers, noticeable for their colorful wardrobe choices and their dramatic speech mannerisms. Interspersed among the singers were dark and stuffy suits and dresses draped on agents. I scanned these and found Judith at the end of the table, sandwiched between two pretty girls, one with dark short hair and the other with a long curly blonde mane. The blonde nudged Judith when she saw me striding toward them, smiling and feeling the world was my new Italian language oyster.

“Good morning,” I sang out, feeling all the tension and worry of the last months dissipate in the face of this new job, the perfect job for this time of my life.

Judith looked at me, and her face paled. “Sadie. You're,
ehm
, here.”

“Of course I'm here,” I said. My smile spread to the others in the room when I realized they were watching us with interest. “I got your e-mail and found the place with no problem.” I pulled up a chair from the perimeter and scooted it in between Judith and the blonde. “When do we start?” I asked, my voice hushed to encourage all the silent people to go back to their own conversations.

The dark-haired woman sitting next to Judith snickered and then put a hand over her mouth.

“Sadie,” Judith said carefully, “I'm not sure what e-mail you're referring to.”

“The one you sent about a month back. The preliminary schedule for the
Pasione
gig.” I took a sharp breath. “Oh, no. Did I read it wrong? Is this meeting for something else? Like support staff? Chorus singers?”

The blonde sat back in her chair and smirked. Honestly, these people were starting to annoy me.

Judith pushed back her chair. “Sadie, can I see you out in the hall?”

I felt my heart drop to my stomach. “Of course,” I said, following her out of the room and trying to ignore the flock of stares and giggles that accompanied me.

“What's going on?” I demanded once the door was closed. “Who are those people and what is their problem?”

“Sadie, I don't know how this got miscommunicated, but you have not been asked to be a part of
Pasione
.”

“What?” I sputtered. “But you said—”

Judith shook her head. “In the very, very early stages, I inquired about you as a possibility. But the producers were looking for something different. New talent, up-and-coming, fresh faces. You were just too …” she searched for the word, “old establishment.”

“Old establishment?” I shrieked. “I'm only forty years old!” My hand felt for the wall near me and I leaned on it for support.

“I know, I know.” Judith's voice took on the well-practiced tone of a woman who knows how to placate people. “It's entirely unfair. But it's a business decision and they have their ticket sales to consider.”

“But I moved back to New York …” I trailed off. My head was spinning and I worried I might be sick.

“Listen, there will be other things.” Judith peeked in the window on the door of the conference room. “I have some calls in to area churches for their spring concert series. And we can try to rebuild your opera presence through some smaller venues.”

I concentrated on breathing in, breathing out.

“I'll call you,” she said. She leaned over to kiss me on both cheeks. I didn't even bother reciprocating. “So sorry about the confusion.” She heaved open the door and I caught a glimpse of a few snickering children before the door slammed behind her.

“Sadie, honey, pick up the phone.”

Richard's voice on the answering machine cut through my fog and I tried in vain to open one eye.

“Sadie, pick up, babe. I've tried your cell and it goes to voice mail. I know you're home and avoiding me. Pick up.”

I flopped over to my other side and pulled the covers more tightly around my chin. Still he prattled on.

“That's it. I'm coming over. Pick up, or I'm coming over.”

I could feel my numbed head slipping back toward sleep.

“This is your last chance,” I heard through the blankets that draped over my ear, right before I spiraled downward once more into a colorless dream.

When I opened my eyes again, the room was washed in the ochre of an early summer evening. After a moment of gathering my thoughts to my room … my building, twelfth floor … Upper West Side … Manhattan, I realized someone or something was pounding on the apartment door.

“Sadie, open this blasted thing!” Panic poured out of Richard's voice and under my covers. I pushed myself up and willed my legs over the side of the bed. My socks padded over the tile in the entry way and my hands protested the sudden need for strength as I fumbled with the locks on the door.

“Oh, thank
God
,” Richard exhaled when I opened the door. He threw himself into my arms, which were in no condition to be catching a melodramatic ex-husband. “I thought you'd given up.” He sniffled into my hair. “The Brooklyn Bridge, the tracks of the A train, Empire State.”

I pulled away and stared at him. “What are you talking about?”

“Suicide!” he said, exasperated at my daftness. “I thought you just couldn't take it anymore.”

“So you've heard,” I said. I pulled away from his sloppy embrace and shuffled to the kitchen. I lifted my teapot from the stove and let it fall to my side as I dragged it and my body to the sink.

Richard perched on one of the barstools on the other side of the counter. “Roxanne at the Met called me. I'm so sorry, sweetheart.”

I looked up at him from the gushing faucet. “Roxanne at the Met? How did she know?”

He shrugged. “I don't know. Judith? Mary? Steven Michaels is the artistic director of
Pasione
and he's an old friend of Roxanne's husband.”

I slammed down the faucet handle. “Fantastic. Mr. Roxanne, whoever he is, knows I am once again snubbed for a good role. Perhaps I should just get it over with and rent an ad in the
Times
declaring myself a formerly successful singer in search of work.” I banged the teapot down on the burner and flipped on the gas flame. “But beware, I would say. I'm one heck of a liability, now that I'm forty. I fire my agents on a whim, I've lived in Iowa,
and
I'm part of the ‘old establishment.'” I made violent quotation marks with my fingers as I spoke.

“Darling, calm down.” Richard bit his lower lip and glanced at the teapot warming on the stove. “Your tea will be ready soon and we'll just sit and have a chat.”

“I don't
want
to sit and have a chat.” The emotional fatigue from the last few months collapsed within me and reformed into a wild, frustrated volcano. “I'm tired of chatting. I want to have people like my singing again, dang it!”

“We do, we do,” Richard said, coming around the counter. He came to put an arm around me where I stood glaring at the teapot. “We do love your singing.”

“Who loves my singing?” I furrowed my brow in a pout.

“I do, for one,” Richard turned me toward him and I put my head on his shoulder. “A legion of loyal fans. Scores of musicians. Judith.”

“Judith betrayed me,” I said into his shirt.

“Are you sure?”

“No, but she could have returned my calls.” I felt tears sting my eyes when I pictured again the smug looks on the faces in the conference room.

“She could have and she should have,” Richard said and then sighed dramatically. “At least we always have each other.”

I studied his face and felt my pulse quicken. “Not really.”

His smile drooped. “Pardon?”

“We don't really have each other, do we, Richard?” I asked softly. “We tried once, it didn't work, and I think I've been putting everything on hold since then.”

“What are you talking about?” he said, worried. “We date other people.”

“No,
you
date other people. Adolescents. Whatever. But I don't. I've defined myself as what I do, rather than whom I love, the family I create. And you, Richard, are my only family.”

“Is that so bad?” His tone was injured.

“It wouldn't be if we were still a couple.”

“You want to get back together?” Fear streaked across his face.

“Good gracious, no,” I laughed and he relaxed. “No need to repeat bad history.” I looked away and shook my head. “He was right,” I said quietly.

“Who was right?”

“Mac.”

Richard paused and then, “Mac the pickup truck man?”

I nodded.

“Right about what?” he asked.

I shifted my gaze back to Richard. “Lots of things. But one of them was that I need to move on. From this.” I gestured from myself to Richard.

He leaned back on the counter and shook his head. “I think Iowa screwed you up. No,” he said, thinking twice, “I think it started even earlier. It was the John the Baptist Christmas Eve, wasn't it?” He nodded knowingly. “You've been loopy ever since.”

I thought a moment. “You might be right. John did have an effect on me, though I think I'm just now starting to figure it out.” I stepped forward and hugged my dear, sweet, narcissistic but endearing ex-husband. “We've been good friends, in our own, self-absorbed, needy ways.”

He snickered into my hair.

I pulled back. “And I'll always love you for your many, many years of friendship, thick and thin. But,” I took a deep breath and exhaled. The corners of my mouth curved upward and I said, “I think it's time for act two.”

That night, I sat on my bed, my room lit only by two muted bedside lamps. I held in my hands the small, leather-bound Bible Jayne had sneaked into one of my suitcases the day I'd jumped ship to the hotel. I'd left it in the outside pocket of that bag until this very moment. I opened the cover carefully, as if nervous that John the Baptist himself would come barreling out if I moved too quickly. The smell of new pages lifted up from the book. I ran one hand slowly down the title page. On the inside of the cover, Jayne's handwriting bore a blessing.

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. Then you will call upon me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you. You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart.” Jeremiah 29:11–13.