silver. She gave them hymns, arias, a ballad from
West Side Story
, Mozart, and Ravel. Through all of her nimble, radiant, flawless singing, Daphne became increasingly conscious of the heat she felt through Malachy’s sleeve.
When Esme finished, the audience stood abruptly and roared. Flashbulbs popped. One man stood on his chair and shouted
“Bellissima!”
at the top of his lungs. The singer bowed, blew kisses, applauded her accompanist. He was handsome, with cascading black hair and a beatnik goatee, but he was slight in build, and when he stood beside Esme, he looked like a page to her warrior princess. They held hands and bowed together. The applause did not fade. Then she spoke into his ear and, as he returned to his gleaming instrument, gestured that the audience should sit.
Like a roomful of children promised sweets by their teacher, the hundreds of spectators became instantly still and took their seats. Esme watched her pianist until he nodded. The piano began slowly, the notes sparse and halting; Esme’s voice emerged with a sleepy languor. She sang,
“J’ai compris ta détresse, cher amoureux …”
In its first lines, the song sounded decorous; Esme’s smile was coy.
Glancing down, Daphne saw that her left hand was only an inch from Malachy’s right. She returned her attention to Esme. The song began to unfurl, its tones warming in response to the passion in its plea, like a dress being gradually unfastened. Esme’s French was so pristine that Daphne could hear every word, could even translate most of the lyrics.
“Loin de nous la sagesse, plus de tristesse.”
Far from us wisdom, farther still sadness.
Carefully, she allowed her hand to roll sideways until it rested against Malachy’s, in the narrow cleft between their thighs. If she were a fool, he would snatch his hand away. But he didn’t, and while his entire focus remained gravely on Esme—Daphne glanced sideways for only an instant—his hand lay against hers for the remainder of the song.
I surrender to your wishes
, sang Esme, leaning down toward the audience so that her breasts, barely contained, must have been almost entirely visible to those in the front center rows.
Make me your mistress
, she beseeched the handsome man in the plaid jacket, who happened to be in the front row. Then she leaned back, eyelids loweredin rapture, as the song rose to a rapid crescendo and plummeted to its blunt finale.
Esme bowed sharply the minute the pianist played the last note, and once again—more hysterically, if possible—the audience exploded. But this time the pair of performers, in single file, left the stage.
Daphne’s and Malachy’s hands had risen instantly to join the applause, but Daphne’s held the memory of his (so much warmer than hers). What a relief that her virulent blush might honestly be seen as a response to the performance.
“What was that song?” she asked him when the applause had faded just enough to permit conversation. (It continued for a long time beyond Esme’s exit. Daphne’s palms were so sore that she had to press them against her hips.)
“I have no idea, but man, whatever it was, it ought to be a controlled substance. She’d better lock her door tonight.” He laughed briefly. “Or not.”
They filed out of their row and walked side by side on the pebbled path that led toward the girls’ dorm and, farther along, the estate’s old dairy barn, where the boys endured primitive sleeping quarters in scarcely converted stalls.
“I feel like my ears caught fire,” he said. “Like I need to put them out.”
“I know what you mean,” she said.
They walked fast, arms folded tight against the chill, silent till they reached the fork in the path. Now, she thought. She didn’t have to stretch far to kiss him on the cheek. When he reacted by stepping backward, off the path, she was mortified.
He looked at the ground, but when he raised his face, his expression was happy. He stepped close again and kissed
West Side Story
, Mozart, and Ravel. Through all of her nimble, radiant, flawless singing, Daphne became increasingly conscious of the heat she felt through Malachy’s sleeve.
When Esme finished, the audience stood abruptly and roared. Flashbulbs popped. One man stood on his chair and shouted
“Bellissima!”
at the top of his lungs. The singer bowed, blew kisses, applauded her accompanist. He was handsome, with cascading black hair and a beatnik goatee, but he was slight in build, and when he stood beside Esme, he looked like a page to her warrior princess. They held hands and bowed together. The applause did not fade. Then she spoke into his ear and, as he returned to his gleaming instrument, gestured that the audience should sit.
Like a roomful of children promised sweets by their teacher, the hundreds of spectators became instantly still and took their seats. Esme watched her pianist until he nodded. The piano began slowly, the notes sparse and halting; Esme’s voice emerged with a sleepy languor. She sang,
“J’ai compris ta détresse, cher amoureux …”
In its first lines, the song sounded decorous; Esme’s smile was coy.
Glancing down, Daphne saw that her left hand was only an inch from Malachy’s right. She returned her attention to Esme. The song began to unfurl, its tones warming in response to the passion in its plea, like a dress being gradually unfastened. Esme’s French was so pristine that Daphne could hear every word, could even translate most of the lyrics.
“Loin de nous la sagesse, plus de tristesse.”
Far from us wisdom, farther still sadness.
Carefully, she allowed her hand to roll sideways until it rested against Malachy’s, in the narrow cleft between their thighs. If she were a fool, he would snatch his hand away. But he didn’t, and while his entire focus remained gravely on Esme—Daphne glanced sideways for only an instant—his hand lay against hers for the remainder of the song.
I surrender to your wishes
, sang Esme, leaning down toward the audience so that her breasts, barely contained, must have been almost entirely visible to those in the front center rows.
Make me your mistress
, she beseeched the handsome man in the plaid jacket, who happened to be in the front row. Then she leaned back, eyelids loweredin rapture, as the song rose to a rapid crescendo and plummeted to its blunt finale.
Esme bowed sharply the minute the pianist played the last note, and once again—more hysterically, if possible—the audience exploded. But this time the pair of performers, in single file, left the stage.
Daphne’s and Malachy’s hands had risen instantly to join the applause, but Daphne’s held the memory of his (so much warmer than hers). What a relief that her virulent blush might honestly be seen as a response to the performance.
“What was that song?” she asked him when the applause had faded just enough to permit conversation. (It continued for a long time beyond Esme’s exit. Daphne’s palms were so sore that she had to press them against her hips.)
“I have no idea, but man, whatever it was, it ought to be a controlled substance. She’d better lock her door tonight.” He laughed briefly. “Or not.”
They filed out of their row and walked side by side on the pebbled path that led toward the girls’ dorm and, farther along, the estate’s old dairy barn, where the boys endured primitive sleeping quarters in scarcely converted stalls.
“I feel like my ears caught fire,” he said. “Like I need to put them out.”
“I know what you mean,” she said.
They walked fast, arms folded tight against the chill, silent till they reached the fork in the path. Now, she thought. She didn’t have to stretch far to kiss him on the cheek. When he reacted by stepping backward, off the path, she was mortified.
He looked at the ground, but when he raised his face, his expression was happy. He stepped close again and kissed
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