development with the Long Beach Opera was interesting, but not of much concern. High time someone paid real attention to Christine’s remarkable vocal gifts, and he was interested to see how the audition turned out.
Curious on a purely intellectual level, of course. By the time the opera was cast, let alone staged, Miss Daly would have disappeared from the scene, much to the bemusement of her friends and colleagues. Perhaps one day she might be able to return to the opera scene, but first of course she had to prove her loyalty...prove her love.
Yes, Christine would have to prove she was completely his before she could ever be allowed to return to the world.
Chapter 8
The offices of the Long Beach Opera were located in the heart of the city in an area of gleaming high-rises and expensive-looking restaurants. Of course there was no street parking to be had, so I pulled reluctantly around to the back, where I took a ticket from the attendant with a silent prayer that they would at least validate.
It seemed a little odd to be holding auditions here, in what clearly were administrative offices, but perhaps they had a recital chamber somewhere on the premises. After a quick glance in the rearview mirror to make sure my lipstick was still intact and my unruly hair no more than usually mussed, I gathered up my purse and the worn briefcase that held my musical scores, took a deep breath, and headed toward the elevators.
The building lobby was impressively bland, with slick polished travertine on the floors and walls and a security guard who sat at a desk half-hidden by a series of potted palms. He gave me a bored look, and I returned a slight smile even as I hoped that he wouldn’t read my nervousness as suspicious behavior. Apparently not, for he looked away almost immediately and returned his attention to the newspaper spread out before him.
Between the two elevators was a building directory that showed the Long Beach Opera offices as being located on the fifth floor. I pressed the button, started to bite my lower lip, then stopped, realizing that all I’d accomplish was to chew off my carefully applied lipstick.
Before I really wanted it to, the elevator reached the lobby, its doors opening. I had to pause to let a brittle-looking woman with over-streaked hair exit the elevator, but then I had it to myself.
As luck would have it, no one else had called for the elevator, so I rode smoothly to the fifth floor, all the while trying to keep my breathing calm and unhurried. I don’t know what it was with auditions, but I tended to let them get to me more than they should. It always seemed as if they were vitally important to my continued existence as a singer, even though I knew intellectually that not even the most gifted performer won every role and that my voice, good as it was, was not perfectly suited to every role for which I tried out.
Meg once tried to feed me some psycho-babble about fear of rejection stemming from the loss of my parents, but I hadn’t let the conversation get very far. Who knows—maybe she was even right. Over the years I had resisted the efforts of well-meaning school counselors and psychologists to get me into therapy, thinking it all a waste of time. No amount of talking was going to bring my parents back, and in the meantime I’d had papers and tests and concerts to worry about. Even Meg had finally given up once she’d realized that particular topic of conversation was a guaranteed dead-end.
The elevator doors slid open, and I stepped out directly into a reception area. It was furnished with considerably more personality than the lobby downstairs; the couches were covered in a vibrant if tasteful modern print in jewel tones that matched the posters advertising various Long Beach Opera productions on the walls, and a gorgeous orchid bloomed on the receptionist’s desk. She looked up as I entered, her gaze friendly if a bit curious.
I approached the desk with what I hoped
Curious on a purely intellectual level, of course. By the time the opera was cast, let alone staged, Miss Daly would have disappeared from the scene, much to the bemusement of her friends and colleagues. Perhaps one day she might be able to return to the opera scene, but first of course she had to prove her loyalty...prove her love.
Yes, Christine would have to prove she was completely his before she could ever be allowed to return to the world.
Chapter 8
The offices of the Long Beach Opera were located in the heart of the city in an area of gleaming high-rises and expensive-looking restaurants. Of course there was no street parking to be had, so I pulled reluctantly around to the back, where I took a ticket from the attendant with a silent prayer that they would at least validate.
It seemed a little odd to be holding auditions here, in what clearly were administrative offices, but perhaps they had a recital chamber somewhere on the premises. After a quick glance in the rearview mirror to make sure my lipstick was still intact and my unruly hair no more than usually mussed, I gathered up my purse and the worn briefcase that held my musical scores, took a deep breath, and headed toward the elevators.
The building lobby was impressively bland, with slick polished travertine on the floors and walls and a security guard who sat at a desk half-hidden by a series of potted palms. He gave me a bored look, and I returned a slight smile even as I hoped that he wouldn’t read my nervousness as suspicious behavior. Apparently not, for he looked away almost immediately and returned his attention to the newspaper spread out before him.
Between the two elevators was a building directory that showed the Long Beach Opera offices as being located on the fifth floor. I pressed the button, started to bite my lower lip, then stopped, realizing that all I’d accomplish was to chew off my carefully applied lipstick.
Before I really wanted it to, the elevator reached the lobby, its doors opening. I had to pause to let a brittle-looking woman with over-streaked hair exit the elevator, but then I had it to myself.
As luck would have it, no one else had called for the elevator, so I rode smoothly to the fifth floor, all the while trying to keep my breathing calm and unhurried. I don’t know what it was with auditions, but I tended to let them get to me more than they should. It always seemed as if they were vitally important to my continued existence as a singer, even though I knew intellectually that not even the most gifted performer won every role and that my voice, good as it was, was not perfectly suited to every role for which I tried out.
Meg once tried to feed me some psycho-babble about fear of rejection stemming from the loss of my parents, but I hadn’t let the conversation get very far. Who knows—maybe she was even right. Over the years I had resisted the efforts of well-meaning school counselors and psychologists to get me into therapy, thinking it all a waste of time. No amount of talking was going to bring my parents back, and in the meantime I’d had papers and tests and concerts to worry about. Even Meg had finally given up once she’d realized that particular topic of conversation was a guaranteed dead-end.
The elevator doors slid open, and I stepped out directly into a reception area. It was furnished with considerably more personality than the lobby downstairs; the couches were covered in a vibrant if tasteful modern print in jewel tones that matched the posters advertising various Long Beach Opera productions on the walls, and a gorgeous orchid bloomed on the receptionist’s desk. She looked up as I entered, her gaze friendly if a bit curious.
I approached the desk with what I hoped
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