EntangledTrio (15 page)

Wet-blanket humidity whapped David in the face as he dragged himself and his luggage out to the cabstand at Ezeiza International Airport. Jesus, it had to be at least eighty-five degrees, and all the clothes in his bag were for winter in Paris—nothing but turtlenecks and long-sleeved shirts. Idiot that he was, he’d forgotten about the reversal of seasons. Down here, February was high summer.

So he stood sweltering in his wool slacks and fleece-lined jacket as he waited his turn for a cab. By the time he finally piled inside an air-conditioned Mercedes SUV, he felt as if he’d taken a bath fully clothed. Then came the challenge of telling the cabbie where he wanted to go in his rudimentary high school Spanish. In the end, he pulled out the hotel map he’d picked up in the airport’s baggage claim area and pointed.

Merritt wasn’t kidding—the
Hotel Sofitel
was indeed pretty damn luxurious, all black and white art deco in the lobby, with impeccably trained staff. At least the front desk people spoke English. The bell captain himself escorted David up to his room—or rather, his suite, complete with king-sized bed, an enormous sitting room, a Steinway piano and a very pleasant view of the Plaza San Martin. There was also a wet bar, not to mention a huge bathroom with a shower big enough to hold an entire family. No object ever created had looked more inviting.

He stripped off his sweat-drenched clothes and climbed in, sagging against the cool tile while the water pounded down on him. Then he toweled off with plush Egyptian cotton, threw on one of the hotel’s monogrammed Turkish terrycloth robes and strolled out onto the balcony.

Traffic sounds were the same the world over, a cacophony of beeping horns and screeching brakes that normally would’ve woken him right up, but not after thirteen-plus hours in the air. It’d take him a few days before he got over the jet lag. That was what he hated most about air travel—the lingering grogginess and disorientation. His surroundings still seemed vaguely unreal.

Except for the bed. Bone-weary, David sank onto it gratefully, eyes drifting shut the moment his skin kissed the smooth cream-colored cotton sheets. It felt like five minutes later when he jerked awake, the room now fully dark, his stomach snarling like a jungle cat. He reached out next to him from pure habit, but grasped only a handful of rumpled covers.

Oh this was fucking ridiculous. He should just call Aleks and Colette and beg their forgiveness, promise anything to get back in their good graces. He flicked on the light and grabbed his discarded slacks, fumbling in the pocket for his cell phone. But his heart lurched when he saw “No Service” flashing in the menu bar.
Fuck!
It had never occurred to him the damn thing wouldn’t work down here. He’d have to go buy a new one tomorrow, along with some summer clothes.

Or he could use the room phone. And he would have, if the utter futility of what he’d just contemplated hadn’t just smacked him like a fist. What was he going to do, cancel the engagement now that he’d made the flight down? Shoot himself in the foot with Pappano, and screw any chance he had for a top-flight international career? He’d made his choice back in Paris. Like it or not, there was no reneging now.

His stomach rumbled again, prompting him to reach for the room service menu on the bedside table. Damn thing was fifty pages long, mostly because it was printed in five languages. He picked up the phone and ordered a salad and a pot of coffee. Might as well get in some practice at the piano. Rehearsals started in three days, and he didn’t have his role committed to memory yet.

Half an hour until his meal was ready, the room service operator informed him in heavily accented English. With a sigh, David hung up and wandered out into the living area. All this space, just for him. The thought alone made him ache inside. Good thing he’d have work to keep him busy. It was already starting to look like a very long, lonely eight weeks ahead.

Aleks sat at his desk studying a Schubert symphony while Colette worked at the piano, vocalizing and brushing up on her Octavian for her next engagement at the Met. Normally he loved listening to her, but today she seemed distracted, her voice weighted with melancholy. Not difficult to figure out why.

At last she stopped playing, then turned to stare out the window. He got up and went over to her, sitting down beside her. “I haven’t seen you this blue in ages.”

Sighing, she gestured toward the open score on top of the piano. “This used to be one of my favorite roles, but now… My heart’s simply not in it. How am I supposed to play a seventeen-year-old boy in love when I feel so wretched? I should just call the Met and cancel.”

“Don’t. You’ll be fine once you get there. Besides, you’ve always loved springtime in New York.”

“But another six weeks away from you? Pure torture.”

“Angel, please. You’re just making things harder on yourself—”

“I’ve been thinking perhaps it’s time I retired.”

He stared at her. Surely she couldn’t be serious! “Colette, you’re only thirty-five. You’ve got ten or twenty good years of singing left in you, at least.”

“No matter when I leave the stage, now or twenty years from now, there’ll be dozens of other singers ready to take my place. I doubt anyone will miss me.”

“But what will you do with yourself? You’ll go mad without something to keep you occupied.”

“Oh, redecorate the apartment. Visit museums. Learn to cook. Write a memoir even I wouldn’t want to read.” She shrugged. “We’ll have plenty of time for leisure travel during the orchestra’s off-season.”

“It wouldn’t be enough, my angel. And I suspect you already know that.” He took her hand, clasping it between both of his. “Please, for my sake, don’t cancel the Met. Your opening night’s on a Friday, isn’t it? I’ll fly over and we can make a weekend of it. We’ll visit the Cloisters, the Guggenheim, your favorite Chinese restaurant. Then if you really do decide to retire, at least we’ll have given New York a proper send-off.”

She thought about it a moment, then nodded. “In that case, I’d better get back to practicing.”

“Let it go for today. You’ve still got two weeks before you have to leave. Why don’t you come out to my concert this evening? You haven’t left the apartment in days. The fresh air will do you good.”

A slow smile spread across her lips. Ah, now he had her. There was nothing she loved more than putting on a stylish gown and taking a seat in his private box. She’d always relished playing the glamorous conductor’s wife—in fact, far more than her usual role of haughty opera diva.

“Well, all right.” Now her sigh was more mocking than sincere. “If you insist.”

He grinned. “I’ll send Henri back with the car to pick you up around seven.”

Colette strolled through the Salle Pleyel’s mezzanine, sipping a glass of champagne as she listened to the buzz of voices swirling around her. She’d forgotten how relaxing it was to attend a performance she didn’t have to sing herself. She stopped near the staircase to watch the throng circulate. Men in tuxes, dark suits, jackets and jeans. Ladies in everything from formal gowns to denim skirts and flip-flops. If David were here, they’d be leaning in conspiratorially and whispering to each other, making up stories about various figures in the crowd. The things he came up with never failed to make her giggle.

But not anymore.
Damn!
One thought of him, and her mood took an immediate nosedive. And she’d been having a nice time up until now. Aleks was right. She needed to get out of the house more often. Brooding at the piano every day wasn’t doing her a bit of good.

She finished her champagne then wandered back to the bar for more. A different bartender waited on her this time—an older man with a shock of iron-gray hair and a wide, bright smile. He looked very familiar. “Ah, Madame DuPlessis! So good to see you here again. Are you enjoying the concert?”

Colette had to rack her brain for a moment or two before his name popped up. The man had been a fixture here for ages, knew everyone, and obviously never forgot a face. “Very much, Marcel. But it’s Madame Petrovsky tonight. I’m in disguise, you see,” she added with a wink. “How have you been?”

“I can’t complain. Then again, perhaps I could, but who’d want to listen?”

She laughed. “Good point.”

He got her a fresh glass and filled it to the brim. “There you go, Madame. Say hello to the maestro for me.” And then he flashed her another smile and moved on to the next customer.

Well, he certainly seemed happy. One man with a simple job to do—filling glasses and putting smiles on people’s faces. And he appeared to be the best at it. Perhaps that was the key—finding one’s niche and being content with it. As much as she’d loved performing, it had never made her particularly happy. The constant pressure to do better—more challenging roles, higher fees, the most prestigious engagements—was demoralizing and largely futile. She’d grown weary of it long before the grueling demands of travel had worn her down.

Of course, she could go on singing for another ten years, or fifteen, or twenty, but what would be the point? Unlike David, she had nothing to prove to herself or anyone else. But if being a professional singer wasn’t her true niche, then what was?

The bell rang, signaling the end of the intermission. Colette set her half-full glass on the bar and headed back to her seat in Aleks’ private box. The plush, overstuffed seat greeted her like a warm embrace. Then the house lights dimmed and out strode Aleks, dashing and sexy in his tailored Savile Row tux. His glance sailed over the audience, settling on her for a moment. He gave her a quick smile before turning to the orchestra and launching into Mahler’s
Fourth Symphony
.

It was one of Colette’s favorite pieces—light, pastoral and perfect for tonight, with nothing in it to tax her overtired brain. She shut her eyes and let the notes sweep over her, until the fourth and final movement began. A silvery lyric soprano voice piped up, instantly capturing Colette’s attention. She leaned forward in her seat, eager to catch every phrase and nuance issuing from the petite young lady onstage. Not a large voice, but certainly a well-trained and enchanting one, albeit with the tiniest hint of breathiness on her top notes. Good God, why wasn’t this girl singing opera? With that sweet voice and elfin, heart-shaped face, she was ideal for
soubrette
roles such as Sophie in
Rosenkavalier
or Susanna in
The Marriage of Figaro
.

The performance ended in a swell of applause, the audience jumping to its feet. Colette darted through the departing crowd heading down the mezzanine stairs and through the lobby, heading backstage. The security guards at the entrance knew her, and let her pass without question.

As usual, it was utter pandemonium, musicians, stage hands and other technical staff dashing in every direction. At last she made her way through the labyrinth of corridors and reached Aleks’ dressing room. He’d left the door open while he sat chatting with the orchestra’s concertmaster and a few other string players. His face lit up the moment he saw her. “Did you enjoy yourself? You looked so comfortable sitting there, I thought you were going to nod off.”

“Don’t be silly.” Pasting on a smile, she shook hands with everyone, then sat listening to them talk for another few minutes, until they finally took Aleks’ hint to leave. “Who was the soprano tonight?” she asked once they’d filed out. “She was quite good.”

“You mean Sandrine? Yes, I was rather impressed, especially since she’s only been out of the
conservatoire
a few months. Would you like to say hello?”

“Yes, please.”

They found her in the women’s section of the orchestra’s communal dressing room, pulling on her boots. She’d already changed out of the long blue gown she’d worn onstage into jeans and a thick wool sweater. With no makeup on now except for a touch of clear lip gloss and her hair skinned back in a ponytail, she looked about twelve years old.

Her big brown eyes practically popped out of her head when she saw them approaching. “Is something wrong, maestro?”

“Not at all. You did well tonight. In fact, I have someone here who’d like to meet you. Sandrine Herveaux, this is my wife, Colette DuPlessis. Colette, Sandrine.”

The girl stood to take Colette’s hand. Her face had gone white as paper. “Colette DuPlessis wants to meet
me
? But I’m nobody!”

“We were all nobody once.” Colette smiled in what she hoped was her most disarming fashion.

“Oh Madame, your Carmen was amazing!” she gushed. “I stood through three performances. And every time at the end, when José—”

Best to cut this off before it became a litany of her favorite moments. “You’re very kind. You also have a very lovely voice. Aleks says you recently left the
conservatoire
. Are you studying with anyone now?”

“Yes, Josephine LeGros. Or rather, I was. She recently retired and moved back to Switzerland to be closer to her children.” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “I’m babbling, aren’t I? I’m sorry. It happens when I get nervous.”

Now Colette was doubly impressed. LeGros had been one of Europe’s finest vocal coaches for well over thirty years. This young lady must really have something if she’d taken her on. “What about opera roles? Or are you focusing on concert repertoire right now?”

“Honestly, I’m focusing on whatever jobs I can find. I auditioned for the opera chorus this season, but I didn’t get in. They said I was too young, and didn’t have enough experience. But how am I supposed to
get
experience if no one will hire me?”

A deep font of energy and ambition obviously lurked beneath this sweet exterior. Reminded Colette a bit too much of herself a decade or so ago. “That’s the eternal conundrum, isn’t it? But if what I heard tonight is any indication, you’ll do well indeed. Good luck finding a new teacher, although I doubt you’ll have much problem there either.”

No sooner had she and Aleks started to walk away, when the girl called after them, “Unless you’d like to take me on, Madame.”

Colette looked at Aleks, then back at Sandrine. “I don’t teach. I never have.”

“Oh.” Sandrine’s expression crumpled. “That’s too bad. With your technique and years of experience, I’m sure you must have a lot to offer.”

Colette knew flattery when she heard it, but good God, this girl had it down to a science. And it wasn’t the empty sort either. Sandrine knew exactly what she was doing. Colette could see the fire burning in those huge brown eyes, that drive to be the best. To get to the top. All the great ones had it. David had it. Colette had even had it herself, once upon a time.

“Just because you haven’t taught in the past, that’s no reason not to start,” Aleks murmured into her ear.

She gave him a skeptical look. “Nonsense. I don’t have the patience for it.”

“Perhaps not, but it can’t hurt to try. Especially since you’ll probably have plenty of time to fill fairly soon.”

He had a point. He usually did. And, strangely enough, the idea intrigued her. Maybe this would be her new niche. But if she dismissed it out of hand, she’d never know.

She reached inside her handbag, pulling out a small cream-colored card with their phone number on it. “If you’re serious—and don’t you dare waste my time if you’re not—give me a call tomorrow and we’ll discuss it.”

Sandrine’s eyes got wide, but they didn’t bug out like before. Evidently she’d figured out it was time to tone down the act. “Thank you, Madame. You won’t be disappointed.”

“I don’t expect to be,” she replied, taking Aleks’ arm as they turned to go.