PHANTOM IN TIME (2 page)

Despite
herself, Bella giggled. “Jacques LeFevre does sound like a mischievous scamp.
Why do you suppose he appeared to me?”

Mr.
Usher rolled his eyes. “Miss, have you looked in a mirror lately? You, with
that pretty black hair, those bright blue eyes, and those pink cheeks? Old
Jacques has excellent taste, I'll grant him that.”

Bella
felt herself blushing. “Well, I must say I've never heard such an astounding
story.”

Usher
scratched his whiskery jaw. “You aren't from New Orleans, are you, miss?”

“No,”
Bella confessed. “Actually, I've lived the past couple of years in New York,
where I sang in the chorus at the Met. I'm here—well, to be with my
grandmother, who has lived in the South for some time. Gran's in poor health,
and she has always dreamed of seeing me perform at the opera.”

“Is
that what
you
want, miss?” he asked, frowning.

Bella
tilted her head, intrigued by his question. “I hail from quite a musical
family, and I have all the proper credentials to become a prima donna. Only . .
.”

“Yes?”

“I've
suffered from debilitating stage fright much of my life,” Bella confided with a
tremulous smile.

He
whistled. “Bless your soul. Then why are you here?”

Bella
stared out at the timeworn yet still grand old theater, a wistful expression
sculpting her features. “I'm hoping to join the chorus, and gradually work
myself up to the role of diva. It would make Gran so happy, and frankly—well,
the doctor says she hasn't long to live.”

The
old man released a heavy sigh. “Miss, in my fifty years working here, I've seen
many come, many go. If you don't love the opera, you won't stay.”

Bella
glanced at him, fascinated to hear such wisdom coming from someone of his
humble station. “You know something, Mr. Usher? You're too smart to be a mere
custodian.”

“You're
right, miss,” he admitted, a brief smile curving his thin lips. “And I'll tell
you a story. During the Second World War, I commanded a destroyer. At the
battle of the Coral Sea, we took a direct hit in the magazine, and I was blown
off the bridge. A hundred and twenty-three good men died that day, but I was
spared . . .” He shuddered. “The good Lord only knows why. Anyway, when I
returned home to New Orleans, I found the prospect of becoming a simple
janitor, with no responsibilities for the lives of others, had a lot of
appeal.”

Bella
studied him with keen compassion. “Oh, what a sad tale! But World War Two. Then
you must be—” She stopped herself before saying, “very, very old.”

Mr.
Usher had returned his attention to his duties. “Well, miss, I must run along.
Good luck!” he called, sweeping himself off the stage.

Watching
Mr. Usher shuffle away, Bella shook her head. He was an odd one—to appear, then
leave so abruptly. Yet she remained even more flabbergasted over her bizarre
encounter with the ghost of Jacques LeFevre. If Mr. Usher was to be
believed—and Bella had no reason to doubt him—the St. Charles truly was
haunted, and by a phantom who had brazenly flirted with her only moments
before. Wait until she told Gran.

If
only the ghost could audition for her today.

Thoughts
of Jacques LeFevre were brushed aside as Bella heard a door squeak open at the
back of the theater. Tensely, she watched five people troop single file down
the cluttered, dusty aisle; all were carrying notebooks or clipboards. A tall,
slender, fair-haired man led the group, followed by two middle-aged men of
average appearance, then two women, one short and plump, the other tall and
rawboned.

Watching
the newcomers approach the front of the theater, Bella felt her stomach
lurching. This had to be the audition committee. She assumed the man leading
the entourage was Lesley Litchfield, the opera's artistic director, with whom
she had arranged her audition over the phone. The others were likely members of
the opera board or company.

Bella
clutched her portfolio tightly with one hand and smoothed down the lines of her
raw silk suit with the other. She fought back an impulse to wring her hands.
What would she do if she couldn't sing, if panic strangled her as it had on so
many occasions before? She bucked up her courage, counted to herself as she'd
been taught to do in therapy, and concentrated on doing her best

Besides,
with the ghost of Jacques LeFevre here to encourage her, how could she miss?
The thought brought an unexpected smile to her lips.

“Good
morning, miss, are you Bella De La Rosa?” called a cultured, imperious voice.

“I
am.” Determined to meet her challenge head-on, Bella exited the stage,
proceeding briefly through the wings and down the steps off stage right. She
joined the group just beyond the orchestra pit and offered her hand to the man
who had spoken. “Are you Mr. Litchfield?”

“I
am, indeed.” Shaking her hand, Litchfield nodded toward each of his companions
in turn. “I'd like you to meet the rest of our audition committee—Hal Haverty,
Lydia Vandergraf, and Bill Fairchild.”

“How
do you do?” murmured Bella, shaking the hand of each person.

Litchfield
gestured toward the plump woman. “Sophie Crawford will accompany you today.”

Bella
shook Sophie's hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

“And
you, Ms. De La Rosa,” replied the woman.

Litchfield
cleared his throat. “If you're ready, we'll take our places.”

“Of
course.”

As
Sophie Crawford and Bella climbed the steps to the stage, Litchfield and the
others seated themselves in the third row. Putting on his glasses, Litchfield
glanced up from his clipboard. “What will you sing for us today, Miss De La
Rosa?”

The
song title “Show Me the Way To Go Home” occurred ironically to Bella as she
zipped open her portfolio. Aloud, she announced with bravado, “I thought
'Una
voce poco fa,'
from
The Barber of Seville.”

“Ah,
yes, Rossini,” Litchfield murmured. “We'll also want to hear some scales to
determine your range.”

“Certainly.”
At the piano, Bella handed Sophie Crawford her music.

“We
were so pleased to hear we'd have a De La Rosa auditioning for us,” Litchfield
remarked. “Your grandmother has been a patron of this theater for many years.
You know it was such a tragedy, the loss of your mother and father—a blow from
which the opera community still hasn't fully recovered.”

“Thank
you,” said Bella stiffly. She moved to center stage and set down her portfolio.

“When
was it you lost them—1990?”

“Yes,”
said Bella.

“You
must have still been a child at the time.”

“I
was nineteen, in my first year at the San Francisco Conservatory of Music.”

“My
sympathies,” Litchfield murmured.

Bella
lifted her chin. “My parents died while trying to do what they loved best. They
were heading for a performance in San Francisco during a terrible storm when
their car was swept off the coast highway into the ocean.”

Bella
heard an audible gasp ripple over the committee.

“Yes—a
great loss,” murmured Litchfield. “But they have you to follow in their
footsteps.” He glanced down at his notes. “Only, something puzzles me. Why are
you trying out for the chorus? I would expect Carmita De La Rosa's daughter to
want to sing lead soprano.”

Bella
felt sweat breaking out on her brow, her hands. She was constantly asked these
sorts of embarrassing questions, incessantly compared with her famous mother
and father. “Not every female singer is destined to become a diva.”

Litchfield
raised a brow. “But your credentials are impeccable. San Francisco
Conservatory, two years in the chorus at the Met, not to mention that family of
yours. Didn't you inherit your mother's voice?”

“I inherited
her voice,” replied Bella carefully, “but not her confidence.”

“Ah,”
he said meaningfully. “Then why don't we hear you?”

Bella
nodded to the pianist, who played a major chord. Bella took several deep
breaths to calm herself and focused all her energies on singing. She launched
into a C major scale, feeling deeply relieved when the first sounds trilled out
from her tense vocal chords. Her voice rose sharp and clear, but lacked
fortitude and depth. Occasionally she faltered over a high note, but was
pleased with herself overall.
          

Once
the scales were concluded, Bella paused as the committee compared notes and
consulted among one another.

“Now
for the aria,” Litchfield called.

Bella
felt a twinge of disappointment. Praise was clearly not forthcoming from
Litchfield—nor was it likely deserved, she thought. Once again gathering her
courage, she nodded to the pianist, who began the long, opening refrain of
“Una
voce poco fa.”

Bella
struggled not to betray her nervousness. She had chosen the Rossini aria
because it possessed a certain Baroque delicacy that required neither the power
of Puccini nor the lustiness of Bizet. With its complex tonal variations—the
moderate, lyrical passages, dramatic high notes, and technically challenging
runs and trills—it also effectively showcased her range without giving undue
attention to her flaws.

Hearing
her cue, Bella raised her voice in song, smoothly singing the airy opening
strains. Once she made it to the first chorus, she felt a surge of relief that
she had again managed to forestall panic. She completed her selection evenly,
her rendition technically competent but bereft of overall depth, or of power on
the high notes.

Afterward,
she took several deep breaths and waited for the verdict. Her performance had
left her feeling relieved but also disappointed. On the one hand, she had
managed to finish without blanking out—a triumph for her. Yet she also loved
this particular aria, and felt very frustrated because she hadn't been able to
let go and give full rein to her voice, her feelings.

Had
the committee noticed? She glimpsed Lesley Litchfield regarding her with a
quizzical frown, while the others whispered among themselves. Oh, God, would
they reject her? She knew the company was auditioning her in large part because
of her family background and Gran being a patron—but this once, she had
forsaken her pride. She must,
must
make the troupe for her grandmother's
sake.

With
the seconds trickling by, Bella agonized, watching Litchfield turn and consult
the others. Then he gazed up at her, still frowning.

“Miss
De La Rosa, I see what you mean about your voice lacking confidence. It's a
shame, too.”

Bella's
stomach did a nosedive. “You mean you can't use me?”

“No,
that's not what I said.” Removing his glasses, he stood and approached the
stage, fixing her with a stern frown. “I mean, young lady, that you have one
voice in a million. But instead of giving full expression to your voice, you
strangle your own talent, like a timid rider determined to rein in a prize Arabian.
You're also a striking beauty who could have a splendid stage presence. It's a
travesty to waste such brilliant gifts when you are clearly destined to become
a prima donna.”

Bella
was silent, though the criticism—which she had received from so many well-meaning
souls like Litchfield—stung badly. At times such censure from her vocal coaches
had reduced her to tears—though it would not today, she vowed fiercely.

“If
your problem is stage fright, I'd suggest therapy,” Litchfield went on.

“I've
tried it,” said Bella, bravely meeting his eye. “In fact, I am here in part at
my therapist's suggestion. She feels that if I continue in an operatic chorus,
perhaps gradually I can develop my confidence and work myself up to the demands
of lead soprano.”

“Well,
we'll hope she's right,” said Litchfield, flashing her a benign smile. “In the
meantime, we welcome you to our chorus.”

Waves
of relief washed over Bella. “Thank you.”

“Rehearsals
for
Kaleidoscope
begin Monday morning at ten A.M.,” he went on briskly.
“You'll be paid union scale, of course. At our first session, our managing
director will discuss your compensation and outline your duties and hours.”

“I'll
be here,” Bella promised. “I appreciate this opportunity so much, Mr.
Litchfield.”

“It's
our pleasure having you.” Litchfield glanced at his watch. “I guess that is
all, then. Would you care to join the rest of us for cafe au lait at the corner
diner?”

“Thank
you, but I need to get back to my grandmother.”

“Please
give Isabella our best,” he said.

“I
will,” said Bella, heading for the stairs.

She
joined Litchfield and the others in the auditorium, and the group headed for
the front door.

“By
the way, Bella,” Litchfield asked, “how did you manage to gain entry to the
theater this morning before we arrived?”

“Why,
Mr. Usher let me in,” she replied, then frowned as the other five all turned in
their tracks to stare at her. She gulped at the sea of astounded faces
surrounding her. “Did I say something wrong?”

Litchfield
laughed, breaking the tension. “No, not at all. It's always good to welcome
someone to our company who has a sense of humor.”

“What
do you mean?” asked Bella, perplexed.

As
the men chuckled and the women fought smiles, Litchfield explained. “Walter
Usher has been dead for over twenty years.”

Bella
went pale. “No! You can't mean
the
Mr. Usher, the one who—”

“Commanded
a destroyer in World War Two and was blown off the bridge of his ship by a
direct hit in the magazine?” Litchfield finished for her. “Yes,
that
Mr.
Usher died in 1975.”

Bella
could only gape at him.

“Tell
her the rest, Lesley,” urged Bill Fairchild.

Litchfield
glanced around the auditorium. “It's rumored Mr. Usher still watches over this
theater.”