PHANTOM IN TIME (6 page)

***

During
the next week, the company continued to rehearse with the kaleidoscope as
“Love's Old Sweet Song” played softly in the background. Although Bella loved
the fanciful old tune, she found the scene changes very awkward, even
treacherous, with everyone racing about or moving props in the shadows, while
shards of light danced around crazily. She realized getting the timing correct
was critical, but the whirring light seemed potentially dangerous. A number of
small mishaps occurred while the kaleidoscope revolved: Bella soon had several
bruises on her arms and legs from running into props or people and one of the
ballerinas from “A Waltz Dream” even broke an ankle while trying to exit the
stage.

Yet
Bella was willing to endure the nuisance of the scene changes, for it was then
that she most often spotted the ghost of Jacques LeFevre. It was almost as if
he were teasing her, toying with her. Once she sighted him while leaving the
stage—she came upon him quite unexpectedly and almost walked straight through
him! As she leaped back, he extended his hand, smiled, and whispered, “Come to
me, Bella.” Bella felt more compelled, more filled with yearning, than she had
ever dreamed was possible. But before she could react, he had disappeared.

Two
more times she spotted him just as fleetingly, standing in the shadows smiling
at her as she dashed through the kaleidoscope. One day while the chandelier
revolved, she didn't actually see him, but heard him singing “Love's Old Sweet
Song” in his magnificent tenor voice. He even kept pace with Sophie Crawford's
accompaniment! Bella stopped in her tracks, Jacques's celestial singing
convulsing her entire being with shivers. Why she was so convinced it was
Jacques she heard, she was not certain—she knew only that his voice was
incredible, a glorious lyric tenor like none other she had ever heard, not even
her father's . . .

Following
that riveting encounter, Bella could
feel
Jacques near her almost every
moment that she was at the theater. He seemed to move closer to her with each
passing day.

His
presence was particularly tangible late one afternoon during rehearsal. Bella
felt very moved by the music that day. She stood at the piano, turning the
pages of the score for Sophie Crawford, as Anna Maria Bernard and Victor Daly
practiced a stirring aria from
Don Giovanni
as well as the wistfully
lovely “Musetta's Waltz Song” from
La Boheme.
The heartfelt Puccini duet
reminded Bella of when she had heard her parents sing the aria, their voices
even more haunting and powerful.

The
song's thrilling climax moved Bella to tears; she lowered her gaze as her
trembling fingers turned the pages, and felt grateful when rehearsal ended.

Once
the company had dispersed, Bella found herself filled with the desire to sing.
It came upon her sometimes, quite unexpectedly. She stood on the deserted
stage, looking out at the empty seats of the auditorium. She could feel the
notes rising up in her, the need for song, for emotional release. At such times
she longed for all the things she'd missed out on in life: love, romance, true
emotional intimacy. The poignancy and passion of the music she felt became
symbolic of the love she'd never known.

Then
she saw him again, standing beneath the proscenium, his presence filling her
like the music itself. She stared at him, hypnotized.

“Come
to me, Bella,” he whispered. “Sing for me.”

Powerful
shivers convulsed Bella. Could she actually sing for Jacques? Was he the answer
to her fear, not just of singing, but of love, of life itself? Was he the true
impetus of this song, this feeling, this passion arising within her? Had she
been drawn to this theater, to his ghost, to find meaning in her life?

For
the first time, she replied, her voice edged in sadness. “If I come, you'll
disappear.”

“Come
to me, Bella,” he repeated.

She
glided toward him, but, as always, Jacques LeFevre was gone . . .

Chapter Five

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“Bella,
why won't you go out with me this weekend?” John asked.

A
couple of weeks later, Bella stood with John Randolph on the promenade deck of
the
River Queen,
one of the many old-fashioned steamboats taking
tourists up and down the river and bayous surrounding New Orleans. The early
summer evening was exceptionally mild, the afternoon rains having left the air
sweet and clear. Bella was thoroughly enjoying the sights—the moss-draped
bayous where snowy egrets swooped and blue herons fished in the shallows, the
pillared plantation houses along the way. Frogs croaked and swamp birds cried
out from deep in the cypress trees. The fishy odor of the river, of mud and
greenery, hung heavily in the air.

She
glanced at John, feeling put on the spot by his question. During the weeks of
rehearsals, she had enjoyed his friendship, but lately he'd been pressuring her
to date him, and she wasn't interested in starting a romance.

She
flashed John a smile. “Who did you say is throwing this bash?”

“Jeff
Shelton's grandfather,” John explained. “Jeff and I went to the same summer
camp in Tennessee while we were in high school. I've heard his grandfather
really knows how to throw a party. It'll be held at his plantation house on the
bayou, and even a few Congressmen and a senator may attend. They'll be boiling
shrimp and crawfish and dancing till the wee hours.” He winked at her. “We
could sneak off to one of those summerhouses, or
garçonnières,
and have
some fun.”

Bella
laughed. “Don't you ever think about anything but sex?”

“No,
especially not since I met you,” he replied unabashedly.

“I'm
too old for you!” she protested.

“You're
only twenty-four.”

“And
you're only twenty-two.”

“So
what's the problem?”

“I'm
not looking for a summer fling,” she said. “Come fall, you and Dixie will be
back off at Juilliard to complete your studies.”

He
eyed her quizzically for a long moment. “You don't let anyone get close to you,
do you, Bella?”

She
felt color rising in her cheeks at the unexpected, blunt question. “I'm sure I
don't know what you mean.”

“Oh,
you do. You're friendly, but you're locked up in your own world, emotionally
distant.”

“Oh!”
Bella cried, indignant. “That's a pretty damning assessment just because I
won't jump at the chance to go to bed with you.”

He
laughed. “You know, you really are perfect as our bird in a gilded cage.”

Bella
considered this with a frown. Yesterday they'd begun rehearsing the Von Tilzer
and Lamb tune, with Bella suspended in a “gilded cage” while Victor Daly
serenaded her. Lesley Litchfield was concerned that they had begun rehearsing
the number so late, with the premiere of
Kaleidoscope
swiftly approaching,
but it had taken the carpenters and set assistants weeks to finish constructing
and painting the elaborate cage.

“Only,
the bird doesn't sing back, does she?” asked John.

Bella
glowered. “Look, I'm really not interested in being dissected by some amateur
psychologist. My grandmother is in very poor health and I have a lot on my mind
besides cheap thrills with a stud like you.”

He
flashed her a contrite smile. “Hey, Bella, I'm sorry.”

She
stared out at the river.

“Does
this mean Sunday is off?”

“It
was never on,” she muttered.

He
sighed, and they fell into silence. Bella felt perturbed because she knew John
had spoken with a grain of truth. She was emotionally distant, her sexuality
strangled by the same fears that had choked off her singing. She was such an
anomaly, a virgin at twenty-four. During the past few years, she had come close
to giving herself to a man or two, but she had always pulled back at the last
moment, much as she did with her singing. Yet, oddly, she didn't feel inhibited
when the ghost of Jacques LeFevre was near, when he mesmerized her with his
sexy eyes or captivated her with his singing. Did she feel less constrained
around her phantom because in an ironic sense she felt safe, her logic arguing
that ravishment by a ghost was impossible? She shook her head in awe.

Sometimes
she did wonder if releasing her stage fright would mean liberating
all
her passions. Her therapist had seemed to feel this was possible, and the prospect
daunted Bella as much as it tantalized her. Freeing all her fears and
inhibitions would mean letting herself go, risking hurt and failure.

And
only when she was in the presence of a masterful ghost did Bella feel the least
bit tempted to lose control.

***

“Remember,
all you have to do is hold your rose and appear tragic,” called Lesley
Litchfield from the front row of the auditorium.

“Yes,
Mr. Litchfield,” Bella replied. “But I think I could feel a bit more tragic if
I had a real rose.”

Laughter
erupted from the wings.

The
next morning at rehearsals, Bella was perched inside her ornate gilded cage,
which was suspended on a steel cable just above the stage. Feigning a maudlin
look, she held a plastic rose in her hand. She was dressed in cutoffs and a
T-shirt, but later this week at dress rehearsal, she would don her lovely
costume, a long Victorian skirt topped by a frilly white blouse.

Across
from her at center stage stood the smiling tenor, Victor Daly. Daly was an
attractive man in his forties, tall and slender, with brown eyes and
gray-streaked brown hair. In the orchestra pit the conductor awaited the
director's signal to begin, while other members of the troupe watched from the
wings.

“Are
you ready to swing?” inquired Litchfield.

“I'm
ready,” Bella replied drolly.

Litchfield
glanced upward, cupping a hand around his mouth. “Ready overhead?”

“Yes,
sir,” called down a production intern.

Litchfield
nodded to the conductor, who launched the orchestra into the lilting refrain of
“A Bird in a Gilded Cage.” Bella felt the cage slowly begin to swing, creaking
to and fro on its cable, as Victor approached her, placed a hand over his
heart, and began vocalizing the poignant Gay Nineties tune:

She's only a bird in a gilded cage,

A beautiful sight to see.

You may think she's happy and free from care,

She's not, though she seems to be.

Bella
found herself deeply affected by the bittersweet song, wishing that, this once,
she could respond, she could sing back . . .

And
in that moment she clearly saw her own dilemma. Just as John had argued, she
was
like a bird in a gilded cage, trapped by her own fears, not just of singing but
of love, of living life to its fullest. Would she ever fly free?

Then,
as if her bittersweet thoughts had summoned him, she saw him again, saw Jacques
LeFevre standing at the edge of the stage, extending his hand, his dark eyes
beautifully intense. Excitement quickened her heartbeat and stirred her
breathing. Could anyone else see him? She glanced at Litchfield and Daly, and
saw not a spark of shock or recognition on either man's face. No, Jacques's
ghost was there for her alone! Her rapt gaze swung back to him—

“Sing
for me, Bella,” he commanded quietly.
“Come to me,
ma chère .
. .”

His
words were hypnotic and very sexy. Never had Bella felt such excruciating
yearning. She swung back and forth, a bird in a gilded cage, longing to be
released, to soar into his arms. Had it not been for the bars of her cage, she
might have flown to him. Then, as quickly as Jacques had appeared, he was gone,
leaving her suffused with unassuaged longing.

Chapter Six

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Bella
awakened to the scent of roses.

On
the day of the dress rehearsal of
Kaleidoscope,
a day that also happened
to be Bella's twenty-fifth birthday, the tantalizingly sweet scent awakened her
early. She sat up in bed and gazed at the night table, where she spotted a
dozen perfect red blooms in a crystal vase bedecked with ribbons.

Poignant
emotion gripped Bella's heart. She plucked the card and opened it, reading: “To
our darling daughter, Bella. Happy twenty-fifth birthday. Love, Mama and Papa.”

Tears
filling her eyes, Bella leaned over to smell the heavenly blooms. So Gran had
done it again—she was such a sweetheart. Sometimes Bella could hardly believe
her parents had been gone for over six years, but on every one of her birthdays
since their deaths, she had received the dozen roses and a card—ostensibly sent
by her deceased mother and father.

Of
course, Bella had realized long ago that her parents had hardly reached out to
her from the grave; Gran had done it for them, bless her heart.

Bella
put on her robe and slippers and headed for Gran's room. Finding it vacant, the
bed made, she went downstairs. She was pleased to see Gran sitting at the
kitchen table in her wheelchair. Wearing a pale gray silk dress, she was
sipping juice and eating one of her beloved beignets
.
Bella noted that
the old woman's color appeared somewhat better this morning, though she
remained much too fragile, her features almost skeletal.

“Well,
look who's up,” Bella said.

Isabella
smiled at her granddaughter and waved a frail hand. “Good morning, darling,”
she said in her raspy voice. “Happy birthday.”

Bella
leaned over to peck her cheek. “Thanks, Gran. I guess at twenty five, I
officially qualify as an old maid.”

“Phooey!”
scoffed Gran. “You young people keep waiting longer and longer to get married.”

Bella
moved to the counter and poured herself a cup of cafe au lait
.
“It's
such a pleasure to see you downstairs.”