She brought her arms down to her sides and awaited judgment. She’d sung her lungs out. If that wasn’t the bomb, then she didn’t know what they were looking for.
Roxanne Smith, an older woman with Elizabeth Taylor’s wild dark hair, and the president of the board nodded to the European conductor, Altez Vior, then addressed Alaina. “Obviously you have the vocals for the part.”
Alaina concealed her breath of relief and bowed her head, trying to look modest - an act that didn’t come to her naturally. “Thank you.”
“But.” Elizabeth’s look-a-like tapped her pen on her cheek.
Alaina swallowed her disdain. She never did like those old movies. “Yes?”
“The role calls for a sweet young maiden in love, which is hardly what you’re known for.”
Alaina bit back a retort. “I can assure you, I’m an excellent actress.”
Roxanne held up a finger. “But will concert goers want to see you in that role? Will they believe you are capable of unrequited love?”
“They will believe what I sing.” She was at the top of her game, and she’d have the audience at her feet with one sweet note. Why couldn’t these idiots see that?
The conductor, nodded, rubbing his hand over his crazy white hair. “Perhaps. But, to get them in the seats in the first place, you need to soften your image.”
Alaina scoffed. Her image? Why, she was the most beautiful, alluring, and versatile soprano around. Who else were they looking for? Mother Teresa? “And how do you propose I do that?”
Roxanne smiled wickedly. “We want you to volunteer as a music teacher at Heart House.”
“Heart House?” Shock weakened her knees, followed by a large dose of fear. That was a charter school for the underprivileged. They scribbled more graffiti on the walls than notes on a page. She’d even heard there were gangs.
Mr. Vior nodded. “That’s not all. You’ll have to attend a number of high profile fundraisers for children with disabilities, victims of tragedies, and the Center for Cancer Research.”
Alaina blinked as she digested his words. Being an only child, she had no practice working with children, the only tragic thing she’d experienced was a bad review, and the thought of anything medical made her sick to her stomach. “I see.”
The conductor raised both his eyebrows. “If you agree, we are willing to offer you the part.”
The bright lights burned into her retinas as a feeling of claustrophobia came over her. For someone who’d been on stage her entire life, social work was far from her comfort zone.
She couldn’t refuse. Singing at the Met would propel her career into the stratosphere. She’d never need to belt out another Ava Maria at a wedding again. She could handpick any role she wanted, join any touring opera company in the country, maybe even the world.
“I accept.”
“Excellent.” Roxanne clapped her iPad case closed and stood. “We’ll see you tonight at our first fundraiser for Project Wish.”
Tonight? She’d been planning on a bubble bath to de-stress. Before she could respond, the conductor walked to the stage and shook her hand. “I look forward to working with you.”
All Alaina could manage was “mmhmm.”
I got the part. She kept repeating that phrase as she slipped on her faux fur coat. She almost forgot her green snakeskin Gucci purse on stage and had to run back for it. She felt like a deer caught in the headlights of a monster truck.
She could sing the part easily enough, but could she teach inner city ruffians? Comfort children with disabilities? Rub elbows with cancer survivors? Compassion was something she reserved for the tragic characters in her arias. In real life, she’d never so much as poured a bowl of Campbell’s at a soup kitchen. She hadn’t had the time. Her parents had her practicing and acting since the age of five when she appeared singing the theme song in an Oscar Mayer ad.
Alaina stumbled into the traffic choked streets of New York, wishing she hadn’t fired her limo driver back in Italy when he’d gotten lost. She raised her hand to hail a cab, but at rush hour, it was like swimming against the tide in a sea of sharks.
As she waited on the curb, drills echoed from across West 65th street. A construction crew tore up the sidewalk.
Honestly, did they have to work at this time of day?
She narrowed her eyes, about to shoot lasers at them for disturbing her peace, when a man caught her attention. Holding a giant plank of wood like it was a golf club, he reached up and handed it to three men on the scaffolding.
Had Hercules come down from the heavens?
The man was tall with broad shoulders, wearing a light blue shirt and jeans. Dark brown hair curled under his hard hat. He had a strong jawline and stood as though he owned the street.
He turned toward her, froze in place, and tipped his hard hat as if saying hello. With the angle of the sun, she could barely make out his face, the hat casting most of it in shadow. Surely, he wasn’t addressing her.
A car beeped rudely in front of her and Alaina jumped. “Holy batshit! What the hell?”
“You gonna get in or not, lady?” A cab driver shouted through the passenger window.
Alaina looked for another cab, preferably one with a nicer driver. No luck.
She sighed and muttered under her breath, “Beggars can’t be choosers.”
Only when she’d plopped inside did she remember to look out the window for the construction guy, but a large bus had pulled up beside the cab, blocking her view. A young boy stuck his tongue on the window and wiggled his fingers over both ears.
Lovely. Just one more reason to stay away from kids.
What was she doing anyway? Those construction workers were all grunts who drank beer, whistled at women, and watched sports on TV. Any relationship with one of them would last all of two seconds.
Alaina sighed, playing with the ring on her finger. One of these days she’d meet her match.
***
“You’re more likely to fly a green pig to Mars than meet the likes of her.”
Brett ignored his friend and watched the woman slip into the cab, awestruck. Her hair shone like a sunset on fire, reminding him of the many times he’d sit with his father on the side of Saddleback Mountain and watch the evening spread over the valley of forest below their log cabin.
The woman’s fox like features were both alluring and innocent, like she’d lived in a bubble her whole life. The way her fur coat clung to her shapely body stirred urges within him that he hadn’t felt in a long time. He hadn’t wanted anything since the fire, not like the way he wanted her.
The cab drove away, and the familiar ache of loss settled in his gut. He’d probably never see her again. “Who do you reckon she is?”
Phil shrugged and picked up his drill. He was fifteen years older than Brett with graying hair and thick wrinkles around his eyes. “Probably some opera diva from the Met with a stick up her ass the size of a flagpole.”
His friend started drilling, and Brett searched the curb where she’d stood. Opera? He’d never see an opera in his entire life. All he could think of was Vikings screaming at the top of their lungs and a conductor wearing a powdered wig waving his arms around. Not the most enjoyable pastime.