For a minute, he only continued to gaze at her, his eyes revealing nothing now of what might be going through his head. Then, “Not at all,” he replied, sidestepping into the aisle to give her room to pass.
When he did, she hastened to take her seat, immediately opening her program to read it before he had a chance to say anything that might start a conversation.
He didn’t take the hint, however, and said as he returned to his seat, “How was your dinner?”
Not looking up from the program, Della replied,
“Lovely.”
Her one-word response did nothing to dissuade him, either. “I ended up ordering the pheasant. It was amazing.”
When Della only nodded silently without looking up from her program, he added, “You should try it next time you’re at Palumbo’s. I highly recommend it.”
He was fishing. Trying to find out if she lived here in town the same way he had when he’d asked her why she’d never been to Palumbo’s. He was trying to gauge whether or not there was a chance the two of them might run into each other again, either by accident or by design. Even with a long-stemmed rose and mystery woman between them.
“I’ll take it under advisement,” she told him. And returned to reading her program.
But still, he didn’t take the hint. “You know, I don’t meet many people of my own generation who enjoy opera,” he said, trying a new tack. “Especially not enough to see it performed live. Or spring for box seats. You must really love it.”
Della sighed inwardly, silently cursing him for the change of subject. That was a low blow. There was no way she could resist a conversation about her most favorite thing in the world.
“I adore it, actually,” she said helplessly, letting the program fall open onto her lap.
When she turned to look at him again, his expression made clear he was as delighted to be here as she was and that he felt every bit as passionately about opera. So passionately that his love for the medium had chased away the darkness that had clouded his eyes earlier. She realized now that they weren’t entirely brown. Flecks of gold wreathed the irises, making his eyes appear more faceted somehow, drawing her in even more deeply.
“I’ve loved opera since I was a little girl,” she told him. “Our next-door neighbor was a huge fan and introduced me to all the classics.” She didn’t add that that was only because she could hear Mrs. Klosterman’s radio through the paper-thin walls of their tenement, or how Della had hung on every word of the announcer’s analysis of each opera once it had concluded. “The first time I saw one performed live,” she continued, not bothering to mention that it was live on PBS, not live on stage, “I was enchanted.”
She actually would have loved to major in music and make the study of opera her life’s work. But college had been beyond the means of an average student from her economic stratum, so she’d gone directly to work after graduating from high school, as a gofer in the offices of one of Wall Street’s most noted and respected brokerage houses. And even though she’d worked her way up the corporate ladder to become an executive assistant, Della had never made the time to go for the degree. She’d been supporting herself fairly well on her salary—certainly better than she’d ever imagined she would growing up in the sort of neighborhood she had—and she’d been happy with the way her life was going. At least until that life had shattered into a million pieces, and she’d been left with nothing but Geoffrey, who’d offered her a dubious sort of refuge—and not without a price.
Almost as if that thought had cued the orchestra, the music swelled, and the lights dimmed. Della couldn’t resist one last look at her companion as the room grew dark, but when she saw him gazing at her—and noted the seat between them still empty—she quickly turned her attention to the stage.
After that, she fell into the world of Mimi and Rodolfo and their bohemian friends, leaving her own reality behind. So much so, that when the lights came up for intermission, it took Della a moment to return from nineteenth century Paris to twenty-first century Chicago. She blinked a few times and inhaled a deep breath and, before she could stop herself, looked over at her companion—who was looking at her in the same way he had been when the lights had dimmed, almost as if he’d spent the entire first half of the opera watching her instead.
That strange buzz erupted in her belly again, so she quickly glanced at the crowd. The myriad splendor of the women’s gowns made them look like brightly colored gems amid the gilt of the auditorium, the sparkle of their jewelry only enhancing the image. Della watched many of the ladies link arms with their companions as they left for intermission, and noted how the men bent their heads affectionately toward them as they laughed or chatted.
For a moment, she felt a keen regret that this night couldn’t last forever. Wouldn’t it be lovely to enjoy evenings like this whenever she wanted, without regard for their cost or the risk of being seen in a place where she shouldn’t be? She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a night out at all, never mind one like this. Geoffrey kept her locked away like Rapunzel. She spent her time reading books, watching downloaded movies and staring at the walls that were, for all intents and purposes, her cell. Even if the place Geoffrey had provided lacked bars and held sufficient creature comforts, Della still felt like a prisoner. Hell, she was a prisoner. And she would be until Geoffrey told her she could go.
But even that thought brought little comfort, because she had no idea where she would go, or what she would do, once Geoffrey decided she was no longer necessary. She would have to start all over again with virtually nothing. The same way she had when she left the old neighborhood behind.
It was all the more reason to enjoy tonight to the fullest, Della told herself. Who knew what the future held beyond even the next few hours?
“So what do you think so far?”
She turned at the sound of the rich, velvety baritone, and her pulse rippled when she saw the smoky look he was giving her. Truly, she had to get a grip. Not only did the guy show evidence of being a class-A heel, flirting with one woman when he was supposed to be out with another, but he was also way out of Della’s league.
“I have to confess that La Bohème isn’t one of my favorites,” she admitted. “I think Puccini was a bit reserved when he scored it, especially when you compare it to the exhilaration of something like Manon Lescaut. But I am enjoying it. Very much.”
Of course, some of that might have had to do with the company seated in her box. Not that she had to tell him that. Not that she had to admit it to herself.
“How about you?” she asked. “What’s your verdict?”
“I think I’ve seen it too many times to be objective anymore,” he said. “But it’s interesting you say that about Puccini’s being too reserved with it. I’ve always kind of thought the same thing. I actually like Leoncavallo’s interpretation of Murger’s book much better.”
She grinned. “I do, too.”
He grinned back. “That puts us in the minority, you know.” “I know.”
“In fact,” he added, “I like Leoncavallo’s La Bohème even better than his Pagliacci, an opinion that will get you tossed out of some opera houses.”
She laughed at that. “I like it better than Pagliacci, too. Looks like we’ll be kicked to the curb together.”
He chuckled lightly, both of them quieting at the same time, neither seeming to know what to say next. After a couple of awkward seconds, Della ventured, “Well, if you’ve already seen La Bohème too many times, and you don’t care for it as much as you do other operas, then why are you here tonight? ”
He shrugged,