by Anna Adams
Laughing contempt floated in his eyes as he regarded his co-performer, all the while refusing to approach her. Radamès eluded Amneris, Nathan condemned Maude. Disappointment filled Maude’s lungs the moment she realized she was the recipient of subtle disregard from a performer she admired.
Ms. Tragent’s sharp eye detected Nathan’s dislike in an instant as well, though she voiced it only in the halls of her mind. Maude would encounter many classical artists who viewed pop music with the same scorn furled in the folds of Nathan’s internal music box. Better now in the safety of Morningside’s walls than in the backstage of the Metropolitan Opera.
“All right,” Ms. Tragent commented when the pair had finished. “Maude, we’ll have to work on that legato, we need to smooth it out. We’ll work on it during out private sessions. For now let’s hear Aida. Maude, I want you to pay attention to her legato.”
Rebecca’s legato was the closest Maude had heard to perfection. Her voice smooth as silk, Rebecca’s erect posture allowed her to transition from note to note with articulate grace.
Admiration glinted from each eye in the room, and Maude’s dancing iris shone the brightest. Elegance and eloquence assembled in one being, and she was to hold the privilege of working with her! Work? Work was for Soulville and all it held. This was enchantment in its rawest form.
Maude joined the others in applauding Rebecca’s performance and breathed in with pleasure as Ms. Tragent dismissed her artists.
Maude had walked halfway to the subway station when she realized she’d forgotten her scarf. She hurried back, entered through the stage door, but was surprised when she heard voices coming from the stage. Hadn’t everyone left already?
She walked toward the stage, but stopped short when she heard her name. Hiding behind the prop for the Egyptian display, she leaned over.
“ . . . don’t know what Ms. Tragent was thinking when she hired a pop singer for an opera,” Nathan was saying through gritted teeth.
“I agree. And to play Amneris no less!” Sophie, a member of the choir, added. “I’m a professional classical singer, and I never got such an important role in my ten years of career. She’s like five.”
Maude’s heart sank as others agreed in unison.
“She scribbled on her score like a kid. I’m surprised there was no magic marker on it.”
“I still write on my scores as well, Nathan. Does that make me inept in your eyes?” Rebecca’s voice rang out as clearly as when she sang.
“Of course not, Becca,” Nathan reassured. “You’re a professional.”
“So is Maude.”
“A professional pop singer.”
“Can’t she be both?”
“She’s here because Ms. Tragent is losing her marbles in her old age. She pampers her because she’s French. Don’t you hear them talk like lovers? Maude reads her notes in Italian! Fa fa sol si,” Nathan mimicked in a mock croak. “She’s in America. She should read her notes like everybody else here. What’s wrong with ABC?”
Maude’s cheeks burned with indignation. She sounded nothing like that and she knew the English equivalents as well, but Ms. Tragent allowed her to sing them in Italian, which was the French way she’d been taught.
“She even gives Maude private lessons! I’ve asked her multiple times, and she’s always refused,” Nathan huffed. If he couldn’t get private lessons, why should Maude?
“And perhaps the most appalling thing,” Sophie declared, “is we’re not supposed to mention her name to anyone, family or friends, because Ms. Tragent wants to avoid leaks to the press.”
Here, Maude gave a little start of surprise. Ms. Tragent had never mentioned this to her. She hid her rehearsals from Alan but never thought this secrecy was imposed on her coworkers.
“Yeah, how do you think Maude would react if we called her ‘Stella Laurence’ to her face?” Amused by his thought, Nathan chuckled and thought he’d try next time he saw Maude.
Stella Laurence? Was that who Ms. Tragent claimed would be playing Amneris outside of these walls? Ms. Tragent was taking great lengths to hide her identity, and a surge of gratitude warmed the current of Maude’s thoughts regarding her stern professor. Alan would never know Maude was “Stella Laurence” until it was too late.
“She’s afraid another scandal will break out concerning Maude if the pop world discovers she’s taking part in a opera. Scandal seems to follow that girl.”
“Scandal always follows pop singers,” Nathan let out, as if stating universal wisdom.
“And paparazzi. Ms. Tragent warned us if we leaked this to the press, she’d make sure we would never find work anywhere.” Sophie shuddered.
“Sophie, anything Ms. Tragent says spooks you,” Rebecca pointed out with impatience. “Come on, Becca,” Nathan coaxed. “You can’t be defending Maude? She can’t sing opera properly.”
“I think Maude’s voice needs work,” Rebecca conceded. Maude squirmed with silent uneasiness.
“Maude’s no exception, and neither are we,” she continued. “We all need to work and standing here bashing another artist won’t help us in any way. Besides, she’s got talent. She needs work, but her talent is undeniable. If Ms. Tragent sees it, then Maude should take this seriously. And I believe her marked scores prove she does.”
Rebecca stomped away and made way toward backstage, coming straight in Maude’s direction. Maude turned away and hurried inside one of the dressing rooms. She saw her scarf sprawled over one of the seats and grabbed it as Rebecca entered the room.
“Oh, you’re still here, Maude?”
Maude shuffled with embarrassment. Her ears would never cease to buzz with the amazement, knowing regal Rebecca Sylvester thought she had talent.
“I forgot my scarf. I was heading out. So see you later.”
“Wait, I’m coming with you.”
Maude was pleased, but embarrassed. What would she talk about with the soprano she’d just heard defending her?
“Nathan is a pompous ass,” Rebecca held the door for Maude, and they rushed into the night air.
Maude couldn’t agree more but thought it best to say nothing. She wasn’t supposed to have overheard their conversation.
“Come on, I’m sure you heard him backstage.” Rebecca nudged Maude.
No use denying anymore.
“I did. Him and all the others.”
“You should listen to them.”
“I don’t know if my ears will bear another round of hypocritical observations.”
“They’re not hypocrites. They showed you their dislike from the moment you stepped in Morningside, didn’t they?”
“They did.”
“You have to listen to them not because they’re right, but because they reflect current opinions in the classical music world.”
“That I’m not good enough.”
“That pop and classical shouldn’t mix,” Rebecca corrected. “Pop is the equivalent of garbage for classical musicians. And don’t ever get them started on rap music.”
“You appear to think differently.”
“I just don’t think one style is exclusive of the other, and I love pop although I would make a dreadful pop singer. When you’ve been raised to train your voice in one way for as long as I have, it’s difficult to change.”
“I wouldn’t change a single thing about your voice.” Maude peered at her calm assurance and wished she could borrow it, that confidence gained from established recognition. “You don’t want the life of a pop star. Say what you like, recognition in the classical world is nothing like fame in the pop world.”
“I envy that,” Rebecca gushed. “The thrill, the lights, the magazine covers. Being famous in the classical world is too calm. There’s excitement, of course, parties and champagne and caviar. But I’m hardly ever recognized in the streets, for example. Only connoisseurs like you know who I am.”
“But your talent is the only thing people know you for,” Maude shook her head. That was precious, and Rebecca couldn’
t seem to acknowledge that. “Not reality TV stints or which stilettos you wear to an award ceremony!”
“I don’t think you and I will ever find common ground on this question. But wearing stilettos and a designer dress to an award ceremony like the NAM Awards is probably the coolest thing I can think of.”
Maude nodded. She was looking forward to the ceremony, too. “I’m not saying it’s not cool, I’m just saying it’s a lot of fuss. But if you’re up for it, you can come to the NAM Awards as my guest.”
Rebecca shrieked and attracted a weird look from a passerby. Maude couldn’t believe the young soprano she admired was excited to attend an award ceremony with her. How had Rebecca Sylvester become just Rebecca without her even noticing?
“That’s one of the best gifts I’ve ever received. Thanks Maude.”
“No problem.”
“Do you think Matt will be there? He’s my favorite pop singer of all time. I sang ‘Love Doctor’ for months under the shower. Granted it was off-key, but I thought I deserved a Grammy.”
Maude doubted any singing from Rebecca could be considered off-key, but it was funny she could think so.
“Matt will be there. He’s presenting the Artist of the Year award.”
“For which you’ve been nominated. Are you scared?”
It couldn’t be awe she read in Rebecca Sylvester’s eyes, could it?
“Nah . . . yeah,” she admitted.
They laughed and chatted haute couture, which Rebecca affirmed was her specialty as if being a famous soprano weren’t specialty enough for a lifetime.
Chapter 6
“Maude is being unreasonable, Victoria,” Stephen said. “She invited her entire family to the NAM Awards, including Pearl and Rocky, but she expressly forbade her grandfather from coming. What a fine message she’s sending the family who’s welcomed her with open arms. We don’t pick and choose family. We earn family ties, especially when we’re orphans who just so happened to pop out of nowhere. Her grandfather is vexed over this entire affair, which is why I think you should intervene, Victoria, seeing as you’re her guardian, or on the way of becoming her guardian. I do wish you’d hammer some sense into the pupil you’ve pledged to look after.” Stephen ended his speech and took his seat around the Baldwin’s dinner table next to his wife and children.
“You do realize I’m merely two feet away from you, Uncle Stephen?” Maude asked with amused bewilderment. She was getting used to his ways. He had the easiness of a wooden robot with mechanical deficiencies.
“Believe me, you’d rather he didn’t address you directly on these kind of issues,” Trey told her while he took second helpings of fried chicken James had made. He’d stopped listening to his father years ago when he’d learned nodding his head with vigorous approbation could get him out of any uncomfortable discussion. Not that his father bothered him too often as he preferred letting his twins “burn their youth to ashes,” like Winnie Win said.
“Uncle Stephen, I would love for Elder Williams to come to the awards,” Maude argued.
“Very well,” Uncle Stephen dug into a heap of potatoes that had turned cold from his ventilating them with each sigh escaping his lips and punctuating his speech.
“If he apologizes for what he said during my birthday dinner,” Maude added, before taking a bite out of her chicken.
Uncle Stephen coughed up his cold potatoes and waved to his wife with frantic helplessness for assistance. His wife tapped him on the back with an exuberance meant to shame Maude, but which only succeeded in hardening her resolution.
“Stephen, if you hadn’t noticed, this is Aaron’s daughter you’re dealing with,” Victoria reminded him with a proud smile. “You know how he was once he’d made up his mind about something.”
“I think she takes less after her father, and more and more after you, Victoria.” Uncle Stephen scratched his throat and took a gulp of water.
Maude pondered over what her uncle said and thought it might have been the closest he’d come to paying her a compliment. She’d rather take after her aunt Victoria than her aunt Loretta who couldn’t be bothered to say a single agreeable word. But then she wouldn’t have minded taking after Aunt Pearl and wondered how awesome she’d be with red hair. Red hair on the red carpet of the NAM Awards? Adrianna would faint.
Each time she conjured an image of the upcoming event, her heart would squeeze. Which was why she was grateful her entire family would be there to support her. Those who didn’t think her being French was a major obstacle to her being a part of the family. She would’ve loved for her grandfather to be present as well, but if she relented and invited him, she feared he’d say no and fling her another nasty remark about her French mother.
“If Lindsey and Maude sing together . . . ” Jordan was saying.
“What?” Maude jerked her head away from her thoughts. “Nothing is set in stone.” She would never sing with Lindsey. She’d have to find something to bargain with Alan, but she couldn’t, wouldn’t, sing with Lindsey Linton.
“You don’t want to be associated with that girl, Maude,” Harriet said with a stiff purse of her lips. Lindsey Linton was everything Harriet despised in a girl. Her life spread out across magazines, her face on the cover of Teen Vogue, her advice on what face cream to use, and how to talk to boys. She’d tried it once at a vulnerable moment in her life when she feared she’d never find a husband.
Hello. She’d said “hello” to the unfortunate young man who walked her poodle each morning and thought she’d die of shame. No, Lindsey Linton wasn’t to be associated with either in person or through the glossy pages of a magazine. Maybe she should ask Maude for advice--she’d managed to snag Thomas Bradfield, and they seemed so wrapped up in each other it was a miracle they ever found time to eat.
“Maude’s right. Glitter is having a few doubts about this as well,” James observed. He also wished for the plan to fall through. “I think they’re waiting to see how Maude pulls through at the awards.”
“You’re bound to win one of the awards. Wouldn’t it be awful to be nominated for two awards but to win nothing?” was Jordan’s encouragement.
“It’s a feat to be simply nominated, Jordan,” Cynthia put in. He wouldn’t be nominated for Cousin of the Year.
“Maybe Dad shouldn’t come,” Uncle Stephen tilted his head and approved the idea he’d voiced. “It’d be a shame to make an old man leave the coziness of his couch for a big pile of nothing.” He munched on his potatoes with a clean conscience satisfied at having found a way to appease his father’s wrath.
Maude, however, couldn’t find sleep that night.
If she lost, no if she lost against Lindsey, if she won Best Album, if she lost Artist of the Year, if she lost everything. All these thoughts swirled into her head, a jumble of fearful musings magnified by the night’s overgrown obscurity. The worst of all was considering the possibility of losing everything. She could envision her uncle’s snarl and her grandfather’s accusing ivory cane. Winning Artist of the Year for her first album would be close, but winning Best Album would prove just as difficult. The album she and Matt and James had created in spite of all the setbacks, arguments, creative black holes, and frustrations. To see her album consecrated . . . as Best Album . . . an album with strong classical influences would be . . .
By then, Maude’s exhaustion had taken over and her thoughts were swallowed by the night.
When the sky relinquished its starry attire, its sunlit armor eclipsed Maude’s midnight misgivings. The fateful day had arrived, a day of hastiness, a day of widespread frenzy. Adrianna swung by early and whisked Maude off for her the preparation of her day and to make sure she didn’t eat waffles.
By the time she’d finished her sauna and massage, Maude was at the top of the world. They came back to the Baldwins’ house for the final preparations. Aunt Pearl and Rocky had flown in that morning from Los Angeles, but Maude received a peck on the cheek from each before her makeup artist and hairdresser stole her away from h
er family.
When she slipped on the dress for the awards, she slipped into new skin in which she beheld a more becoming version of herself.
She wore a pale pink, strapless, Dior haute couture dress with a long, flowing skirt, and her hair in a slick braided bun.
And the shoes. Stilettos, of course. She’d told Adrianna she could wear heels with moderation. But Adrianna had nevertheless ascribed Giuseppe Zanotti stilettos that eyed Maude with suspicion. Uncomfortable under their haughty hauteur, she hesitated on whether to throw them out the window or wear them when Jazmine came in with an envelope in her hand.
“Oh, Maude!” she gasped. “You look lovely. You’re a princess.”
It wasn’t a compliment to be taken lightly from the most fashionable Baldwin. Maude beamed, thinking, she could find the courage to carry on in Giuseppe Zanotti glass slippers.
“A deliveryman came back this instant, and wanted to give you this in person. I told him I’d give it to you.” Jazmine handed her the envelope. “The limousine will be arriving with Thomas soon. So hop in your shoes, no use putting that off.”
“Thanks, Jaz, I’ll be down in a minute.”
She recognized the name on the envelope. Bill Roddick. Matt’s friend in the publishing business. She’d sent him a letter asking him to send her any type of news he received from Lexie Staz’s tell-all book.
He’d kept his promise. With trembling fingers, Maude unlatched the envelope, exhumed the papers that held her past, and read.
Maude Laurent may have been French for sixteen years, but she’s happily forgotten where she came from now that she’s settled in Manhattan.
“She’s never called, texted, emailed. Nothing.”
These are the words uttered by a very emotional Mrs. Antoinette Ruchet.
Who is that woman you ask?
She is the brave and kind woman who took care of Maude Laurent since she was a baby. Fed her, bathed her, kissed her goodnight each night before she fell asleep, made sure there were no monsters under her bed. Everyone knows Maude Laurent is an orphan and the recently discovered niece of famous producer James Baldwin.
