Opera? In a fledgling town such as this? She smiled to think that the inhabitants of such a remote place would appreciate and support opera. She’d imagined gunslingers and cowboys galloping down the center of the town. But instead, the townspeople were modestly but nicely dressed. Perhaps not in the fashions one saw in Midtown New York, but Angela noted something akin to pride in these residents’ steps and manner, though the town was bare and unimpressive, to say the least.
Dirt blew up from the dry street in gusts and seemed to coat everything around her. But mostly the town seemed clean and tidy, and the wooden storefronts painted in clashing colors added a touch of luster and personality. Young maple trees lined the dirt street’s edge, which Angela imagined would quickly grow into tall, stately trees offering shade to strollers on hot summer days such as this one.
Plenty of people were about on this Thursday afternoon—shopping, conversing in front of shops, driving wagons loaded with hay and bags of what she guessed might be seed or potatoes. A few carriages like the ones in New York wheeled along pulled by pairs of horses, which made Angela wonder where all these people had come from and what dreams they were chasing. She imagined each and every one of them had left some former life behind—a very different life—to take a chance on a Colorado dream.
Had they found their dream in this simple, unassuming place? Surely there were hardships in such a remote, wild corner of the country.
She’d heard the West had been tamed and the Indians subdued and no longer a threat, but was that true? Her eyes caught on a few cowboys in their brimmed hats, dusty boots, and heavy canvas brown trousers chatting in front of the mercantile, gun belts strapped around their waists. Three horses loaded with packs behind their saddles snuffled at the post they were tied to, their tails flicking at flies. Angela noticed rifles tied to the sides of the saddles. One cowboy caught sight of her staring and cocked his head and grinned at her.
Her face flushed with heat, and she promptly turned away, not wanting to encourage his attendance upon her. He seemed wholly uncultured and uncouth, and she could only imagine his intentions. No doubt men like him—like these cowboys—lived a wild and carefree life, with reckless abandon and lacking all decency and fear of God. And she imagined they hardly ever bathed.
New York was a meld of cultures and peoples, but she’d never seen a cowboy before—except on the cover of dime novels in the library. She’d hardly believed they were real—until she’d noticed hordes of them milling around the Denver depot. The young men before her looked every bit like the drawings she’d seen—rough and intimidating. Unruly hair poked out from under hats, and all had moustaches and ragged beards. They stood joking and laughing, unhindered and unconcerned over who might be watching them, as if they hadn’t a care in the world.
But . . . what would it be like to have such freedom? she wondered. She imagined they worked at some local ranch, herding cattle to market. She recalled a newspaper article she’d read somewhere about cowboys who lived out under the stars, sleeping on a blanket on the dirt, only going into a town every few months. What a lonely life that would be. Yet, the picture was also an idyllic one, so far removed from the noise and shouting and crowding of a city. It was a rare moment indeed when she could make out the stars at night in New York City with all the lights and buildings in the way. She longed to see the wide expanse of night sky. Maybe now she would—without having to walk more than a few steps outside her hotel.
She chided herself. How easy to romanticize such a life. She knew the West was beset by harsh winter storms and drought and tornadoes. And don’t forget snakes! If there was anything Angela feared, it was snakes. She knew her fear was unfounded—the only snakes she’d ever seen were at the Central Park menagerie on East 64th Street—safely contained in glass enclosures. But even the thought of one underfoot utterly unhinged her. Well, she imagined the town of Greeley had few, if any, snakes slithering down their streets.
Stepping carefully along the rutted dirt road in her ankle-high traveling shoes, her heavy coat slung over her arm, Angela made her way to the glass-doored entrance to the Greeley Hotel. Thoughts of that hot bath tickled her as she waited until the older gentleman at the reception desk attended her. But those enticing thoughts flitted away when she learned a room for the night would cost $1.45. She hadn’t imagined she’d have to pay that much. She might be able to indulge for one night, but not more.
Well, take the room for now. You can freshen up, get a good night’s sleep, pay Mr. Fisk a visit, purchase your violin, then head home on the next train back to Denver.
With that resolved, Angela dug her purse out of her bag and paid the clerk for a one night’s stay in their cheapest room.
***
Angela couldn’t help herself. Not an hour later, after bathing and donning the only set of clean clothes she had, she meandered down Eighth Avenue and stopped in front of the opera house. To her surprise, she heard music filtering through the closed doors and windows. A woman was singing, accompanied by what sounded like a small orchestra. Were they rehearsing for a performance? She saw no posted notices on the side of the building.
She walked over to the entrance and quietly pushed open the heavy wood door. A blending of strings and woodwinds washed over her; the musicians were not half bad. Angela didn’t recognize the music; however, she knew little about opera. Most of her musical training had come from the sweet old instrument maker at the shop on Second Avenue in Mulberry Bend, who often dropped sheets of Paganini caprices or Vieuxtemps etudes in her waiting arms and gave her weekly lessons that consisted mostly of scales and fingering technique.
Without warning, the music stopped, and she heard a muffled voice through the closed doors separating her from the auditorium, along with the shuffling of feet and chairs. Before she thought to return outside, the door before her flew open, and a young woman with dark hair and large brown eyes nearly bumped into her.
“Oh, my apologies,” the woman said, her smile warm and friendly. “Who are you?”
Angela was a bit taken aback by her forwardness and fumbled with an answer. “I . . . my name is Angela Bellini.” She stepped to the side as men and women of various ages and in casual attire filed past her and this curious woman, carrying instrument cases. Her inquisitor wore a simple calico dress with lace edging and carried a flute case and a folder of music in one hand. Angela guessed she was close to her age. A glance down to the woman’s hands revealed the lack of a wedding ring.
“I’m Violet Edwards. Are you new in town? I’ve not seen you before. I play flute.” She lifted a cotton bonnet from the bench and wiggled it onto her head, wayward strands of hair slipping down past her shoulders.
Angela couldn’t help but smile at Violet’s infectious enthusiasm. “I can see that,” she said, nodding at her flute case. “I’m a violinist. And yes, I actually just arrived on the train today.”
Violet’s eyes lit up. “I’ll bet you’re here to meet George.”
“George?” Angela felt flustered, standing in the narrow foyer. Perhaps Violet had her confused with someone else.
To Angela’s surprise, Violet linked her arm through hers and led her out the front door. A stern-looking woman in her thirties, wearing a dark, drab dress with pearl buttons, came striding out behind them, gave Angela a cursory glance, then looked at Violet.
“Wonderful playing, Violet,” she said with a smile that looked about to crack her face.
“Thank you, Mrs. Green. I do love that opening movement.”
Mrs. Green gave Violet a curt nod and hurried on her way, a large canvas bag bulging with sheet music slung over her shoulder.
Violet giggled as she watched the woman stride away purposefully. “That’s Annie Green. She teaches school and also gives music lessons. Charitable and dedicated, to a fault. But she’ll never stop reminding you how much she hates living here and longs to return to her home in Pennsylvania.”
“Then why doesn’t she leave?” Angela asked.
Vio
let grinned and shook her head. “Her husband dragged her here. Like so many other men struck with the fever, he wanted a new start in the West. Not a whole lot of women like being transplanted from a comfortable life to a place full of dirt and dust and hardship. Every year it’s something else—locusts eating all the crops, months of howling winter winds. It makes some people crazy.”
Angela studied this curious woman. She exuded contentment and happiness. How was she different? “And what about you—how did you land in Greeley, Colorado?”
Violet started walking down the street—where she was headed, Angela had no idea, but she kept pace with her. “Oh, my father is an architect, and he’s designed many of the custom homes in town. We’ve came five years ago, when it was Union Colony. It was quite a shock, truth be told. Mostly just . . . dirt, everywhere the eye could see. Shacks and shanties. A wholly depressing place. Believe me—I wanted nothing more than to go back to New York—”
Angela’s eyes widened in surprise. “That’s where I live—in Mulberry Bend.”
Violet’s countenance took on a perky look as they turned a corner onto a narrower street lined with simple homes. “You’re Italian, then? I love Italian food.”
Angela couldn’t help but laugh. Violet’s shape testified to her love of food, though she wasn’t fat. But she filled out her dress the way her aunt did. Zia Sofia was always cooking or eating something when Angela visited her Uptown apartment, and she’d taught her favorite nipote how to prepare some of the traditional dishes of Abruzzu, the coastal region her family hailed from. “Yes,” she said. “And I’ve come to purchase a violin.”
“From Mr. George Fisk,” she announced rather than asked. “He’s famous for his violins. People come from all over the country to buy his instruments. They’re truly magnificent.” She stopped abruptly and turned to face Angela. Her expression grew serious.
“You may not know this, but George’s wife recently passed away in June after a long bout of illness. Lucy, poor thing, suffered from epileptic fits. George loved her so much.” She sighed and looked over at a simple pale-yellow house they now stood in front of. A gravel walkway led to a wide porch that featured a cushioned swing, two wooden chairs, and two large pots with wilted flowers in them. The sweltering heat and dry air made Angela dizzy.
“Lucy was a wonderful, sweet woman, and she rarely ventured outside. But everyone loved her. She had a big heart. The local band played at her funeral—here, in the backyard. It was a sad service, and George . . . well, he’s having a hard time of it.” She paused, her voice quiet, in sharp contrast to her earlier exuberance. “I just thought you should know.”
“Do they have any children?” Angela asked, wondering if she would ever love someone so truly. What she’d seen of her parents’ loveless marriage was the reason she’d resolved not to marry Pietro. Theirs, like the one they planned for her, had been an arranged marriage to benefit the families involved. But she hardly saw how it had benefited her poor mamá, who felt the blows from Papá’s hand all too often.
Angela gulped down the tears threatening to make a curtain call. No, I won’t marry, she told herself, though she longed for the tender affection of a man who adored her. But what man would ever want to marry a woman who loved music above all else? She was already too old to marry, anyway. And she’d seen few men who treated women with the respect and love she’d fantasized about in her thoughts late at night in her bed. Her perfect man would be gentle and soft-spoken, kind and generous, gracious and polite. But more than that, he would encourage her dreams and love music. She imagined only another musician could ever understand and share her passion. Perhaps if she got that position with the New York Phil—
“No. I imagine Lucy’s health hadn’t permitted it,” Violet said, jarring Angela from her thoughts. Then she remembered she’d asked if Mr. Fisk had any children.
Violet brightened. “But he’s like a second father to me. We sometimes play duets together, and in the past, he played in the town band at special events, like the Fourth of July celebrations at Island Grove Park. You won’t regret buying a violin from him. They have the sweetest, warmest sound.” She made a little noise in her throat and smiled. “Makes me think twice about wanting to be a professional flautist.”
She turned suddenly with wide eyes. “I’d love to hear you play! Let’s get together soon, once you have your violin. Just come on over—I live on 18th Street. You’ll find your way around town with ease. Avenues run north-south and streets run east-west. They’re all numbered, and the town is laid out basically in a square. Hard to get lost.”
Angela chuckled. “I imagine so. Not unlike New York.”
“Most of the first members of Union Colony were from New York. That’s where our founder, Nathan Meeker, came from. He was a newspaper publisher there, and he puts out the Greeley Tribune—our local newspaper.”
Angela’s eyebrows rose. What a strange coincidence to come all this way to a remote corner of the West, only to find this tiny town was made up of people from her city.
“Well, I have to get home,” Violet said suddenly. “Mom is at a charity meeting of some such, and I have to feed my brothers and my dad. Do you like to ride horses?”
Angela wasn’t sure what to make of this whirlwind of a woman. She jumped from topic to topic as if running through scales in every key. “Well, no. I’ve never ever seen a horse up close. Other than those pulling carriages.”
Violet shook her head as if she couldn’t believe her ears. “Hey, you’re in the West! You have to ride a horse sometime before you go back to New York.”
Angela wasn’t so sure about that, but she nodded politely. “Well,” she said, looking around and wondering why Violet had taken her partway down this street, only to leave her here. “It was a pleasure meeting you—”
Violet seemed to ignore her and instead took her arm again and practically marched her up to the porch of the yellow house. Before Angela could protest, Violet rapped three times on the door.
Presently, Angela heard slow, muffled footsteps approach, and then the door opened to a tall brown-haired man with a shaved face and long side whiskers, wearing a crumpled white shirt that hadn’t seen an iron in a while. His gray trousers hung loose on his narrow frame, and he shuffled in leather slippers. His hair also looked as if a comb hadn’t paid a visit in a long while. This must be George Fisk, she suddenly realized.
Angela’s hands grew clammy. She’d hoped to prepare what she would say to this master instrument maker. Would he feel she was worthy of one of his violins?
His drawn, tired face lit up upon seeing Violet.
“My sweet girl—so nice to see you.” He took Violet’s hands in his and showered her with a loving smile. Then he turned and looked at Angela. His eyes studied her, assessing her, and Angela grew uncomfortable at his scrutiny.
“And whom do we have here? I’ve not seen you in town before,” he said sweetly, then added, “and I’m sure I would have noticed such a refined young lady.”
Angela’s cheeks heated at his remark. His manner was unabashed yet respectful. “I’m Angela Bellini, Mr. Fisk—pleased to make your acquaintance.” She tipped her head at the introduction. “We corresponded recently. I’ve just arrived by train—”
“Ah yes,” he said, a tinge of weariness lifting from his face. “Come in, come in, my dears.” He gestured Angela inside with a wide sweep of his arm.
Violet stepped back. “I’m afraid I can’t stay, George. I have to feed Henry and Thomas tonight.”
Mr. Fisk frowned in disappointment. “I understand. Well, don’t be a stranger. We have that Hoffmeister duet to work on for the hospital dedication.”
Violet nodded. “I’m still struggling with the allegro movement.”
“It’s not an easy piece, my dear, but I have utter confidence in your ability to master it.”
Violet beamed at his words, and Angela got the impression that Mr. Fisk didn’t heap praise lightly. There was an air of perfectionism about him, a
nd the glimpse she caught of the inside of his simply appointed home attested to a fastidious and neat nature. Though, his personal grooming belied such standards. She could hardly imagine how debilitating and abiding his grief must be. And a man having long been married would most likely be unaccustomed to washing and ironing his clothes.
“I’ll be off then,” Violet said. “And I’ll come over Wednesday after lunch,” she told the violin maker. Then she looked at Angela. “Once you have your violin, come show me. And we could use you in the orchestra.” Her smile teased.
“Thank you,” Angela told her. “I’m happy to have made your acquaintance.”
Violet skipped off with a wave, leaving Angela standing awkwardly at Mr. Fisk’s door. “I didn’t mean to come unannounced and so late in the day—”
Mr. Fisk chuckled. “But when Violet learned you’d come to town to buy a violin . . .” He put a gentle hand on her back and urged her inside his cool dark-wood-paneled foyer. “Well, Miss Bellini, you’re here now, and I’ve nothing pressing to attend to. Are you hungry? Where are you staying?”
More questions. People were certainly friendly and outspoken in Colorado, and her previous nervousness eased. She was so used to her father or brother criticizing her manner or her dress or some remark she’d make. Back home much propriety was expected of her. Here, in Greeley, she knew no one—well, aside from her brief acquaintance with Violet Edwards—and answered to no one but herself.
A giddy sense of freedom tickled her, and the weariness and worries of the former hours dissipated in the realization that she was now standing in the home of the famous instrument maker. She’d arrived.
She sighed and gave Mr. Fisk a grateful smile, remembering what Violet had said about his recent loss. While she was feeling a bit starved, food could wait, and she didn’t want him to go to any trouble on her behalf. “Thank you, Mr. Fisk—“
Colorado Dream (The Front Range Series Book 4) Page 4
