by Vic Tyler
“Our table is over there,” I said, pointing towards the direction I saw Teresa and James go.
As they both followed my finger, I whipped my head around first, frantically looking to readjust where I was pointing to the table Teresa and James were sitting at. Jorge and I had never talked about where we were going to sit for dinner, so I prayed that he’d play along.
I continued, “I came to get you.”
Jorge frowned, and I contorted my face in my best pleading expression for him to get the message. I let my eyes fall quickly to Peter before looking back to Jorge, and his face cleared as it finally clicked.
“Uh huh,” he said slowly, a smirk sliding onto his face. “Well, the Berkowitzes asked us to join them for dinner tonight. They wanted to talk about some upcoming events happening with the Philharmonic. It’d be rude to turn them down, wouldn’t it, Peter?”
Peter cleared his throat and raised an eyebrow. When he spoke, the depth of his voice sent pleasant shivers down my spine. “Are you sure it isn’t because their niece is here with them?”
Jorge shrugged, his eyes locked onto mine with that smug smile still plastered on his face. “Definitely helps their case.”
I gritted my teeth. He was definitely enjoying watching me squirm. Did he want me to beg? Or…
“You know, my friend, Lena, mentioned wanting to visit Avery Fisher,” I said, feeling a little guilty about selling my Broadway costar out. “I remember you offering –” I gritted my teeth at the message. “– and I was hoping to discuss when you’d be available to show her around.”
I was wrong. My pride was too stubborn to plead Jorge. Besides, if I had to beg someone, I’d rather beg Lena to go on a date with Jorge than to give Jorge the satisfaction of me begging his sadistic ass.
His ears perked up. The handsome, Latino womanizer had been bothering me for months to introduce him to her, but I’d refused each time, firmly telling him I liked having friends who weren’t going to come crying to me because he broke all their hearts. As reluctant as I was to have the two of them meet, I’d have to trust that Lena was smart or hardy enough not to fall for Jorge’s charm.
He stroked his beard, looking thoughtful. I knew he was going to say ‘yes.’ I wanted to be confident that he would. But the miniscule possibility he might say ‘no’ made me slightly anxious.
“If Peter doesn’t have any objections,” Jorge grinned, turning to look at his friend.
Peter had kept his eyes on me, and my skin tingled self–consciously. My shoulders and arms were bare in my strapless dress, but under his attention, my entire body felt exposed.
“No objections here,” he said.
My eyes had immediately flown to him as soon as he spoke, our gazes fixed immediately upon meeting. The slow, deliberate words sounded melodious coming from his charming smile, as though he carefully hand–picked each one for the person he was talking to.
“We met briefly earlier. I didn’t get a chance to thank you for helping me during that debacle,” I said, coolly turning to Peter while my heart vibrated with nervous excitement. I held my hand out for a handshake. “I’m Michele Deveraux.”
“Peter Lennox,” he said, his dark eyes searching mine. He smoothly took my hand and raised it to his lips. “I only did what anyone would’ve done for a lovely lady such as yourself. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
His lips brushed against the back of my hand, and a feverish tingle flooded my body from the touch. I momentarily regretted wearing gloves at all, wishing I could take them off now no matter how uncool it looked. Damn my good but compulsive fashion sense.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” I breathed, trying to keep my voice from squeaking.
I swiftly spun in place and called over my shoulder, “Our table is this way.”
My body temperature was an inferno, and I had no doubt that I was bright red. I placed my hand on my cheek to cool it, the back of my hand tingling with the lingering memory of his kiss. My face felt hot even through the thick material of my glove. I didn’t dare look back as I strode back with a small skip in my step to the table where Teresa and James were sitting. They stood as we approached the table.
“Don’t disappear like that,” Teresa chided, frowning.
“Yes, mother,” I said playfully, reaching out and squeezing her hand.
My body felt light and giddy, like I was tipsy inside a dream. Teresa raised her brow at me as she turned her attention to Jorge and Peter. They all exchanged greetings and introduced themselves before sitting down.
I took the seat next to Teresa, and Peter slid into the chair next to mine, Jorge sitting beside him.
Every inch of my skin prickled, all too aware of the man next to me. My back stiffened, and even though the room was coolly air–conditioned, a cold sweat dewed my burning body. Panic filled me as I sat mutely in place.
I didn’t think this far ahead. And now that Peter was beside me, I had no idea what to say. My head was blanketed with frantic desperation, all the things I wanted to ask and say to him escaping me.
Teresa prodded my leg, jolting my attention to her. She motioned for me to lean in. On my other side, Jorge and Peter were occupied by a guest who stopped by to speak with them.
“Are you okay?” she asked. “You’re absolutely flushed.”
“Yeah,” I breathed. “I just –” I paused, struggling to find the words. “I don’t know. Is it just me or is it hot in here?”
She raised her eyebrow. “It’s definitely just you. If anything, it’s much too cool in here.”
I raised my palm to my forehead. “I can’t be drunk, right?”
“Mish, if you are, then it’s not because of the champagne,” she said, her eyes glancing over to Peter.
“I need some alcohol,” I admitted, fanning my face.
Teresa giggled and smiled warmly at me. She leaned in further and whispered, “I think he’s waiting for you.”
She patted my knee and slid around in her chair to speak to her husband. My heart pounded as I turned around.
Peter was watching Jorge converse with the other guests at our table in a rather detached fashion. He glanced back at me and smiled when our eyes met.
“Are you enjoying your evening so far?” he asked.
I reached out for my glass of water, concentrating on not letting my hand tremble. “Immensely. The music tonight was wonderful. It’s been a while since I attended a performance back here in New York. And yours? How has your evening been?”
“It’s been pleasant,” he said, turning around to face me. “But I’m looking forward to the rest of the night.”
“Oh?” I asked, sipping my water. “Plans after dinner?”
“No,” he said. “Just a feeling that I'll enjoy the company.”
One side of his smile lifted, and his lopsided grin was boyish on his handsome face. My heart drummed in my chest.
“Ah, and do you think the company will enjoy you?” I asked, a smile tugging at my lips.
“I should hope so, but maybe I should make sure,” Peter said, raising an eyebrow. He leaned in. “Are you enjoying my company so far?”
His dark eyes peered into mine, only inches away from my face.
“To tell you that would be too easy,” I said, trying to ignore the frantic pounding in my chest. I brushed a stray lock of hair from my face. “A woman with no secrets loses the mystery that makes her charm.”
“Ah,” Peter said, leaning back into his seat. He tilted his head as he assessed me, an amused smile playing at his lips. “And how many secrets would one need to have to be as charming as Michele Deveraux?”
“That, too, is a secret,” I said, my lips slowly curving up.
One side of his smile twitched upward, threatening to break into that heart–stopping lopsided grin again. “Do you plan on leaving me with more questions than answers by the end of the night?”
I looked coyly at him. “Only if I want to see you again.”
He chuckled. “You’re nothin
g like I thought you’d be, Miss Deveraux.”
“Oh?” I asked, raising a brow. “Do you think about me often?”
I thought he would laugh and quip back, but to my surprise, Peter paused, looking taken aback and slightly flustered. After a second, he cleared his throat and opened his mouth to respond when a waiter appeared next to us.
“May I get you something to drink?” the waiter asked.
“Wine for me,” I said, amusedly watching Peter visibly exhale at the interruption, looking slightly relieved. “Syrah, if you have it.”
“Syrah?” Peter asked inquisitively.
I shrugged. “A recent favorite. I take the liberty to drink it whenever I can.”
Peter turned to the waiter. “A bottle of Syrah and two wine glasses then.”
The waiter nodded and bustled away. I raised a brow when he turned back to look at me.
“Eager, aren’t you?”
He smiled in his irresistibly charming way. “Anything to please the lady.”
“Are you always so eager to please ladies?” Only when the words escaped my lips did I realize how they sounded. A heated flush flooded my face.
Peter coughed, attempting to stifle a laugh. “That is a secret I’ll keep to myself.”
The waiter came back with the bottle of wine and two glasses. He popped open the bottle, and Peter thanked him and told him he’d take it from here. After pouring out the drinks, he handed me one. I tried my best to look unruffled as I took deceivingly large sips, although it was much too late to blame the lingering blush on my face on anything else. He watched me with a small smile playing at his lips.
“Peter!”
I grimaced at the unwelcome, familiarly shrill voice calling out from behind me. Even though the candlelight was dim, the cheap rhinestones on her bright red dress blinded my eyes, beaconing for attention. I resisted sighing. Andrea Botticelli.
“Peter,” she purred. The sound made me shudder. “I wanted to say what an honor it was to perform on stage with you tonight.”
Her hand slid across the back of his chair, her long red nails brushing against his tuxedo jacket. Annoyance shot through me, and I couldn’t help my eyes narrowing at her. Peter stiffened, his back disconnecting from the chair and her touch. But when he turned to look at her, his usual warm smile was on his face. My heartstrings tugged painfully.
“Congratulations to you, as well,” Peter said politely and simply.
He looked at her with a cordial smile, and a silence fell between the three of us. Andrea looked expectantly at him, waiting for him to say more. But when he didn’t and his eyes flickered over to me, Andrea’s gaze followed, her expression cooling as she assessed me.
“Michele,” she said in acknowledgment, her lips curling up disdainfully. “How good to see you. I didn’t know you’d be here tonight. Congratulations on your Broadway performance. I heard it was wonderful.”
The words dripped sarcastically from her mouth. She cocked her head with a mocking smile.
“And good for you,” she said with a smug wink. “The operatic world is unforgiving, and not everyone can make it. There’s nothing wrong with exploring different avenues for success.”
Hot irritation flared through my veins. I gritted my teeth, and the memory of her humiliating tremolo flashed through my mind. But I took a deep breath and gave her my best smile.
“Thank you,” I said, smoothing the folds of my dress out. “There’s no such thing as having too many experiences when you’re aiming to be the best.”
Andrea pursed her lips. Our eyes were locked in a combative stare, but out of my peripheral vision, I saw Peter lay his arm on the table, his fingers tracing the white tablecloth, as his lips quirked into a wide smile.
“The Philharmonic’s executive director was talking about wanting to explore different avenues –” Peter said, emphasizing the words. “– to grow an audience among the younger generations. Broadway would be a wonderful segue into an orchestral setting.”
I looked to Peter, meeting his dark brown gaze. “An excellent idea, don’t you think, Andrea?”
She sniffed in response, turning to address Peter.
“What an original idea,” she said with a forced smile. “Actually, my friend who was in a production of Miss Saigon would be a good fit –”
“Ah,” Peter interrupted with the brief sound, his eyes fixed on me. “The executive director thought Michele would be the perfect candidate, and I agreed. I told him there is absolutely no other choice.”
I raised my brow at him. This was the first I’d heard of it, but it would be an amazing opportunity if it were true.
“This was her first Broadway performance,” Andrea sputtered, her head turning from Peter to me and back to him. “She’s hardly qualified!”
“On the contrary, she’s not only familiar with both Broadway and opera, but one of the most talented singers I’ve had the pleasure of hearing.” Peter leaned forward, his cheek resting lightly on the hand of his propped elbow. His head tilted as he regarded me with a warm smile. “And with her recent popularity and relatability with the youth, she’d be the perfect bridge between the two theatrical music genres.”
There was no response. Andrea stared at Peter, wide–eyed in disbelief, and I too looked at him, a warm flush rising in my face, as his words sent heated tingles over my skin.
“Well,” Andrea started. She huffed, opened her mouth, closed it, and huffed again.
“I have to get back to my table. Have a nice evening,” she said coldly before spinning on her heel, her balloon–like gown struggling to keep up, and bouncing away.
As the jarring redness disappeared into the dark, I raised my wine glass to take a sip.
“Was any of that true?” I asked pointedly.
“Yes,” he said, still looking at me with the same smile on his face.
“All of it?”
“Yes,” he said. Then with a slight shrug, he explained, “The executive director is still working out the details, but he mentioned that he’d be asking you soon.”
“Oh.” I glanced to the side to break the eye contact. With all this new information and the intensity of his stare, my heart was fluttering wildly and my mind was spinning. “And you’ve heard me sing? Recordings, I presume? Or television?”
Peter shifted, looking away as he sat upright and reached for his wine glass. After taking a sip, his fingers lingered, languidly tracing the rim of the glass.
“Yes,” he cleared his throat. “But live as well. I saw your debut performance.”
“Oh?” I asked, unable to keep the surprise from my voice.
I could hardly believe that he knew who I was before tonight, let alone having watched me on stage.
“It was right across this plaza at the Metropolitan Opera House,” he said, looking out the window to the building across the plaza. “Playing Frasquita in Carmen. A beautiful performance, stunning. You just about stole the spotlight.”
“It was a lucky break,” I said, sipping more wine. Inside, my heart warmed and trilled at the compliment. “I was actually the understudy, but the singer who was originally cast as Frasquita fell ill.”
“Luck is its own skill,” he remarked. He looked at me, his gaze holding mine hostage. “But I regretted not being able to see you play Carmen.”
Inadvertently, my memory flashed back to Peter on stage. How he found me in the crowd as soon as he walked on stage, the strange song choice, the particular arrangement of the performance, and how he looked back at the end. It couldn’t be… Yet the hope that blossomed refused to lie still.
“Although I didn’t expect to play her, I practiced all of Carmen’s lines and songs too,” I chuckled, trying to keep cool and shake off the impossible thought. “Maybe someday in the future I’ll be able to play the part on stage. Hearing your performance was a nostalgic reminder of those days. When I first saw it on the roster, I hoped the Philharmonic would ask me to sing.”
“So did I.”
Peter
pressed his lips together, his face slightly wistful. My heart refused to calm down.
“Don’t lie to be polite,” I teased. “It’s hardly believable when we just met a couple hours ago.”
“I’ve waited a long time to meet you,” he said, gazing deeply and seriously into my eyes. “I only regret not having been able to meet you earlier.”
Heat rose in my own body, the soft kind that overpowered and overwhelmed your senses. The kind that blossomed in your chest from a lover’s touch, the kind that made you feel like a schoolgirl who got her first Valentine.
I couldn’t help the smile that shyly slipped onto my face, and Peter cleared his throat and tugged on his collar uncomfortably. He looked away, reaching to his other side to grab his glass of water. But the warm glow on his face and the shy smile that mirrored mine didn’t escape my notice. He avoided looking at me as he took huge gulps of water, and when he glanced back, his cheeks had lightly reddened. This time he didn’t turn away as he smiled at me, a different smile than I’d seen on him all night. It was soft and unsure, and maybe I was imagining it, but it looked like it was full of promises and adoration.
For the rest of the night, Peter monopolized my attention, and I his. Our chairs had gradually scooted closer together, practically turned to face each other. For hours, our heads were dipped together as we spoke in low voices, sharing laughter and conversation as though there were no other people in the room.
Occasionally we were interrupted by a few people who stopped by to congratulate Peter or to say hello to me. Most of them wanted to speak to Peter, and even though I too was impatient for his attention, I sat back patiently because he deserved the attention for his amazing performance.
Other people showered accolades on him. Words like genius, brilliant, unprecedented, visionary, history in the making were thrown around. But the praises that would normally fill an artist with pride seemed to have little effect on him. He was gracious, of course, in his gratitude and reception of all their compliments. He’d smile, laugh, exchange pleasantries but seemed quick to end the conversations.
And then, he’d return to me. Picking up right where we left off, he was fully immersed in our discussions, eager to hear more. To learn more. To know more. About me. He never asked the trivial interview questions, the ones used to break the ice or find some middle ground.
