Master of the Opera, Act 3: Phantom Serenade Read online

  The ghostly Master belonged to none of that. Through choice or curse, it wasn’t at all clear—if he was real at all. And yet she’d touched him and felt drawn to him and his darkness. Was it the self-destructiveness the counselors had tried to make her believe lurked in her soul?

  “Christy—are you still there?” Hally sounded concerned. “Was it—” her voice dropped to a deep whisper, though it was hardly necessary on the cell phone “—the ghost?”

  “I can’t talk about it,” she whispered back. Aware she was hunching around the phone, she made herself lie back. The blue umbrella stretched over blond wooden slats, radiating out in a spider’s web.

  “Honey . . .” Hally trailed off. “Should I be worried about you?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe,” she confessed.

  “Okay. We need to talk. How long are you staying there?”

  “I’m not sure. Roman is being all concerned and wants me to rest. He gave me a ride last night, so I have to get him to take me home—or better, to my car—but he’s working, so I hate to interrupt him, and . . .” She trailed off when Hally made a rude noise.

  “Will you listen to yourself? You sound the same as my old auntie bitching about getting someone to take her to the grocery store.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “You’re welcome,” Hally replied crisply. “Now—you want to blow that joint or what? I’ll come get you.”

  The relief rushing through her told Christy all she needed to know. “Oh yes, please. I owe you big time.”

  “Yes, you do. And I know how you’ll make it up to me, too.”

  Roman wasn’t thrilled at her abrupt departure. When she glided past him, he barely glanced up from his current phone conversation. Talking about that Taos deal again, by the sound of it. If she kind of made it seem as if she was stepping inside to use the restroom, it wasn’t exactly untrue. She also changed into the dress and ballet flats again—since her clothes were still nowhere to be seen—and got her things.

  When she emerged, fully dressed, Roman raised an eyebrow and signed off. “Too much sun?” He held out an arm, so she went to him for the hug, surprised when he maneuvered her to sit on his lap.

  “No—well, yes. I need to get going, run a few errands while I have the time.”

  “Are you sure you’re ready for that? Maybe you should take another day to rest.”

  “I’m fine.” She smiled to smooth out the irritation in her voice.

  “Well, okay. But you’ll have to wait a couple of hours. I have another call and—”

  “Don’t give it another thought,” she interrupted, not missing the line between his eyebrows when she did. So she leaned in and kissed him. “You’ve done so much for me. Thank you.”

  “I understand you’re impatient, Christy, but I can’t just pick up and drive you around because you’ve taken it into your head to go.”

  Sitting on Roman’s lap and hearing him sound like her father tipped the scales. She stood up, having to tug away from his hold. “I would not impose further. My friend is coming to pick me up.”

  “Ah.” He sat back and folded his arms. “Thus the phone call. I thought you said you were calling your father.”

  “I made several calls.” On my own damn phone. She kept her tone breezy, though this was getting to be a little much. “Do you know where my clothes are? I couldn’t find them.”

  “Gloria has them. Gloria! Bring Christy’s clothes,” he shouted into the house, and Christy winced at his tone. Was this their first fight?

  Gloria came bustling out, wearing her usual radiant smile and carrying a tote bag, not minding a bit. She patted Christy on the cheek and told her to come again soon—or something like that. Roman watched her go with a bemused expression. “She likes you. That’s a good sign.”

  Because Gloria didn’t always approve of the girls Roman brought home, Christy supposed. She checked the tote, thinking maybe she’d change really quickly. But she only found her sweatshirt, sneakers, and socks.

  “Where are my jeans?”

  “Oh,” Roman replied, reading something on the laptop screen. “I told Gloria to get rid of them.”

  “What?”

  Roman looked astonished at her sharp question. “They had holes in them.”

  Christy set her jaw, surprised at the flare of anger. “I wear old jeans to work because I’m going through dusty boxes in old storerooms. That way I don’t mess up my nice clothes.”

  He shrugged. “I’ll buy you a new pair. Heck, I’ll buy you as many pairs of jeans as you want. They’re just clothes, Christy. It’s not a big deal.”

  “I don’t need you to buy me things.”

  Roman threw up his hands. “Okay, so buy your own jeans. Have it your way. I don’t even know what we’re fighting about.”

  She took a deep breath. Blew it out.

  “Hey.” Roman got up and took her hands, giving her his charming smile. “Don’t be mad, sweet girl. I’m sorry.” He kissed her cheek. “Okay?” He kissed the other cheek. “Okay?” He kissed her forehead. “Okay? Am I forgiven?”

  Feeling like she’d been bitchy, she nodded. Roman rewarded her with a long, sweet kiss on the lips.

  “That’s my sweet girl,” he murmured.

  “Hal is here to pick up the missus,” Gloria said, popping her head through the sliding glass doors.

  Roman gave her a look. “Hal?”

  “Hally. She’s my girlfriend. I mean, she’s a girl who’s my friend.”

  Roman’s cell went off, playing some techno ringtone.

  “I’ll let you answer that. Bye!” Christy kissed him fast and took the opportunity to go.

  “I’ll text you!” Roman called after her.

  She tossed a wave over her shoulder and escaped through the glass doors.

  Hally lurked on the front patio, leaning a shoulder against one of the hand-carved wooden pillars supporting the portal.

  “Hey—you could have come in,” Christy greeted her.

  Hally gave the front door a brittle look. “I don’t think so. I sure wasn’t invited in. The housekeeper even suggested I wait for you in the car. Like I’m your driver.”

  “Baby, you are my driver.” Christy flounced down the walk, trailing her hand through the air, movie-star–style. “Now, take me somewhere.”

  “I’ll take you somewhere, all right,” Hally grumbled. She got in her little VW Bug, plastered with Blessed Be bumper stickers, and reached over to unlock the door for Christy.

  “Seriously.” Christy tossed the tote in the backseat and ran her fingers through her hair. “I really appreciate you coming to get me.”

  “That’s what friends are for.” Hally’s customary cheer had returned immediately. “Speaking of which, how much do you love the dress you’re wearing?”

  “Roman gave it to me. Too granny?”

  “Way too granny. But with what I have in mind, you won’t be wearing it long anyway.” Hally bared her teeth in a wicked grin and refused to say more.

  She parked in an underground pay lot near the rail yard and they walked a couple of blocks to Hally’s apartment, on the second level of an adobe building on a narrow, twisting half-commercial, half-residential street.

  “The parking sucks—though they give me a reduced annual rate—but the light is good. Plus I can walk to work.” Hally unlocked the door at the top of the rickety pine staircase and pushed it open. “Don’t mind the mess. You’re not allergic to cats, are you?”

  “No, I—” Christy was still petting the brown one that greeted them at the door when two gray kitties came bouncing around the corner, ready to play, followed by an older black cat, meowing for food. “You have four cats?”

  “Six.” Hally tossed her bag on the counter, took Christy’s, and set it there too. “I figure if I add one a year, with natural attrition, by the time I’m 40, I can officially qualify as a crazy cat lady.”

  “I think you’re already there.”

  “A girl can dream. Want anything?”<
br />
  “I’m good.” Afternoon light shone in the windows on the south side. The apartment seemed to be mainly one large room taking up the southeast corner of the building. Hally rattled around in the kitchenette, tucked in a nook beside the front door. A futon on the floor draped in filmy scarves that hung from the ceiling took up the other windowless corner. Books tumbled from several piles near the bed and an e-reader lay on her pillow, looking small, neat, and precious, like a prayer book. The rest of the space was devoted to painting.

  Finished canvases hung on the walls and were stacked against the walls five and seven deep. From all of them, faces looked out at her, gazes veiled or bold, rarely straight on, but sidelong or looking through a cracked-open doorway or dappled by leaf shadow. Some of the paintings showed bodies, clothed, naked, and veiled, but the eyes were always what stood out, dark or bright, all burning with inner fire.

  “Welcome to my chamber of horrors.” Hally stood next to her, sipping a Coke. “You can tell me you hate them—I won’t be hurt.”

  “They’re amazing.” Christy searched for more and better words. Then shrugged. “Why aren’t you famous yet?”

  Hally clapped her hands, squealed in joy—putting a total lie to the won’t-be-hurt bit—and kissed her on the cheek. “Goddess bless you! Now take your clothes off. You’re my next stepping stone to fame and fortune.”

  “What?” Christy’s stomach clenched and she wrapped her arms protectively around it.

  “Don’t tell me you’re shy.” Hally pulled out a partially finished canvas and set it on an easel by the east window. The background had been painted in from the edges, swirling with shadows and suggested shapes. In contrast, a lighter area in the middle waited, vacant and expectant, for a figure to be added. The person—presumably her—would recline on a fainting couch. From what Hally had already roughed in, the chaise looked very similar to the one in the Master’s den.

  Christy found herself next to Hally, reaching out to touch the painting. “It should be green.”

  From the corner of her eye, she caught Hally’s start and her assessing look. “How did you know I planned that?”

  “Why did you pick me to model in this painting?”

  “I had a vision.” Hally said it as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “I woke up this morning with it in my head and I had to paint it. When you called, I’d been plotting how to get you to pose for it—I figured it was meant.”

  “You don’t have a couch like this.”

  “I figured you could lie on my futon. Close enough.”

  “I’m not posing nude.”

  “But it has to be!” Hally insisted, none of her usual mellow self in evidence. “You’re naked, stretched out with your arms over your head, gazing out. Please? I have cookies.”

  “No. Not nude.”

  “Chocolate-chip cookies?”

  “Not even for chocolate-chip cookies.”

  “You said you owed me.” Hally narrowed her hazel eyes in mock threat. “Don’t cross the goddess blessed.”

  A chill shivered across Christy’s skin and she met Hally’s gaze. The other girl’s face had gone white, with a greenish cast beneath. Christy swallowed the dryness in her throat. “Well, that was dramatic.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

  “I do.” Christy glanced uneasily out of the closed windows. “Still, you shouldn’t say such things.”

  Hally sighed. “I know. Now I’ll have to light a bunch of candles and do penance.”

  “How do you do penance?”

  “It’s personal—I’ll give up something I don’t want to. It’s between me and the universe.” Hally shrugged her acquiescence and started to pack up the paints again. “Probably not being able to finish this painting will be enough pain.”

  Christy chewed on her lip, tugged between conflicting emotions. The sense of being drawn along by fate both unsettled and excited her. In the painting’s background lurked the shadows of furniture that could be the Master’s. And one dark form could be his cloaked figure. Would the painting give her some sort of answer?

  “I’ll pose.” She blurted it out before she could change her mind. “But naked from the waist up only. I’ll drape scarves over the rest and you can use your artistic license or what have you.”

  Instead of her earlier excited squeals, Hally studied her with grave concern. “What changed your mind?”

  Christy lifted a shoulder and let it drop, tried a smile that came out wobbly. “I want to see how it comes out.”

  “The painting?”

  “All of it.” She reached out again, this time toward the shadowy form in the dimness. The suggestion of him faded, became mere brushstrokes. “Remember how I said it was a long story, what happened last night?”

  “Yes.”

  “I was here.”

  3

  Christy undressed in Hally’s tiny bathroom. She only had a shower stall, too. Such a long way from Roman’s opulent sunken tub. The medicine cabinet mirror didn’t reflect below her breasts, so the scars on her belly were thankfully out of sight. She wore Hally’s robe back out, and the other girl kept her back turned until Christy had arranged herself, strategically draping the off-limits portions of her body with scarves left handily nearby.

  “Okay,” she said, once she was reasonably sure none of the scars showed.

  Hally scrutinized her, her face absorbed. “Don’t hold your breath. Relax.”

  Easy for her to say—she wasn’t undressed in broad daylight for the first time in, oh, eleven years.

  Bringing a few more pillows to approximate the angle of the painted chaise, Hally tucked them under Christy’s shoulder, coaxing her to lie more on her shoulders, but with her hip turned up so her thigh dropped over in front, hiding the vee at her crotch. When Hally adjusted the scarves, Christy stopped her.

  “I’ll do that.”

  Hally knelt on the floor in front of her, her lips pursed. Not meeting her gaze, Christy focused on the scarves. “Surgery scars?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Nothing to be embarrassed about, you know. Our scars reflect that we’ve struggled—and won.”

  “How do you know I’ve won?” The words came out in a strained whisper. Such a small thing, to yank her back to that time.

  “You’re here, aren’t you? That’s a win every time. When you’re ready, stretch your arms over your head and turn your face toward me.”

  Christy did, lying her cheek against her arm. Hally frowned at her.

  “Something’s not quite right. Can you cross your wrists and stretch them up more?”

  She followed suit, feeling how the more strained position raised her breasts, her nipples peaking taut even in the warm apartment.

  “Now think of him.”

  Hally didn’t have to specify—they both knew who she meant. She let herself think of the Master, imagined lying naked in front of him, her wrists tied over her head. The desire for him, never completely cooled, simmered between her legs.

  “Yes,” Hally breathed. “Exactly.”

  Being painted gave her time to think in a way that lying by Roman’s pool hadn’t. She held still, thinking of the phantom and his mysterious ways, of what he had and had not asked of her. Though she never doubted he could be dangerous, her gut insisted he’d told the truth about Tara. He wanted something else from Christy.

  He wanted this.

  And, lying there while Hally captured her languid desire for the unknown, Christy wanted him to have it.

  She wanted to be his Christine.

  The next morning, Carla confronted Christy as soon as she arrived at work, sizing up her too-expensive slacks. With her grubby jeans gone and her only other pair too dirty to wear again before laundry day, Christy had chosen the best of several unhappy options. It would be more than a relief to get her things out of storage and stop living out of a suitcase. Until then, she had only so much to work with.

  “Carla, I’m really so
rry about the other night. I, um, just—”

  Carla held up a talk-to-the-hand palm and looked to the heavens, shaking her head.

  “You know, I tried to give you a chance. ‘Maybe she’s not a spoiled rich girl,’ I said to myself. And then I ask you to help me with one little thing. Twenty minutes of your precious time, and what happens? You run off to take a nap?”

  Christy cringed under the lash of Carla’s scorn. Stupidest excuse on the face of the earth.

  “I’m sor—”

  “I don’t want to hear your apologies. I want you to know that I asked Charlie to let you go.”

  “You—you did?” Misery welled up. All the starry-eyed fantasies about seeing her ghost again shriveled up in the stark light of Carla’s anger.

  “Of course I did. If it were up to me, you wouldn’t have lasted that first week. Hell,” Carla laughed bitterly, “you would never have been accepted in the first place. Do you realize you’ve taken the place of people who’ve sweated and worked their way for a chance at an apprenticeship here? And you flounce about here, like some fancy accessory we can’t afford.”

  “I want to work hard! I—”

  “You don’t know how.” Carla pronounced her verdict as the worst insult possible. It hung in the air between them, mean and rotten. “You’re soft fruit. A hothouse flower that won’t thrive in the real world. Go home to Daddy.”

  Never. That resolve straightened her spine. No matter what happened with this job, she would never live under her father’s roof again. He could cut her off, but she was a legal adult in every way. He couldn’t force her to do anything.

  Not unless they think you’re crazy.

  But she wasn’t a scared adolescent any longer. She had grown up, into a calm, reasonable, and determined adult.

  “Am I fired then?” She made her voice as even as possible. She’d find another job. Hally would help her. Other people did it and so could she.