Music filled the rectory’s common room, pulsed and pounded and then fell silent again. Slowly the next song started. “Music of the Night.”
He sighed in anticipation. The music began leisurely, deftly, rolling in around him, drawing him into the world of the phantom. A lonely place, that world, filled with heartache and longing and unrequited love.
He remembered—as he always did—the first time he’d heard this music. He and Madelaine had gone to the theater together. Sitting beside her, feeling her presence, seeing the sparkle of the floodlights reflected in her eyes, he’d felt close to Heaven.
Let your fantasies unwind in this darkness which you know you cannot fight….
Francis sang the words loudly, pretending for a second that he had talent. That he had a lot of things. The music built again, swirling, gathering power. High, pure notes as quivering and sweet as the song of a bird
perched in the air, then they dove and tangled and became melancholy.
And the sadness came, as it always did, twisted in the midst of the glorious chords. Francis understood the pain in the phantom’s song, the agony of living in the shadow of the woman you loved.
Ah, Madelaine, he thought with another sigh.
“Francis?”
He jerked upright, blinking at the sudden glare of sunlight that spilled through the rectory’s open front door.
Lina stood in the doorway, backlit by the morning’s golden glow. She looked impossibly young and fragile, dwarfed in her baggy pants and army jacket. But it was her eyes that drew his attention, made him frown in sudden concern.
He kicked down the La-Z-Boy’s velour footrest and shot to his feet. “Lina, honey, what is it?”
She didn’t answer.
“Lina?” He moved closer, and as he approached, he saw the little things the sunlight had blurred. The way she stood, hooked to one side, half in and half out of his doorway, the swollen redness of her eyes, the cheeks stained blue-black by mascara and tears.
And he knew. Lord help him, he knew why she was here, looking broken and lost. Madelaine had told her the truth.
Oh, Lord… He felt almost sick to his stomach at the thought. Unsteadily he flicked off the stereo and moved toward her.
And still she stood in the doorway, motionless. Pale, so pale, her bloodshot eyes filled with sadness. He remembered a hundred other visits. Times she’d come to him, laughing, bounding through his door, launching herself into his waiting arms.
“I didn’t know where else to go,” she said, biting her thumbnail, watching him through those sad, sad eyes.
He reached out for her and she seized his hand, squeezed hard. He saw a glimmer of fresh tears glaze her eyes.
He shut the door and led her to the brown and gold sofa. Sitting beside her, he slipped an arm around her shoulders and drew her close. She pressed her cheek against his chest. He felt her shuddering, indrawn breaths. “Shh,” he murmured.
He wanted to make everything better for her, the way he’d done a thousand times in her life.
She drew back suddenly, sucked in a rattling breath, and stared up at him. “Muh-Mom didn’t call my father. She puh-promised, and then she didn’t call him.”
For a split second, all Francis felt was relief.
Tears squeezed past her lashes, fell one after another in a muddy smear down her pale cheeks. “I don’t know why I believed she would.”
“He walked out on you guys. Maybe it’s best if you don’t think about him.”
’Tell me who he is,” she asked quietly.
There would be no going back from this moment on; he knew it. Fear tightened in a band around his chest. Defeat rounded his shoulders, slipped from his mouth in a ragged sigh. He plucked a single tear from her cheek. “Oh, Lina-ballerina…”
“Don’t do this to me, Francis, not you, too.”
He felt shame welling up, spilling through him. “I can’t tell you his name.”
“Can’t?” The word was a whisper of breath. “Or won’t?”