VOWS OF LOVE
I joined Michael in his kitchen and watched him make himself a sandwich and coffee. He insisted I have a cup of coffee and sit with him as he ate. He described how pleased he was with his work at the Bernhardt School and how excited and happy he was to be back in New York.
"Although," he said, "I thoroughly enjoyed traveling through Europe and singing in the great theaters with their wonderful histories, singing before the richest, most cultured audiences. I have played in Rome, Paris and London. I have even performed in Budapest, Hungary," he bragged.
I sat there hypnotized by his voice and the stories he told me about his travels and performances.
Suddenly, he leaned back in his chair and stared at me in a more scrutinizing manner, his head tilted to the right, his eyes fixed on mine.
"Earlier," he said, "when you were complaining about your family, you never mentioned your father. What is he like? Is he still alive?"
I thought for a long moment. Michael had taken me into his life, touched me in the most intimate ways a man could touch a woman, trusted me, wanted me. I didn't want to permit anything false between us. His eyes were full of concern and sincere interest. I believed him when he had said that music had already wed us to each other, bound us in ways other people could not understand.
"I don't know what my father is like," I began and told him my story. He listened without moving a muscle. Our roles had been reversed: now he was mesmerized by me and my tale of kidnapping and discovery, being returned to a family I despised and learning the truth of my abduction. "I know every-thing," I concluded, "except my father's name."
Michael nodded slowly, his dark eyes thoughtful as he digested what I had told him.
"Your grandmother sounds like a strong-willed and powerful old woman. She would tell you nothing about your real father?"
"No, and my mother is so terrified of her, she won't reveal anything either."
He nodded, lowering his eyes sadly. Then he looked up, brightening with an idea.
"Perhaps I can help you find your real father," he said.
"Oh Michael, can you? How? If you could do that, it would be the most wonderful gift you could ever give me," I cried.
"I have some good friends, agent friends, who must know agents who placed these singers and performers in resort hotels during the period you described. I'll get them to investigate and come up with some names for us. At least, we can narrow it down and proceed from there," he concluded.
"He might be a performer working in New York. You might even know him!"
"Very possibly," Michael agreed. "Let me work on it. In the meantime, young lady," he said, sitting back, "we had better get you on your way. Besides obeying your curfew at the residence, I'd like you to be fresh and energetic when I work with you. For obvious reasons, however, I won't be able to treat you any differently from the way I treat my other students. And you must continue to keep everything we do and say to each other under lock and key."
"I will," I said. "Here in my heart," I added, my hand over my breast.
"You are so lovely . . ." he trailed off.
I couldn't help blushing at the compliment. He got up to kiss me on the cheek and then phoned down to the doorman to hail a taxi cab for me. At his apartment doorway, he kissed me softly on the lips and pressed his cheek to mine.
"Good night, my little diva," he whispered.
I felt like 1 floated to the elevator. When I descended to the lobby, the doorman had my taxi waiting. He escorted me out and opened the cab door for me, tipped his hat and said good night. I gave the driver my address and sat back, lost in the memory of all that had happened.
Michael had singled me out and made love to me first through my music and then the way a man and a woman were meant to make love. I wondered if Michael's other guests had arrived and knocked on the door. I felt that we'd never have heard their annoyed knockings and ringings, so intent had we been on our own world, on our own happiness.
I didn't think about Trisha until I started to open our bedroom door. 1 should have known she would be waiting anxiously for my return and would want me to tell her every detail of my secret evening with the older man I had invented. She was lying in bed, doing her homework, but she slapped all her books closed the instant I entered the room.
"I couldn't wait until you got back," she said. "Tell me everything." She sat up and folded her hands on her lap. Just as before, I decided to mix fantasy and fact. As I got ready for bed, I began.
"He has a beautiful apartment in a very fancy building with a doorman in the lobby." I described Michael's apartment in detail, feeling confident Trisha would never go there. "He has pictures of his dead wife in every room," I added. "One great big one over the fireplace, and it's true: we do look a lot alike. She was even my size in dresses and shoes, and he's kept all her clothing. He wanted to give me some things, but I refused to take anything. I did try a few things on and everything was a perfect fit."
"That's eerie," Trisha said, eyes wide.
"Yes, but maybe it was Fate that brought us
together. Some things are just meant to be."
"You mean you're going to see him again and again?"