Coffee Sonata (3 page)

“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen of the press.”

There it was. The voice. Eryn was no opera aficionado, but no one on the planet who owned a radio or TV set could mistake Harding’s voice for anyone else’s. Eryn knew she’d never forget hearing it in real life, if only speaking and not singing.

“This press conference isn’t just about me.” Harding waved off the applause. “While I realize you’re interested in my life and work, I’m actually here to support an extensive charity project, governed mainly by the Belmont Foundation.” She glanced sideways, a smile on her bright red lips. “Manon Belmont has come up with a plan to raise enough money within a year to build a new wing at East Quay Memorial Hospital. In fact, the construction company is making initial preparations.”

Everyone was silent for a few seconds, since the announcement had taken Eryn and her colleagues off guard.

“In what way are you involved, Ms. Harding?” a man sitting three chairs from Eryn asked.

“I will sing in a benefit concert at East Quay Hall, three weeks from tomorrow, with the proceeds going to the hospital.”

Eryn caught Harding and Manon exchanging a furtive glance.

“The concert will serve a second purpose as well,” Harding continued. “It will also be my farewell performance.”

After several audible gasps, a volcano of simultaneous questions erupted.

“Are you retiring, Ms. Harding?”

“Why have you returned to your hometown now? Didn’t you once promise never to return?”

“Did Ms. Belmont contact you?”

“Are the rumors regarding you and Peter Ovolov true?”

“Ms. Harding? Over here! Is it true that you’ve fired Malcolm Hayes because of the scandal in Rome?”

Embarrassed, but not surprised, on her colleagues’ behalf, Eryn looked over at Manon, whose expression had hardened.

“One at a time, please.” Vivian Harding was clearly used to being accosted by the press on such occasions. “You in the yellow blouse, in the second row.”

“Amy Torres, the
Boston Phoenix
. Why are you giving your last performance in a godforsaken little town like East Quay?”

Eryn groaned.
What an idiot. Doesn’t she realize her question will alienate every citizen in this town?

“I left this town exactly thirty-eight years ago, and it’s high time I gave something back to it. After all, I went to high school here, and my parents lived and worked here for more than half a century.”

“But why now?” The reporter was insistent, and something impertinent in her voice made Eryn want to muzzle her.

“Why not now?” Harding countered, her expression still friendly, but she spoke with an obvious bite. “This is about closing a circle. I’ve seen and played almost every major opera house in the world. Now I want to finish my career in my hometown where I started out. Or maybe you didn’t do your research well enough to realize this fact, Miss…? I’m sorry. What was your name?”

Ouch. Good for you, Harding. Don’t take that kind of treatment from anyone.
Eryn thought she saw Manon nod approvingly before sending the reporter a cold glance. Eryn raised her hand.

*

Manon Belmont could have throttled the
Boston Phoenix
’s reporter, but she also knew these types of questions were unavoidable. Vivian had assured her that after dealing with the European press, she didn’t consider the U.S. media too bad.

She regarded the next reporter Vivian acknowledged. The woman was young, with stunning red hair in a long braid and a self-assured look about her. When she rose to ask her question, relaxed and confident, Manon leaned forward so she wouldn’t miss her words. She managed to avoid frowning when her pulse quickened at the sound of the woman’s clear, strong voice.

“Eryn Goddard,
New Quay Chronicle
. Have you collaborated with the Belmont Foundation before, Ms. Harding? You and Manon Belmont look like you know each other.”

Vivian spoke in a low-key tone, unlike the confident onstage voice she had just used to address the other journalist.

“Ms. Goddard. Eryn, was it?” A faint tremor in the elegant hands, probably only visible to Manon, spoke of Vivian’s inner turmoil. “I admire your perception. Yes, I’ve worked with Ms. Belmont on several projects, and we’ve had some success. We became acquainted when she came to Paris and I was performing at Opera Nationale. We spoke after the performance, and when I learned she was one of the New England Belmonts and how dedicated she was to her grandfather’s legacy, the foundation, I was keen to help her raise whatever funds she needed.” Vivian raised her hands, palms up, and gestured toward Manon. “So if you think I’ve done anything remarkable for this town, you should be a thousand times more proud of Ms. Belmont.
She
is this town’s true daughter. I’m proud to call Manon Belmont my friend.”

Manon was astounded. She’d never expected Vivian to say anything like that. Not that the part about how they met wasn’t true…but the whole daughter-of-the-town business? And Vivian sounded almost regretful.
What was that about?
Manon glimpsed the reporter, Eryn, scribbling energetically on her computer as a forest of hands stretched toward the ceiling. With the autumn sun from a nearby window igniting her dark red hair, she appeared quite
beautiful
.
Puzzled by the thought, Manon forced herself to focus on the other reporters. Then, to her annoyance, the insolent woman in the yellow shirt now blurted out the next question, without waiting to be acknowledged.

“Why haven’t you let your fans know about your work for charity?”

Manon glanced at Vivian, who appeared remarkably calm.
She sounds as if Vivian is obligated to report every move she makes. No wonder she wants to retire.

“It’s quite simple,” Vivian responded. “I’m doing this for personal reasons. Private reasons. I didn’t want that misconstrued as some kind of bid for publicity.”

The woman looked stumped at the reply, and in the back, someone began applauding. The sound grew stronger, and Manon saw Eryn rise to her feet, bringing others with her as the entire assembled press gave a now-flustered Vivian a standing ovation.

“Please, please,” Vivian whispered, her eyes suspiciously bright, despite her brilliant smile. “Enough of this.” She looked at Manon, pretending to despair. “What do I do?”

“Enjoy,” Manon murmured. “You deserve it.”

“Very well. I’ll take a few more questions. You, sir, in the black suit on the first row. It’s Dan, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Dan Casey,
New York Times
. I’m flattered that you remember me and sad to hear you’re retiring. Usually, at this stage in an opera singer’s career, you’re at the peak of your performance, with a lot left to give, vocally and artistically. Why end it now? Would you like to share any of your reasons with us?”

With no sound, more a faint twitch of leg muscles, Manon felt Vivian begin to tremble and watched her press her palms together tightly before answering.

“Mostly the reasons are private, and I do agree with you. I’m not ending my career as a performer for artistic reasons. But I can tell you this. I’ll miss it a lot.” The slight quiver in her smile seemed to quiet everyone. “Even the press, Dan.”

“It’s a tremendous loss for the music world.”

Vivian murmured a thank-you, and then, with a hint of distress, she glanced at Manon, who gave her a reassuring nod and took over.

“I can answer the rest of your questions regarding our charity concert. The town has donated one week’s rent for the concert hall, for rehearsals and the main event. Ms. Harding’s performance will be the main attraction, of course, but we will have a full program, with several other local performers. An itinerary with all the details will be available when you leave…” She heard herself talk about these details with the press, but part of her alternated between making sure Vivian was all right and examining Eryn Goddard’s reaction to what was going on. She was obviously eager to get everything down, since she wrote at an energetic pace and regularly glanced up at Manon and Vivian.

Manon eventually wrapped up the press conference with a sigh of relief and surreptitiously peeked at Eryn one last time. At the same moment, Eryn looked her way, and, to Manon’s great embarrassment, lifted an eyebrow questioningly.

Manon groaned inwardly and quickly averted her gaze.
Oh, for heaven’s sake. To be caught staring!

*

The taxi drove away with Vivian, and Manon walked back into the Marriott, intending to pick up her briefcase and talk to the hotel manager before returning to the office. Alone in the corridor, she coughed, her itching throat making her realize how exhausted she was.
Damn flu. I thought I was over it.
A coughing spell racked her, and she almost cursed aloud as she leaned breathless against the wall.

“Ms. Belmont, are you all right?” someone asked, and placed a hand on her shoulder from behind, startling her.

Manon saw first the green corduroy jacket and tan chinos. Then the red hair, gathered into a long, loose braid; the slightly freckled oval face; and golden butterflies glistening in small, neat earlobes swam into focus. Tipping her head back a little, Manon gazed into large, luminescent green eyes behind thin metal-framed glasses. It was the reporter from the first row, Eryn Goddard. A big leather bag was slung across her right shoulder and hung down to her hip.

“It’s all right. I’ll be fine,” Manon wheezed, and hated how weak her voice sounded.

“You sure? That’s a bad cough.”

Determined not to show just how bad she felt, Manon let go of the wall. “I assure you, I’m fine, Ms. Goddard. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, but there’s no need for thanks.” Eryn tossed her braid over her shoulder with her free hand. “Especially since we’re new neighbors.”

“Neighbors? I haven’t seen you in my building.”

“I just moved into the condo below yours.”

“I see.” Manon tried to think of something more interesting to say, but she was still annoyed that anyone, especially a reporter, had seen her in a weakened state. To top it off, Eryn was scrutinizing her unabashedly, her braid swinging slowly off her shoulder like liquid red gold as she tilted her head.
If I didn’t know better, I’d say she’s checking me out.

Manon grew cold and breathless for a totally different reason. She stepped back, hoping the added physical distance would deter Eryn from seeing…too much. “I’d better be going.”

“Okay. Hope you feel better soon.”

“Thank you. For your concern.” She winced when she heard her own starchy words. She couldn’t afford to alienate the press. Although she felt ridiculous, Manon began walking toward the door at the end of the corridor.

“Ms. Belmont?”

“Yes?” Manon looked back over her shoulder. Eryn’s eyes glittered as if she was hard pressed not to smile.

“You’re welcome.”

*

As Eryn strolled down the street she wondered why she couldn’t stop thinking about Manon Belmont. The extraordinarily poised Belmont onstage was a distinct contrast to the vulnerable woman she’d just seen in the corridor. Eryn wondered how someone could appear so collected every instant in public. She carried herself impeccably, wore her hair in a tasteful but restrained style, and dressed conservatively, no doubt from the most expensive boutiques in Providence and Boston. However, the woman Eryn had just encountered in the hotel hallway acted almost unsure of herself, as if she was afraid of saying the wrong thing.

A limousine passed her and then slowed. Eryn assumed it was because of the afternoon traffic, but no other cars were in the limo’s lane. It stopped completely, and Eryn halted next to it, curious.

A back window lowered. “Are you on your way home, Ms. Goddard?” Manon Belmont asked in a reserved tone.

“Yes. The cab line was so long—”

“Would you like a ride?”

Eryn hesitated only a moment. “Thanks, if it’s no bother. That’d be super.”

The chauffeur, a distinguished-looking man in his sixties, came around to the passenger side.

“Ma’am.” He politely removed his cap as she entered the car.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Just call me Ben, ma’am.” The corner of his mouth twitched, making his neat mustache quiver.

“Only if you call me Eryn. I’m not used to being ma’amed.” Eryn grinned when he nodded. She already liked the chauffeur.

As they merged into traffic, Eryn turned to Manon, who was busy reading from a folder. She made no attempt to talk to Eryn, only glanced at her and nodded distractedly.

The muted light in the limo softened Manon’s features, making her look different—less strict, younger. Eryn knew she was in her early forties and that she’d never married. In fact, she was supposedly a barracuda when it came to men. With a new man on her arm at almost every function, she teetered on the difficult edge of being envied or called a tramp.

As Eryn studied Manon discreetly she wondered if anyone who actually looked at this class act of a woman could call her a tramp. An aura of quality, of substance, permeated the air around Manon, as if she oozed old money, old values.
As if I’d give a hoot for old values. Old values crucify people like me.