Page 51 of Mistaken

He offered her an omelet, and although she didn’t usually eat something that heavy for breakfast, she decided to go with it today. Singing expended a lot of calories, and riding would use up some more, so she thought maybe Abdul knew what he was talking about.

Also, it wasn’t something heavy with sausage and cheese, but a frittata lush with roasted bell peppers and onions and just a kiss of parmesan, so she thought that was all right.

In fact, it was so glorious outside that they had their breakfast on the patio. A few puddles remained from the previous night’s storm, but because the table had been placed under an enormous sun sail, that part of the courtyard was dry.

“What did you want to work on today?” Abdul asked as she reached for the bowl of sliced strawberries he’d placed next to her plate.

Sarah had been thinking about that very topic as she washed her hair this morning. It had been good to dive back into the songs and arias that had been the bread and butter of her vocal training, but she knew her voice was better suited for musical theater than opera. And while she at first thought that maybe she’d play it safe and choose something fromBeauty and the Beast,since she’d also performed in that musical…even though she knew Belle’s story was fraught as well…she decided it was probably better to really face the music, so to speak, and return to the work that she’d never been able to sing in public.

“Oh, something fromPhantom,” she said casually. “Since I heard you playing ‘Think of Me’ the other day, it’s not like you’d have to learn something new. Does that work?”

“Very much,” Abdul replied. “I’m glad to hear you’re ready to sing those pieces.”

He didn’t say anything more than that, but it was enough. In a way, Sarah was relieved to see that he didn’t seem inclined to ask her to elaborate, to explain why she had decided now was the time to go back to the musical that had meant so much to her.

To be fair, she wasn’t sure if she could have adequately explained the change of heart even to herself. Maybe it was that she felt oddly safe here with Abdul, and if she crashed and burned, or began to sing and then decided she couldn’t go on, she somehow knew he wouldn’t press the issue or try to convince her to work through her mental blocks.

No, at most he would probably ask if she wanted to switch to a different piece, or maybe suggest that she should take a break and go outside for a walk or something. After all, he wasn’t her coach, a person who knew he needed to press and challenge her, only someone happy to see her doing anything at all with her voice.

“It’s a plan, then,” she said, glad that she sounded so steady.

The real trick would be seeing if she remained that steady once she began to sing.

Abdul still found himself somewhat surprised that Sarah had decided to practice a piece fromThe Phantom of the Opera,but he hadn’t asked any questions. Perhaps he was being overly fearful, but he couldn’t help thinking that if he’d been too inquisitive, she would have shut down and decided to go back to something safer.

And it was true that he’d already played the song she had chosen, so it wasn’t as though they would have to waste any time while he quickly taught himself something new.

When she walked over to the piano, she had her chin up, as if she was inwardly schooling herself to maintain control no matter what happened. He had heard the song — had listened to the original recording, which he’d summoned to his audio library, as well as a piano solo as part of his preparations — and yet he still found himself growing tense as she positioned herself in the curve of the instrument and took a breath. Today she wore the white dress he had provided for her, and he thought she had never looked so lovely as she did right then, with her dark hair providing a contrast to the pale garment, her posture proud and oddly vulnerable at the same time.

“Think of me,” she began, and her voice was breathy, hesitant.

Abdul frowned inside his hood…even as he reminded himself that the original song had begun in that very same way. Christine Daaé, unsure of herself, being thrust into the spotlight before she thought she was ready, despite her tutelage by the Phantom.

And then her voice swelling as she gained confidence, just as Sarah got her wind now, the sound carrying clear and pure to every corner of the room, hair falling like a skein of dusky silk down her back, color flaring along her high cheekbones. Abdul’s fingers paused on the keyboard so she could sing the final cadenza on her own, rippling up and down the scale until ascending to the double high A, a note that could have come out in a screech but instead was clear as a bell, reverberating throughout the space, until she ended with that final triumphant “me,” just as he hit the final chord at the same time.

The sound died away, and for a moment, she only stood there, breasts rising and falling as she seemed to absorb what she had just done.

Bravi…bravi…bravissimi.

Abdul thought of the Phantom’s praise for his pupil following her bravura performance, but he knew better than to utter those words aloud. The last thing he wanted was for Sarah to think there was anything remotely parallel about their circumstances.

Even if he knew there were far more resonances than he cared to admit.

“I can see why you were cast in the role,” he said, and Sarah turned toward him, eyes shining, cheeks still flushed.

“Thank you. I — ”She broke off there, as though she wasn’t quite sure what she’d intended to say next. “I guess I needed to know whether I could still do it.”

“Clearly, you can.” He paused for a moment, wondering whether he should elaborate, then decided against it. If he pointed out that it was a tragedy the world had been deprived of hearing her sing, then she would only revisit the circumstances that had prevented her from doing such a thing, and he did not want her thoughts to linger on the Dying…or the reason why it had happened. Doing his best to sound neutral, he added, “Would you like to run through it again?”

Because while he thought her performance had been perfect, he also did not doubt that she would find something to nitpick about it.

As he’d expected, she nodded. “I think it’s a good idea. Let’s start with the part where I begin with, ‘think of August.’ I’m pretty sure I can do a better job with my breath control in that passage.”

So they returned to the section of the song she’d indicated and ran through it several times. From there, they moved on to the cadenza. He had thought it perfect, but she wanted to cover it two, three, five times until she judged every note to be exactly where she wanted it to be.

At last, though, she stepped up to the bench where he sat and said, “Okay, that should do it for today. Thanks for being so patient with me.”

He hadn’t thought of it as being patient, but more being able to drink in every second he spent with her, every moment she sang and he could listen to the power and purity of her voice. Although he’d never been intoxicated — his body would not allow him to be affected by alcohol — he had to believe this was something like being drunk, to have the world feel as though it was somehow lighter and brighter, that all the weight of his grief and anger and guilt had been lifted, simply because she was there.

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