Page 59 of Hope & Harmony

As I watched the singer playing Figaro measuring the floor and singing words I didn’t understand, something burst inside me. I couldn’t look away. From the period costumes to the comedic acting to the incredible voices, I was completelyenthralled. When Cherubino came onstage, I giggled, realizing that the actor who played him was actually a woman in what I would later learn was called a pants role.

Cherubino was a nervous teenaged boy dealing with his changing body—a comedic character to the hilt. But that didn’t stop Mozart from writing him a beautiful aria called “Voi che sapete” in the opera’s second act. The woman who played the role sang with a rich voice that reminded me of the plush blue velvet of the theater chair I was sitting on.

I had always loved to sing, and Mom and Dad always said I had talent and that when I was older they’d get me voice lessons.

After that opera, I begged to begin lessons. By the time I hit middle school, I was winning competitions, and when I hit high school, I was starring in every school musical. But, while musical theater was fun, opera was where my heart truly lay. I majored in classical voice at college, went straight to grad school for a masters, and I’ve spent the year auditioning for the young artists’ circuit, all while still working with my college professor, Corbett Morgan.

I just completed a summer program, and I’m due to begin a yearlong apprenticeship with a nearby regional company in a few weeks.

When Jamie heard me sing and invited me to open mic night here at the Haven, I was apprehensive, but the audience has been very reassuring.

Not so reassuring is Gunnar Healy. Gunnar’s a rocker who looks the part. Wavy dark hair that falls to his shoulders, black stubble, and the kind of searing blue eyes—complete with long black lashes, damn him—you see on the hottest Hollywood heartthrobs.

Not to mention his body…

He always wears the same thing when he performs—dark-blue jeans that hug his ass, black boots, and a tight T-shirt that melts against his chest, showing off all his corded muscles.

And his voice?

It’s a high-lying baritone with a rock-and-roll rasp that makes my knees weak.

I force myself to look away as he sings. Though I respect all genres of music, rock and roll is probably my least favorite. I’ve never enjoyed it much. It’s too gritty, too loud, too dark.

So why am I transfixed by Gunnar’s performance? Why is his music hitting me the same way Mozart’s did years ago when Grandma took me to the opera? Maybe it’s his sheer attractiveness. Or maybe it’s his stage presence. Or his ridiculous charisma as he vocalizes. I swear he can make me feel like he’s singing directly to me.

Music has always given me strength, but when I listen to Gunnar—to the depth and lushness and pure emotion of his voice—vulnerability seems to overtake me. He sings the words as if they’re dripping from him like bourbon honey, as if he’s stripping away my last defense and exposing everything hidden inside me. I want to hang onto every note, commit each sound to my memory, let the music take me somewhere passionate and forbidden.

His music couldn’t be anything further from what I just sang. Today I debuted an aria from the Saint-Saëns operaSamson and Delilah. “Mon coeur s’ouvre a ta voix,” it’s called. French for “my heart opens to your voice.”

A bit on the nose, it turns out. Every single note out of Gunnar Healy’s gorgeous mouth is drawing me closer and closer…

I’m jerked from my hypnotic trance when someone touches my arm.

“Blaire?” A young woman with dark hair and striking green eyes stands next to me.

“Yes? May I help you?”

She smiles. “I think I can helpyou.”

I take a drink from my water bottle, trying to cool myself off. Still, my cheeks warm. “Oh?”

What’s she going to do? Help me with the fantasy I’m having about Gunnar Healy?

She pulls a business card out of her purse and hands it to me. “I’m Sarah Leventhal.”

I read the colorful card.Sarah Leventhal.Talent Scout.Agent.Producer.

I stop my jaw from dropping. Professor Morgan told me I wouldn’t get an agent until I was at least twenty-seven, maybe even older because of my low voice type. I’m still considered young for a mezzo, only a year out of grad school. For the next four or five years, at least, he said I would be doing young artist programs here and there. The most I could expect for the time being would be small roles with larger companies and bigger roles in touring educational shows. Maybe I’d bite the bullet and try the European market on for size.

But representation? That was far into the future.

“Wow,” I say. “It’s great to meet you.”

She gestures toward the back of the performance space. “Can we talk for a moment?”

“Yes, of course.”

She leads me backstage to a quiet alcove. No way would we be able to talk in the bar—not with Gunnar blaring and the audience going crazy.

---