Page 13 of The Tenor's Shadow

Chapter 4

Anthony

How the role of Ferrando from Mozart’s Cosí fan tutte became one of Anthony’s signatures, he’d never know. The character was not a great guy. Neither of the dudes in Cosi were.

Anthony hated the whole thing: making a bet on his fiancé’s loyalty, wearing a disguise to trick said fiancé, all of it. But he was known for the part, and audiences loved the thing, so he was back in San Francisco.

Sometimes a new production would find a way to be more feminist, or at least more realistic, but not this one. Market Street Opera had been doing this production for the last twenty years. The costumes were dated and awful. The fake mustache for Anthony’s disguise as an “Albanian” really pissed him off.

At least his big aria was pretty.

He tried to keep his spirits up as he unpacked his bags in the hotel room. The company had taken good care of him. The room was beautiful, with an eclectic mix of modern and antique touches, and the bathroom floor was heated, one of Anthony’s favorite perks. And the bed…so cozy. If he had to do the creaky old opera at least he’d sleep comfortably.

He hung up the last of his shirts in the closet and fixed his hair in the mirror. He had magnificent hair, thick and brown from his Italian heritage, and although it was silly, he wouldn’t leave without looking perfect. People expected it from him. He spritzed on Acqua di Gío and headed downstairs.

He walked into the restaurant. Hotel restaurants always had a decor that said “we’re fancy, as long as you don’t look too close.” The fabric on the upholstered chairs might be suede, if you squinted, and the crown molding was barely holding on. One glance and Anthony saw that his date had not yet arrived.

His first instinct was annoyance. Don’t schedule a nine a.m. appointment and no-show! Honestly, don’t schedule a nine a.m. appointment at all. No matter. He took a deep breath and found the host. He just needed to have a cup of coffee.

Anthony sat down at the impeccably set table, careful not to bump into the man sitting nearby. He was a thin, ostentatiously dressed gentleman wearing a colorful, voluminous ascot around his neck.

The man squinted as Anthony squeezed by. He looked in his thirties and was reasonably attractive with smooth olive skin, but his style and demeanor were that of an elderly gay. He gave off a vibe much like the fussy men that attended Anthony’s operas.

Anthony was stirring cream into his coffee when he spoke.

“Tea is better for the voice. Less dehydrating.”

The words came out in a soft rasp. Anthony guessed it was the result of some sort of vocal injury. Anthony looked over his shoulder wearily. It was too early for a disgruntled opera lover.

“Are you a fan?”

“I wouldn’t go that far, no. Just an admirer of…culture.” The fancy man’s eyes flashed, and for a moment, Anthony wondered if he’d offended him somehow.

“Well, that’s lovely for you.” Anthony turned back to his coffee.

“It is. I like to think I have refined taste. You should try it some time.”

God, what a dick. Anthony was about to fling out some snarky retort when the general manager of the Market Street Opera entered the restaurant.

Rosemary Spooner was a tall, thin, formidable woman, the opera world’s Miranda Priestly. When Anthony had worked here as a young artist, he’d been terrified of her, but he quickly learned that she ran the company like a tight ship, and if he did his job well, she’d keep giving him opportunities.

Anthony stood to shake her hand, smiling. “I love your Chanel suit, Rosemary. It’s a classic.”

“You’re looking well, Anthony.” Her face was still and calm. She sat, unfolding a napkin and laying it across her lap methodically. “You have quite the schedule this season.”

“Strike while the iron is hot. Plus, I like traveling.”

Rosemary squinted at him. “Where’s your assistant? What’s her name…Jennifer?”

Anthony sighed. “She’s on vacation. For an entire month.” It was a sore subject. He dreaded being without her.

“When you’re about to open an opera?”

“I couldn’t say no.” Anthony kneaded his forehead with his fingers. “She hasn’t taken time off in two years.”

Rosemary cocked her head and looked him up and down, assessing him. “Alright, out with it. Why are we here?”

“Breakfast with an old friend?” Anthony projected a flirtatious warmth. They’d always done this dance: he’d play coy, and she’d pull the truth out of him.

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