Chapter 6
BLAIRE
“I wish you would change your mind,”
Professor Morgan says as he walks me to the door of my apartment. “You have so much talent, and you’re a future star in the opera world. I hate to see you waste it all away.”
I shrug. “I guess I don’t consider this opportunity to be wasting anything. Weren’t you always the one who told me never to let an opportunity pass by? That the more people who heard me sing the better? Because you never knew when that one person might hear me and take me to the next level?”
He shakes his head. “But your voice, Blaire. It was made for opera. You’re made to sing the music written by the great masters. No one writes music like that anymore.”
He grimaces. “Certainly not this Mary Louise person who your new friend Sarah is talking about.”
“I don’t know what to tell you,”
I say. “But being on that stage with Gunnar felt… I don’t know. I just want to try.”
I can’t bring myself to tell Professor Morgan that I felt more myself tonight on that stage with Gunnar Healy than I’ve ever felt—even when I sang the title role in Rossini’s Cinderella during my final year at school.
The adrenaline rush, the high, the appreciation from the audience.
The thrill of singing Cinderella’s firework coloratura in the opera’s finale.
The applause.
The whistles and the shouts of brava.
It’s what keeps me going.
It’s what keeps me going in this dog-eat-dog world of performing arts.
Because it’s a tough road.
It’s more like a mountain with rocks and jagged edges and cliffs. It’s scary as hell, and at times my self-doubt plagues me so much that I want to give up.
But then…I perform again. And whether it’s for judges in a competition, or producers at an audition, or best yet, for a real audience, I feel alive again.
I love opera. My voice lends itself well to the classical genre, but singing with Gunnar tonight?
It was a new high. More phenomenal even than singing Cinderella.
And that kiss at the end…
I’m still quivering.
I take out my key and unlock my apartment door. “I’d invite you in for some coffee, but I’m exhausted.”
He pauses a moment. “I suppose you need to be well-rested to get together with Sarah and that rocker tomorrow.”
“Well…yes.”
He sighs. “There’s something I need to tell you, Blaire.”
“What is it?”
“Could I come in?”
I sigh. Professor Morgan knows how tired I am, so he wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important. “I suppose for a moment.”
“Thank you.”
He follows me in.
“I guess I can make some coffee if you want some. Or I could open a bottle of wine, but I won’t be having any.”
He holds up a hand. “No, no. Don’t go to any trouble. A glass of water will be fine. You should have a glass as well.”
“Oh, yes, keep hydrated.”
He never stops being my teacher.
I walk into my small galley kitchen, fill two glasses with ice and water. Professor Morgan is already sitting on my loveseat. My living area is so small that I only have a loveseat and a recliner. Normally I would sit next to him on the loveseat, but I feel…
I’m not sure what I feel, but I take the chair.
He takes a sip of his water. “Blaire”—he clears his throat—“we’ve known each other for seven years now.”
“We have.”
“For six of those years, I was your college professor.”
I smile. “You still are, as far as I’m concerned. You know I take your advice very seriously. You’ll always be my teacher.”
He takes a slow breath in and then sighs. “I suppose that’s what I need to talk to you about.”
He leans forward. “Blaire, I don’t want to be only your teacher anymore.”
I open my mouth as a wave of fear nearly crushes me. “Don’t leave me now. I know you’re against this thing with Sarah, but I need you. I depend on you, Professor Morgan.”
He edges closer to the side of the loveseat—close enough to grab my hand. “Will I ever convince you to call me Corbett?”
“It just…”
I rub my arms against a sudden chill. “It doesn’t feel right to me.”
“I realize I’m twenty years older than you are,”
he says, “but?—”
I quickly rise from the chair, bumping the small coffee table and spilling my glass of water.
“You’ve nothing to fear from me, Blaire,”
he continues. “But what I feel for you now is more than just the affection a teacher feels for a student, for his protégé. Somewhere along the way I fell in love with you.”
My brain goes haywire. There is no way in hell that this man just said that. A man who took me into his studio when I was freshly eighteen, still a child, really. Professor Morgan was always a little more touchy-feely than I was comfortable with, but I’ve gotten used to it. You have to get used to being poked and prodded in voice lessons. That’s part of the deal. He never crossed the line, and I don’t believe he’ll cross it now.
I hate the idea of upsetting him, of possibly even breaking his heart, but I don’t think of him in that way. I never have, and I never will.
“I’m so sorry,”
I tell him. “But I think you need to leave now.”
He pops up from the loveseat and grabs my hands. “Please, Blaire. Don’t make me leave. Let me show you how much you’ve come to mean to me.”
I back away, heading toward my door. “I…I don’t want to lose you as a teacher. But I’m afraid I don’t share your feelings, Professor.”
He walks to the door. He cups my cheek, thumbing my lower lip.
It feels all kinds of wrong.
I brush his hand away. “Please go.”
He nods and walks out the door without another word.
I close it behind him.
Then I slide, still in my red velvet gown, my back against the door, down to the floor.
I think about Gunnar’s kiss.
And I feel like Professor Morgan tainted it in some way.
As if, when he touched my lip, he negated what Gunnar and I shared.
I swallow.
I may have just lost my teacher, right when I need him the most. But he’s against the collaboration with Gunnar and Sarah. And there’s no way I can share a small studio space with him after he declared his love for me. At least not for a while. We both need some time to cool our jets and move past it.
In the meantime, I’ll find another teacher. I’m sure Opera Livingston will have some recommendations.
And before that, I’ll meet Sarah tomorrow, and I’ll start working on this new project.
I take a shower and get ready for bed. I’m halfway through my skincare regimen when I hear a knock on the door.
My heart skips a beat. It’s far too late for company.
I slowly walk to the door. Shivers skitter over my entire body. Why didn’t I insist that my landlord install a peephole when I moved into this place?
Another knock. I’m close enough to the door to feel its reverberation.
I ignore it. Whoever it is will get the message. He’ll go away.
But another knock, and another. Then, “Blaire, please.”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath in.
And I open the door.