Chapter 22
TARA
Once we've all recovered from the morning boat adventure with Salty, we go our separate ways. As Cameron promised, driver Henry takes me to the rehearsals of Moby Dick at the Dreamland Theater.
Once I enter, I hear music coming from the main auditorium. Several men stand on stage singing a passage from Moby Dick. The music is soaring and precise.
A large man sits in the front row, radiating authority. I recognize him as Mr. Rudin, the Met's music director.
This is the man who could change my future with a single phone call.
When the men break, I approach him nervously. "Hello. I'm Tara Thompson. Miss Swain said she spoke to you about me."
His eyes flick over me—jeans, T-shirt, no makeup. "Right. Miss Swain mentioned something." He turns back to the men on stage. "You are free to sit in the back and just observe."
"I was hoping to assist you. Take notes, help with—"
"I have assistants." He doesn't look up. "Try not to make noise."
My heart sinks. This isn't mentorship—it's babysitting at a patron's request.
I take a seat, feeling invisible.
As the hour ticks by, he directs his real assistants with precision, explaining artistic choices, demonstrating vocal techniques.
I'm learning nothing except how it feels to be ignored.
During the break, I follow the musicians to a small side room. A tall, imperious woman holds court at a table. She beckons me over with her crooked finger.
It takes me a moment to recognize her. She's Fabiana Farr, world-famous soprano and star of this production.
And true to the publicity photos I've seen of her, a tiny Maltese sits on her lap.
The dog yaps at me as soon as I come near.
“And who are you?"
"Nice to meet you, Ms. Farr. I'm Tara Thompson."
“Why are you here?”
“I’m just helping out. I'm a vocal arts major at NYU and—"
"I see," she says, making a vague gesture as if she's waving me away. "That will be all."
"How rude!" I say under my breath at the coffee station.
"Don't mind her," says a friendly-looking woman, making herself tea. "Fabiana's rude to everyone. I'm Mindy. Violin."
"I'm Tara."
I look up at her. "How do you know my name?"
"We all know your name. Miss Swain is your benefactor. We were told to bow and scrape at your heels."
"She's not my benefactor. But if Miss Swain really said to give me preferential treatment, your troupe has a strange way of showing it."
Mindy laughs. "Touche. True enough. We're from the Met in New York. We're an ornery bunch. Rebellious. None of us like being told what to do, especially Mr. Rudin."
"He seemed nice enough."
"Only because part of his job is to please the benefactors and make sure the big bucks keep rolling in."
When the break ends, I settle into my back-row seat. Mindy set the record straight, and reality hit hard.
I'm not building a career connection here—I'm filling time until the real professionals finish their work.
When rehearsal ends, Henry picks me up and takes me back to the mansion. A sense of exhaustion washes over me.
I’d come to Nantucket partly to connect with the Met opera troupe. And I got lucky with Miss Swain making the right introduction.
But with Fabiana Farr’s derision and Mr. Rudin’s indifference, I can’t help but wonder—what’s the point of being on the inside if no one actually sees you?