A Wilder Name Page 3

  Nina left the studio humming, walking down the busy street with that lift that a good singing workout always gave her.

  Nina had entered the music business because she loved to sing—she was born to sing, as Jesse had put it. She enjoyed life in general, but nothing gave her as much satisfaction as those perfect, focused moments when the physical, emotional, and spiritual aspects of her being joined together and soared high above the common bonds of earth and daily life. She had never found those moments anywhere but in singing.

  Nothing else in life equaled that. Certainly not falling in love with Philippe, she thought with a grimace. Undoubtedly there had been romance, pleasure, and pain with him. But there had never been any all-consuming moment when she thought, “Ah, yes, this is why we’re here, and it’s all worth it for a moment like this.” She enjoyed sex, but found it a transitory physical experience similar to hunger and eating. The desire came and was gratified, or not, depending on circumstances; it required little of her mind or soul. She enjoyed the love of her family, the daily pleasures of life, beautiful objects, and fine food. But there was an endless yearning in herself she didn’t understand, a searching, fathomless need for fulfillment which had always driven her to those hard-won magical moments when she lived, if only for the length of a song, the strongest passions of life and expressed them from the well of her soul.

  “You’re thinking very deep thoughts today,” Nina said to her reflection in a shop window. A familiar pair of brown eyes looked back at her. Her heart jumped for a moment, then she laughed at herself—it was a poster.

  She peered into the window. It was a music shop. Luke must be as popular as Jesse had said. Half of the display window was devoted to his album, including the poster, which was a blowup of the album cover. It showed Luke against a background of rural poverty—a broken-down shanty, a junk heap, laundry hanging on the line. He was wearing faded jeans and an old sweatshirt. His face was unshaven, and there was a burning, driven look in his eyes. The title of the album was A Wilder Name.

  Nina stared in fascination at the dreary, tumbledown, almost oppressive background before shifting her gaze back to Luke’s burning eyes. What did he see that she didn’t? What did he mean, a wilder name?

  She was on the verge of going into the shop to buy the album when she reminded herself of all the reasons why she shouldn’t. It was rock and she didn’t listen to rock. She hated Luke Swain and she didn’t want to help his album sales. She would never see him again and had no interest in learning more about his music or his opinions. She hailed a cab and went home.

  Nina’s home was a small one-bedroom apartment on the ninth floor of a well-kept building in the East Eighties near Lexington Avenue. She couldn’t see Central Park from her apartment—there were too many buildings in the way—but at least it was within walking distance. The apartment itself was tastefully and elegantly decorated in a style, which was feminine without being fussy. Nina preferred modern furniture, simple clean lines, and light colors. She had a strong liking for Oriental objects—rugs, vases, paintings, bonsai—and the apartment usually showed evidence of her skill in Japanese flower arrangements, a hobby she had picked up in San Francisco. The style was rounded out by a few modern expressionist paintings. She had devoted a lot of money and energy to making this apartment just right when she had settled in New York, and it was a haven to her. There was a piano in the far corner by the window, with stacks of opera scores on it, as well as an elaborate stereo system.

  The phone was ringing as she entered.

  “Hello,” she said into the receiver.

  “Hello, this is Luke.”

  She was too surprised to speak. Was he psychic? Had he called to yell at her for not buying his album?

  “Luke Swain...” he said hesitantly.

  “Yes, I know who you are. How did you get my number?”

  “You’re the only Nina Gnagnarelli in the book.”

  “Oh, yes. What do you want?” she said ungraciously.

  “I was kind of rude the other evening—”

  “Yes, you were.”

  “And I’d like to make it up to you.”

  “Is this an apology?”

  “I’d rather apologize in person. Will you have dinner with me?”

  “You must be kidding.”

  “Look, we got off to a bad start, but I don’t always have the manners of an ox. Sometimes I’m good company.”

  “Really, I don’t think—”

  “My treat.”

  “I’m afraid—”

  “You can pick the restaurant.”

  “Honestly, I don’t think ... I can?”

  “Yes.”

  She was silent for a moment, thinking. Then a wicked grin spread across her face. She would teach this hotshot a lesson that would knock him on his ear.

  “Well, all right. I’d love to,” she said sweetly, too sweetly.

  “You would?” He sounded suspicious.

  “Of course. How about Thursday night?”

  “No, I can’t—I’ve got a date. How about Tuesday?”

  “No, I can’t—I’m performing. How about Wednesday?”

  “No, we’re rehearsing. How about Friday?”

  She looked at her calendar. “Yes, Friday’s fine.” She gave him the name and address of the restaurant, and they agreed to meet there at 8:00 p.m. He gave her his phone number in case a conflict arose, since his number was, of course, unlisted.

  “Until Friday, then,” he said and hung up.

  Nina put down the phone, her eyes glittering. Luke Swain didn’t know it, but he had just agreed to buy her dinner at perhaps the most expensive restaurant in New York. It was certainly the most elegant. She could hardly wait.

  * * * *

  Luke was waiting for Nina on the sidewalk when she arrived. Like many of the best places in New York, Les Précieuses had a modest doorway, which gave no hint of its plush interior. Nina inwardly gloated over leading the lamb to slaughter as Luke helped her out of the cab.

  He was obviously on his best behavior tonight; although his eyes narrowed slightly at the sight of her pearl gray chinchilla coat, his only comment was a pleasant, “Hello.”

  Nina looked at him critically. He was wearing a dark shirt and trousers with a tan jacket, all cut in a modern streamlined style. He had shaved, his hair was neatly brushed, even his shoes were polished. He looked good. His fans would have probably melted into little puddles on the sidewalk.

  “Not bad,” said Nina, “but I think you’ll need this.” She pulled a black silk tie out of her purse.

  “A tie?” he said blankly.

  “Yes, they require one here.” He was turning it over in his hands as if it were some rare artifact. “Of course, they have a selection inside for gentlemen who forget to wear their own. But this one is silk. And I’m prepared to give it to you if you don’t own one,” she said magnanimously.

  “That’s ... very generous, Nina. I’ll treasure it always.” He began putting on the tie, his gaze holding hers, picking up the gauntlet she’d thrown down. His long, deft fingers quickly completed the task. “Satisfied?”

  Nina reached up. Smiling maliciously, she pulled the knot a little tighter. “It looks wonderful.”

  “It feels like a noose.”

  Luke’s eyes widened as they entered the restaurant. There was no mistaking the plush carpet, the French antiques, the impeccably dressed waiters; Les Pr6cieuses was haute cuisine at its most elegant, with prices to match.

  “Ah, Madame Gnagnarelli. Mais ça fait bien longtemps qu’on ne vous voit pas. Quel grand plaisir!” the head waiter greeted Nina.

  She gave him her hand, which he bowed over gallantly, and responded in French, “Yes, it’s been months, Henri. I’m so glad to be back. I hope you’ve given us a good table.”

  “Mais bien sur, madame. The very best. If you will follow me,” he answered, leading the way.

  “Come here often?” Luke asked suspiciously.

  “Oh, now and agai
n.”

  They followed Henri to a semiprivate alcove with soft lighting, far from the door. Nina gave her coat to a waiter and was gratified to see Luke’s eyes warm to her appearance. She had dressed with some care—strictly for her self-esteem and not for her escort, she reminded herself. Her dress was a dark crimson blend of silk and wool which exposed the hollows of her neck and the beginning swell of her breasts before tapering down to a tight bodice and narrow skirt. The color contrasted sharply with her black hair, which was drawn back into a sleek chignon. Her jewelry was simple-white gold set with tiny rubies. She saw Luke’s eyes take it all in with admiration before their gazes locked; there was a message in his look that sent an unaccustomed panic through her. She lowered her eyes quickly.

  Their waiter appeared as if on cue. As various other men bustled about, filling her water glass and offering her bread, Nina took command of herself once more.

  She chatted gaily in French with their waiter, while Luke glumly studied the prices on the menu. They ordered their various courses, then someone handed the wine list to Luke while Nina looked at him with wide-eyed innocence.

  Torn between irritation and amusement, Luke handed the list to Nina. “Perhaps you’d like to choose,” he said. “As you’ve probably guessed, French wine isn’t my specialty.”

  Well, at least he doesn’t suffer from an overbearing ego, she thought. She’d seen many men struggle with wine lists and make bad choices rather than simply admit to their date that they didn’t know much about expensive wines. Already knowing what she wanted, Nina handed the list back to the wine steward and told him her choice.

  “I hope you like very dry white,” she said to Luke as the bottle was brought to their table.

  “Actually, I prefer red, but I’m sure I’ll enjoy this,” he answered pleasantly. He stopped the steward from pouring a bit of wine into his glass. “Let the lady decide,” he said, gesturing toward Nina.

  The wine was excellent—Nina’s favorite, in fact. When they were left alone again, Luke was looking at her with frank amusement.

  “Well, I guess I set my own trap,” he said.

  “You’re a very good sport,” Nina said with a laugh.

  “I suppose this is suitable revenge for our last meeting.”

  “The food is great, though. If nothing else, you’ll enjoy your meal.”

  “I expect to enjoy the company, Nina.”

  The polite words were expressed with a frankness that robbed her of a witty reply, so she turned her attention to her wine. The food was as excellent as she had promised. Under the influence of good food and good wine, Nina began to chat easily with Luke and soon forgot she’d had any trouble speaking to him.

  “Where did you learn to swig beer like a sailor?” Luke asked.

  Nina laughed. “I have four older brothers. I was such a tomboy!” Luke’s right brow arched in disbelief. “I was! I played football and baseball with them, went camping with them, fought the other neighborhood boys with them, and watched Sunday afternoon football on TV with them, swigging beer and shouting at the screen. I wanted to be as good as they were at everything—drinking, fighting, playing...”

  “When did you—er—feminize?”

  “When I found something I was good at that they weren’t. Singing. It gave me more pleasure than anything else, it gave other people pleasure, and nobody I knew did it as well as I did.

  “I sang at church all through my childhood, but when I was fifteen and started to look like a woman, I started singing all around Brooklyn—parties, clubs, weddings, dances—”

  “Brooklyn? You’re from Brooklyn? You of the finishing school accent, the French wine, and the Italian shoes?” Luke asked incredulously.

  “Yes, me.” Nina fixed him with a hard look. “I’ve never tried to hide what I was or where I came from, Luke. I was an Italian-American girl from a working-class Brooklyn family. My father is a carpenter. I love my family. My manners and my tastes are different now, but I’m what I always was.”

  “All right, so you learned you could sing—what next?”

  “I knew I wanted to sing forever. I guess I just fell naturally into opera. Our whole family loved it, anyhow. But for me, it’s the music that uses a singer the most, that lets her express the most. Jazz comes close, but I wanted to sing opera. The music teacher at our high school gave me free lessons since we didn’t have much money—I helped keep the room tidy, that sort of thing. Nothing really, considering all he did for me. I finished high school a year early and got into Juilliard on scholarship.”

  Nina went on to tell Luke about Elena, her mentor, and the joy and fear of those demanding years of training.

  “I could have gone on to a masters’ program when it was over, but I didn’t have any money. And I wanted to perform, not just hear stories about what it would be like if I got work someday. So when I was offered a job in San Francisco, I jumped at it. And so began the road to fame and fortune.”

  “Is there fame and fortune in opera?”

  “For some. The big stars get paid a lot to appear, though I suppose not as much as a rock star does. There are TV appearances, concerts, album sales, and now they’re making opera movies.

  “As with pop music, fame and fortune are part of the package of success for us. I want those things, of course. But more than that, more than anything, I want someday to have a choice about what I sing. To choose my own roles, to be able to turn down roles that don’t interest me.

  “I’ve worked hard. And I’m good. I’m doing well for someone my age. I make good money, I sing with good companies, I work with brilliant artists. But I do what I’m offered, I can’t risk turning down a role I know I’ll be able to sing well; I still might not be offered something in its place. I have to keep building my reputation and my repertoire, working toward a day when managements will want me as much as I want to work.”

  “It will come. I believe in you,” Luke said seriously.

  “Why?” she asked curiously. “You don’t know opera. You don’t even know me.”

  “Because I see in you the courage that it takes to walk that far alone. The greater the fame and the greater the rewards, the greater the risk and the lonelier the limelight.”

  He would know, she thought. He’s probably already richer and more famous than I’ll ever be. “I saw your album the other day,” she said suddenly. “Didn’t buy it.”

  “I wish you had. I’ll need the income to help pay for this meal.”

  She laughed. “Are you really from Kansas? Is your name really Luke Swain?”

  “Yes and yes. Lucas Bartholomew Swain. I grew up in a wheat field in the heart of Kansas.”

  “Bartholomew?”

  “Shh, it’s a secret,” he told her sternly.

  A waiter put a Grand Marnier soufflé in front of Nina, which she dug into with gusto. Luke eyed the quivering froth placed before him with some trepidation.

  “Your parents are really farmers? How do they feel about you being a rock star?”

  “They’re proud of me when I sing at civil rights rallies and Save-A-Whale benefits. I think they’re embarrassed when I sing sexy songs, and they’re downright mortified when I appear in gossip columns.”

  “How did you get started?”

  “I taught myself to play the guitar as a kid, listening to the radio. You’ve heard of the Beatles?”

  “Of course I’ve heard of the Beatles.”

  “Just checking. In high school I formed a band with some friends, started writing my own songs. My folks were pretty well resigned to my not wanting to be a farmer, but they thought I was crazy to drop out of college and go on the road with my guitar when I was nineteen.

  “I had a small band. We played a lot of college towns and gradually worked our way up the ladder. We got our first recording contract three years later, but the album never did well.”

  “What was it called?”

  “On the Plains. You won’t have heard of it. After that, things got rougher. A couple of pe
ople left the band, our agent dropped us like a hot rock. It was the usual story. Endless rounds of touring, long rides in a freezing cold, broken-down van, lonely motel rooms, gigs falling through, no social life because we were always on the road, musicians dropping out when it got to be too rough for them—”

  “How could you stand it? What kept you going?”

  “Oddly enough, I loved it. I wanted to write and play music, and that’s exactly what I was doing. Not many people are that lucky in life. I wasn’t successful, but most of the time I was able to eat. I could believe my big break would come when I was ready for it, because I believed in my talent. I was young and full of energy. And I always reminded myself, during those long trips and lonely nights, that I could be stuck behind the wheel of a tractor or sitting in a stuffy office somewhere. So I was happy enough.

  “Then one day a manager, Kate Hammer, saw us. She began managing us, and suddenly we got better gigs, better money, even a better van. A year later, she landed us a big recording contract and pushed for the record company to really back the album with publicity and promotion. The album was called At Least It’s with a Smile, and—”

  “Wait a minute. At Least It’s with a Smile? I’ve heard that! I loved that song.”

  “And I thought you never listened to rock,” he chided her.

  “I don’t. But I could hardly help hearing that song. They played it everywhere that year—restaurants, shops, the radio. I loved it. It was so much the way I felt when I was touring, leaving people behind, just living in my work ... But I didn’t know that was you!”

  He laughed. “Well, luckily everyone else knew. Before long, I was on TV, on the radio, playing live to thousands of people, giving interviews, getting incredible offers, being lauded as an overnight success. Overnight success! I was twenty-eight. I’d been on the road for nine long years, and suddenly I was discovered, as if I’d picked up a guitar for the first time that morning.”