Born to Sing, no. 1 Read online

  Two gifted, good-looking opera singers, from different cultures and opposite sides of the track in Texas, discover that falling in love is wonderful. But love may not be enough if it interferes with their dreams of success in the ruthlessly competitive world of opera. D.J. McKay’s dream of singing in European opera houses clashes with his rich daddy’s prejudices against such a “sissy” career; his obsession with beautiful Eva Villalobos doesn’t sit well with his socialite mother, either. Meanwhile, Eva strives to help her poor family financially by achieving success on the stage.

  So what happens when their passion for each other thwarts their dreams? How can their relationship survive three-thousand miles of separation? Will their ambition to succeed kill the only true love they have ever known?

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  Born to Sing

  Copyright © 2011 Donna Del Oro

  ISBN: 978-1-55487-797-3

  Cover art by Martine Jardin

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Devine Destinies

  An imprint of eXtasy Books

  Look for us online at:

  www.devinedestinies.com

  Smashwords Edition

  Born To Sing

  By

  Donna Del Oro

  Dedication

  To my family, whose support and encouragement I appreciate deeply.

  Chapter One

  She was needed at home. Desperately. Dear God! What if…But she mustn’t think about that now. She had a guest, so Eva assumed the role of polite hostess.

  “I’m so pleased you could find the time to see me, Miss Villa,” the young reporter said, shaking hands and then sitting down abruptly. “My editor said he’s a big fan of yours, has seen you on stage many times.” The woman looked down at her notebook, already poised on her denimed knee. She was wearing a black turtleneck and green wool blazer with her jeans. Her neck was wrapped up to her chin with an impossibly long wool scarf and hiking boots. Eva suddenly felt overdressed in her teal wool trousers and matching sweater and jacket. Even the long string of pearls she wore seemed inappropriate. “He said you’re retiring from the stage after twenty-five years, and you sang your last opera last night.”

  It was already apparent to Eva that the girl—her name was Serena Suarez, a fellow Latina like herself—knew little about the opera world or Eva’s role in it. But what did it matter? The interview would help pass the time until she was scheduled to leave. The young woman reminded Eva of herself at that age. Young, naïve, a little socially gauche even, but very, very determined to succeed.

  Despite her fatigue and anxiety, Eva smiled at Serena and invited her to help herself to the coffee on the buffet. Delighted, Serena jumped up, went over and did just that.

  Eva sighed as she sat down on the sofa. She was tired and wanted to fly home. He needed her, much as she knew he hated to admit it. Patience, she told herself, have patience. In five hours, she’d be on that plane and on her way home. HOME. Where she belonged. Her past two months in New York—the ovations, accolades—were already history in her mind. This interview was but a fond farewell to the city that had welcomed her with open arms.

  “My editor said you were great in—” The girl broke off to consult her page of notes. “Uh, as the star in Rodelinda.”

  “Yes, Handel’s Rodelinda. A wonderful role. The Met’s done a superb job bringing that production to light, promoting it. It’s not that well-known, even in the opera world. We closed last night. Last night’s fund-raiser for the American Cancer Society was a huge success.”

  “I see. Uh, he told me—I’ve learned, Miss Villa, that you’ve had an illustrious career singing opera…”

  “And concerts. Recordings. I’ve been Artistic Director of several regional opera companies in Texas, including Visiting Artistic Consultant the past year with the Met.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  The girl looked nervous now, poor thing, thought Eva, so out of her depth. Terrence, the Tribune’s Entertainment and Arts editor had attended last night’s performance and was putting together a feature story on guest artists at the Met. Oh, well, he probably wanted to test Serena in some way. And he knew Eva would be kind and help her out. Give her the goods on a silver platter. Give the girl experience with interviewing minor celebrities.

  Why not give her a scoop? The biggest story of her as yet short journalistic career! Eva’s true story had never been told despite the attempts of that biographer last year. D.J. had told part of their story in his memoir, which the girl reporter most likely had never read. But it was mostly his story, not hers.

  The memoir. D.J.’s memoir, Eva kept with her at all times. Her link to their common past and a period of time in her life that influenced everything else that followed. Reading D.J.’s words as he wrote them, himself, always thrilled her, amused her. All those bittersweet memories, he’d managed to put into words in his own inimitable style. A blend of manly humor, Texas plain talk and deep sensitivity. He’d given her a special, autographed copy, accompanied by a bouquet of roses. So typical of that man. D.J. was a sensitive man who had a voice that had always resonated with something inside herself that she could never quite verbalize. It was…too visceral. But she could never put him out of her mind. He was etched there for all time.

  For Eva’s lifetime, anyway. And for D.J.’s.

  The girl reporter was staring at her. Consciously, and with an actress’ consummate skill, Eva wiped clear her stricken expression and smiled politely.

  “Would you like to hear how I got started in the opera business? Who influenced me? What made me decide to devote my life to this incredibly challenging but fascinating world? Well, other than singing in the church choir and coming from a long line of musicians and singers. One of my favorite hymns includes this verse…”

  Eva cleared her clogged throat, shook her head clear of tears and began to sing from her position on the sofa in her hotel suite. When she concluded with the verse, “…the gifts we have, we are given to share,” the girl reporter was awestruck.

  Had the girl never heard a lyrical soprano’s voice before, Eva wondered. No, probably not, not live and in the same room, anyway. Her role model was most likely Beyonce or JLo. Come now, Eva, she scolded herself; let’s not be a prima donna cum snob. That’s what he jokingly called her these days, ever since he began recording what their agent called “pop op”. But she wasn’t really a prima donna; she wasn’t even a diva. Not anymore, anyway. Maybe she never would be again.

  Somehow, the joy of singing…was gone.

  Oh, please help me, Eva prayed. If I can’t sing, I can’t breathe. If I can’t have him, I can’t sing…

  “Th-that’s beautiful,” the girl breathed, her eyes wide with sudden appreciation.

  “It’s an old church hymn,” Eva explained. The lovely melody helped to stem the rising sorrow inside her. “I was singing it one day
in church—I must’ve been about twelve or thirteen. I was their soloist and all of a sudden it struck me. I had a gift and I needed to share it. I was obligated to share it. And so when I got a scholarship to UT—”

  The girl looked perplexed.

  “The University of Texas in Austin—I got a music scholarship and began to plot my course to the opera world. My parents were poor East Texas farmers and it was my only way to get there.”

  Because the girl looked genuinely interested now, Eva sat back and relaxed. Would it be so difficult to pass a couple of hours reliving her romance with opera…and her romance with the man who influenced her singing career the most?

  The girl bent over her notebook, pen tightly in her fist. She looked up curiously when Eva hesitated.

  “Are you a Tejana?” Serena asked. A Latina born and raised in Texas?

  “Yes. Would you believe it, one of my ancestors was a lieutenant in Captain Juan Bautistia De Anza’s expedition party…oh, sometime in the eighteenth century? He left California and came to Texas. His name was Francisco Beltran de Villalobos. Yes, house of wolves. I always wondered where that came from. My Uncle Manny thinks he fled some danger in Spain and assumed a new identity under De Anza’s command. Anyway, my family’s been in Texas ever since. Farming, doing a variety of work but mostly farming and ranching. Lots of us there in Texas. Proud to be Tejanos with a long history. We go back to before Texas became a republic.”

  “I’m from California, myself,” Serena said, “So Cal.”

  “Why did you come to New York?” Why would anyone leave the warm beaches of Southern California for the wet snow and gray winter days of the Big Apple?

  “My boyfriend, mainly. He’s a grad student at Columbia. Secondly, to further my career.”

  Eva nodded and took a sip of hazelnut-flavored coffee. Now that her stage career was over, she could afford to indulge in a few extra calories. Gracias a Dios!

  “Good for you,” she said to Serena. And meant it. It was important for a woman to have a career to fall back on. In case the men in your life let you down.

  That was something she knew about.

  The journalist whipped out a small digital recorder. “Mind, Miss Villa?”

  Eva shook her head absently. Already, her mind was wandering back to the past.

  “My path to singing opera involved a man, not just classwork and auditions. I was a music major, a Voice major. He…well, he was majoring in Women and Fun and Booze. At least, that’s how he started. By the time I met him—in our junior year at UT—Darren James McKay was slowly resigning himself to a different path in life. The exact opposite from the one his father wanted him to take, of course. But that was the McKay family. Bull-headed, filthy rich, owned a goodly portion of central Texas—”

  Eva broke off as the girl shot her an astonished look and stopped writing.

  “Darren McKay, the singer? Wow. You went to college with HIM? My mother has all his CD’s. She absolutely a-DORES him. Has a MAD crush on him. He’s not bad looking either, uh, for an older guy.”

  Eva smiled knowingly. “He’s fifty now and, yeah, not bad looking for an older guy. Twenty—ah, let’s see, twenty-six years ago, he was ten-times more gorgeous. He was as handsome a Texan as you’ll ever find. I think you’d call him hunky or studly. All the coeds were crazy about him.” Eva giggled, and amazed herself. Good lord, when was the last time I did that? Giggled?

  “You see, I can’t tell you my story without telling his as well. We were…let’s say, linked…for a long time. And then we came apart and then—well, let me tell it one step at a time. Is that okay, Serena?”

  “Yes, of course!” the reporter enthused.

  “Is it okay if I tell you my story in my…own way? The whole truth—” Eva smiled broadly— “…and nothing but the truth?”

  The girl reporter was nodding excitedly now, for it was obvious that she realized she’d stumbled onto a possible celebrity scoop. She blinked rapidly and nodded.

  * * * *

  His hair was a mass of dark brown curls, cut close to his head. Black, finely arched brows drew my gaze, that first day in Advanced Voice class, to his sapphire-blue eyes, so deeply set and luminous against his tanned, handsome face. Despite my determination to avoid being seduced by his good looks, my heart began to pound in my chest, so much so that I had to take a deep breath to calm down.

  He was tall, too, slender with wide shoulders stretching a red polo shirt, and narrow hips that just managed to hold up tight, faded jeans. When he turned around to sit down in front, I noticed the rounded rump and long, muscular legs. My stomach did flip-flops for a moment. As if he sensed my stare, his head turned and deep blue eyes flicked up to meet mine. Only for a second or two but in that brief moment there was…something.

  Alright, so he’s gorgeous, I thought, but can he sing well enough to solo? Or is he Professor Woronicz’s window dressing? One of the studs who’d looked good last year in the chorus of men, one whose tenor voice was drowned out by all the hefty baritones and basses? Oh yes, I’d noticed him last year, too, but this year, our senior year, was different. He’d been chosen out of the chorus to be the featured tenor this year. If we sang together—which we’d most likely do—would he complement me or bring me down? My future career was on the line here and I hoped Prof Nits (as the students called him) knew what he was doing.

  It was 1985 and The Phantom of the Opera was a huge hit in London. During his last visit, Professor Woronicz had seen the modern opera three times and was now raving about it. He wanted his best soloists to perform numbers from the Andrew Lloyed Webber musical for the Winter Concert. Moreover, he said he enjoyed the way D.J.’s “resonant, masculine tenor” blended with my “lilting soprano” and decided to pair us up for one or two numbers. From out of nowhere, a cold audition conducted before class even began that fall, the professor wanted to solo this trust-fund, rich-punk yahoo with me. D.J. wasn’t even a Music or Voice major; his major was Agribusiness., supposedly meant to take over the supervision of his father’s big ranch in central Texas. I’d worked my tail off since high school to win a scholarship in Music and to get high marks in Voice and Instrumentals once I arrived. I’d already charted a career path to the opera world in Europe, had studiously excelled in French and Italian, the languages of all the operas I loved, and catching up with a smattering of German, too.

  Here, D.J. just waltzed in and took the tenor lead, with hardly any effort on his part. He had high school German in his resume but that was all. No linguistics training—just a few years of Voice. No drama or dance classes. That kind of injustice always irked me. Nothing ever came easy to me except my coloratura voice, which my father said was a gift from God. D.J. was the kind of guy that everything came easy to—money, looks, academics, sports, women—especially women.

  He was a spoiled Anglo dipstick—and I hated him for it!

  Prof Nits had taken us through our usual voice warm-ups, running the scales, flexing our diaphragm, keeping our lungs filled and working like ballusts, resonating the air flow through our nasal cavities—the usual. We were preparing for the Music Department’s annual winter concert.

  The winter concert was always a fundraising event that ferreted out all the major alumni-donors and was designed to be a major crowd-pleaser. Prof Nits knew people would enjoy a sneak preview of Webber’s hit musical in London, for it might be a year or two before it premiered on Broadway.

  The professor had informed me the day after Advanced Voice class started that he was promoting D.J. to featured vocalist. This rich kid was going to sing the phantom’s role to my Christine. Everyone I spoke to assumed it was because of the McKays’ wealth and political influence in Austin. His daddy was owner of the baseball team, the Texas Troopers, and controlled half the commercial real estate in Austin in addition to the family ranch which reportedly raised the best Angus beef cattle in Texas. I assumed the same, that Prof Nits has succumbed to political pressure from someone on UT’s Board of Trustees and was basica
lly placating his bosses.

  Well, at least I’d attained my position as one of two featured sopranos by my talent and dedication. I had scholarships and two part-time jobs to attest to that dedication. I was functioning on six hours sleep a night but managing to hold it all together somehow. Prof Nits thought I had the talent, and that was good enough for me. Believe me, that kept me going!

  So it was with a certain amount of resentment seething inside of me (along with the creeping flush and heat in my head, neck and chest) that I stood beside him in front of the class minutes later. A graduate student played the brief overture as D.J. stood stiffly, glancing over at me once while I tried to get into character. We’d all read the Phantom’s libretto, knew the story and characters, had toyed with the various songs, which all the students loved. Now we were rehearsing in earnest. We wanted to impress Prof Nits as well.

  I focused and slipped into the character of the ingénue, Christine, a young virginal dancer whose voice had captivated the deranged, reclusive phantom. As D.J. began to sing, “Music of the Night”, I briefly closed my eyes and listened to the timbre of his voice. I’d never really listened to his voice before. It had an unusually velvety tonal quality with occasional gravelly nuances, strange for a tenor. His tenor had hearty, masculine undertones even as he hit his stride by the middle of the song and executed a few high notes. It was lacking in depth, perhaps, but his musicality was strong, his pitch perfect. Grudgingly, I had to admit his voice definitely had the potential of a leading tenor’s. For a non-musical major, this guy was a natural talent.

  But D.J. McKay was undisciplined, frequently came to class late and unprepared. Yet, the professor was giving him his chance to shine. Was it the McKay money or did the esteemed voice teacher detect in him a gift that the others just couldn’t see?