No Return: A Contemporary Phantom Tale (6 page)

The indecision lasted only a moment before he reached up angrily to brush away the tears on his one uncovered cheek. The world didn’t deserve her. She was everything that was good and pure, and the world was all too harsh to women such as she. No, she should live in sheltered luxury, surrounded by music and art, nurtured in love and unending passion, never to want for anything again. She should be his.

He turned away from the television screen and noticed for the first time that Jerome had laid a piece of folded paper on his desk. Picking it up, he unfolded it, scanned its contents, then felt a slow fire kindle in his chest. He could see her, be with her in her own world, if only for a night. The only night of the year where no one would question his mask.

On Halloween, the Phantom would definitely be in attendance at
L’Opera
….

Chapter 5

Halloween in Southern California was always unpredictable. One year the area could be scoured and dry under the fierce winds of a late-season Santa Ana condition; the next year trick-or-treat could be cut short by unpredictable rains. This year, unfortunately, the evening threatened to be one of the latter type. I threw a wary glance at the lowering skies, blood-colored to the west with the last traces of sunset, and prayed that if it was so inconsiderate as to start pouring down rain, it would at least wait until I had arrived at work. One of my windshield wipers was starting to disintegrate into long ribbons of black rubber, and it was hard enough driving in the bulky Marguerite dress without having to deal with wet streets and drivers who seemed to lose their last few brain cells when a few drops of water fell from the sky.

Luckily, though, I pulled into the parking lot of
L’Opera
without incident, although a few scattered drops had hit the windshield on the way over. The rain looked as if it was about to start any minute, so I gathered up my heavy skirts and hurried in to the employees’ entrance at the back of the restaurant. I hoped that it would let loose soon and get it over with—I was pulling an eight-hour shift tonight and wouldn’t be off until two in the morning, so it could happily rain away while I was safely inside.
 

The break room looked like an explosion in the costume closet at the Met. Everyone appeared to have taken George’s instructions seriously, and there wasn’t a cheap satin-draped Dracula or bunny-eared leotard in the bunch. Probably a lot of people had done the same as I had—called in favors from the drama departments of their respective schools, since most of the wait staff were struggling students like myself.
 

“Wow,” Michael, one of the waiters, said at my ear. “Who are you supposed to be?”

“Marguerite,” I replied, then added, at his blank look, “From
Faust
.”

 
“Ah. Better watch out, then, because I think George is dressed as Mephistopheles.”

“Great....” It made sense, though. George resembled Goethe’s dapper version of the devil even in street clothes, with his carefully groomed goatee and slicked-back dark hair.

Michael himself was wearing some fancy toreador-style outfit that looked as if it had come straight from Olvera Street. It went well with his dark hair and olive complexion, but he didn’t look very comfortable in it; he kept hitching his shoulders under the heavy embroidered jacket and pulling at the tight collar of his high-necked shirt.
 

“Don José?” I asked, and he nodded.

“I couldn’t think of anything else, and then when I heard that Meg was dressing as Carmen...”

Poor boy. Meg probably couldn’t remember his name from one day to the next, but I wasn’t about to tell him that. I smiled and said, “Well, just remember that Don José ends up knifing Carmen at the end!”

He looked stricken. “Are you kidding?”

It was amazing how many people worked at
L’Opera
without knowing anything about the real thing. Michael was a musician, but strictly of the rock variety, and didn’t seem to be too concerned about furthering his college career, since he was now in his fourth year at Pasadena City College.

“It’s okay, Mike,” I said. “We’re just supposed to dress like them, not act like them.”

“Oh, right, yeah.”

I looked up at the clock. “Oh, heck, I need to get out there. If I make it through tonight without spilling a plate of marinara on this gown, I’ll be totally shocked.”

I picked up a menu pad and a pen—George had told us it was all right to go without the aprons tonight—and went on out into the dining room. Looking around, I had to admit that George and the staff who’d been on earlier in the day had done a nice job of decorating the place. Cobwebs festooned the heavy wrought-iron chandeliers, candelabra flickered on the tables, and interesting gargoyle fixtures had been placed at strategic spots around the restaurant. It wasn’t overdone, but the additions definitely made the restaurant—already highly atmospheric, with its stone walls and floor, iron light fixtures, and mural of the façade of
La Scala
on the far wall—look gloomy and haunted.
 

The real festivities wouldn’t start for another hour or so, but we had early diners who were grabbing a bite before moving on to their own parties or concerts. Some were in costume, but not all. Everyone seemed to be in a cheerful mood, however, and I hoped the evening would continue to run smoothly.

Not for the first time, I found myself wishing Randall could have come. He had a paying gig to play at a private party in Bel Air, though, and I hadn’t been about to ask him to turn down five hundred dollars just so he could watch me wait tables all night. He’d wanted to see me in the Marguerite gown, but I’d promised to take lots of pictures—a promise I was miserably failing to fulfill right now—and we had made tentative plans to go to the Day of the Dead festivities in Olvera Street in two days as a sort of compensation for not being together on Halloween, since neither of us had ever been.

I’d always loved Halloween growing up; we’d lived in a quiet family neighborhood where kids could roam safely in search of treats, and my mother, a talented seamstress, had always delighted in coming up with something new for me to wear each year. Usually it had been some variation on a “princess” dress, because I’d always been fascinated by fancy gowns and historical costumes. So the Marguerite dress was really the latest in a long line of pretty Halloween costumes for me, although I hadn’t had much desire to dress up even for private parties the past few years.

These days it seemed as if more and more adults were getting in on the fun; I supposed the relentless marketing of the holiday made it easier for those of us who missed the good old days of “dress-up” to keep throwing on the costumes year after year. At any rate, the array of fancy dress that started arriving soon after seven o’clock was truly startling, since I hadn’t done anything much for Halloween the past few years except stay at home and hand out candy from the dollar store.
 

True, George was sponsoring a costume contest with a $500 grand prize, as well as a discount of ten percent off the bill to anyone in costume, but I was still amazed at the effort some people had put into their get-ups. A party of four at one of my stations included a pretty creditable Scarlett O’Hara in her famous green velvet “curtains” gown, a fairy princess complete with fancy airbrushed wings, a man dressed as either a Ringwraith or the Grim Reaper (I guessed from the absence of a sickle that he was probably supposed to be a Ringwraith), and George Washington. Or maybe he was supposed to be Thomas Jefferson, but it was hard to tell.

I took their orders and more from an assortment of nuns, flappers, vampires, and zombies before I returned with a tray full of drinks and discovered there was a new arrival, seated at the far edge of my station next to a pillar.

Jerri, the hostess, leaned in and whispered in my ear as she was heading back to her station at the front of the restaurant. “You’ve got a live one there.”

“What?”

“That guy just tipped me two hundred bucks so he could sit in your station. What’s up with that?” Then she grinned, rubbed her first two fingers and thumb together in the universal sign for big bucks, and hurried off.

Two hundred dollars? Just to sit in my station?
L’Opera
wasn’t really the sort of place where people usually dropped that kind of cash. True, there was no way I could afford to eat there myself, but still it wasn’t exactly Spago or something. I looked back toward where he sat, half-shrouded in the dim lighting next to the pillar, and took in a quick breath.

The Phantom of the Opera...
 

Or at least, I told myself quickly, a damn good version of the character. The fedora, the white half mask, the impeccable tails, the dark cloak that glittered with beading on the shoulders—he’d definitely done his research. He looked as if he’d walked straight off the Broadway stage.
 

I’d always loved the show. My parents had taken me to see the touring company at the Pantages when I was about twelve, and I had been completely smitten. I loved the music, loved the fact that the lead female character had the same name I did, loved the whole sweep and romanticism of it, even though at that age I had been unaware of some of the more passionate and sensual undercurrents of the musical. At the same time, though, it had awakened feelings in me that I had never experienced before. But I had to say that it was a little disconcerting—to say the least—to see the real-life embodiment of my first exposure to adult passion sitting at one of my tables.

Still, if he’d been willing to tip two hundred dollars just for the privilege of sitting at my station, I could only imagine what my own tip might be if I played my cards right.
 

“Happy Halloween!” I said to him in that sprightly “customer service” voice George insisted on and I hated with a passion. “What would you like this evening?”

He looked up then, and I had to keep from catching my breath. The half of his face I could actually see was just on the interesting side of handsome—high cheekbone marred by some sort of scar I couldn’t see clearly in the dim restaurant lighting; strong eyebrow over hooded dark eye; mobile, beautifully sculpted mouth that nevertheless had that taut look at the corner which indicated some sort of chronic pain.
 

Quite the Byronic hero
, I thought to myself, purposely keeping the thought ironic and light. The costume was enough of an attraction without the fallen angel looks underneath.

“The veal milanesa,” he replied, closing the menu and handing it back to me. Even in the noisy restaurant I could tell his voice was a clear, pure tenor, warm and vibrant. “And a bottle of the ’99 Banfi, I think.”

I scribbled hastily on my pad, hoping he hadn’t noticed my raised eyebrows. Just the most expensive wine we offered! We probably sold a bottle a month if we were lucky, but George liked to keep a few of the high-end labels around just to prove we were a cut above the chain restaurants that were our direct competition.

“That’s a very elegant gown—” He paused delicately, apparently noting my lack of a name tag.

“Christine,” I supplied.

“Ah. Fortuitous, it would seem.” He regarded me for a moment, and for some reason I felt a thin fingernail of chill run down my spine. “
Faust
, I believe?”

“Excuse me?” Had I ever sounded like more of an idiot?

“The gown. Marguerite?”

I let out a breath. “Yes, of course. I’m doing the ‘Jewel Song’ in my master class at USC, so—”

He smiled—or rather, the right side of his mouth lifted. “And do it very well, I might think.”

I started to make a self-deprecating gesture, then realized, damn it, I
did
do it well. “People tell me I do.” Then, feeling suddenly awkward under his dark, half-masked gaze, I added, “Let me get your order in—I’ll bring your wine straight out.”

I got the feeling he was amused by my discomfort, but he said only, “Thank you, Christine.”

And I fled to the kitchen, feeling more relieved than the situation probably warranted. George caught me pulling out a bottle of the Banfi—I had paused to dust it off—and gave me an unexpected and totally uncalled-for smack on the cheek.

“Someone bought a bottle of my baby?”

“Yes, George.” I dropped the clean towel I’d been using to wipe off the dust. “
And
he ordered veal.”

“You are my star, Christine!” he said with a dramatic flourish, and I just had to laugh—he looked so silly standing there in the kitchen, making grand gestures in his red Mephistopheles doublet and short black cloak.

“Who knows, if I play my cards right, I might get a tiramisu and some espresso out of him, too!” I gathered up the now-clean bottle and a corkscrew and headed back out into the dining room, but not before I gave George a wink.

Well, he had every reason to feel good this evening. The restaurant was packed, and I could tell from the crowd in the lobby area that it was at least a forty-five-minute wait to get a table.
 

The Phantom—I had to think of him that way since naturally I didn’t know his name—looked up and smiled when I approached the table.
 

“Was there much celebrating in the kitchen when that bottle was brought down?” he asked, his tone sly, and I couldn’t help laughing.

“Hosannas and everything,” I replied. Then I had to turn my attention to gently slicing the top of the label to reveal the cork and even more carefully pulling it out. The damn thing was hard to pull, too, and I uttered a brief prayer that it wouldn’t break during removal. That had only happened to me once or twice, but it was equally mortifying each time it happened.
 

“Allow me,” he said, and reached for the bottle.
 

“I couldn’t—really, it’s almost there—”

Silently he ignored my protests and took the bottle and corkscrew from me. His right hand brushed mine in the process, and I couldn’t prevent the shiver that passed over me. Whoever he was, something about him seemed to resonate in my very soul.