Dare to Love (63 page)

We walked through the hall and down the stairs in silence. Although the clerk hadn't recognized me when I came in, word had obviously gotten round that I was in the building. All eyes were on us as we paused at the front door. The rain had stopped. The sky was clearing, a few feeble rays of sunlight straining through the gray. He stepped outside with me.

“Will I see you again?” he asked.

“I really couldn't say.”

“I'd like to. I'd like to very much.”

“We'll see,” I said, and joined Bradford in the buggy to return to the hotel.

The theater was a blaze of lights. The street in front of it was congested with carriages. Sumptuously gowned women and men in formal attire were crowded together under the marquee, moving slowly into the lobby like so many privileged sheep, arriving early in order to have time for gossip and champagne. My show was the theatrical event of the year, and each one of them had paid dearly to be there. It took the driver of the carriage Anthony had hired for me a good ten minutes to make his way past the throng of carriages to the stage entrance in back.

As I approached the stage door, the doorman looked vastly relieved to see me. I had hardly moved past him when Anthony came dashing toward me.

“Where the hell have you
been
!” he cried.

But I ignored him and continued toward my dressing room. He followed me, so agitated his voice was cracking.

“Cancelling dress rehearsal! Disappearing like that! No one had the least idea where you were, not even Millie! I've been frantic!”

“I'm here, Anthony. That's all that matters.”

“Christ! Pulling a thing like this, today of all days. You have some explaining to do, luv. Do you realize the curtain goes up in—what? Less than thirty minutes!”

“I'm fully aware of that.”

In front of my dressing room door, Anthony brushed a wave of hair from his brow and caught his breath. He was genuinely upset. I almost wanted to comfort him, and I despised myself for the thought. It took every ounce of will power I had not to touch his cheek and straighten his neckcloth and tell him everything would be all right. Clinging to the tightness inside, I willed myself to be hard.

“I want to see you after the performance,” I said coldly. “There are some things we need to discuss.”

“You bet your life there are! I don't intend to tolerate this, Elena. I didn't know
what
had happened. I've gone through absolute hell these past six hours, worried sick, and—”

“I'll talk to you later,” I said, going into the dressing room and closing the door.

I had barely finished my make-up when the stage manager banged on the door. “Ten minutes, Miss Lopez!” he called.

Quickly stepping into a pair of gold slippers, I donned my costume. It was a gorgeous creation of yellow-gold silk, the low bodice held up by two thin, almost invisible straps. The flaring skirt glittered with thousands of golden spangles, a row of yellow-gold ostrich feathers edging the hem, which reached mid-calf. Beneath the skirt flounced six gauze underskirts in varying shades of gold and yellow. The total effect was dazzling. The woman in the mirror was truly the glamorous creature all San Francisco was waiting to see. She was not going to disappoint them. I was going to give the performance of a lifetime.

The overture had already begun to play when I stepped out of the dressing room. Anthony was standing in the wings, tall and lean and extremely handsome in his evening clothes, a sullen rake with moody blue eyes. A deep frown creased his brow. We didn't speak. He leaned his shoulders against a prop and folded his arms across his chest, scowling at me as I adjusted the bodice of my costume and reached up to make sure the curling yellow-gold plume was securely fastened over my temple.

The four male dancers, waiting on stage, were dressed like Spanish cahalleros in high-heeled brown boots, tight brown trousers flaring at the bottom, short brown jackets faced with bands of gold embroidery, and wide sombreros tied under the chin. All four stood in front of a backdrop that depicted a Spanish plain, painted in shades of brown and orange and yellow.

The curtain rose. The footlights illuminated the backdrop, turning it into a blaze of color. The effect was spectacular, and there was a scattering of applause as the dancers began their first number; a virile dance that conveyed their rivalry for the woman who had yet to appear. Although they had been good during rehearsal, they were nothing less than marvelous now, sizing each other up, snarling, stamping, shoving each other with carefully choreographed ferocity. The music swelled. Castanets began to click, dozens of castanets. The men turned, staring eagerly toward the wings, and I waited a few moments, deliberately letting the anticipation build.

I forgot Anthony. I forgot Nick Wayne. I forgot everything that had happened and became a seductive, flirtatious Spanish dancer on my way to meet my suitors on a hot Spanish plain. I let the music become part of me and, swinging my skirts, moved slowly on stage. The theater filled with thundering applause, but I paid not the slightest heed, disdaining the audience as I disdained the men. The dancers surrounded me, wooing me, and I condescended to dance with first one, then another, then all four, swinging, dipping, draping myself across muscular arms.

The men retreated to the rear of the stage, standing together, scowling unhappily as I told them through dance of another lover who surpassed them all. Gold spangles flashed as I swayed and swirled, describing the night of splender we had shared, and then each man in turn danced with me again, trying to convince me of his superiority. One wooed me with gentility, waltzing with me, and the next was severe and masterful, stamping out his dominance. The third implored me to take pity on him, pleading his case in movement and mime as the guitars strummed plaintively. The fourth dancer was sensual and seductive, stroking my arms and leading me in an erotic
pas de deux
.

Finally the four caballeros departed, leaving me alone on stage. The footlights dimmed, while behind me the backdrop glowed, sunset blazing bright orange through special lighting effects. I did my second solo, describing my lover once more, my longing for him. The sunset faded slowly and as I performed the final steps of the dance there was nothing behind me but a few orange blurs. The music stopped. The stage went dark. As the curtain fell I hurried to my dressing room, ignoring the applause that seemed to rock the whole theater. I would take no bows at the end of the first half, but would wait until the performance was over.

My orders were that no one was to come to my dressing room during intermission. I had refused a dresser, and I didn't even want Millie to help me. Hastily, I freshened my make-up and took down the second costume. It was identical in cut to the first, but made of rich black silk; the skirt, aglitter with black spangles, had six scarlet underskirts beneath it. I pinned a red velvet rose in my hair. The audience began filing back in to take their seats, talking noisily, but I didn't leave the dressing room until the second half overture had begun.

The first dances had been good, I knew that, but I had deliberately held back a little, saving myself for the second half. The male dancers passed by me in their gypsy attire. I smiled at them, told them they had been superb, and they moved on stage with new confidence. The backdrop depicted the same Spanish plain at night, the earth sable black, the sky above ash-gray with flickering silver stars. A gaudy gypsy caravan stood stage left, and three real fires burned. Specially treated logs had been set aflame in huge flat black iron platters that were invisible to the audience. Two of the dancers crouched before a fire. The third lounged on the steps of the caravan, and the fourth leaned against it in an arrogant stance.

As the curtain rose, the audience burst into spontaneous applause, so stunning were the stage effects, so real the gypsy camp. The two dancers by the fire rose and began a fierce dance of combat, murderous expressions on their faces as their lithe bodies moved to the clashing music. The dancer on the caravan steps joined in, separating them, ending the fight, and all three of them turned to glare menacingly toward the wings as another melody began. I whirled on stage, skirts lifting, black spangles glittering in the firelight. The applause thundered even louder this time. I ignored it as before, continuing my provocative dance and taunting the three handsome gypsies who watched with flashing eyes.

I did a
pas de deux
with each of them, and then I danced alone again.

One of the gypsies approached me. He handed me a pair of castanets, and we pretended to talk in conspiratorial tones as I fastened them on my fingers. We started to dance. The gypsy in the red silk shirt abandoned his post against the caravan, caught my partner by the shoulder and pulled him away, giving him a violent shove. Hands on thighs, he looked me up and down with eyes glowing. I smiled and clicked my castanets at him teasingly. He turned his back to me, folding his arms across his chest. I circled him, enticing him. Seductive, fully aware of my allure, I moved my body to the slow, sensuous music that gradually began to swell. He watched me angrily, nostrils flaring, desire beginning to stir, to burn in his eyes as I whirled and swayed.

It was the dance of love, the one I had danced so many years ago at a gypsy camp on the fairgrounds in Cornwall. Then, I had performed it with a youth named Juan, while Brence stood in the crowd, watching. I was eighteen years old, aglow with love, transformed by its magic. And now, as I danced on a stage in San Francisco, old memories swept over me, and the backdrop with its twinkling silver stars became the Cornwall sky, the fires the gypsy campfires, my partner the gypsy youth.…

My body became an instrument of passion, for I was dancing for Brence, in love with him then, in love with him still. I had become a dancer because of him, because I wanted to win him back, wanted him to see me and want me. I had never stopped loving him, never. The loss, the pain was as great at this moment as it had been the day he abandoned me for good.

Memory and reality merged as the dancer came toward me and put his arms around my waist. As we swayed together, my body felt as if it were melting to the music as it had done that night in Cornwall when love was enchantment and the future a glowing promise. When the dancer released me, I whirled away from him, faster, faster, but he pursued me, clasping me to him in a fierce embrace as the music surged to a passionate crescendo and ended.

The curtain fell. The audience screamed, shouted, applauded madly. I joined hands with the dancers as the curtain came up again, two on either side of me as we approached the footlights and took our bows. The dancers retreated, leaving me alone on the stage. The audience was on its feet, going wild with enthusiasm. I took bow after bow, and ushers rushed down the aisles with bouquets of flowers, and I thought of Brence.

The audience continued to clap, to stomp, to shout in a frenzy of admiration, but without Brence it was a hollow victory. Accepting a bouquet of flowers, I smiled and bowed and let the tears spill down my cheeks as I realized at last that this mass adoration could never replace the love I had lost.

XLV

Brushing away the tears, I left the stage, though the audience continued to applaud madly. The backstage crew was waiting in the wings, beaming, applauding, too. I thanked them and smiled, trying to be gracious. They had worked very hard. A banquet and two cases of champagne awaited them, and soon they would be holding their own opening night celebration in the basement, as a treat from me. I apologized that I would be unable to join them and thanked them again. Handing my bouquet to one of the men, I asked if he would see that all the flowers were distributed among their wives.

“They're rioting out there,” the stage manager said. “Don't you think you should take one more bow?”

I shook my head. “Mr. Duke is coming to my dressing room,” I said. “Have you seen him?”

“I think he's in the office with Mr. Clark.”

“When he returns, tell him I'm waiting, and—George, please don't let anyone else come backstage except Millie and Mr. Bradford. I'm not up to seeing anyone.”

“Does that go for the press as well?”

I nodded and started toward my dressing room. The four dancers were waiting in front of the door, still in costume, and I forced myself to be enthusiastic for their sakes. I hugged each one, told them they had been magnificent, told them they had been largely responsible for tonight's triumph. Finally, bidding them goodbye, I stepped into the dressing room and closed the door behind me with considerable relief.

Emotions that I had contained far too long had swept over me during that final dance, leaving me shaken to the core. I had been forced to face the truth about myself. Glamor and glory and public acclaim were a poor substitute for what was lacking in my life. Without love, they were meaningless.

I had lost Brence and I would never get over it, but there had to be someone else. I must dare to love again. I must dare to give everything of myself, completely and fully, holding nothing back. As I stepped over to the dressing table I found myself thinking of the man in the black hood and that bewildering, magical night at the hacienda. -I had given myself then. Once he had broken down the barriers, I had allowed myself to love without restraint. The experience had been shattering, and it had brought home to me the emptiness of the past five years.

As I changed, I posed myself for the ordeal ahead with Anthony. It was something that had to be done, and I knew I must be very firm, very strong. I forced back other emotions, willing the return of that tight, cold calm that had possessed me when I arrived at the theater. I wasn't completely successful, but by the time he sailed into the room I was able to look up at him with some semblance of composure.

“It was a triumph, luv!” he exclaimed. “A bloody triumph! You were magnificent!”

Anthony's cheeks were flushed, his eyes alight, and he looked like a little boy who has just received a box full of presents. He smiled a dazzling smile and took my hands and pulled me to my feet. I had never seen him so elated.