Patrice Greenwood - Wisteria Tearoom 03 - An Aria of Omens Read Free Page A

she’d shoo me away, so I turned to Gina.
    “Want more tea?”
    “Thanks, but I’ve got a meeting with a client,” she said, moving toward the front door.
    I strolled along with her. “Well, thank you for coming. I know opera isn’t your favorite.”
    “Shh! An Italian who doesn’t like opera? Sacrilege!”
    “You might enjoy the apprentice showcase. It’s inexpensive, and if you haven’t seen the opera house it’s a great excuse.”
    “I’ll think about it. I don’t suppose you wear football jerseys to the tailgate?”
    I laughed. “No.”
    “Opera costumes?”
    “Not unless you’re really eccentric.”
    The Bird Woman chose that moment to emerge from the gift shop, carrying a large shopping bag and blinking at us before heading for the door. I had to stifle a laugh.
    “Well, you’ll have to explain all the customs to me,” said Gina. “Ciao, dearest. I’ll call you.”
    “Ciao.”
    I watched her go, the afternoon sun electrifying her sunflowers as she strode down the path to the street, passing the slower-moving Bird Woman with a friendly smile. I watched her get into her hot red Camaro, then went back inside.
    On the way to my office, I looked into the kitchen. Julio was gathering up his things, about to head home.
    “Brilliant job, Julio. Thanks.”
    He flashed me a smile as he slid his coffee thermos into his backpack. “It was good to see Vi. Great to hear her sing. Thanks for letting me listen in.”
    “Of course! I only wish you’d taken a bow.”
    He shook his head. He didn’t much care for being fussed over in public.
    “Everything all right?” I asked.
    He hefted his pack onto his shoulder. “Sure. Why?”
    I recalled the unease I’d sensed earlier, but it had just been for an instant, and I didn’t know how to explain my concern, so I just smiled. “No reason. See you tomorrow.”
    He headed out the back door, and I went upstairs to my office. Tucked beneath the sloping roof of the upper floor, it was cozy and dark compared to the airy, light-filled center hallway. I turned on the stained-glass lamp and sat at my desk to admire my birthday gift.
    I took the tickets out of the envelope and held them in my hands. Opera tickets had always been a treat for me.
    My parents had supported the Santa Fe Opera for as long as I could remember, and from the time I was twelve (the dawn of young-ladyhood, as my mother had called it) they had consulted me each year on the choice of which opera the family should attend. My brother, three years older than I, had never been that interested. He was not musically inclined, and often bowed out of the annual excursion to SFO. Aunt Nat had come, though, as had Uncle Stephen while he was alive.
    When I was little, going to the opera had been a magical evening, not only for the performance, but for the opera house and grounds, and the audience as well. In those days (long gone, alas), people dressed up to go to the opera. I remembered goggling at beautiful and astonishing attire: a gorgeous blonde in a white full-length gown with a spray of roses in her hair and a feather boa; a young man in a morning coat with a waterfall of black hair down his back, carrying a walking stick and top hat; numerous gentlemen in formal kilts for a performance of Lucia di Lammermoor .
    Nowadays, opera-goers could be seen wearing tee-shirts and shorts. I was certain Miss Manners must share my opinion that this was a travesty.
    The Santa Fe Opera performed in an open-air theatre perched on top of a hill north of Santa Fe, with a view of the Jemez Mountains behind the stage so splendid that the sets were usually constructed so as to leave it visible. Sometimes a lightning storm would add atmosphere to the performance.
    I was too young to have seen the first opera house, which burned down in 1967. The Opera of my memory was the second building, with its distinctive, swooping roof extensions that failed to completely protect the center rows of the audience from rain, and gave