The Prelude (A Musical Interlude Novel) - By Kasonndra Leigh Page 0,10
wear black leather vests on top of silky red mini dresses, highlighting the black and white number I’m wearing. Together the outfits create just the right look for the type of production I’ll be outfitting.
In the pit, a small ensemble waits for the director to arrive. My shaky insides better not betray me, or else. Carla pokes her head through the door behind me. I’m full of nerves, and I honestly wonder if I might wet myself by the time I finally meet the director. I walk toward her.
“Where were you earlier? I needed you,” I whisper furiously.
“Forgive me Signora Ange—I mean, Erin,” but I had to make sure my brother and sister were behaving for the babysitter. My big brother disappeared on me at the last minute again.”
“Is everything okay?” I ask. She gives me a smile that doesn’t convince me that there’s any truth in her words. Carla’s parents attend religious conferences in Rome on a regular basis. She’s pretty much responsible for taking care of her two younger siblings and one lazy older brother who can’t ever seem to stay out of trouble.
“I’m great. Concentrate on you, right now,” she says.
I don’t get a whole lot of time to dwell on those thoughts. My gaze drifts toward a strong male’s voice that booms throughout the room. A voice like that can only belong to someone who is used to being in control. The Maestro. But when I turn toward the middle of the stage, there’s no maestro. Instead, the assistant stands there waiting as two guys finish setting up his podium.
“What’s going on here?” I ask no one in particular. I walk back toward the other models, my eyes glued on the assistant.
“Alright, take your positions and give me your warm up notes,” he orders the small ensemble that sits at the front of the stage.
Luca sits in the second row. He’s immersed in a conversation with an older woman dressed in a vest made of fur even though it’s June and almost eighty degrees outside.
There’s a trio of violins, a tuba player, a cymbal girl, a drummer, keyboardist, and one viola who makes me think of Jada. One by one they all sound off, playing in warm up exercises. By the time the drummer finishes his over the top display of skill, I’m fuming.
Assistants don’t usually lead mini ensembles. I’m assuming the real maestro will step out at any moment. But he never does. Instead, the assistant takes over and leads the mini ensemble through a song that makes it easy for the models and me to go with the flow.
Since Luca didn’t fill me in on what exactly it is I’m supposed to do while I’m posing as the Gothic ballerina, I just lose myself in the tune. I rip back in time to a day when Jada and I spent the afternoon sitting in the corn fields while she practiced an extremely hard tune. I danced for her, using the techniques I learned in ballet class, something I was forced to quit doing because of an injury. The viola that now plays reminds me of that day.
When the final note echoes through the building, I stop and open my eyes. All gazes are glued on me. My cheeks burn; and I can’t help but to feel like the maestro will probably think I’m a loon now. The assistant steps down from his podium and strolls over to where I stand among the other models that tower over me.
He stares at me for a long moment before he says, “Fascinating. You dance as well as design, I assume?”
I clear my throat. “It was a long time ago.”
“You missed your calling, I do believe.”
“I could say the same thing about you. You make a mean maestro, for somebody who’s an assistant.”
He gives me an amused grin before he glances at the model standing beside him. He really is stunning. “The outfits most definitely work. The job is yours. That is if you come with that ballerina getup you’re wearing.” His mischievously sexy grin triggers something inside my brain. My smile fades.
“Right. You’re the maestro, aren’t you?”
“At your service, Madam Angelo,” he says, bowing.
I scoff a light laugh. “You are Aleksandr Dostovsky, the world renowned maestro from Russia?” I sing the last few words, emphasizing my annoyance, but failing to hide my intrigue. It doesn’t even matter that all eyes are now hanging on our every word. I still feel duped and a bit humiliated. I don’t