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“Fabulous! So what are you wearing?” Izzie asked.
“A long black skirt, tank top, and a jacket.”
“Fancy?” Izzie cocked one eye.
“I’ll show you.” Zoe scurried into her room and returned with a black, white, and gray patchwork leather jacket with big black buttons.
“That’s gorgeous,” Izzie remarked. “I’m going to look like a plain Jane next to you.”
“I seriously doubt that,” Zoe said.
“It’s the opera. I am sure I’ll look like a hillbilly.”
“Then you can borrow something of mine.” Zoe eyed her up and down. “How about that turquoise pantsuit I wore when I went down to visit you? I had it dry cleaned the other day.”
“Really? I’ll feel so chic!” Izzie said with excitement. One wouldn’t call Izzie plain. Not by any stretch of the imagination. It just so happened she wore simple clothes. Business casual clothes that were appropriate for her work.
“Done!” Zoe said with a grin. “I always wanted to dress you.”
Izzie snorted and her coffee shot out of her nose. When she regained her composure and wiped her face she replied, “Better than undressing me.”
“Not that there’s anything wrong with it,” Zoe and Izzie said in unison.
Later, when they were both dressed and ready, Izzie looked at their reflection in the mirror. “We look fabulous!” she proclaimed.
They took a taxi to Lincoln Center and were escorted to their seats. Fifth row, center—probably the best in the house, both visually and acoustically. The production was masterful and the entire audience could not help but sway back and forth during the first act as the cast sang “Brindisi (The Drinking Song),” one of the most famous arias of all time. But years before the opera had been written, Alexandre Dumas wrote La Dame aux Camélias, the story of Marie Duplessis, a twenty-three-year-old woman who was considered the most fashionable courtesan in Paris. The story, thought to be true, became the inspiration for Verdi’s opera. The themes were love and class discrimination, as the vivacious heroine, Violetta, succumbs to consumption. But before she dies, she asks her closest friend to donate her money to the poor.
The performance brought the audience to their feet, with tears and applause that went on for almost fifteen minutes. Izzie and Zoe kept swapping tissues during the curtain calls.
As they were leaving, Izzie turned to Zoe and said, “That was one of the most remarkable experiences I have ever had. The energy in the room. Incredible. At the risk of using an overused word, that was totally awesome.” She dabbed her eyes with another crumpled tissue.
It was now late afternoon and they decided to walk several blocks down Broadway, their arms linked as they hummed the familiar strains of the opera. They passed several people along the way who were also humming and singing the same refrain. It was a glorious experience, especially when shared with total strangers. Several streets later, when the energy of the opera-goers had waned, they hailed a taxi and started downtown to the Union Square Cafe, Danny Meyer’s flagship restaurant. “I love eating at his restaurants,” Zoe said during the cab ride. “They support many of the local food banks and educational programs for underprivileged kids. Plus the food is so, so good.”
“Zoe, you are spoiling me.” Izzie smiled as she watched the interesting architecture—old and new—of New York pass by.
“It’s the least I can do. I believe you saved my life.”
“Me and the Sisters.”
“For sure.” With that, Zoe gave Izzie a high five.
Santo Domingo
Earlier that same day
Maggie and Eileen had a leisurely morning and were waiting for Alexis to join them for breakfast. They no longer needed their disguises, but Maggie was beginning to like the sleek look of her hair. “Maybe Alexis can show me how to do this,” she said as she ran her fingers through her smooth mop.
“You may need to get one of those Brazilian straighteners,” Eileen commented.
“I’ve heard of Brazilian waxes, but not straighteners. What are those?”
“For someone who is in the news industry, your lack of fashion know-how is mind-boggling,” Eileen teased.
“I work in news. Fashion isn’t news, even when they pretend it is. The Met Gala has become a circus sideshow. I don’t get it.”
“I think they consider it art.”
“That reminds me of a story I did about how the worth of art is calculated.”
