Ada stood. The last place in the world she wanted to go was the jazz club because she didn’t want Peter to taint a space she felt was sacred. But her feet were already leading her out of the restaurant and down the block, where the jazz bar was already rolling hot and heavy, saxophones blaring, the drums pounding.
“This is quite a place,” Peter said as she threw open the door.
They were led to a table in the front right-hand corner, which was good, because it meant the music was too loud for them to talk. Ada ordered a water and a glass of wine, and Peter opted for the most expensive cocktail on the menu. The saxophonist, in his early thirties, threw his head back passionately. Abstractly, she wondered what it would be like for her and Peter in thirty-plus years, when one of them had open-heart surgery or knee surgery. Would Ada be the one beside Peter in the hospital bed? Would Peter be the one calling her doctor? The saxophone grew louder, angrier, and Ada pressed her hand to her heart, feeling tears fall down her cheeks.
For a full minute, she sat like that, enraptured.
And then, she heard a voice.
A woman had come to the stage to sing. Immediately, Ada recognized the voice. Although it held none of that operatic tone, it couldn’t have been anyone but her old friend Nina, who’d quit opera when she was twenty-eight or twenty-nine. The story was that she hadn’t gotten any parts that she’d wanted, presumably because Quinn had been scooping them up.
Nina was in her early forties with long, curly red hair that she swept back violently when she hit higher and angrier notes. She sang of heartache, longing, and regret, but the music, accompanied by the saxophone and piano, was so much fun that it was hard to feel sad about the lyrics. Ada couldn’t believe her luck. After the first song finished, she clapped wildly. Nina had found her place in the music world! She’d been lucky.
“Thanks for coming out tonight, folks!” Nina said, her voice husky and wonderful through the microphone. “It’s one of my first sessions here in Nantucket, and I have to say, I think I’m smitten. You live in paradise? All year long?”
Peter called out, “Not in the wintertime!”
And then, Nina’s eyes fell from Peter to Ada. Her eyes widened with surprise. “Ada? Ada Wagner? Is that you?”
Ada’s heart pounded so hard that she felt she was suffocating. She managed a slight smile and raised her fingers in a small wave.
“And the dentist!” Nina cried, getting excited. “You guys, I can’t believe it. One of my great old friends from my opera days is here with her dentist boyfriend.”
“Husband, actually,” Peter corrected. “And I’m an orthodontist.”
But Nina ignored him and focused entirely on Ada. “You wouldn’t believe this woman’s voice,” Nina said, growing reverent. “She took on some of the biggest opera stages from a super-young age. It was wild because back then, I was competing with the other twenty-somethings for the lower-tier parts, and Ada was competing with the biggest names in opera for the top billing. I mean, we couldn’t compete with her.” Nina’s smile widened as she drove down memory lane. “Ada Wagner!”
Ada’s stomach bubbled with lobster and wine. Gripping her knees, she told herself to remain calm. “Good to see you, Nina! You’re killing it.”
Nina laughed and waved her microphone around. “I’d be remiss not to invite the great Ada Wagner on stage for a spin.”
It felt like the world came to a halt. Ada tried her best not to show it, tried to maintain a smile, but now that Nina had suggested Ada was the greatest singer of all time and that she sing tonight, Ada wasn’t sure how to get out of it.
“I'd better not,” Ada said.
Nina let her shoulders slump. “Are you kidding me? Back in the old days, you could never resist a spontaneous performance.”
“I’m out of practice,” Ada said, her chest hot.
“I doubt that.”
Ada grimaced. It was clear that Nina hadn’t heard the full extent of why Ada had left opera, or she’d let herself forget,or she was trying to make a mockery of her. Regardless, Nina pointed her microphone at Ada and walked slowly down the stage toward her table. Ada felt frigid and terrified. Suddenly, the microphone was directly over her glass of wine, glinting. Everyone in the jazz bar chanted her name. “Ada! Ada! Ada!” She was overwhelmed. What could she do but take the microphone and stand?
Nina swept her arms around to guide Ada’s path to the stage. If Ada was honest with herself, the act of stepping up there and seeing the crowd peering up at her felt not only good but it felt right, essential to her character. The pianist was looking at her, waiting for a cue. Did she know any jazz standards? Of course she did! She cleared her throat, considering a favorite, “My Funny Valentine.” But when she muttered it to the pianist and he started playing the opening chords, she remembered,I can’t sing anymore. My voice is gone.
The pianist played on, eyeing her nervously, waiting for her to come in. The drummer played with his brushes, adding a mystical tone to the opening. But when Ada opened her mouth and “pushed,” only a light, ragged voice came out. It was the same voice she’d used to sing songs on the radio with her kids; the same voice she’d tried to use to sing her babies to sleep at night. But it wasn’t the voice that had sold out opera houses. It wasn’t the voice Nina had advertised.
Before the audience had a chance to show how little they liked her voice, Ada smacked the microphone on the top of the piano and fled the bar. Her eyes stung with tears, and she nearly spilled three glasses of beer. But suddenly, she was running on the stairs and out onto the street, filling her lungs with soft night air. A sob escaped her throat.
That had been terrible. It had been the most embarrassing moment of the past twenty years of her life. But it had also been the most exhilarating: Ada Wagner, on stage again.
Peter followed her, his mouth ajar, his cheeks pale. He’d remembered to bring his stupidly expensive cocktail, which he clutched in his left hand. His wedding ring glinted. Did he take it off when he went out with Katrina? Of course he did. He remembered everything. Everything except the delivery time of the television. Everything except for his love for Ada.
“Ada? What’s going on?” Peter demanded, his eyes narrow. “I mean, you’re acting…”
“How am I acting, Peter?” Ada’s hands were in fists, and she raised her chin to look him dead in the eye. How she’d loved him! How she loved him still! What was she going to do about it?
Peter sputtered, at a loss. He didn’t know what to do about her either.
