miraculous, really. I learned to play by ear when I was a kid. When I started taking piano lessons, my teacher had a hard time making me learn to read notes. I resisted for a long time. But when I got accepted at Juilliard, I knew I wouldn’t be able to fool my instructors there so I buckled down and learned. But I can still play by ear.”
Dominic smiled at her. “I like you, Ms. Jones. I like you a lot.”
Elle returned his smile. “Molte grazie, Maestro.”
“But you’re going to have to hire an agent. La Scala’s lawyers don’t negotiate with singers,” he said sternly.
Chapter 2
Patrice and Belana were waiting for Elle in front of the Duomo, the third largest church in the world. That morning they had agreed that while Elle was auditioning for Dominic Corelli, Patrice and Belana would be making a circuit through the Quadrilatero della Moda, the fashionable shopping district not far from La Scala and the Duomo.
When Elle spotted them she started screaming, “I got the role! I got the role!”
Both of her friends screamed as well and began running toward her. Other pedestrians on Piazza del Duomo didn’t appear startled by their screeching and calmly moved out of the girls’ path.
Patrice Sutton, five seven and athletic, reached Elle first and hugged her tightly. “Oh, girl, I’m so happy for you. It’s about time you got out of that chorus and got the chance to shine!”
Belana Whitaker, five four and even more athletic than Patrice due to more than twenty years of practicing ballet, hip-bumped Patrice aside for her chance at Elle. Patrice peered down her nose at her shorter friend and let the affront pass. Belana was bossy. Always had been; always would be. Patrice and Elle usually overlooked that particular personality trait of their petite friend, even though it was very irritating.
They jokingly referred to it as Belana’s Napoleon complex. Being smaller than either of them, she felt the need to throw her weight around from time to time.
Elle and Belana were jumping up and down with glee. “And you didn’t even want to come to Italy!” Belana cried. “We had to twist your arm.”
Belana’s light brown eyes sparkled with happiness as she looked up at Elle. She let go of Elle and the three of them began walking along the piazza. “Tell us all about it,” she ordered.
Elle was distracted by their beautiful surroundings. Didn’t they realize they were standing in the midst of history? The Duomo, the cathedral in front of which they stood, had been built in the fourteen hundreds and was a marvel of Gothic architecture. It was so huge it took up an entire side of the piazza. It consisted of several stories of sand-toned stone and its spires reached for the heavens. The day before they had toured the church and it had taken them some time to explore the entire structure.
“Isn’t it awe inspiring?” Elle asked no one in particular as she gazed up at it.
Both of her friends sighed impatiently. They didn’t want to hear another history lesson. Elle had been filling their heads with background information on every site they had visited since their trip had begun. It wasn’t as if they were going to remember any of it once they were back in New York City. Patrice and Belana were more interested in mingling with the natives, especially the male natives.
“You were going to tell us about the audition, not more about architecture,” Belana reminded Elle. “I already know more about Gothic buildings than I ever wanted to know.”
“I know that’s right!” Patrice agreed.
They sandwiched Elle between them as they headed in the direction of the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II, where they would find a café and have lunch.
Both girls carried shopping bags and were casually dressed, as Elle was: Belana in a red T-shirt and white city shorts with sandals, and Patrice in jeans, a short-sleeved white blouse and Crocs. Belana had golden-brown skin and naturally wavy auburn hair that she wore long so that when she was dancing in a ballet she could put it up in the customary French knot at the back of her neck. Patrice had rich medium-brown skin and jet-black hair that she wore relaxed, short and layered. She liked what she called wash-and-wear hair, because as an actress her looks were always being altered for a role. She spent enough time in the makeup chair on the set of the sitcom where she was lucky enough to be a regular. Of the three of them, she was the most successful. She had also recently played significant parts in two films that had received excellent reviews when they had debuted at theaters.
Elle was the only child of a single mother who had raised her in Harlem. Patrice was the second child in a four-sibling family. She was raised by both parents on a ranch in New Mexico. Belana was the spoiled daughter of one of the richest men in America. She had an older brother and her family owned homes in six locations around the world. Her parents had been divorced since she was a toddler and her father had won custody of her and her brother. She hadn’t seen her mother in years.
Since their meeting at Juilliard six years ago they had supported each other through broken hearts, botched auditions and anything else life threw at them.
They found a small café and sat down at a sidewalk table.
A waiter appeared and offered them menus. Elle waved them off. “We’d like today’s special,” she told him in Italian, “and a bottle of your house wine.”
When the waiter had gone, Belana complained, “You know I hate it when you do that, Patty, and I don’t know what you’re saying. You could be ordering us squid or something equally horrible.”
Elle laughed shortly. “If you hear the word calamari, head for the hills.”
“Calamari,” Belana repeated, as if trying to commit the word to memory.
“Stop stalling,” Patrice told Elle. “Tell us about Dominic Corelli. Do his photos do him justice?”
“Not even close,” Elle admitted, her gaze flitting from Patrice’s face to Belana’s. Both women leaned toward her so that they wouldn’t miss a word she was about to say. “First of all, he’s taller than I imagined he would be. How many tall men have you seen since we’ve been in Italy?”
“They’re not that short,” Belana said in defense of Italian men. “Several have been taller than I am.”
“You’re only five four,” said Patrice. “Anyway,” she added, turning her attention back to Elle, “he has an African-American mother, doesn’t he? He probably got his height from her side of the family. What happened after your audition?”
“He told me he thought I was talented, and then he laughed at me when I told him I didn’t have an agent. He treated me like a not-so-bright child. I felt like an amateur telling him I negotiated my own contracts.”
“I’ve been telling you for years that you need an agent,” Belana said. She went into her purse and withdrew her BlackBerry. “I’m sending Fred a message. He can represent you.”
Patrice sniffed derisively. “Fred? He’s a pussycat compared to my agent, Blanca. This is Elle’s big chance. She needs Blanca.”
“Blanca Mendes is a shark in designer shoes,” Belana accused.
“Yeah, she wears nice things because her clients
