CHAPTER TWO

The next morning she stumbled into her kitchen after a fitful sleep. Memories of the accident had haunted her dreams – the accident that had killed her son. He'd been gone two years, but the ache of his loss had barely faded. Even now, many of her nights were sleepless.

Coffee made its obligatory dripping noise as she turned to get milk out of the fridge. It was only then she noticed the envelope. It lay on the rug in front of her door, obviously pushed in by someone from the outside. Probably just a notice from management, she thought.

But when she picked it up, there was no logo on the front. It was plain white. Curious, she unsealed it and found a single ticket to that night's performance of the New York Symphony with accompanying pianist Erik March.

Christine had picked one of her better gowns for the occasion, and was glad of it when she realized her seat was center orchestra, about seven rows back. With a perfect view of the piano.

It wasn't until the second piece that he came out. He emerged from the right hand side of the stage and strode determinedly toward the instrument, never looking at the audience. He didn't look like a pianist; he was tall and broad shouldered, but she noticed his hands were long and narrow. He had a musician's hands. The only other thing she noticed was that he was handsome, in a rough sort of way. That image wasn't helped by the fact that he seemed to be scowling.

She was sure any imagined slight was forgotten, however, as the man began to play. After the first three notes, his scowl became an expression of deepest absorption. She'd always secretly thought the piano a rough instrument compared to the accompanying tones of the strings and woodwinds in the orchestra, but this man was changing her mind. She recognized one of Mozart's more well-known concertos, but Erik played as if the piano were the only instrument on the stage. She felt the eyes of the audience link with hers in their focus on him. He became the music, and everything else faded into the background as the lyrical became the romantic became the heartrending. Then everything was beautiful again, and Erik stood up. In that moment, he was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen.

She wondered as she watched him when he'd become Erik to her. And she was now sure this was her virtuoso neighbor. There could be no other explanation.

Once again, he refused to face the crowd. He made a curt bow over the piano and then walked off the stage opposite from the way he'd come.

She felt foolish, but she lingered in the lobby until the last of the other patrons had exited the concert hall. Just as she was about to leave, a uniformed attendant brought her a note.

Have dinner with me? Antoine's on 70th and Central Park West. Twenty minutes? - Erik

She hailed the last cab in the queue and told the driver the address. He dropped her off in about eight minutes, and she went in and gave the maitre'd Erik's name. His eyebrows rose as he ran his finger down a list of names in a large book.

"You're right," he said, sounding surprised. "Here it is. Obviously he's not arrived yet, so I'll show you to the table and direct him to you when he gets here." He grabbed two menus and began weaving his way to a dimly lit table in a back corner of the room. "He requested this table especially," the man said. "Would you care for a beverage while you wait?"

Christine ordered a sweet white wine and sat studying the other diners. Many were, like herself, dressed in after-theater finery. White tablecloths and black-clad waiters abounded, and each of the small tables boasted a candle and a different kind of flower. Unlike the reputation of many restaurants in the city, here the tables were a respectable distance apart.

Precisely ten minutes later, she saw Erik come through the front door, and she felt her eyes widen. He was exactly as she remembered except that the right side of his face was covered by a white half-mask. She remembered his odd stance on stage, never facing the audience. What could be so terrible that he had to wear a mask in public, she asked herself. What could have happened to this man?

His eyes met hers before he approached the host. They were a searing blue, and she felt suddenly self-conscious.

She watched him approach, following the maitre'd. He was graceful as a cat, maneuvering his large frame between the tables. The maitre'd pulled out the chair opposite her, and Erik sat down, folding the tails of his coat underneath him.

When the maitre'd departed, Erik extended his hand across the table to her. "We haven't been properly introduced," he said. "I'm Erik."

"Christine," she replied, taking his hand and trying not to stare at the mask. "Christine de…Daae." She felt the curious glances of some of the other patrons.

"Ah," he said. "That explains it. Your voice is captivating, but I believe you have left opera?"

She drew back her hand and nodded. "For…personal reasons…I left music entirely."

He shuddered. "I know no solace but music. I cannot imagine living without it."

She shrugged her shoulders and turned away from him. "I wasn't really living."

There was a long silence.

"Perhaps we should order dinner?" he proposed.

Christine smiled and opened her menu. "You're right. I don't even know you. It's hardly the time to discuss my problems."

A waiter came and took their orders, leaving them again in silence.

"I know my appearance is unexpected," Erik said, broaching what she'd assumed was a forbidden topic. "I seldom go out in public except for my performances."

"Then I'm honored by your invitation. To both the performance and dinner. I don't think I've ever seen a performance like yours tonight. It made me quite breathless."

She saw a sudden light flare in his eyes, but it disappeared in an instant. "Thank you. And I must confess my motive – I want you to sing for me." He smiled. "As often as humanly possible. Your aria was stunning, even through a wall. I need to hear it again."

She gave a self-conscious laugh. "You heard the first notes I've sung in two years. I've no doubt I could give you better."

That light reappeared in his eyes. "Any song from you would be a gift indeed."

She was relieved by the sudden appearance of the soup of the day, and Erik seemed to notice because he changed the subject.

"Is it too personal to ask what brings you to New York?"

She shook her head. "No. It's no secret. My divorce was finalized last month, and my husband was the last of my ties to France. I have no other family there. So New York is my new beginning."

"I would very much like to be a part of that beginning," he said.

She wasn't sure how much to read into that remark. For the second time, she wondered what he hid behind the mask.

"What occupation have you chosen to pursue in your new home – or have you chosen yet?" he asked quickly, as if realizing she was at a loss to his previous question.

"I'm teaching voice lessons at Julliard," she answered. "Today was my first day."

He raised his glass to her. "Then congratulations on what I'm sure was a success."

She smiled and touched her glass to his. "Thank you. It did go rather well."

The rest of their dinner passed in companionable conversation, with Erik telling her about the city – mostly about the symphony and the opera, which seemed to be the domain of his life.

"Shall we walk home?" he asked when the check had been paid.

Home. A new concept in a new place. "That would be lovely," she replied. Outside the restaurant, she reflexively put her hand on his arm.

He looked down, an arched eyebrow relaying his surprise.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't think."

"No," he said, hastily shaking his head. "It's just that most people keep their distance from me.

She frowned and put her hand back in its place.

He gave a faint "hmm" and then began leading her back to their building. It was late, and there weren't many people on the streets. The park behind the stone wall on their left was dark and a bit foreboding. She guessed it suited a midnight stroll with a masked companion.

When they reached her door, she disentangled her arm from his. "Thank you, again," she said.

He shook his head at her. "Don't end the evening quite yet, I beg of you." He gestured toward his door. "Come in and sing with me."

With him. Surely he didn't sing, too.

She nodded and followed him into his apartment. Except it wasn't an apartment like hers, it was a penthouse. He'd obviously bought three or four apartments and knocked down the walls between them. The room they stepped into was large and dominated by a grand piano. Black and white tiles delineated the foyer and continued over to the piano. White carpet covered the living area which contained two small end tables with lamps, a red crushed velvet sofa, and a string of bookshelves bigger than her apartment. There was a swinging door to her left and, further in, a hallway that she guessed disappeared into bedrooms. Against the far wall behind the piano stood a case she surmised contained his violin. There was sheet music on the piano, but Erik strode across the room, collected the pages, and placed them in the piano bench.

"You seem to know Tristan and Isolde," he said. "Do you know the duet?"

She nodded and slowly approached, coming to stand beside the piano as he took his seat.

She began and slowly closed her eyes to the music Erik played from his head. This was the song of passion between two doomed lovers, exclaiming their joyous love to the world and lamenting that they could only be together under cover of darkness.

When Erik's voice joined hers, she blinked her eyes open and stopped singing. He carried on without her, and she stood, spellbound, feeling every word in his glorious voice. It surrounded her and carried her away on a flood of sensation – a flood of beauty and of feeling. When she rejoined him at the chorus, she felt honored and inspired, and she sought to reach new heights as if to give him something he deserved.

When the piano fell silent, she felt bereft and empty.

Erik was looking at her with a longing she didn't understand. She knew the look on her face was one of wonder.

"You need practice," he said, a sudden mask coming down over his features.

She wasn't offended. "I warned you of that," she replied.

He looked down at the piano keys. "Perhaps you would consent to practice here…with me?"

She was surprised by his sudden hesitancy. How could he imagine she would refuse?

She nodded. "I'd love to," she said.

He raised his head and looked at her. "Tomorrow after dinner? Say eight o'clock?"

"You could just knock on the wall to let me know you're ready," she said with a smile.

He grinned back at her. "I'd think my musical presence in your bedroom would be quite enough."

"I don't think we're at the stage where we should be discussing your presence in my bedroom," she said with mock curtness.

The hard mask again took over his features. "Quite right," he said. "Please forgive me. I wasn't presuming."

She laughed and saw him look up in surprise. "You can presume I'd let you keep me in here in a cage if it meant I could hear you sing and play every day. I fear I'm a hostage to you already."

He sighed and looked suddenly serious. "As am I, Christine Daae. But I think this is enough for one night." He gestured toward the door, and while it wasn't rude, Christine worried over his sudden mood swings.

"So I'll see you tomorrow night?" she asked as she crossed his threshold.

He nodded. "Very definitely." Then he shut the door, and Christine was left standing in the hallway, pondering the very odd turn of events her new life had already taken.

That night, she slept well, but her dreams were interlaced with images of lovers in the dark and the masked face of a man with beautiful hands.