Cutler 02 - Secrets of the Morning

makes us desperate, but being desperate brings us to the height of our very being, the ultimate of our essence, places us in exquisite danger. You will sing great songs," he declared and laughed.
    "I'm hungry," he said. "Making love always increases my appetite." He started to dress quickly. I sat up and began to put on my clothing. "Would you like something to eat?"
    "No," I said. "Thank you. I just use the bathroom a moment."
    "Of course. Come out when you're finished and watch me eat something. You can finish your wine. Then," he said, nodding more like a teacher now than a lover, "I'll call a cab for you and you will get back so you don't miss your curfew."
    He left me alone. As I finished my dressing, I gazed around his bedroom, and as if I had been in a daze the whole time, I suddenly realized where I was and what I had done.
    What had I done!
    I had made love without the slightest restraint or hesitation. I had permitted Michael to carry me off and seduce me, but I believed, I prayed, that his words were honest and sincere. He did see me as someone beautiful, someone to cherish, someone to love be-cause I was like him. We were blessed with a talent that made us different, made us feel things more intently. It was good; it was meant to be that two people such as he and I would find ecstasy together.
    And yet, I couldn't help feeling guilty. Was Grandmother Cutler right about me? Was I the spawn of some evil, sinful act between my mother and an itinerant singer who didn't care about the consequences of his actions? Was I as spoiled and as vain as my mother who wanted to be treated like a princess and be young and beautiful forever and ever?
    Just like my mother, I had my singer lover, I thought.
    But Michael was different; he had to be. He wasn't some wandering crooner looking for a good time and not caring about his career and his art. Michael loved me because he saw something exceptional in me. We would be beautiful together; we would sing duets on the stage, duets that people would remember forever and ever because we sang to each other sincerely, with a passion that made our voices even greater.
    No, I declared to myself, I would not feel bad; I would not feel guilty. I would feel fulfilled and I would be fulfilled. Michael had turned me into a woman, his woman, and I would wear my new identity with pride; although for a while at least, I would have to keep it all secret.

 
    8
VOWS OF LOVE
     
    I joined Michael in his kitchen and watched him make himself a sandwich and coffee. He insisted I have a cup of coffee and sit with him as he ate. He described how pleased he was with his work at the Bernhardt School and how excited and happy he was to be back in New York.
    "Although," he said, "I thoroughly enjoyed traveling through Europe and singing in the great theaters with their wonderful histories, singing before the richest, most cultured audiences. I have played in Rome, Paris and London. I have even performed in Budapest, Hungary," he bragged.
    I sat there hypnotized by his voice and the stories he told me about his travels and performances.
    Suddenly, he leaned back in his chair and stared at me in a more scrutinizing manner, his head tilted to the right, his eyes fixed on mine.
    "Earlier," he said, "when you were complaining about your family, you never mentioned your father. What is he like? Is he still alive?"
    I thought for a long moment. Michael had taken me into his life, touched me in the most intimate ways a man could touch a woman, trusted me, wanted me. I didn't want to permit anything false between us. His eyes were full of concern and sincere interest. I believed him when he had said that music had already wed us to each other, bound us in ways other people could not understand.
    "I don't know what my father is like," I began and told him my story. He listened without moving a muscle. Our roles had been reversed: now he was mesmerized by me and my tale of kidnapping and discovery, being returned to a family I despised and learning the truth of my abduction. "I know every-thing," I concluded, "except my father's name."
    Michael nodded slowly, his dark eyes thoughtful as he digested what I had told him.
    "Your grandmother sounds like a strong-willed and powerful old woman. She would tell you nothing about your real father?"
    "No, and my mother is so terrified of her, she won't reveal anything either."
    He nodded, lowering his eyes sadly. Then he looked up, brightening with an idea.
    "Perhaps I