When we reached the Don CeSar, she directed me to the hotel parking lot. Morgan flashed her room key card to the lot’s security guard, and after parking I fished my guitar from behind the driver’s seat and we started toward the hotel. Entering through the lower-level doors, we walked the wide carpeted hallways that zigged and zagged past high-end boutiques and an ice-cream-and-candy shop. I felt underdressed, but Morgan didn’t seem to notice.
We exited near the perfectly landscaped pool area. Off to the right was a restaurant with additional outdoor seating near the beach; ahead and to the left were two pools surrounded by dozens of lounge chairs and the ever-popular bar. The restaurant, likely closed by then, still had two or three couples relaxing at their tables, enjoying the balmy breezes.
“This is the fanciest hotel I’ve ever seen,” I said, trying not to gape at my surroundings.
“It’s been around a long time. In the thirties it drew guests from up and down the East Coast, and during World War II it was leased by the military to treat servicemen struggling with PTSD. Of course, they didn’t call it PTSD back then. I guess it went downhill for a while after that, and then new owners bought it and spruced it up, returning it to its former glory.”
“You know a lot about it.”
She elbowed me, smirking. “There’s a history exhibit hanging in the hallway we just walked through.”
Pleasantly surprised by the physical contact, I merely smiled. Threading between the two pools, we walked past the bar onto a wooden deck near the low-slung sand dunes. As we reached the sand, she stopped to pull out her phone.
“I’m going to let my friends know where I am,” she explained, and a few seconds later, her phone dinged. “They’re getting ready to leave, so they’ll be here in a little while.”
She suddenly reached out, holding on to my shoulder. “Stay still so I can take off my boots,” she instructed, standing on one foot. “I don’t want them to get ruined. But don’t let me forget them, okay?”
“I’m pretty sure you’d remember the moment you realized you were barefoot.”
“Probably,” she said with a mischievous grin. “But this way I’ll also find out whether you’re reliable. You ready?”
“After you.”
We stepped onto the sand, walking side by side but not quite close enough to touch. Stars spanned the nighttime sky and the moon hovered high and bright. The sea struck me as both peaceful and ominous at exactly the same time. I noticed a couple walking near the water’s edge, their features hidden in shadow, and heard voices drifting from tables near the bar. Beside me, Morgan almost seemed to be gliding, her long hair fluttering behind her in the salt-scented breeze.
Just beyond the glow of hotel lights, there were a couple of lounge chairs that either hadn’t been put away or someone had recently dragged out to the beach. Morgan gestured at them.
“They must have been expecting us.”
We sat across from each other, and Morgan turned toward the water, poised and serene in the moonlight.
“It looks so different at night,” she remarked. “In the day it’s inviting, but at night, all I can think is that there are giant sharks just lying in wait for me.”
“No midnight swim, then?”
“Not a chance,” she said, before turning toward me. I saw the flash of her smile.
“Can I ask a question?” I ventured, leaning forward. “What did you mean when you said you majored in vocal performance?”
“That’s what the major is called.”
“You mean, like…singing?”
“You have to be accepted into the program, but yes.”
“How do you get accepted?”
“Well, in addition to the taped and/or live audition, there’s a keyboard requirement, so you have to know how to play the piano. And then the usual—transcripts, history of musical studies or training, performances, awards…all that.”
“Are there actual classes, or do you just get to sing?”
“Of course there are classes—general ed, music theory, ear training, music history, just to start—but as you can probably imagine, what we do outside of class is super important, too. There are choir ensembles, rehearsals, piano practice, recitals, and concerts. The school has one of the best opera programs in the country.”
“You want to be an opera singer?”
“No, but when you think about people like Mariah Carey or Beyoncé or Adele, their vocal control—their precision, range, and power—really sets them apart. Opera training can help with all those things. That’s why I wanted to study it.”
“But I thought you loved to dance.”
“You can love both, can’t you?” she asked. “But anyway, singing was my first love, no doubt. I grew up singing all the time—in the bathroom, in my bedroom, in my backyard, wherever, like a lot of girls do. When I had to start wearing the back brace—before I started dancing—it wasn’t easy for me, and not just because of my parents or the surgeries. I wasn’t allowed to play sports or run around with friends from the neighborhood, and my mom had to carry my backpack to school, and I needed a special chair in the classroom…and…kids can be pretty mean sometimes. So I started singing even more, because it made me feel…normal and free, if that makes any sense.”
When she grew quiet, I couldn’t help but imagine a young girl strapped into a back brace, wanting to be like everyone else, and how hard that must have been. She seemed to sense what I was thinking, because she looked at me with an almost forlorn expression.
“I’m sorry. I don’t usually share this kind of stuff with people I’m still getting to know.”
“I’m honored.”
“Still, I don’t want you to think I’m hoping for some kind of pity party, because I’m not. Everyone has challenges, and a lot of people have them worse than I ever did.”
I suspected she was speaking about the fact that I’d lost my mom, and I nodded. “So…singing?”
“Oh yeah,” she offered. “Long story short, my parents eventually put me in singing and piano lessons so that I had after-school activities like my friends did. I think they believed it would be a passing phase, but just like dancing, the more I practiced, the more important it became to me. I sang through high school, and I’ve had private vocal lessons for years. I tell myself that my experience at IU was just icing on the cake. My parents may not be thrilled with my choice of major, but then again, I didn’t give them a vote in that, either.”
“Why wouldn’t they be thrilled?”
“They’re doctors,” she said, as though that was all the explanation needed. When I didn’t respond, she finally went on. “My parents would prefer that I have more-traditional dreams.”
“So you’re serious about singing.”
“It’s what I’m meant to do,” she said, her eyes fixed on mine.
“What’s next, then? Since you’ve graduated, I mean?”
“I’m moving to Nashville in a couple of weeks. That’s another reason I wanted to graduate early. I’m only twenty-one, which still gives me time to break into the music world.”
“How are you going to pay your bills? Did you line up a job there?”
“I got some money from my grandparents for graduation. And, believe it or not, my parents have agreed to help with rent, too, so I should be okay for a while.”
“I’m kind of surprised that your parents would agree to that. Based on what you told me about them, I mean.”
“I am, too. But my dad was terrified about me living in a place that might be dangerous, so he talked my mom into it. I don’t know how long their help will last, but I’m definitely grateful for it. I know how hard it is to break into the music world, and I feel like the only way I’m going to have a chance is to give it a hundred percent effort. So that’s what I intend to do, and I’ll keep trying until it works. It’s my dream.”
I heard the determination in her tone and couldn’t help but be impressed, even as I admitted she had the kind of support and opportunities of which only a handful of people could boast. “Are your friends in music, too? Holly, Stacy, and Maria?”
“No, but we have a dance group together. That’s how we met. We all had accounts on TikTok where we posted videos of ourselves dancing, so we started dancing as a group, too.”
“Does anyone watch?”
She tilted her head. “They’re incredible dancers, better than I am. Maria, for instance, is a dance major, and she just scored an audition with Mark Morris’s dance company. You’ve also seen what they all look like. What do you think?”
“Can I see some of the videos?”
“I still don’t know you well enough for that.”
“But you let strangers see them.”
“It’s different if I know the person. Haven’t you ever felt that way? When you sing? That if there’s someone you know in the audience—and want to know better—you get nervous. It’s kind of like that.”
“You want to get to know me better?” I persisted, teasing.
“You’re missing the point.”