Sinners’
Opera is set in Charleston, South Carolina, one of my favorite cities in the
world (that I’ve visited). It’s
beautiful and on the ocean—two requirements of being a favorite. I’d simply
love to live in one of the Antebellum mansions along the Battery. If you ever
visit Charleston, take a buggy ride around the historic sights.
Charles
Towne was founded in 1670, during the reign of Charles II of England. This is important in the book because Morgan
(the hero) became a vampire in 1659, and in 1670, the King sent him to the new
colony to inspect its progress. Later, he returns to watch over a baby girl
(the heroine) as she grows to womanhood.
Charleston boasts cobblestone streets,
horse-drawn carriages, and pastel Antebellum houses, particularly in the
elegant French Quarter and Battery districts. The Battery promenade and
Waterfront Park both overlook Charleston Harbor. Fort Sumter, a federal
stronghold where the first shots of the Civil War were fire, lies across the
water.
Two beaches, Folly Beach and Isle of Palms, are
near Charleston. Another requirement for a favorite of mine.
In nearby Mt. Pleasant, you can visit Boone
Hall plantation. Some of the tours they offer are,
"Exploring The Gullah Culture", House Tours, Plantation Coach Tour,
Black History In America Exhibit, Slave Street and History Presentation, Garden
Tour, and a Butterfly Pavilion.
My personal favorite is the Dock Street
Theater, America’s first theater. On February 12, 1736, the Dock Street opened
with The Recruiting Officer. Flora, the first opera performed in America
took place at the Dock Street. Now, the Dock Street is owned and managed by the
City of Charleston. I was enthralled by it when I went for a concert. The
Dock Street looks like a 17th century playhouse with rows of wooden
benches in the orchestra seating. The boxes overlooking the floor are draped in
dark green, almost black velvet. The stage backdrop is an antique tapestry of
Charleston Harbor. Photo Credit: By
Frances Benjamin Johnston.
The Battery is a street along the seawall on
the Atlantic Ocean. The pastel and colorful Antebellum mansions cost in the
millions. When I was writing Sinners’ Opera, I drove up and down the Battery
until the residents must have thought I lived there…or was a stalker. I finally
chose a house for my hero. It’s Roper House, a brick structure with green
shutters and a Greek portico to the left. A beautiful house, but because the
main attraction, the portico, is on the side, it looks like the house has its
shoulder to the sea. A house with
secrets.
I’ve driven those cobblestone streets in my
little red Miata, eaten at some good downtown restaurants (never made Magnolias
for shrimp and grits), and have gone to the Dock Street for a piano
concert. Morgan is a concert pianist, an
English lord, and a vampire.
If I haven’t yet inspired you to visit Charleston
on your next vacation, what can I say?
Real movie stars are moving to Charleston, and it is one of the most
concentrated centers of wealth in this country. It’s also famous for art
(Spoleto), culture, and history—and entertainment galore.
Blurb:
Morgan D'Arcy is an English lord, a classical pianist, and a
vampire. He has everything except what he desires most—Isabeau. As the Angel Gabriel
he’s steered her life and career choice, preparing her to become Lady D'Arcy.
Many forces oppose Morgan's daring plan—not the least of which is Vampyre law.
Isabeau Gervase is a brilliant geneticist Though she no longer
believes in angels, she sees a ticket to a Nobel Prize in Gabriel's
secrets—secrets that have led her to a startling conclusion. Gabriel isn't
human, and she fully intends to identify the species she named the Angel
Genome. Morgan is ready to come back into Isabeau's life, but this time as a
man not an angel. Will he outsmart his enemies, protect his beloved and escape
death himself? For the first time in eternity, the clock is ticking.
Excerpt:
Kirsty fanned with
the program. “However, I’m delighted to
inherit his seat. Culture, especially in
the form of a rich bachelor, is something sadly missing from my life. How does Lady Kirsty D’Arcy sound?”
“Like a tongue-twister.” She tapped her friend’s arm with the heel of
her hand.
Isabeau
wasn’t looking when Morgan D’Arcy mounted the stage.
She
turned. Her smile solidified. Applause erupted as the pianist glided to the
piano. The way he moved, his feet scarcely
seeming to touch the floor, was hauntingly familiar. He ducked his audience an elegant bow, the
spotlight haloing golden hair. Isabeau’s
heart kicked her ribs. A trembling hand shot out to grip Kirsty’s arm.
“What’s the matter?” Her friend passed a hand before Isabeau’s
eyes. “You look like you’ve seen a
ghost.”
Staring at the man
on stage, Isabeau nodded. I’ll be darned. Here’s your ghost again. And here I am one heartbeat away from another
heartache.
“His hair is tied back with a black
velvet ribbon,” Isabeau breathed, and a man hissed for her to be quiet, but she
didn’t spare him a thought or a glance.
An invisible chord drew her forward in her
seat, her hands clasped beneath her chin, her heart in the grip of impossible
dreams. A hush fell over the audience as
Morgan D’Arcy drifted leaf-like, angel-like, to the bench and adjusted the
height. He closed his eyes, tilted his
head back and flexed his long fingers.
The pianist extended exquisite hands over the keys. Emeralds winked in his gold cufflinks. Isabeau couldn’t peel her gaze off him.
Morgan D’Arcy was
the spitting image of Gabriel.
He bent low over
the keyboard, holding a thunderous chord.
A wisp of hair escaped his ponytail to brush the keys. Eyes closed, he straightened, fingers blurring
over black and white notes. In the
timeless vacuum of beauty, an hour sped by.
The last trill of Gaspard de la
nuit died. A collective sigh swept
the dark theater. Isabeau exhaled a pent-up
breath. A wave of applause washed the
audience to their feet.
Morgan D’Arcy
rested his hand on the piano’s glistening wing and gave his fans a dazzling
smile. To the standing ovation, he folded
his hands in front of him. His bow was
as elegant as the man himself. The wayward
gold strand drifted over his eye. Isabeau
remembered a child’s hand…her little hand…brushing back hair like that, hair as
silken as the shiver gliding over her.
He straightened, swept the audience with an enchanting gaze. Radiant blue eyes captured hers. The foundations of her carefully ordered life
shook.
***
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