Actors turn night into day. Our lives on the stage have this effect. This is a story of how I have used a showgirl’s wisdom—or is it madness?—to turn winter into summer.

In September 2019, I found myself overworked, and down with a painful case of shingles, having sung concerts all summer followed by autumn dates in London and Paris. I was aware of my good fortune in being able to sing, and I accepted every gig. The schedule also allowed me to be with my daughters—racing home to take care of them while switching rental gowns, rummaging through piles of sheet music, and throwing high heels into another rolling suitcase.

By a series of odd chances, I found myself seeking respite on a Greek island, with a stout, warm-eyed woman named Ifegenia, the owner of a charming coffee shop, for my landlady. The room was 10 by 10 with a minuscule balcony, heavy French doors and a view of a bustling harbor. It was so pretty I had to shake my head to believe I was awake. I was in a postcard. I got home at the end of September and felt I had salvaged a summer, with that mere week of alone time and sunshine.

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