Thanks for Muffin, page 6
Together, holding hands, we said, “The Wynter Woods Center for the Performing Arts is open!”
• • •
Pish and I led separate groups touring the venue. I knew quite a few of the people with us, but there were many more I did not know. I tried to catch names when I could, but it was a crowd. I consulted my clipboard shivering. It was exciting, the noise of a hundred exuberant voices filling the space, bringing it to life. This was how the center was meant to be, with hundreds of concertgoers babbling excitedly, waiting to see the entertainment.
I had ordered placards like the ones tour guides use to keep their groups together. Mine read “Ms. Merry Wynter” and Pish’s read “Mr. Percival Lincoln.” I was trying to gather my people, but no one listened despite my headset microphone. They were milling about, greeting each other, laughing, gossiping, sipping champagne as white-shirted servers lofting trays loaded with flutes full of Champagne J. Lasalle wove expertly in and out of the crowd, followed by the more discreet female server, who carried a tray of Veuve du Vernay Alcohol Removed, a nonalcoholic prosecco.
I was not dressed appropriately to stamp my feet and scream to gather attention. Not that I couldn’t do it; I had had to many times during construction just to get the workers’ attention. But heels and a clinging gown did not go with fishwife shriek.
My beloved hubby, seeing my and Pish’s distress—he is soft-spoken and was having no better luck than I despite his headset microphone—stepped up to the plate (marriage has taught me sports metaphors!). He tucked his index and middle fingers in the corners of his mouth and sent out a piercing whistle that echoed, stopping every single person in their tracks. Except one of the poor servers, who crashed into a gentleman, spilling an entire tray of champagne flutes on the carpeting.
Oops.
“And with that, the Wynter Woods Center for the Performing Arts has been officially christened with champagne,” I quipped. And it got a laugh! I sent Virgil a warm look of gratitude, but now that I had their attention, there was no time to waste. As Dewayne and Virgil helped the servers clean up the glass, I needed to get our guests together to start the official kickoff of the center. “Please look at your invitation. You have been assigned to my group, or to Pish, er . . . Percival Lincoln’s group. Gather, please, and we’ll begin! A tour first, then a brief performance, then back to the castle for a meal, more entertainment, and then home on your luxury buses, or to your beds here at Wynter Woods!”
The crowd gradually sorted themselves into the two groups. I eyed them anxiously. There were a lot of people. We had never seen this many in this space before. I had most of the influencers in my group and recognized some, like the actor Mac Duncan, and of course Sandy Paderewski. I was excited to talk to her later. Others I recognized by the name tags they had been issued.
When I glanced over at Pish I saw his group also gathering. He had most of the LOC and LSO people, his friends from New York, investment group colleagues from years gone by. He had Margot Villiers, fabulous in a designer gown, sipping champagne and laughing raucously.
There were a few in Pish’s group who I didn’t recognize. One in particular turned my head, a guy with close-cropped white hair and a thick red neck. He wore an ugly red and gold tartan tuxedo and bow tie. He looked familiar, but I dismissed his uncanny and unfortunate resemblance to the dude in the coffee shop in Ridley Ridge, the one who had scratched and dinged my car. That kind of guy wouldn’t be invited and would never be caught dead at a cultural event like ours.
George, Luxe, and the LSO players were already in place behind the scenes. Liliana was the only singer who would perform, while George directed her performance from the booth, where Luxe and her entourage gathered. The first official performance at the center stage would be short. I didn’t want to weary our partygoers, not all of whom were opera aficionados. I wanted to awe them, feed them, give them a good time, then send them home to spread the word at every holiday party they attended that there was a new venue like none anyone had ever seen. There would be entertainment enough back at the castle after Liliana’s solo.
My mother-in-law tugged her teen entourage toward me. Olivia and I had met a few times. She introduced me to her giggling girlfriends Sarah and Avery. Gogi’s plump granddaughter was gowned in aubergine lace over satin, with flutter sleeves, and the two other girls wore appropriately youthful and pretty dresses. I had a distinct feeling that I had risen in Olivia’s estimation because meeting me again came with smiles and wide eyes and an excited hop or two. “You’ll all take the tour. When we get back to the castle, I can introduce you to Luxe.”
Squeals all around, no teen insouciance here. It made me happy to see it.
And so it began.
Pish and I ran tight ships, with only a few folks wandering off from the tour to use washrooms and tidy makeup. After, we got our various groups seated in the domed theater. There was whispering and shushing along the arcs of comfortable theater seats but all fell silent as sparkling curtains parted. Liliana Bartholomew, majestic in a purple gown, was hit with a spotlight, center stage, on a dais that could be raised or lowered from the floor, as needed. The string section of the Lexington Symphony Orchestra was arced behind her, and filled the theater with “Casta Diva,” one of the most thrilling opera arias for a female voice. It started simply, the strings and lilting flute of the LSO exquisitely delicate. The concert space had been designed by George Bartholomew and his technicians to work with the natural acoustics of the dome. It was a great showpiece. Liliana’s voice soared, triumphant.
They cascaded into snippets of other arias, most memorably “Un Bel Di Vedremo,” from Madama Butterfly, and finally, the Bach/Gounod version of “Ave Maria.” Liliana’s pure thrilling soprano filled the space. With the dying notes, as Liliana swept into a lovely curtsey, I held my breath and then . . . and then . . . the audience leaped to their feet, roaring in approval, thunderous applause echoing throughout the dome.
I collapsed on my seat armrest in a fit of tears, weeping as relief and appreciation coursed through me, leaving me weak. We were about to become a success. I caught Pish’s eye and he, too, was weeping. He threw me kisses across the expanse.
I didn’t need to fret. We were close to the finish line, and no disaster!
I should have known better than to succumb to hubris. I should never have counted out the capricious nature of fate.
Seven
The sound and electrical technicians we employed for the center had done a splendid job. After shutting it all down, they would depart in their various vehicles to other jobs or to spend the holiday with their families. The center would be locked up until our first actual performance in December. The gala opening had served as a dry run with a half-full house. The acoustic sound and sight lines in our dome were magnificent. Also departing were the LSO musicians. The orchestra had holiday performances back in the city to prepare for.
The guests had been returned to the castle and ushered into the dining room, which many greeted with gasps of pleasure. I glowed with pride and hugged Pish, then made a general announcement about the availability of washrooms on the main floor—one of our renovations stole storage space in the back hall and converted it into accessible bathrooms—and we then parted and took our places as the dinner service started.
Servers threaded through the dining room, lofting trays with food as laughter and chatter filled the space. I couldn’t eat, I was so wrought up. Anxiously, I watched as others ate, or didn’t eat, and got to know each other, flitting among tables like beautiful butterflies and sober moths. Pish was the same, scanning the dining room, checking on our guests. I sat with Doc, who I had placed at my table, with my mother-in-law and her escort on the other side of him. Olivia and her gaggle of friends whispered and ate and laughed and texted through the whole meal. They took surreptitious photos of Mac Duncan, George Bartholomew and Luxe, of course.
Doc ate with enthusiasm, smiling and nodding when anyone he knew stopped to speak with him. Lizzie, in particular, looking boyish-chic in a fitted wine-colored suit, sparked his laughter, taking photos of him and me, then whirling away to photograph the whole room, catching people unaware, letting others pose together, moving with swift certainty among the crowd. She flung off her jacket as she worked, showing off the winged camera tattoo on her upper back shoulder.
“She’s gonna do okay, you know,” Doc said to me in his scratchy old-man voice.
I took his hand and watched her, smiling through tears. I don’t know what it is about that girl, but she makes me emotional and crazy and worried and proud, all at once. I love her dearly, and I love Doc, too, my chosen family. Finally, as dinner concluded and servers bussed the tables efficiently, I kissed my old friend’s wrinkled cheek and rose to circulate, moving from table to table, posing for photos, smiling and laughing. Liliana and her entourage and family appeared relaxed and happy. Luxe was bubbly and friendly, while Adrienne flirted with George. He grinned in pleasure. I sensed a blossoming romance.
Pish also circulated. I had been back to the kitchen, but everything was going smoothly, no need for my interference or help. The kitchen was almost completely clean and the catering crew was packing it in, toting their stuff out to their van, which they had parked at the back door. I told my friend all of that as he and I met near the windows overlooking the front of the property.
“It’s going great,” I murmured.
He frowned and shook his head. “Something is off, and I don’t know what.”
“You fret too much,” I admonished as I glanced over the crowd.
With a worried look, he pursed his lips, then said, “There’s tension. Piph is sensing it too. She said someone in the room is angry. She feels everything deeply, you know.”
I looked from table to table and saw only joy. To my eye it appeared that all were having a marvelous time. As people circulated, I could see we were going to be in for a lively evening. The brother and sister were imagining things. “A few more hours and we’ll be clear sailing. It’s time for me to get to know these people, especially the ones we’re going to host for the weekend.”
We claimed our crowd’s attention and each gave a little speech about the evening. We then led the crowd out of the dining room. We crossed the great hall and ushered them into the forty-foot-long ballroom. Another gasp of appreciation rippled over the crowd as the chandeliers blazed into shimmering light. Virgil lit the fire in the huge fireplace. The room positively glowed, draperies pulled back, the floor-to-ceiling French doors onto the flagged terrace that lined the ballroom gleaming glittering reflections of the chandeliers back to us.
The grand piano in the ballroom was draped in burgundy, with candelabra sporting flickering electronic flameless candles. I had feared it would look too Phantom of the Opera, but with Piph’s eye for staging it was perfectly understated and elegant, not tacky. For the first half hour we had the castle’s sound system, installed years ago at great cost by Pish, playing a selection of light classical music as people mingled and visited, tray-carrying servers circulating.
Janice Grover looked it all over with a practiced eye. She is my antique and vintage guru, running Crazy Lady Antiques in Autumn Vale. I sidled up to her and waited for her appraisal of the arrangements. In the last two years as we worked toward this, Janice had kept a sharp eye out for appropriate seating for a ballroom, and we now had a nice assortment of divans, lounging sofas, recamiers (also known as fainting couches) and upholstered chairs in conversational groupings. In the center was a magnificent circular banquette seat from an elegant old hotel, reupholstered in burgundy velvet. It was favored by those like Margot Villiers who thrived on being the center of attention, very old Hollywood, if I do say so myself. For this event I had also rented taller cocktail tables for those who wanted somewhere to set their drink down so they could gather and chat with others.
“So, what do you think?” I whispered to her.
“It’s a smash, dear girl, a proper smash!”
I threaded my arm through hers and squeezed. “Thank you for all the help you’ve given me.”
“I’m overjoyed it all worked out.” Her gaze flicked about. “It looks like those two young ladies are thick as thieves. I recognize Sandy Paderewski! I remember her TV show.”
I looked about and saw that Sandy and Brenda Polk were huddled together at one of the tall tables, heads together, deep in conversation. “That’s so nice! I didn’t think they knew each other.”
“I’m going to find my hubby and make him dance!” She whirled away, her colorful caftan a swirl of rich color.
I sought out my mother-in-law’s youthful party, intent on fulfilling my first duty, introducing her granddaughter to Luxe. Gogi sat on a divan with Doc in his wheelchair next to her. I told her my plan and she smiled. I rounded up Olivia, Avery and Sarah and guided them across the room to where Luxe was holding court. She looked gorgeous, truly larger than life, almost reclining on a golden fainting couch. Her voluptuous figure clad in burgundy satin, she dripped with jewels. Adrienne had dressed her hair high and natural, with one section slicked back and adorned with jeweled combs.
I stepped back as Luxe invited the girls to sit. She posed for selfies with them and posted them to her socials. When she rose, patting her gown into place, the girls followed her as she mingled and got to know other guests. Unwin, wearing a black pantsuit and jacket, followed, lingering on the edge of the group watching. Pat Jefferson, a tall, slim Black man with wire-frame glasses, impeccable manners and a soft voice, provided a comforting security presence.
Lizzie shadowed them, discreetly taking photos before darting away to get her video camera. As Luxe schmoozed with music industry insiders, Olivia and her gaggle followed other influencers about, especially Mac Duncan, the Oscar nominee. He was gracious, but distant, smiling for selfies then turning away, so they moved on to Piph Lincoln.
There was something about her wild free-flowing gray hair, eccentric dress, loud opinions and forthright personality that was guaranteed to fascinate uptight and self-conscious teen girls. Not a bad thing for girls to learn that you can be yourself, have a bold life, be successful, and do what you want. I wish I had someone like Piph to show me the way when I was sixteen.
I made the rounds, introducing myself, answering questions, trying to be a good ambassador for the Wynter Woods Center for the Performing Arts. Andrew Ostler, with the aid of his assistant, who manned his camera, interviewed Liliana. I overheard her graciously praise the sound quality in the theater.
Finally Gogi’s group departed, taking with them Doc English. Most of the locals departed too, including Binny, Janice, Simon and others. I followed them all out to the flagstone front terrace, watching as they drove away, followed by the caterers, who had finally finished their packing and cleanup and now departed.
When I returned to the ballroom, I circulated, champagne in hand. Worried by Pish’s dire mood, I kept an eye on everything. The ballroom was noisy, and as the evening progressed got even noisier, but I didn’t see anyone making trouble. So I switched to examining our guests. The women blazed in gowns and suits of aqua, gold, purple, celadon and jade, crimson and cerulean, emerald and peacock. Feathers, jewels, beads and fringe adorned them. Some women and almost all of the men, though, were more subdued, in a range of black, charcoal, navy and occasionally magenta.
Except that one guy, the guy in the tartan tuxedo. He was talking—or was it arguing?—with Brenda Polk and Sandy Paderewski. The former pop star had her finger on his chest and was poking it. Unwin MacGregor was watching nearby, a faint smile on her pale face.
Alarmed, I started across the ballroom dance floor as our hired piano player took to the grand piano after a brief break and began playing and singing from the American songbook. But Andrew Ostler’s opera podcast producer caught me by the arm and asked if I was ready for his interview. I glanced over at the arguing threesome but they had scattered, so I said yes. He told me to stay close by.
I chatted to livestreaming influencers about the party, the performances and the evening as a whole. They praised the venue, asked questions about the castle, and paired me with different people as they interviewed me. Ostler was almost ready for me. I watched Luxe, who had taken Sandy Paderewski aside. Shouldering past a group collected around Glengarry Polk, I edged closer, pleased to see the two speaking so intently, woman to woman.
I caught half of what Luxe said: “. . . your early work, such an inspiration. Did you write your own songs in the nineties?”
“No, I wasn’t allowed, sadly,” Sandy said with a smile. She wore a chiffon gown in aqua, too pastel for the season and her pallid coloring, but pretty. “Those hits were silly songs pumped out by the ‘star-maker machinery behind the popular song,’ like Joni said.” She looked lovely, her blonde hair piled high and draped to one side with a jeweled clip holding it. “I hope that’s changing for artists like you.”
“Even now you have to prove yourself,” Luxe said with a steely glint. “I’m blessed to love the songs I’ve been given so far, but I need to convince George I can make hits of my own songs. I’ll do it, but it feels like it’s taking time. Too much time.”
Sandy turned away.
Luxe touched her arm to regain her attention. She leaned in and said, over the music and tumult, “I know it’s maybe not the right time or place, but I wanted to say that your lyrics, the ones you’ve written for other artists, are so good. Like ‘Liar’s Ballad’!” She sang a snatch: “I lived a lie, I know it now, never said goodbye. I’m a gold-dipped liar, made of plain base metal, hold my feet to the fire. The rhyme pattern is interesting. And the imagery . . . it’s like she’s being tormented in a crucible. Inspired!”
Sandy smiled and blinked, looking pained. She was one of those who have trouble being praised, I thought.
Luxe rattled on, her hand now holding Sandy’s wrist: “And ‘Never Said Goodbye.’” Again, she sang: “Who knows, how the cold wind blows. I never said goodbye, before you took wing to fly . . . away. Away.” She sniffled. “That last Away makes me tear up every time, the way it fades and trails off! I have to ask, your lyric themes are woven around loss and not having time to say goodbye to someone. Where did that come from? Did you lose someone?”
