Joyce Hibbard trailed in through the door as Curtis moved in my direction. Joyce was introducing Yevgeny Krymov to Marson as Curtis backed me up against the bar. He said, “Brody Norris, I presume. Curtis Hibbard. I’ve been dying to meet you.” He offered his hand. I shook it. He held on to my hand with both of his, staring into my face like a cat sizing up a mouse. “I’ve heard so much about you,” he said with breathy intensity, adding, “all of it completely true, I’m delighted to observe. And my God, those arrestingly green eyes. Astounding.”
I noticed as he spoke that his tongue still carried the residual blue hue of mouthwash. His breath carried the freshly rinsed tang of mint. It mingled with the scent of his cologne, which was strong, spicy, and masculine, with a no-nonsense top note of citrus. I blinked the sting of the fragrance from those arrestingly green eyes of mine.
“Pleased to meet you, Curtis.” I disengaged my hand from his as Marson, all smiles, approached with Joyce and Yevgeny. Introductions were made. Marson drifted off with Joyce and Curtis, approaching Glee Savage and David Lovell.
And then Yevgeny made his move on me. He wore a high-cut black bolero jacket, which showed off a stunning ass that could have bested the posterior of even the most sultry of fantasized matadors.
“I am so very pleased to meet you,” he said, low and throaty. Although he had defected from Russia nearly forty years earlier, during the Cold War, he had not entirely lost his accent, and his speech carried the prim syntax of a nonnative speaker. He backed me up against the bar, as Curtis had, but stood even nearer to me—so close that one of his thighs pressed against mine. Though retired from the stage, he still had the ropy musculature of a world-class dancer, and I was aroused by the feel of his powerful leg. With no whiff of cologne between us, I smelled only his musk and sweat. While Curtis Hibbard’s come-on had left me, in a word, repulsed, Yevgeny’s advance was having its intended effect.
“You have such dah-link eyes,” he said with a smile I was tempted to kiss.
“Thank you,” I said, sounding nervous as a schoolgirl. “I’ve been told that.”
Since adolescence, I had found myself attracted to older, creative men. My previous husband, in California, was an architect, considerably older than I was. Ditto for Marson, my current love. While I was growing up, my lesbian mother had surrounded me with her circle of arty friends, including a buff ballet master, who taught me, when I was eight, to perform an energetic zapateado with him. And now, pressed against me in my own home was the legendary Yevgeny Krymov, age fifty-six (I’d Googled him). With his intense Muscovy stare, he seemed to be asking, Shall we dance?
Then his gaze shifted.
I tapped my nose, as if to remind him, We were talking about my eyes.
But he’d lost his focus. I glanced to the side, following his stare, and saw that he was watching Curtis Hibbard, who had pinned the comely David Lovell, ten years my junior, against the refrigerator. Yevgeny’s eyes widened. “Excuse me,” he said, moving off in their direction, on the hunt for fresher game.
Just when things were heating up, he’d dumped me like a day-old paskha.
Grrring.
With nothing better to do, I ambled from the bar to the door. When I opened it, my jilt-funk evaporated. “Mary,” I said brightly, “and Mister Puss.” The cat was in her arms, wearing the ridiculous paw-print harness, tangled with the nylon leash. I asked, “Are we ready for a party?”
Exchanging cheek kisses with me, Mary heaved a little sigh. “Brody love, I’m sorry to be late, but I’ve been putting it off till the last possible minute.”
I checked my watch; it was half past the cocktail hour. “You’ll be fine. You’re among friends. Welcome.”
Mary stepped inside and set the cat on the floor as I shut the door. She leaned to ask me, “Is she here—the priest?”
With a soft laugh, I said, “Over there. Don’t fret. Marson will stand guard.”
Resigned, Mary took a few steps into the room, holding the leash, but Mister Puss wouldn’t cooperate, sliding a few inches on the polished concrete floor.
“Here,” I said, “let me take care of him.” I scooped the cat up into my arms.
Mary thanked me and stepped bravely into the fray.
Help me.
“My pleasure.” I untangled the leash and unclipped it from the vest. Then I set Mister Puss on the floor and freed him from his bonds. He stretched, preening his fur as I set the offending paraphernalia on a console near the door.
When I picked him up again, he purred. We ventured into the gathering.
Music played. Ice rattled in glasses. Laughter punctuated the ebb and flow of conversation as Nancy Sanderson and Berta circulated through the living room, refreshing drinks and passing trays of delicate nibbles—brioche rounds with crème fraîche and caviar; carrot roulades with goat cheese; blini with quail eggs and tarragon.
Predictably, Mister Puss preferred the caviar to the eggs and was bewildered by the carrots. To be polite and tidy, I ate what he refused as we mingled. And I quickly discovered that the novelty of an exotic cat at a cocktail party never left our guests at a loss for words.
“He’s adorable,” said David Lovell, momentarily free from the competitive advances of Curtis and Yevgeny. He twiddled Mister Puss under the chin, eliciting a grateful purr. “Siamese?”
“Nope,” I told him, “Abyssinian. Highly intelligent. Talkative, too.”
Meow.
David laughed as Nancy stepped over to us with the tray of appetizers.
I told her, “Everything’s wonderful, Nancy. Can’t thank you enough for saving the evening—for making the evening.” I helped myself to another bit of caviar, saving it for the cat.
“Glad you’re pleased, Brody. Nice party.” She offered a faint, courteous smile.
She seemed a little off that night. The food and the service could not have been better, but her mood seemed, for lack of a better word, strained. Which was understandable—Marson and I had felt stressed for days.
Marson had known Nancy for many years, as he was a long-standing patron of her restaurant. Although we both thought of her as a friend, we didn’t have much connection beyond food and dining. A nice-looking woman in her fifties, she worked hard, kept her customers happy, and always had something pleasant to say.
David set his cocktail napkin, with an uneaten appetizer, on Nancy’s tray. “I don’t think I’ll finish that, if you don’t mind.”
“No worries, David. No nuts.” Her tone seemed oddly miffed.
“Not that,” he explained with a chuckle. “Want to save myself for the main event. I’m sure it’ll be wonderful.”
With the slightest nod, she left us. I must have looked puzzled.
Free of the appetizer, David could now talk with both hands. “Nut allergy,” he told me, aflutter. “But Nancy always looks out for me. She’s a doll. And speaking of dolls, do you suppose I could hold this magnificent little creature?”
“Mister Puss,” I said, “you have a new admirer. Let me introduce you to David Lovell.” The cat gave me a wary look as I handed him over.
“Hello there, darlin,” David said as he cradled the cat in his arms. “Aren’t you a special boy?”
David apparently passed muster. Mister Puss purred loudly and climbed to David’s shoulder, nuzzling his chin. Then the cat slid his snout up the side of David’s face, working his way to David’s ear.
Mister Puss sneezed.
“Whoops,” said David. “Sorry, pussycat.” Handing Mister Puss back to me, he explained. “I get carried away with fragrances sometimes—can’t seem to smell it on myself. But I guess I overdid it.”
“Not at all,” I lied. “It’s … interesting.”
“It’s called ‘Chad!’ With an exclamation point. Isn’t it fabulous?” And David moved off to mingle.
Purring, Mister Puss climbed to my ear.
He smells like a fruitcake.
Knowing that Mary Questman would not like to be stuck next to Joyce Hib
bard at dinner, Marson and I decided to use place cards, assigning the women the “honor” of commanding opposite ends of the oblong table, which ran lengthwise between the kitchen and living room. Marson and I placed ourselves on the less desirable side of the table, facing the kitchen, with David Lovell seated between us. We assigned the better side, looking out toward the street windows, to Glee Savage and Curtis Hibbard, with Yevgeny between them. We all gabbed while enjoying Nancy’s delightful vichyssoise, which provided a cool, refreshing start to our dinner on that warm evening.
Glee was saying to Yevgeny, next to her, “It’s not often, Mr. Krymov, that we have someone of your stature visiting Dumont. It would be such an honor if you’d consent to an interview for our local paper.”
“You flatter me, Miss Savage. I cannot imagine your people of Dumont have any interest in my story.”
“Dumont,” said Curtis wistfully from Yevgeny’s other side. “Ho-ho. It’s a long way from Stuttgart. Let alone Moscow.”
Glee dared to touch Yevgeny’s wrist, near her hand on the table. “Oh, please?” Begging wasn’t Glee’s style—at all—but she’d never found herself sitting beside a fabled dancer who’d been hailed by the New York Times as “artistic heir to the legacies of Nijinsky and Nureyev.”
Yevgeny reconsidered, telling Glee, “Then, perhaps.” He took her hand and held her fingers briefly before returning to his soup.
Seated directly across from Glee, I saw a vacant look in her eyes and feared she might collapse beneath the table.
At the end of the table, seated adjacent to both Glee and me, Mary said, “How delightful. It seems our sleepy little Dumont is finally growing up. We’ve already established the theater complex, and now we have the great honor of knowing Mr. Yevgeny, a true artist par excellence.”
“Hear, hear,” said Marson.
“Mary,” said Joyce Hibbard from the opposite end of the table, “it’s no secret that your passion for the arts has been the catalyst for Dumont’s cultural growth. From what I hear, the whole town is indebted to your sense of civic duty and philanthropy.”
Here we go, I thought.
Nancy’s mixed grill, the main course of our meal, consisted of generous portions of beef tenderloin, chops of spring lamb, skewers of colossal shrimp, and hearty croquettes of fresh salmon. Nancy and Berta circled the table with trays, allowing each guest to choose any or all of the items. Then vegetables and sauces were passed while Marson played sommelier, pouring each guest’s choice of red or white wine, or both.
The vichyssoise had been of no interest to Mister Puss, who perched halfway up the spiral staircase, where he could keep a bird’s-eye view on everyone. But the arrival of the meat and fish triggered another reaction altogether, bringing him down the stairs at a trot. I recalled Mary assuring us that Mister Puss had promised not to get underfoot that night, and I was relieved to note that he was true to his word. Posing no threat of tripping Nancy or Berta as they served, he simply slipped under the table and stationed himself at the corner between Mary and me, where he could peep up at each of us. He knew his easy marks.
When everyone was settled, with the help retreated to the kitchen, Marson called them back briefly and toasted their efforts. Then our guests toasted Marson and me as their hosts. With the civilities attended to, everyone could then enjoy not only their dinner but also the pleasures of adult conversation.
I cut a small square from the rare center of my beef tenderloin and slipped it to Mister Puss, seated at my ankle. His purr didn’t stop while devouring it, but intensified to a loud gurgle that resembled a miniature roar. Mary shot me a smile, then dangled to Mister Puss the plump end of a shrimp.
Joyce Hibbard was saying, “…and I understand that the Questman family practically built St. Alban’s, so many years ago. What a marvelous heritage.”
Mary reminded Joyce, “That was well over a century ago. I may be old, but I wasn’t around.”
Joyce tittered. “Well, I certainly didn’t mean to imply that.”
Mary took it a step further. “And although my late husband’s family played some role in founding the parish, the Questmans alone didn’t build the church. It was a community effort.”
“Of course,” agreed Joyce.
Marson stepped in. “It’s no secret that St. Alban’s now faces some tremendous challenges, as well as a major decision: repair the old church, or build a new one.” As he spoke, he leaned to his side to offer a scrap of something to the cat.
Mister Puss shot to Marson’s chair. When he finished, he moved to Joyce, who also fed the cat a morsel.
She was saying, “…with a bit of divine guidance and with prayerful deliberation, I have faith that the St. Alban’s family is up to these challenges. As Philippians tells us: In Christ, all things are possible.”
“Ho-ho,” said Curtis Hibbard. “You’re laying it on a bit thick, aren’t you, Poopsie?”
Mister Puss sauntered over to Curtis, but no food was offered, so the cat settled under his chair.
Joyce set down her fork and turned to her husband. “I know you’ve questioned my calling to the priesthood, and to a degree, I understand your skepticism.” She told the rest of the table, “But faith is a journey. We often face unexpected and mysterious turns along the path to enlightenment.”
Quack.
Joyce’s eyes shot back to her husband. “Really, Curtis, there’s no need to be rude.”
He sputtered, “Poopsie, I … I would never…”
Mister Puss emerged from beneath Curtis’s chair and traipsed around the table to Mary, who invited the cat up to her lap.
Somberly, Joyce said to Mary, “St. Alban’s now finds itself at a crossroads.”
The cat finished eating a wad of shrimp from Mary’s fingers and, purring, stretched his snout to nuzzle her chin—then her ear.
Joyce continued, “And the sad reality is that the future of our historic parish will depend upon the availability of funding. At times such as these, therefore—”
Mary blurted a jolly laugh.
Taken aback, Joyce asked, “Is it something I said?”
“No,” said Mary, still laughing, “it’s something Mister Puss keeps telling me.”
A sudden stillness fell over the table. Marson, Glee, and I were well aware of the special rapport between Mary and Mister Puss, but the others were newbies to this.
Tentatively, Joyce asked, “Your cat … tells you things?”
“Yes, Joyce, he does. When it comes to St Alban’s, he’s told me more than once, and I quote: ‘Hold on to your wallet.’”
Dead silence. Then Curtis cleared his throat. “Your cat may have a point.”
Mary held Joyce’s gaze with a steady stare that tethered them across the length of the table. She asked the priest, “Know what else Mister Puss told me? It changed my life when he told me, and I quote: ‘God is a myth.’”
Joyce closed her eyes. I recalled what Curtis had written in his long email: that his wife could no longer admit her own skepticism, having teamed up for the hocus-pocus.
Yevgeny turned to Mary. “I agree with cat, dear lady. God is Santa Claus for adults—old man in sky brings shiny gifts, or lumps of coal. Bah. Is crazy.”
I figured that Yevgeny must have acquired that analogy during his Soviet school days. My proudly heathen mother had taught me a similar parallelism.
Curtis had been eyeing David Lovell across the table; for all I knew, they were playing footsie. Curtis said, “What does the talented young choirmaster think about this?”
David hadn’t spoken much since we’d sat down to dinner, so all heads turned in his direction. Like a deer in the headlights, he said, “I’m afraid I don’t know. I believe in the traditions. I believe in the idea of God, the idea of religion. But most of all, I like the music.” He told Mother Hibbard, “Sorry if that seems lame. Or unworthy.”
She dismissed his concern with a soft smile and the slightest shake of her head.
“Fortunately,” David explained,
“I don’t need to work, but I love what I do. And it sure beats the hassles with my brother, Geoff—who’s been threatening a visit.”
“Really?” said Curtis, tantalized. “I didn’t realize there was more than one of you.”
“Trust me. We’re nothing alike.”
Joyce said to David, “The organ. With all the upheaval that’s ahead for us, do you think the organ can be saved? Is it worth saving?”
“Absolutely. It’s a three-manual Möller, built in Maryland in the early 1900s. St. Alban’s didn’t scrimp on that one; it even has a celesta, fabulous for Christmas. It could use some restoration—cleaning, tuning, releathering the motorized bellows—but with a little TLC, it should be all set for another hundred years.”
We learned that since the sudden retirement of St. Alban’s previous rector, the doddering Rev. Charles Sterling, the parish had also lost its longtime organist, the equally doddering Arthur Wimbly, who had fled with Father Sterling to Montserrat, where they had set up house together. Meanwhile, David Lovell, choirmaster, had been pinch-hitting as organist as well. He explained, “Organ is not my forte, and the situation is less than ideal, but as a stopgap, it’s fine. And I must admit, it’s a thrill to take command of the ‘king of instruments’ and make that sucker sing.”
I said, “Aren’t they amazing? Pipe organs—these mechanical behemoths, so majestic, with a history stretching back for centuries.”
Marson said, “I never knew you had such a passion for them.”
“Back in college, I had a roommate one year who was a music major, an organist. So sometimes, I’d go along with him when he practiced, just to listen. Then, when he gave recitals, he’d ask me to help out—turning pages, pulling stops, and so on.”
Yevgeny asked David, “You are familiar with Fletcher Zaan?”
“Well, sure,” said David. “One of the all-time greats.”
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