by Gigi Blume
“She was looking for you,” she clipped. “Now I’ve lost her.”
“Leave it to me,” I said. “I got this.”
I gave her hand a squeeze because that’s what a gentleman does, and I left her to harass some other poor soul.
I kind of felt sorry for her though. Clearly, she had designs to set her granddaughter up with me, but Anne was just as interested in me romantically as a peanut butter sandwich. And since she had a severe peanut allergy, I was off the menu. Catherine would be so salty once she found out.
After a few polite interactions in the crowd, I finally found Anne way too interested in the contents of her beverage.
“All the food is allergy friendly tonight, well, except the Yorkshire pudding,” I said with a smirk. “No nuts, no gluten, no soy, no shellfish… and some other dietary restriction I forgot. It’s a mystery why we bother to serve food at all.”
Her face lit up at the sight of a friendly face, and she threw her arms around my neck.
“I’m glad I found you before my grandmother did,” she said. “She’s got the Evil Queen theme song following her around.”
“I know. Apparently, I have to get you a glass of champagne, or she’ll cut out my heart.”
She lifted her beverage. “I’m good.”
“What is that?” I asked. “Looks terrible.”
“It’s a Bloody Richard.”
“Such a delightful name.”
“It’s named after King Richard. War of the Roses?”
“Okay.”
“It’s like a Bloody Mary, but with bacon instead of celery.”
“I take back my earlier comment. It’s vile.”
“Oh, man,” she said. “Don’t look now. My grandmother spotted us.”
“Do you think she’ll come over?”
“What else does she have to do? We’re her favorite victims.”
“Well, it was kind of her to donate to the charity.”
She laughed. “Ha. Don’t you know Rosings cuts a profit from these things? It’s an Arts Fellowship. The money goes to art schools. And Rosings is a top school on that list.”
Whoa. That woman really did have her fingers in dozens of different pies. I wouldn’t be surprised if she ran her own ballerina mafia ring.
I shook my head in disbelief. “I don’t think the Evil Queen theme song is right for her.”
“No?” Her eyebrows arched curiously. “What’s her theme song, then?”
“I’m thinking more Don Corleone.”
She laughed a bright, flittery laugh like a finch. I wondered if she really loved dancing or if it was her grandmother’s influence. I’d seen how hard she worked, rehearsing until her feet bled. And she was so thin. Did she dance because it was her passion? Or did she not have a choice? Sort of how young Michael Corleone didn’t want to have anything to do with the family business but ended up becoming the mob boss. Anne was a free spirit. I didn’t see her as a future mob boss.
The ambient music ceased, and the crowd hushed as Stella made a few sound check noises into a microphone. I could see the silver of her hair beyond the heads of the people in front of me. She was standing next to my sister’s new piano.
“Thank you all for coming,” she announced. “I’d say something cheeky like you’re only here for the hosted bar, but we all know that isn’t true. Your very generous donations are what made this happen.”
There were some scattered applauses and she smiled, nodding she’d like to continue.
“But don’t worry. You’ll find your tax write-off receipts in your goody bags along with Chipotle coupons and a shirt that says I donated to the Gardiner Arts Foundation and all I got was this dumb t-shirt.”
Soft laughter waved through the room. She was joking about the Chipotle coupons of course, but the t-shirts were a real thing. And the goody bags were filled with sponsored items like Bluetooth headphones and designer golf balls. My dining room table had been an assembly line of gift bags and tissue paper the week before.
“We will all convene for dinner in a few minutes, but first, I wanted to acknowledge the Darcy family for opening up their home and letting us ruin their grass with the carnival rides.”
She was spot on with that.
“Where’s Will?”
I raised my hand, and a few heads turned my way. When Stella spotted me, she raised her glass and said, “We promise to have your lawn fixed in time to ruin it again next year.”
A few chuckles ensued, and I bellowed across the room, “Not on your life.”
The energy was light and breezy, and everyone smiled, which was exactly what Stella wanted. She planned one last pitch for higher levels of sponsorship. She wanted the guests relaxed and tipsy before she made her plea. It would come after dinner but before dessert. She told me she planned to hold the poached pears ransom until she raised a few extra million dollars.
“You heard the man, ladies and gentlemen,” she said. “It looks like we’ve already worn out our welcome, so enjoy the Darcy house while you can and steal whatever ashtrays you find.”
That was a little inside joke. I was one of the few people alive that knew Stella was a bit of a kleptomaniac. Before California banned smoking in public places, it was ashtrays. Now, she liked to nab ramekins from restaurants.
“Our staff will escort you out into the grand tent and help you find your tables. Meanwhile, the lovely Georgia Darcy will play for us while we transition out of cocktail hour.”
As my sister began a melody, I ushered Anne to the side of the room away from migrating guests, but most importantly from view of her grandmother. It was for purely selfish reasons, though. I wanted to find Beth, and as much as I was looking forward to singing the duet with her, all I wanted was some more alone time, so we could converse freely as we’d done earlier in the day.
When we found her, she was chatting with Francesca by the piano. She and Anne hit it off like I knew they would, but there was something in her eyes I couldn’t put my finger on when I introduced them. What was it? Could it be a hint of jealousy? God, I hoped so. I’d be ugly jealous if Beth hung around some dude. I didn’t even have the right, but that didn’t stop my inner caveman.
Woman. Mine. Ug.
Eventually, we migrated to the dining tent, and Anne joined her grandmother. It didn’t take long before Catherine found us to complain she didn’t have a seat at the head table with Stella and me. She was particularly salty when the “entertainment,” as she put it, had better seats than she. Then she scowled at Beth and Francesca as she returned to her table, which was situated as far away from ours as Stella could have planned.
“I know you can’t exactly separate the two,” said Georgia, “but I wouldn’t have minded Anne’s company at our table if we could exclude the grandmother.”
“Oh, indeed,” replied Stella, wagging her brows. “But I have my reasons.”
I chuckled softly to myself because I knew exactly what kind of reasons Stella had. She loved playing matchmaker any chance she got. She couldn’t help herself, really. I had to love her for it; she was responsible for mine and Georgia’s existence. Dad probably wouldn’t have had a chance with my mother if Stella didn’t have her hand in the whole business.
“Who’s the lucky fellow?” I asked.
She was super glad I asked because her face lit up and put her whole body into it as she pointed with her chin.
“See that bloke sitting next to Anne?”
I glanced over, trying not to appear obvious. “I’m taking a chance here by assuming you don’t mean the older gentleman to her left.”
“Oh, I am more strategic than that, young padawan,” she chirped with a wide grin. “The position to her right is much better situated for an unobstructed view of her features.”
The gentleman to her right was presently engaged in a conversation with the previously mentioned gentleman to her left. Anne was stuck in the middle of whatever robust conversation they might be having and smiling timidly with her Bloody Richard
. The young man, likewise, had the same hideous drink. He was a broad, tall man who reminded me of a young Denzel Washington, and he practically towered over Anne’s tiny, delicate form. Also, he wore a blue bowtie almost the exact shade of Anne’s dress.
“His name is Garret Townsend,” said Stella, “and he is someone to keep an eye on.”
“Oh? How so?”
“He’s a genius,” added Georgia. “He’s developing groundbreaking advancements in artificial intelligence. Plus, he’s right handed.”
Great. Not my sister, too. Was Stella running some kind of matchmaking apprenticeship?
“What does being right handed have to do with anything?” Beth asked innocently. She’d just joined the conversation after talking to Francesca for a while.
“Anne is left handed,” answered Georgia. “They’ll be practically facing each other all throughout dinner.”
Stella nodded vehemently. “That’s true, and she’s sitting right between his line of sight and the stage.”
“You think of everything,” I said, silently noting Beth’s position in relation to mine. To my left. In my line of sight to the stage. She wasn’t left handed as far as I knew. But I didn’t need any of those tricks to notice her. A man would have to be blind not to notice her. She lit up the room with her glowing luminosity.
“We haven’t told you the best part,” said Georgia, bubbling over with excitement.
I exchanged a look with Beth. She was just as amused as I was, but much more tolerant.
“Oh?” I said. I wished this silly conversation could be over already. Actually, I wished the whole night could fast forward to when I could give Beth a goodnight kiss.
Goals.
“Garret’s brother has a peanut allergy,” replied Stella.
Beth’s little nose scrunched up, and she asked, “How is that the best part?”
I answered her with a soft reply in her ear, “Anne is highly allergic.”
Her beautiful mouth formed an O, and she nodded silently.
“Garret, out of habit, won’t come within a ten-mile radius of a tree nut,” said Stella. “But since he’s adopted, he doesn’t share his brother’s DNA, so there’s a good chance the allergy won’t be passed down to any potential offspring.”
Francesca, who silently listened next to Beth, almost did a spit-take with her water and coughed. Georgia got up and rubbed her back, which does absolutely nothing for a choking person, but she likely didn’t know what else to do to be helpful.
“I’m okay.” Francesca held up a hand in the universal sign that means ‘chill.’ “Went down the wrong pipe, that’s all.”
When she had recovered, Beth asked, “Is that sort of thing passed down? Peanut allergies?”
“Oh yes,” replied Stella with energy. “There’s research that pinpoints a region in the human genome associated with allergies. It’s like anything else—hair color, artistic talent, terrible taste in fashion…”
“Wow,” Beth replied. “You certainly have done your research.”
“I always do.”
Stella grinned and took a long pull of her wine, volleying her eyes between Beth and me. She’d done her research, all right. This whole thing with Beth was no accident. It was highly orchestrated. Somehow, I had the suspicion my sister was in on it, too.
“Sorry I’m late.” Clay Tilney pulled out the sixth chair at our table and slid into it, smiling apologetically. “I had to run home and change, and traffic was… well, you know. It’s L.A.”
Stella assured him there were no apologies needed and introduced him to everyone at the table. Clay Tilney was the heir to Northanger Productions, a famous but has-been film company. I honestly couldn’t tell you what they’d done in the past ten years. In Hollywood, that was an eternity.
But Clay was a cool-enough guy. I wondered what Stella had planned for that poor soul. Currently, he sat where Bing would have, had he not left us hanging.
Dinner turned out to be good—what I ate of it. My stomach was tied up in knots with the proximity of Beth quietly nibbling at her meal. It was a traditional English roast. I noted with some amusement the Yorkshire pudding was way off the dietary restriction wagon. Not a tree nut in sight, though, which was good. I was so distracted with my own thoughts, I didn’t notice until halfway through dinner that neither Clay nor Francesca ate any meat. Vegetarians. That was the one I’d forgotten on my list earlier. I stole a glance at Stella and my sister to gauge their involvement in this particular seating arrangement. But they were watching Clay and Francesca all throughout dinner, conspiring and shaking their heads as if to say, No, this will never work.
Hmmm. So there was a vetting process? What on earth did Beth and I have in common? Nothing—except pride and prejudice. And those weren’t good virtues with which to begin a relationship. Still… perhaps we were beyond all that.
I had to kick myself for thinking in those terms. This was no relationship. Whatever it was between Beth and me was anything but. I’d be wise to remember that.
Coffee and tea were served, a few people had aperitifs sent from the bar, a few speeches were made, and Francesca announced the Herschel Gardiner Endowment awards. I didn’t even notice when she got up from the table. It was all a blur. All my attention was focused on the woman to my left, the exquisite creature in gold.
At one point, we were ushered off backstage, and Francesca sang a song about hair. ‘Hair, hair, hair’ were all the lyrics that registered to me. It must have been a comedic piece because the audience laughed throughout the song, and when she hit a ridiculously high note at the end, the room erupted in thunderous applause. Beth certainly was impressed, watching from the wings and smiling brightly at the performance. My hands were too sweaty to pay attention to much of anything beyond my breathing. What had gotten into me? I never had stage fright. Never had I been nervous before a performance in my entire life until now. I told myself it was the material. It wasn’t exactly opera, but the score from Pirates of Penzance was way more legit than contemporary musicals. I’d only learned the song a few hours ago. Also, my dinner was still digesting. I preferred to sing on an empty stomach. And that there were colleagues in the audience that didn’t see me as a song and dance man. To them, I was an action star and nothing more.
I told myself those things, but none of them were true. The woman within an arm’s reach, a woman with whom I was about to sing a love duet, caused my disquiet.
Stella gave her sales pitch now. Fitz came backstage to get a sip of water and hang out with us while we waited for Stella to finish. If he spoke to me, I don’t remember. I probably nodded and laughed at a joke I didn’t hear. My eyes must have glazed over and maybe lost consciousness (if that’s possible while standing), because Fitz snapped his fingers in my face amidst the distant sound of applause. The kind of applause that’s a cue to go on stage. Stella was in the spotlight, waiting like the timeless star she was, and suddenly, I snapped into performance mode.
The piano clanged into the fierce intro to Oh! False One, and I sprang upon those operatic notes without looking back. Stella, of course, was brilliant in her usual Stella way. She got a few laughs from the comedic moments in the song. Clearly, her character stole the show. I much preferred playing a gullible pirate than a male ingenue. A… mangenue? Bing was better suited for the role of Frederic. In many ways, he shared some of the same qualities. Young. Wholesome. Naive.
And easily influenced by the Pirate King. Me. It was right there in the lyrics. You have deceived me. I who trusted so.
Yep. I royally messed with things I shouldn’t have. Bing wasn’t my sister or my father. I didn’t need to protect him. And I had no place to interfere.
I was a dirtbag.
The song ended with robust applause, and Stella did her little bit where she ran in circles before making her dramatic exit. And there I was alone on the stage, feeling crappy. But it was the perfect emotion for the recitative Beth sang as she entered. “My Frederic in tears? It cannot be that lion-heart
quails at the coming conflict.”
Yes. A terrible disclosure has just been made. I’m a dirtbag.
I did my best to struggle the music out of my lungs through the sting of that damning epiphany. Even Beth’s lines echoed the sentiment.
“Oh, horrible! Catastrophe appalling.”
It wasn’t a far cry from the things she had said on New Year’s Eve. But her voice was bright and lyrical, and she took my hands in hers and sang, “Stay.”
Stay. No shadow of a shame will fall upon thy name. Stay.
And her eyes! It was as though she secretly told me nothing mattered anymore because she knew me now. And even though I deserved the painful hair pulling and all those names she’d called me, she realized I had good intentions. Albeit in a messed-up, egotistical way, but good intentions, nonetheless.
And then, like a nightingale, she softened her tone and let her voice linger in light, fluttering notes. “Ah, leave me not to pine alone and desolate.” It was mesmerizing. I almost forgot to sing my part when the time came. But never before were lyrics so apt when I echoed, “He loves thee.”
At that point, once we had sung our gentle harmonies, there was a lull in the music. Usually during this time, the pause allowed the audience to applause and the actors transitioned into the next section of music. We’d rehearsed it holding hands as we now were, and I was supposed to plant a soft kiss on her knuckles before bravely declaring my long-suffering fidelity while serving the Pirate King until 1940. It was a funny line because the show took place during the Victorian era. But I wasn’t ready to go there yet. I couldn’t bring myself to let go of her hands. Our eyes were locked in a heavy-lidded gaze—and let’s be real here—it was probably not as long as it seemed. Fitz embellished the accompaniment tastefully and effortlessly. The audience most likely didn’t notice the few extra seconds at all, but Beth’s expression was pure tenderness and longing, and I could have stared at her forever. My chest swelled with an overwhelming desire to care for something outside my self—beyond the duty of family or even my name. It was every cheesy fairytale, the heartbeat in every single novel—even horror, a common theme in all the classics…
