by Anna Schmidt
Ellie’s eyes filled with tears and Nola rushed to her side. “Oh, Ellie, I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Oh, don’t mind me. These days I seem compelled to stick my nose into other people’s lives. It’s just that sometimes I get so caught up in thinking about all that Phil and I…” She leaned forward and clasped Nola’s hand. “I like you, Nola, and you deserve so much more than…” She started to cry in earnest now.
Nola gave Ellie a moment to compose herself. “I take it then that you would be against the idea of expanding the services of the tearoom to offering the occasional evening recital or poetry reading?”
Ellie wiped her eyes and took a deep breath. Nola had become used to the actress’s sudden shifts in mood. Suddenly she was all business. “Actually, it’s a very good idea, but as you’ve already realized, it can’t be an evening thing.”
“What if we did something on Saturday afternoons at four?”
Ellie’s eyes went wide with surprise and she let out a low and most unfeminine whistle that brought Lancelot’s ears to attention. “You’ve already decided to do this, haven’t you? What about Mrs. Gillenwater and her friends?”
“Well, I was thinking that they could hardly object if we took an offering instead of charging—and gave the money to charity,” Nola said, thinking aloud.
“And the point of that would be what? I thought this was a way to raise more money from the business.”
“The idea is to promote the business,” Nola ventured. “If we could raise funds for charity, think of the goodwill that would create.”
Ellie looked doubtful but at least Nola could see she was considering the idea. “It might work,” she said. “You could try it once and if it didn’t work then there’s nothing lost. On the other hand, if you announce a whole program of such things and then the first one falls flat…”
“Oh, Ellie, what a good idea,” Nola said as she hugged her friend. “I hadn’t thought that it could be a one-time thing to see how it goes. And it wouldn’t take much to put it together. If we served just tea and cakes no one would order from a menu and I could handle the setup and clean-up myself.”
“And I know the others would be delighted for the opportunity to perform—even the countess,” Ellie replied. “And what do you think our friend Starbuck will say about all of this?”
Nola bristled. “It really is none of his affair,” she said, but then remembered that the actors worked for Starbuck. “You don’t think—that is, he wouldn’t…”
Ellie shrugged. “He might. On the other hand, he mentioned tonight that he has business in New York for the next two weeks. If we put everything in motion while he is away…” She smiled and shrugged again. “What can he say?”
Nola did not like subterfuge. On the other hand, surely he couldn’t object to her staging an event for charity. “After all,” she reasoned, “it could also be as good for his season at the cabaret as it is for the tearoom.”
But deep down she doubted that Starbuck would see things that way.
Chapter Eight
Harry was beat. His meetings in New York had not gone well.
“You’re spreading yourself too thin,” Alistair Gillenwater warned him on the trip back. “This business of writing an operetta—well, frankly, Harrison, that’s all well and good. A man should have a hobby, but in your case, you’ve—”
“I write plays professionally,” Harry interjected.
“Well, label it what you will. The fact of the matter is that it’s your head for business that has brought you the successful lifestyle you enjoy. Now if you’re intent on giving that up and becoming one of those struggling starving artist types, so be it, but take my advice, son, and stick with what you do best.”
It had always mystified Harry that protocol seemed to dictate that a person was allowed only one area of success—if that. The idea that a man might pursue a variety of disparate interests seemed to intimidate those who held the purse strings. After all, no one had ever been able to explain why God would give a person multiple and diverse talents and then not be troubled when the person chose one of those God-given talents and discarded the rest.
He slumped against the seat of the railway car, hardly noticing as the train chugged past Tom Nevers Pond on its way to ’Sconset. He couldn’t deny that Alistair had a point. At first Harry had enjoyed modest success on the New York theater scene with a series of revues he had written and staged. But when he had turned his attention to more serious topics—real plays with plots and memorable characters and high drama—his efforts had been met with skepticism. And rejection always made him all the more determined to succeed. And succeed he did. He’d written and staged not one but two plays on Broadway last season. Both had played to packed houses and received rave reviews from the critics.
But he was well aware that others were more interested in his talent for taking a business idea and bringing that to fruition. He had a kind of sixth sense when it came to timing a venture and predicting what people might want at any given moment. It was that insight supported by his unique ability to deliver a project or product on time and under budget that had gained him a reputation for being someone investors could rely on to provide a significant return on their dollar. The one thing that had never resonated with his partners and investors was his theory that theater could be used to teach, to build awareness and understanding, and to change the world for the better.
“But, Harry, why would we want to change the world?” an investor had once asked. “It works just fine the way it is.”
“For you,” Harry had muttered as the man walked away still laughing at the ridiculous notion that a play could change hearts and minds, or that he would ever want such a thing.
Harry closed his eyes and let the gentle rocking of the railway car lull him into a state of half sleep. As always, when the world of business became too stressful to bear, he escaped into the world of his imagination, storytelling on the stage. He thought about his current work—the play set to music. The very fact that he thought about almost nothing but this play told him that it was something different from anything else he’d penned. Simple Faith had all the earmarks of a major theatrical experience—a life-changing, heartrending experience. It could be a major artistic and financial hit. Harry was sure of it. In a single evening hundreds of people who may not have darkened a church’s door in ages would receive God’s message.
Alistair nudged him as the two cars of the train pulled up to the station at the base of the bluff and passengers began gathering their belongings. As they stepped off the platform and into the sunlight, Harry tightened his grip on his small carpetbag and headed for the stairway to the top of the bluff. Alistair fell into step next to him, swinging his umbrella and continuing his litany of details that needed Harry’s immediate attention if they were to open the cabaret on schedule.
Alistair Gillenwater had no need of luggage. He owned a fine townhouse on the Upper East Side of Manhattan in addition to the large Federal-style mansion he occupied for most of the year on the outskirts of ’Sconset. Both residences were fully staffed and fully stocked with anything Alistair, his wife Rose, or their children might need. By the time the two men reached the top of the stairway, Alistair was breathing hard.
“You need to get more exercise. I could lend you my bicycle,” Harry joked as they reached the footbridge that led into town and Alistair paused to catch his breath.
“Keep in mind that I am a good twenty years your senior, young man. Wait until you’re my age and see how well you do with climbing stairs and such.”
“Point taken,” Harry said, his good spirits restored as they always were the minute he set foot back on the island. It was as if Nantucket were his own personal oasis from the problems and trifles of the rest of the world.
“Now, concerning the cabaret opening,” Alistair continued.
“Oh, Alistair, the cabaret will open on schedule and under budget, I assure you.”
“It’s not just the c
abaret, Harry,” Alistair reminded him. “Our investors are expecting a package—the cabaret, the golf course and the exclusive inn with the most modern amenities any city dweller could want. It was your idea. They bought it and now it’s up to you to deliver.”
“Even if Nola sold out tomorrow, I’ve already explained to the investors that the inn will come next year. First the cabaret and then the inn.”
“But you have to make a start, Harry. As far as I can tell you’ve made little progress buying Nola’s place.”
Harry sighed. “Stop worrying, Alistair. Tearooms are quickly becoming a relic of the past. The younger generation of families are going to be looking for something more active, more entertaining. Nola Burns is already struggling to find help. Using my actors to staff the place even temporarily was a mistake of major proportions that robbed her of a fair amount of steady business from the locals. Once her business starts to seriously fall off, it’s only a matter of time.”
“I don’t know, Harry. That place has been Nola’s entire life. I don’t see her giving up so easily.”
“If she has no help and no customers, the decision will effectively be taken out of her hands, Alistair. Now, it’s a beautiful afternoon. Can’t we just take a moment here to appreciate this glorious day? Look at that sky, that shore. Smell the roses. Look how they’ve blossomed while we’ve been away. Now I ask you, what could possibly go wrong on a day as perfect as this?”
As he and Alistair approached the tearoom, Starbuck stopped. Several townspeople were standing outside the gate and eyeing the entrance.
“The tearoom usually closes at six and it’s nearly that now,” Harry muttered as he quickened his step. He couldn’t help wondering if something unfortunate had happened. But when he reached the gate he saw that the few people entering the tearoom were quite lighthearted, even excited. And on the post was a hand-lettered sign announcing an evening of poetry and music “with a freewill offering for charity.”
“Charity aside,” one local woman huffed, “this is simply not the way we do things around here.”
Her companion agreed. “It’s one thing to purchase a ticket for a performance in a legitimate theater but this stretches the limits of propriety if you ask me. Nola operates a respectable tearoom—or she did before those people moved in.”
The two women hurried to cross to the other side of the street as if simply being seen in the proximity of Nola’s place might taint their reputations.
“What now?” Alistair asked as he pressed forward to read the sign.
“It would appear that Miss Nola has come up with yet another new idea for staying put,” Harry said and frowned when he realized that in addition to the annoyance he was feeling, there was also a certain measure of admiration for the lady’s ingenuity.
Nola could not have been more stunned to see Alistair Gillenwater sitting in the front row just as the recital was about to begin. Alistair rarely defied his wife and Rose’s disapproval of the performance had been made crystal clear. Nola was so caught up in witnessing this unusual occurrence that she failed to notice Harry Starbuck until she was on her way to open a window and nearly tripped over him. He was casually leaning against the wall, one ankle crossed over the other, his arms folded, his eyebrows raised as if he was waiting for an answer to some unspoken question.
“You’re back,” she said. “I’ll ask Billy to bring a chair.”
Starbuck gazed around the more than half-empty rooms. “No need. It appears that I’ll have my pick. You seem to have overestimated your audience.”
“Oh, you know how busy people are on Saturdays. I’m quite sure the seats will fill quickly. People have been talking about the recital for days.” She was chattering on like some nervous schoolgirl who wanted desperately to impress him. For his part he made no effort to put her at ease. He just kept standing there, staring at her, his brows knitted into a frown.
“But if you prefer to stand, that’s fine,” she added. “Oh my, it’s gotten so warm in here. Perhaps we should leave the front door open. That way as latecomers arrive…”
“Exactly what are you doing, Nola?” His tone was casual, even friendly, but his eyes bored into hers.
She released a nervous laugh. “As you can see, I am providing for the comfort of my guests, so if you’ll excuse me—”
At that same moment Jasper took his place at the front of the room and tapped on a glass with a spoon to gain the audience’s attention. His voice seemed almost too powerful for the room, especially given the sparse crowd he was addressing.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to an hour of the classics for the benefit of the Nantucket Fund for Orphans and Widows. This afternoon you have the rare privilege of enjoying an hour of poetry and music as presented by professional actors from the New York stage. To open our program, it is my pleasure to present Mrs. Eleanore Chambliss at the piano.”
A hush fell over the gathering as Ellie started to play. Nola saw that Olga was quietly closing the front door and motioned for her to leave it ajar. She was about to slip past Starbuck and into the foyer when she felt his hand close gently but firmly around her upper arm.
“Your office,” he murmured as he steered her across the foyer and into the parlor. He smiled and nodded at acquaintances along the way, but once inside the parlor, he dropped his hold on her and closed the doors.
“You seem upset,” Nola said, crossing the room to stand behind her desk.
Starbuck smiled but the humor did not reach his eyes. “I think you owe me an explanation,” he said as he collapsed his lanky frame into one of the matching chairs that faced the fireplace. He threw one long leg over the arm, leaning sideways into the chair, then stared up at her and waited.
“I cannot imagine what you are talking about,” she replied.
“I am talking about the fact that you are using my actors without consulting me. Are they to be paid, Nola?”
“Not in the traditional sense,” she faltered. “The event is free and open to the public. I told you that in my note.”
“Your note?”
“The one I left in your office.”
“I see. I haven’t yet been to my office, so why don’t you fill me in on the contents of your message?”
Nola sighed. “I wanted you to know that I had taken an idea the others suggested and adapted it.”
“And that idea would be?”
Nola nodded toward the closed doors. “Offering a small event such as a recital or reading to raise money for charity.”
“Using my actors to perform,” Harry repeated. It was not a question.
“They are human beings, Harry, not your personal property,” Nola huffed.
“Nevertheless, I have hired them to perform at the opening of the cabaret and for several weeks following. I have promised investors a return on the money they have put up to finance the building of that cabaret. Did it ever occur to you that offering their talents for free might take a bit of the glow off my plans?”
Nola opened her mouth to protest but he wasn’t finished. He swung his legs to the floor and stood. He paced up and down from the fireplace to her desk and back again as he ticked off his grievances in the form of questions. “Did it ever occur to you that I can’t afford to have my performers losing valuable time while they prepare for your afternoon gatherings? And let me add that if you think offering people a free concert now and then is going to save this quaint business of yours from extinction, think again.”
Nola waited a moment to be sure he had run out of accusations. “Are you quite finished?” she said, moving toward the door.
“I’m still waiting for an explanation.”
“I do not owe you an explanation. This is an event for charity and it will surely be publicity for the opening of the cabaret. The way I see things, I am indirectly doing you a favor.”
“You don’t know the first thing about such matters,” he snapped. “They must be carefully timed, carefully planned. You don’t just—”
“And you do not own the exclusive rights to creative thinking. I am quite capable of putting such events together. Perhaps they will not have your flair for the dramatic, but in spite of today’s small turnout, they do have a certain appeal and word will spread. The very fact that I did this on my own rather than coming to you for permission is the real problem here.”
“Not at all. The real problem here is that you had every opportunity to tell me of your plans and did not.”
“I left you a note,” she reminded him, but the wave of guilt she’d felt when she had first tested the idea with Ellie could not be denied.
Starbuck laughed. “Yes, that you did, knowing full well I would not see it until it was too late to do anything to stop you. There are more modern means of communication, Nola. Telegrams, even a public telephone at the post office, which if memory serves you visit every day. You can tell yourself whatever lets you sleep at night, but the fact is that you deliberately put this little event together while I was conveniently out of town.”
Nola rolled back the parlor door. “Think what you like, Harry. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must ask that either you find a chair and enjoy the recital or leave my establishment. I have guests.”
“You’ve crossed a line here, Nola. Fortunately, judging by the sparse attendance, the damage is minimal. I trust you will not be repeating this fiasco.”
The final note of Olga’s aria trailed off just as Starbuck left, pulling the door shut behind him.
The fact that Nola might have settled on an idea that could work was the real problem. If the woman was capable of pulling off something like this, then getting her to sell the tearoom to him was going to prove far more difficult than he’d imagined. He hadn’t missed the way the small but enthralled audience had burst into applause just after he’d left the premises. The sound had followed him practically all the way back to his office.
