At the word ‘vegan,’ Nick’s eyes grew large and his jaw dropped open. Stella clenched her carnivorous husband’s hand both to provide comfort and to help bring him back down to earth.
“Sounds delicious! We can’t wait to taste it,” Stella exclaimed.
Nick clenched her hand in return and nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, sounds really… um, awesome.”
“Good. I can only hope that it meets your expectations,” Morehouse said graciously. “New York City is quite the restaurant town and from what I’ve heard you grew up in New Jersey, did you not, Mr. Buckley?”
Nick’s face registered bewilderment. “How did you know that?”
“The same way I know everything that goes on in Charlotte, even though I seldom leave the house: Vue Colline’s very own special informant, Mr. Tuttle.”
“Ah, I’ll have to watch what I say around him from now on,” Nick teased.
“Indeed,” Morehouse chuckled. “Ms. B. Ology, here, can attest to that.”
A woman in her early to late thirties stepped forward to shake Nick’s and Stella’s hands, respectively. She was dressed in distinctly Boho style: embroidered white cotton tunic, mustard colored maxi-skirt, burgundy sweater coat, tooled leather belt, chunky beaded necklaces, and ankle-high Granny boots. A mane of loose strawberry blond curls tumbled past her shoulders and halfway down her back.
“You remember your first Creator’s Cavalcade, don’t you?” Morehouse prompted the young woman.
“How could I forget? Mr. Tuttle overheard that I was bringing a cadaver with me and he had the whole of Charlotte expecting some deranged Dr. Frankenstein wannabe to show up on their doorstep. Even the police got in on the act at one point.”
“Are you serious?” Nick asked incredulously.
“Sadly, yes. Someone must have notified the authorities about my um, possible ‘traveling companion,’ and the cops stopped by to make sure I was in compliance with health codes.” Ms. Ology shook her head and laughed. “You should have seen their faces when I showed them that the cadaver was made of glass.”
“That is too funny,” Stella chuckled in commiseration.
“Not as funny as their reaction when I told them I blew all that glass myself,” she said with a wink.
“Did it blow their minds?” Nick asked cheekily.
The comment was met with a pair of blank stares and a whispered reminder from Stella, “Liability insurance.”
“Sorry,” Nick apologized and cleared his throat awkwardly. “Bad joke.”
“That’s okay,” Ms. Ology excused with a grin. “I’ve heard it before and no doubt I’ll hear it again. Probably, even before the weekend is through.”
“Well then,” Morehouse cleared his throat and smiled. “Let us meet our final Creator and then we’ll move into the dining room, shall we?”
A man with dark hair and a handlebar moustache stepped forward. He was tall, handsome, and in his early forties, but more remarkable was his manner of dress: an off-white tab-button collar shirt, dark brown frock coat, paisley vest, light brown canvas trousers, riding boots, and black gambler hat, and around his neck hung a pair of goggles.
“Mr. and Mrs. Buckley, this is Mr. Chip Carlson, our resident Steampunk artist,” Morehouse announced. “In case you’re unfamiliar with the term, Steampunk incorporates current technology with designs inspired by nineteenth century industrial steam powered machinery. Mr. Carlson, here, is a master!”
“You’re embarrassing me, Philip,” Carlson dismissed as he extended one brown-gloved hand; his other clutched an empty champagne glass. “Nick. Stella. Pleasure to meet you both.”
“So Steampunk, huh?” Nick queried. “I saw an article online once about some guy who outfitted his whole laptop with wood, brass, and old typewriter keys. Remember that, Stella?”
“I sure do,” Stella replied as she reminisced. “It was amazing. Like seeing a modern tanker be made over into the Queen Mary.”
“That’s quite the comparison,” Carlson said with a tip of his hat. “I’m very much obliged.”
“Wait,” Nick cried in disbelief. “You mean that was you? You’re that guy?”
“One of them. I collaborated with an IT guy from Burlington to ensure that the aesthetic alterations didn’t compromise the functionality of the laptop. It was a fun project. Except for the keys; whatever we tried, they kept sticking. Annoying,” Carlson frowned. “But, in the end, we worked it out.”
“Wow. This is so cool. Is the laptop here? Can I see it?”
“Sadly, the laptop is not here,” Morehouse interrupted. “However, Mr. Carlson has brought along some of his other creations – one of which awaits us in the dining room.”
Amidst the ‘oohs’ and ‘aaahs’ of his guests, Morehouse turned his attention to Kenneth Zolar, who sat, slouched in a corner chair, pecking feverishly at his cell phone. “Mr. Zolar, if you would be so kind as to venture ahead of the group and light the candles on the table, please. Our waitress is busy uncorking the wine.”
With a slight scowl, Zolar put his phone in his back pocket and trudged off to the dining room.
“Mr. Carlson, if you wouldn’t mind firing up the engine on your latest invention,” Morehouse requested of the Steampunk artist.
“A pleasure.” Carlson gave a slight bow before setting off down the path Zolar had set.
“And if you would all excuse me,” Chef Durand spoke up, “I shall check in the kitchen to see if there are any last minute preparations that might require my assistance.”
“Thank you, Nicolas,” Philip Morehouse thanked the chef as the other man took a bow. “I’m sure Cook will be very pleased to see you. And now, to the dining room. Mark, would you escort Ms. B. Ology? Dan, will you please take Ms. Marici? Mr. Buckley, would you mind escorting Ms. McArdle? Finally, Mrs. Buckley, if you’d do me the honor,” Morehouse offered Stella his arm.
Stella accepted and, arm-in-arm, she and Morehouse followed the other couples out of the drawing room. “I must say, I don’t think I’ve ever been escorted to dinner before. At least not one where I wasn’t a bridesmaid.”
Morehouse chuckled. “It’s a tradition from when the first Rousseaus owned the house. Just as Wanda and I promised to retain the integrity of the design of the house, its furniture and the décor, we also felt that the old formalities and niceties should be preserved. The house is from a gracious era and the Rousseaus entertained in grand style. Parties and holidays were events to be celebrated and savored. She and I did our best to carry on those traditions.”
“They seem to me to be very lovely traditions,” Stella noted.
“I think so,” Morehouse smiled. “Wanda did too. There are some who think it’s hokey and antiquated, but I believe some pleasantries in this world should be preserved. Addressing each other as Ms., Mrs., and Mr., thank you notes, and, yes, dressing up for dinner. Where else in Vermont do you have the opportunity to dress for dinner, should you wish to do so?”
“Um, Burlington?” Stella asked as much as answered the question.
“Burlington?” Morehouse chuckled. “Clearly you haven’t spent much time in our fair city to the north. Although it does possess some restaurants of note, the majority of the town is comprised of coffee houses, pubs, strip malls, and UVM students fueling up their Subarus whilst wearing flannel pajama bottoms. That, of course, is not to put down college students; eons ago, I was a rather untidy one myself. It’s merely a lament by an ornery, ancient artist and businessman who yearns to return to a world of style, grace, and beauty.”
“It would appear that you’re moving in the right direction, what with the Cavalcade and Vue Colline and −”
Before Stella could finish the sentence, her eyes were met with the splendor of the dining room. On three sides of the room, floor-to-ceiling arched, leaded windows alternated with columns of gleaming white marble. On the floor, ivory and onyx tile paired to create a formal checkerboard pattern. And, on either end, the banks of windows were punctuated by a single built-in wall fou
ntain that sent a steady stream of water cascading into its own glimmering, circular blue tiled pool, around each of which had been planted a variety of exotic lilies and ferns.
“And the most beautiful room I’ve ever seen in my life,” Stella continued her original train of thought.
“Thank you. It was added onto the house in 1917 for use as a conservatory. The Rousseaus would have breakfast out here on summer mornings and afternoon tea on the days when it was too inclement to sit in the garden. Wanda and I loved the space so much, we decided it should be used more frequently and by more people, so we had the ivory and marble tile carefully taken up, a radiant heating system installed, electric wiring run through the room, that custom Waterford chandelier hung from the center of the ceiling, and Wanda’s grandmother’s Chippendale dining room set, along with her silver candelabra, placed in the middle of the room. It was one of the few changes we made to the house and we never regretted it.”
“I can see why. It is absolutely stunning,” Stella gushed.
“Wait until morning. If it’s clear, you have a great view of the nearby foothills and the Green Mountains in the distance. Until then, I do hope you enjoy the evening.”
“I’m sure I will,” she assured as they joined the rest of the group, who had gathered around Chip Carlson and what appeared to be a refurbished gramophone.
“Cool,” Nick uttered with boyish enthusiasm. “Does it actually play vinyl?”
“It does. And not with one of those silly needles like we had when we were kids. Remember how those used to break all the time?”
“Or skip because you were dancing so hard the floor was shaking,” Stella offered.
“I hated it when you’d accidentally drop the needle and scratch the record,” the Salvage Guy spoke up. “That was a serious bummer.”
“Oh, and the sound of the needle dropping, and scratching,” Aurora commented as she placed her hands over her ears. “Ay, ay, ay!”
“Good lord,” Zolar sighed from his place at the table, where he sat, once again, consulting with his phone. “Am I the youngest person in this room?”
Meagan, whose age clearly prevented her from sharing the stroll down memory lane, could be seen stifling a giggle.
“No. I’m the youngest. Remember?” countered Ms. B. Ology. “Anyways, it shouldn’t matter how old we are. Many music experts believe that vinyl is the only way to listen to great music. Keep an open mind, will you, Ken?”
“But if you’re not using a needle to read the recording, what are you using?” the Salvage Guy continued.
“Simple. A laser,” Carlson grinned.
“A laser,” Nick repeated with an even broader grin, all the while making air quotes in proper Dr. Evil style.
“For the love of humanity, Austin Powers references?” Zolar grumbled.
“So it’s an optical turntable,” Rousseau complained. “Those have been around a few years now.”
Carlson smiled. “Yes, but not like this. This laser is powered by a rechargeable battery and the turntable operates on pure steam.”
Carlson flipped a switch and a small engine began to hum. Within a few seconds, the throttle mechanism shifted into gear and activated a pulley that, in turn, spun the wooden turntable.
As an instrumental version of Cole Porter’s “I Concentrate on You” drifted through the gramophone horn and into the conservatory-cum-dining room, Morehouse roared, “Fantastic, Carlson. Simply fantastic!”
The other dinner guests applauded, whistled, and congratulated the gramophone’s creator. Even Kenneth Zolar mumbled a quiet, “Nice job,” as he looked up briefly from his phone.
“That really is terrific,” Morehouse again noted. “Dinner to Cole Porter on vinyl.”
“Correction: dinner to Steampunked Cole Porter on vinyl,” Carlson amended as he moved away from the gramophone and closer to the table.
“I say we drink to that.” Morehouse motioned to the waitress to fill the wine glasses. “Ladies and gentlemen, you’ll find place cards at your seats. Stella, my dear, I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve seated you across the table from your husband.”
“I believe that’s the way it’s done,” Stella stated, as Nick pulled her chair away from the table so that she could lower herself into it. To her left, on one corner of the table, sat the Salvage Guy, to her right, Chef Durand. Beside the chef, at the other corner of the table, resided the unsociable figure of Kenneth Zolar.
Morehouse escorted Meagan McArdle to the head of the table, where she occupied the spot between the Salvage Guy and Chip Carlson. From Carlson, the side of the table closest to the door contained Ms. B. Ology, Nick, Aurora Marici, and Mark Rousseau, respectively. Morehouse moved to the opposite end of the table, where he slid into the chair between Zolar and Rousseau.
“The wine you are being served,” he announced, “is produced by a nearby vineyard from the La Crescent grape. The La Crescent has citrusy aroma and flavor that I thought would play nicely with the earthiness of our first course, which is currently being served.”
Stella watched as a plate of lentils, Brussels sprouts, and asparagus was placed before her.
“Lentil salad with roasted green vegetables with rosemary vinaigrette. The vegetables, of course, came from here on the farm, while the organic lentils are of the French puy variety. Bon appetit!”
Nick glanced at his wife with a raised eyebrow, but dug into his first course nonetheless.
After the customary ‘yums,’ groans, and declarations of deliciousness by the guests, Chef Durand opened up the conversation. “So, Stella, Nick, I hear that you have recently moved to Vermont. I believe it was you, Mr. Buckley, who grew up in New Jersey; is that from where you both originate?”
“No, I’m originally from New Jersey, but Stella was raised on Long Island. We both lived for years in New York City before moving here just last month,” Nick answered.
“Oh, New York!” Aurora exclaimed. “How I love New York! The style, the energy, the lights. Firenze will always be home, but New York… ah la grande mela... The Big Apple, it makes my heart sing!”
“Where in New York City did you live?” Mark Rousseau spoke up.
“Midtown. Murray Hill,” Stella replied.
“The city,” Meagan sighed wistfully as the gramophone began to play “My Heart Belongs to Daddy.” “I attended New York University for a summer session as an undergrad. It was one of the best summers of my life.”
“You never told me that,” Morehouse stated from his end of the table.
“It was a two-and-a-half month period of time, Philip. A mere speck on the calendar of one’s life, but still,” she smiled, “one I’ll always cherish. If I could do it again, I would in a heartbeat.”
“Well, then, once we’re married –”
At the sound of the word ‘married,’ Aurora cleared her throat noisily.
“Once we’re married,” Morehouse started over, “we’ll look into getting an apartment in the city,” he declared. “That way you can relive those halcyon days as often as you like and, if you’re open to the idea, take me on a tour of your favorite sights.”
“Of course, I’m open to the idea. However, between the Creator’s Cavalcade, the plans for the farm, and the Foundation, I think we have enough on our plates already,” she gently reminded him.
“Nonsense! Mark can look after the foundation and, if he moves back to Vue Colline –”
“Wait a minute,” Mark interrupted. “I’ll look after the Foundation, the Cavalcade, and anything else you might ask of me, but I am not moving back here.”
“But Vue Colline was your family’s home. It’s your heritage,” Morehouse argued.
“I’m aware of what it is,” Mark said firmly. “The letter ‘R’ on the front gates reminds me every time I come for a visit. But it’s also a draughty old albatross in the middle of nowhere. If you and Meagan wish to spend part of your time in New York, I’ll manage the estate from my apartment in Burlington. Mr. Tuttle can oversee things here
.”
“Mr. Tuttle is very capable of caring for the house and surrounding grounds, but overseeing the care of the vegetable gardens and the livestock is beyond his ken. I think you know that.”
“Okay, then hire an estate manager, or, better yet, sell the place. I’d be happy to sign the necessary papers in exchange for my share of the proceeds.”
Morehouse shook his head. “You know I can’t do that. Your mother loved this place and wanted you to have it.”
Rousseau sighed, “Yes, well, mother loved lots of things I didn’t necessarily find too charming.”
It was now Meagan’s turn to clear her throat. “I’m so sorry, Stella and Nick. The Creator’s Cavalcade has been an event for a few years now, so Philip, Mark, and I feel very comfortable with everyone at the table. A bit too comfortable, perhaps,” she added self-consciously.
“Meagan’s right,” Mark agreed. “I’m sorry if we ‘overshared’ so to speak.”
“Oh no,” Stella reassured. “It’s fine. We’re having a lovely time. Aren’t we, Nick?
“Yeah,” Nick rejoined. “Don’t feel bad. These things happen. I mean, if you want to see real strife, just spend the holidays with Stella’s family. If there were an Olympics for awkward family dinners, that crew would take home the gold.”
After a few seconds of silence, an icy glare from Stella, and switch in background music to “I Get a Kick Out of You,” Nick quickly added: “Not that I feel awkward at all right now. No. No, no, that wasn’t what I was trying to say. Everything is great. Really great. I’m having a great time and this salad is great too. I never would have thought of putting lentils in a salad, but they’re excellent in this. Excellent. Really excellent.”
Stella, her eyes like tiny lasers, stared at her husband in silent disbelief.
“What?” Nick mouthed with a shrug.
Thankfully, Durand interjected. “Nick is correct. This is excellent. The lentils and vegetables are perfectly cooked and the spice balance is superb. I shall have to give Helen my compliments.”
“She would love that,” Morehouse noted. “A French chef complimenting her on the preparation of French lentils. She’ll probably hit me up for a raise.”
Short-Circuited in Charlotte: A Pret' Near Perfect Mystery Page 5
