by Gigi Blume
“Lady Elizabeth,” said Colin, “is all the ornament needed.”
He batted his eyes, fluttering them over his rosy cheeks. No human could have eyelashes that long. He had to have been wearing falsies.
“I see that you’re a man of taste,” replied my boss.
Oh, brother.
Turning to me, he said, “Put in an order of York Buffalo Wings for our guest. On the house.”
Should I have reminded him the cooks were gone for the day? Maybe. I’m sure the dishwasher didn’t know how to operate the deep fryer. I didn’t plan on sticking around long enough to get yelled at in Spanish. All I wanted was to grab my yams and head for the door. The hippie table was still waving for their check. Or ketchup. I couldn’t quite tell.
Get the Wizzer out of here before Colin starts wedding plans.
I booked it to the kitchen, hoping he’d get discouraged and leave. Where the Fermin was Charlotte? Ugh! I was so distraught, I was mixing up my musicals. Falsettos and Phantom weren’t even in the same genre!
A minute later, the kitchen door swung open, but instead of Charlotte or even Mr. Lucas, Colin appeared bearing flowers he’d obviously stolen from the cornucopia at the buffet.
“Lady Elizabeth,” he said, wagging his brows. “I like the sound of it.”
No doubt he’d want to add the name Hunsford to my title. He hovered in the doorway with such pathetic hope in his expression, I almost felt sorry for him. He wasn’t a bad person. I just didn’t know how to get through to him that I wasn’t interested. Also, I was sure his presence in the kitchen was a violation of some health department code.
“We’re out of buffalo wings,” I lied.
“Why would I want the wings of a buffalo when I have an angel standing before me?”
All righty then.
“Colin, you don’t know me. I don’t know you. And I am no angel.”
“Ah contrary, mademoiselle.”
“What I mean to say is, once you get to know me, you’ll find we probably have almost nothing in common. For instance… I don’t wear rouge.”
He continued to advance toward me, intruding into the kitchen.
“This is a restaurant employee only area. If the health inspector pays us a surprise visit, he’ll shut us down.”
That did nothing to deter him. In fact, I think my rejection gave him more encouragement. “I like a girl who plays hard to get. It’s part of your charm, really.”
At this point, I was backing up so far, the small of my back collided with one of the stainless-steel prep tables.
“I can promise you, Colin,” I said as I felt my way around the counter to put a barrier between us, “I’m not playing hard to get. I’m not the kind of girl that plays games. Ask my best friend Charlotte. She can make you another Shirley Temple and tell you how NOT interested I am.”
“Maybe if I come back tomorrow—”
“No. Definitely do not come back tomorrow.”
“—you will change your mind.”
Seriously, it was like having a one-sided conversation, like when you accidentally press the mute button on your cell phone and the other person just keeps talking. Furthermore, he was inching his way around the prep table I was using as my makeshift barricade. Beyond the Barricade lyrics from Les Mis ran through my head in the worst possible way. The song played in a loop as I shuffled behind the counter in a stand-off with Colin. I’d scoot to the right and to the left like a basketball player, and he’d match me step for step. You know that scene from the first Jurassic Park movie? Yeah, it was like that. I was that brave little girl, and Colin was the velociraptor.
We could have gone on like that for hours had I not found a distraction. It wasn’t my finest moment, but I saw the opportunity, and I took it. The cooks had left a half-used bottle of cooking wine on the counter. It was the only defense I could find. I know what you’re thinking, but you’d be wrong if you guessed I used the bottle as a weapon. No, I didn’t break the bottle on the counter and point the jagged glass edges at Colin. That only works in movies. All I did was uncork the wine and splash it in his direction. Some got on his face, some on his furry collar. I didn’t stick around to see for sure, because I ran out of there as fast as I could. I stopped at the bar to retrieve my purse, grabbed the foil tray of yams I was saving and made my way with brisk steps towards the door. Unfortunately, Sir William Lucas cut me off at the pass.
“Where are you going?” he questioned. “We have customers.”
I glanced at the grandfather clock behind the bar. “My shift is over.”
He looked at the clock, looked at my yams, looked around the restaurant, then looked back at me.
“You’re not going anywhere until you close the check at table five.”
Ugh! Table five. The hippies. I needed to get out of there before Colin got it in his head to follow me home. I reached in my apron with my free hand, marched over to the hippie table, retrieved the plastic check holder, and placed it on their table.
“Thank you for dining at Lucas Lodge,” I said rapid-fire fast. “Our bartender will collect your payment when you’re ready. Please take your time.”
I exchanged a conspiring glance at Charlotte whose wide eyes betrayed her confusion. I was sure she’d figure it out once I was gone. I was backing away from the table when the hippie man stopped me. “I can pay right now. Hang on a sec.” He reached into an overstuffed backpack, pulling random items out to get to his wallet. He took forever. I shouldn’t have told him to take his time. I tapped my foot with nervous glances toward the kitchen when I caught the sight of Colin emerging with a damp towel in his hand. The entire front of his shirt was wet with red wine diluted with water where it looked like he’d tried to clean it but just made it worse.
Great.
I wondered how small I could make myself and how long I could effectively hide under the table—although the hippies might have had something to say about that. Seriously, how much further did he have to dig to find his wallet? Sir William appeared at my side with a plastic smile plastered across his face.
“Allow me to relieve you of your load, My Lady,” he said, taking hold of my tray of yams. I only clutched it tighter.
“No, thank you, Sir William Lucas,” I replied through my teeth. “It is no burden to me.”
“Nonsense,” he said, tugging the foil edge of the tray. “I insist.”
“The lady doth protest,” I said curtly, tugging it back.
I’m sure you can see where this is going. I don’t know what his deal was, but he continued to play tug of war with my yams until the flimsy aluminum tray buckled under the strain and gave way to a shower of yams, which flew in syrupy clumps into the air. It seemed to happen in slow motion. The metallic crinkle of aluminum, the golden, sweet goodness flying out of reach, the eyeballs bulging out of Sir William’s sockets. I could have sworn someone cried Noooooooo Luke Skywalker style. It might have been me.
But then time stopped, and everyone’s attention was fixed on the hippies who had yams dripping down their faces and hair. My yams. My beautiful yams.
This is why I hate working holidays. One year on Mother's Day, I dropped an entire plate of Eggs Benedict on a woman’s lap. True story. I was just a disaster magnet.
Sir William’s face went from white to fire-engine red in three seconds. I swear he had steam shooting out of his ears. The hippies weren’t even as angry as he was.
“Get. Out!” he growled.
Wonderful! I’d wanted to leave five minutes ago.
“I can clean this,” I said with an apologetic look towards the hippies. They shrugged at me, licking the yams from their faces.
“No,” said Sir William with a bite. “Go home, Miss Bennet. Get out and don’t return!”
I heard Charlotte audibly gasp from behind the bar. Miss Bennet? He never called me Miss Bennet. No more Lady Elizabeth. He stripped me of my title. He was…
“Are you firing me?” I cried. “On Thanksgiving?”
I
turned my eyes to Charlotte. She stared at the scene with her mouth hanging open. Colin shrank back into the kitchen, and the hippies took selfies. But Sir William stood his ground, breathing heavily and pointing to the exit.
I took a moment to let that sink in and with as much pride as I could muster, I adjusted the purse strap on my shoulder, snatched the horribly bent aluminum tray from the floor, and walked out of Lucas Lodge. On the bright side, Colin didn’t follow me.
Happy Thanksgiving, Mom. I could have come over with a new flamboyant boyfriend and a tray of yams, but we’ll have to make do with what we can scrape off this aluminum tray. Oh, and I’m unemployed.
Technically, I wasn’t unemployed. I still had my theatre job—for the time being. Colin probably did have some say in that regard if he was vindictive enough, but I held onto a sliver of hope he’d forgive me if I paid for his dry cleaning.
I would have gone home if I hadn’t promised my parents I’d celebrate with them. Dad liked to deep fry the turkey, and Mom made everyone matching t-shirts every year. She’d paint cartoonish turkeys on yellow shirts, and we’d all pose for a photo which made it into the annual Christmas card ‘letter.’ She said the letter was to keep distant family updated, but we all knew it was an excuse to brag about our accomplishments—even if it meant she had to make some of them up. The Lucas family always got one, and they lived a block away. Of course, Mrs. Lucas was just as bad as Mom. She’d adopted the unorthodox custom of sending a bi-yearly letter—one at Christmas and one in June. She’d include xerox copies of her children’s report cards for good measure. It was the competitive nature of their friendship. No biggie. They were the best of friends, but once Mrs. Lucas would go home, the gossip train would pull out of the station.
“It’s a good thing Charlotte has brains,” Mom would say. “Because she won’t get far in life with the way she looks.”
I’m fairly certain Mrs. Lucas had a thing or two to say about me and my sister, but Charlotte never said anything about it. Still, the Lucases were practically family. All us kids grew up together, attended the same church, went to the same elementary school. Mom and Mrs. Lucas would exchange recipes and go to each other’s candle parties while Dad smoked cigars with Mr. Lucas. We were the quintessential American neighbors. That’s why when Mrs. Lucas knocked on the front door later in the evening while we were having our pumpkin pie, nobody thought anything of it.
Trailing behind her as she walked into the dining room, was the doleful Mr. Lucas. His head bowed low, we could tell he’d been the recipient of his wife’s tongue lashing.
“Say what you came here to say, Bill.”
The tone Mrs. Lucas employed with her husband was more toddler scolding than wifely. It was clearly evident who wore the pants in that family.
Mr. Lucas hunched his shoulders and sighed and with a roll of his eyes to the ceiling, reluctantly admitted, “I may have overreacted today.”
This wasn’t sufficient enough for his wife, and she prompted him further. “Aaaand?” Her voice was severe.
Mr. Lucas slowly lifted his eyes to meet mine. “And I apologize.”
“Aaaand?”
“And I’d like you to come back to work at the lodge,” he said. And then through gritted teeth, added, “Please.”
I wondered how much resistance Mr. Lucas gave his wife in agreeing to leave his cozy armchair on Thanksgiving to beg me to return to work. What did that woman have hanging over his head? I could imagine Mrs. Lucas holding the spiced cider ransom until he gave in. It occurred to me Lucas Lodge was his version of a man cave, and the Sir William Lucas persona was the lord of that domain.
“Where’s Charlotte?” I asked.
“She stayed back at the house with that boy,” Mrs. Lucas said, waving her hand around dismissively.
This piqued my mother’s interest. “What boy?”
Mrs. Lucas gestured over her face and bat her eyes dramatically. “The Boy George.”
“Colin?” My brows raised so high, they practically meshed with my hairline.
“Lizzie,” said Dad in his calm dad voice. “Do you mind telling us what in the Sam Hill is going on?”
“That’s what I want to know,” chimed in my mother. My sister, however, gave me a wide-eyed glare—the kind siblings gave one another when one of them was in trouble. She grinned and quietly took small bites from her pie, enjoying the entertainment. I had to explain, briefly, about the unfortunate events earlier in the day, how that ‘Boy George fellow’ stalked me at work, caused a scene, (well, caused me to cause a scene) and I was subsequently fired. Mrs. Lucas completed the story by telling us her dear Charlotte took pity on the poor man with his soiled suit and no one to spend the holiday with and invited him to celebrate Thanksgiving with them. Mrs. Lucas also informed us that Colin held no grudges whatsoever and in fact, felt responsible for my present unemployment.
No kidding.
And so, here was Mr. Lucas in my house, asking me to come back to work at the lodge while we ate pie. The sad part about the whole situation was that holiday fiascos were a regular occurrence at my house. There was that one time my cousin went vegan, and my grandma freaked out. Or the time my uncle brought his own frozen dinner because he was afraid of my mother’s cooking. (I actually didn’t blame him there.)
We were all beginning to wonder if we could pull this Thanksgiving off without an incident. But, no. We were cursed. The usual dose of drama descended upon the Bennet household, and everything was right in the world.
I accepted Mr. Lucas’ offer, and he relaxed, grateful to get the whole ordeal behind him. He and his wife stayed for coffee, and I quietly excused myself to play Scrabble with Mary in the den. Of course, I lost spectacularly. It was a metaphor for my life.
13
Telenovelas and Cap’n Crunch
Beth
Awkward didn’t even begin to describe rehearsal on Monday. When did my life become a vaudeville show for psychopaths? I was already accustomed to the dread of working with Will. Now I got to add Colin to my list of people to avoid.
We were finally out of the rehearsal studio and blocking on the main stage. The novelty of it alone put everyone in a state of awe. The set was far from being finished, but what work Jorge and crew had done was magnificent. The pirate ship nearly rivaled the one used in the Fantasmic show at Disneyland. There was rigging for acrobatics to be performed from the masts and several platforms and ropes for the actors to swing from bow to stern. A stunt choreographer was due to arrive Wednesday to work intensely with the pirates until Friday. So basically, I’d have three days off for the second week in a row.
Jorge had returned from his no cell service jaunt and displayed the many awesome features of the pirate ship. He was almost immediately mauled by a flock of chorus girls led by Lydia and Mariah. They were of course enamored by him and the infuriatingly beautiful shoulder muscles taunting us all from beneath his Billabong surfer tank. I wanted to shoot a round of shells out of my eyes through the girls and watch them flap away like a gaggle of geese, so Jorge would notice I still existed. But alas, he seemed to bask in the attention. Once Will arrived, Jorge disappeared backstage, I didn’t catch a glimpse of him for the rest of the day. It annoyed me how much Will’s presence repelled him, but surprisingly, I didn’t miss him when he slipped into the shadows. I had more pressing concerns in the forefront of my mind.
Caroline was the only female besides Stella in the cast not enamored by Jorge. I couldn’t give her much credit for that, though, because she took the first opportunity to tell me all about her opinion.
“Don’t be fooled by his good looks, Eliza,” she said when we were alone. “I’ve heard some things about Jorge that weren’t very pretty.”
“Oh?” I said. “What things?”
“Just things.” She bristled at my question. “He was involved in some crime against Will.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“I don’t remember exactly,” she huffed. “But I wouldn’t expect it
was very minor—considering his background. They should crack down harder on illegal immigrants.”
Wow. Just wow. She was such a snob, I was almost speechless. Almost.
“So, you’re telling me he’s a criminal because he’s not white? Unbelievable.”
Her jaw fell to her chin, and she made a spiteful guttural sound in her throat.
“I was trying to be helpful, Eliza. Excuse me for being a friend.”
She flipped her hair and stomped away.
Friend. Yeah, right.
My true friend, Jane, was who I was most concerned about. She was never a very chatty individual to begin with, but something of a melancholy appeared to have overshadowed her. She was distant and closed off. What was going on with her? I directed my gaze to Bing and noticed a stiffness in his posture and a subdued remoteness in his demeanor. His back was turned to her from the opposite side of the stage as he inspected every inch of the pirate ship, giving it more interest than necessary. That wasn’t extraordinary in itself as he would have to familiarize himself with every detail for safety purposes. But as the day progressed, I watched him with a deeper level of scrutiny and noted his aloof disregard toward Jane whenever they weren’t acting on stage. As soon as a scene would end, they would break apart, and he’d walk away from her, putting as much distance between them as possible. I wanted to ask her what happened. I also wanted to kick him in the shins. Had they been fighting? I was so caught up in everything I’d been going through over the holiday weekend, I hadn’t noticed anything amiss. I was working at the lodge all the time. After the Yam Incident, as Charlotte merrily called it, Mr. Lucas had me working every day. I was a slave to Lucas Lodge for the unforeseeable future, and as a result, I’d hardly been home. I was also unable to carpool to rehearsals.
The moment rehearsal ended both Monday and Tuesday, Jane bolted out of the theatre. By the time I arrived home after a crappy late shift, she was locked in her room asleep. I couldn’t even talk to her during lunch breaks. Whenever I had a tender moment to ask her how she was, she’d feign a smile and give me a laconic reply. “I’m fine,” she’d say dismissively and shut me out completely.
