Patrice Greenwood - Wisteria Tearoom 03 - An Aria of Omens

by Patrice Greenwood

  An Aria of Omens

  Patrice Greenwood

  Evennight Books/Book View Café

  Cedar Crest, New Mexico

  An Aria of Omens

  Copyright © 2014 by Patrice Greenwood

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portion thereof, in any form.

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Evennight Books, Cedar Crest, New Mexico, USA, an affiliate of Book View Café Publishing Cooperative

  Cover photo: Chris Krohn

  Publication team: Sherwood Smith, Phyllis Irene Radford, Elisabeth Waters, Chris Krohn

  ISBN: 978-1-61138-399-7

  Book View Café Publishing Cooperative

  P.O. Box 1624, Cedar Crest, NM 87008-1624

  http://bookviewcafe.com

  Digital version: 20140622pgn

  for Ken and Marilyn

  Acknowledgments

  Deepest thanks to the following stalwarts for their invaluable assistance with this novel: to my publication team, Sherwood Smith, Phyllis Irene Radford, Elisabeth Waters, and Chris Krohn; to Ken and Marilyn Dusenberry, my patient consultants; and to my colleagues in Book View Café for their help with mending and polishing.

  And as always, warm thanks to Mary Alice Higbie and the staff of the St. James Tearoom, for inspiring me to write this series and for making Wisteria White tea a reality.

  1

  I stood at the top of the stairs, my gaze following the long, oriental rug down the hall to where Violetta Benning stood by the front window. “Vi? It’s time,” I called softly.

  With sunlight filtering through chiffon curtains and setting her lace aglow, she was an airy silhouette of shadow against white, touched by just a glint of color from her auburn curls. She looked as ethereal as a young woman of Junoesque stature could.

  Turning to me as I came closer, she took a deep breath. “Thanks, Ellen. I’m ready.”

  Vi’s vocal coach and accompanist, Wendy, rose from one of the chairs in the little sitting area I had made at that end of the hall, holding a black binder to her chest. She was a good two feet shorter than Vi and a little stout, with short brown hair, and always cheerful. She smiled as I came to join them.

  “Mr. Solano is here,” I added. “I thought you’d want to know.”

  Now that I was no longer blinded by the window, I could see Vi’s face. Her green eyes widened.

  “OK. Yes, thanks for warning me. Is anyone else from the Opera here?”

  “No one that I recognize, but that doesn’t mean much.”

  “It’s very nice of Victor to come and support you,” said Wendy. “No need to be nervous. He’s on your side.”

  Vi nodded, then squared her shoulders and put on a smile. Her duster-length jacket of lace over a cream silk sleeveless blouse and trousers looked cool and elegant on this warm July afternoon.

  “He’s been wonderful,” Vi agreed. “Yes, it’s great of him to come.”

  “You’ve got a full house,” I said. “They’re all excited—and by the way, I’m so proud of you, Vi!”

  She smiled and gave me a hug. “Thanks for doing this, Ellen!”

  “Are you kidding? It’s the event of the season. We sold out two weeks ago.”

  I led the way downstairs, where the smell of fresh-baked scones greeted us. A hubbub of voices came to us from the front of the tearoom. We paused outside the main parlor and I smiled at Vi, then stepped in to introduce her.

  The parlor had been rearranged for the occasion, pocket doors thrown open and furniture adjusted so that everyone in the room faced the fireplace in the center of the back wall. Savories and breads had already been served, and the guests were chatting over their scones while two of my servers, Iz and Dee, moved among them with fresh pots of tea.

  The girls looked lovely in their lavender dresses and white aprons, and I couldn’t help thinking of how pretty Vi had looked in the same outfit on opening day. It seemed a long time since she’d left us to be an apprentice at the Santa Fe Opera, though in fact she had only started rehearsals two months ago.

  All the tearoom regulars had come out for Vi’s appearance. My aunt Natalia and her beau, Manny, were catching up with Vi’s mother, Rhonda, and my best friend, Gina Fiorello. My neighbors, Bob and Katie Hutchins, chatted with Thomas Ingraham, the food critic from The New Mexican. And, inevitably, the Bird Woman was there with a bevy of her friends, wearing an enormous purple hat with crimson ostrich plumes curling over its brim.

  Sitting in a place of honor, in a blue wing chair with a cup and saucer on his knee, was Mr. Victor Solano, baritone, a featured soloist at the Opera this year. In a sage linen jacket and dark trousers, brown hair waving over a classical brow, he looked gentlemanly and unremarkable, but I’d heard him sing in prior seasons and knew the power hidden in his chest. He was a big name in opera. Vi was indeed lucky to have caught his notice.

  The upright Steinway that had been my mother’s, freshly tuned for the occasion and glowing from a beeswax polish, stood near the fireplace. A single candle burned in the hearth, and vases of lisianthus adorned the mantel.

  I went to stand by the piano and glanced around the room. Conversations began to drop away, and when it was quiet enough that I didn’t need to shout, I began.

  “Thank you all for coming to this very special event. Many of you have met Violetta Benning here at the tearoom. This summer she is an apprentice at the Santa Fe Opera, and today she’s here to sing for us. Welcome back to the Wisteria Tearoom, Violetta!”

  I made way for Vi, who showed no sign of nerves as she stood smiling, accepting the polite applause of the guests. Wendy slid unobtrusively onto the piano bench, but Vi drew everyone’s attention to her at once.

  “Thank you,” she said as the applause faded, “and please welcome my coach, Wendy Richardson. I wouldn’t be here without her.”

  Wendy nodded and smiled, then set her notebook on the music rack and turned the pages as another brief round of applause subsided.

  “I’d like to sing for you an arietta from Le Nozze di Figaro, by Mozart,” Vi said. “It’s called ‘Voi, che sapete,’ and is sung by Cherubino, a young page. This is what is called a breeches role, a male character performed by a woman, which is why I’m wearing trousers today.”

  Leaning against the open doorway, I smiled. She looked anything but masculine, though she was indeed wearing trousers. Her hair was caught up into a bun, but a few ringlets had escaped to curl around her face. The effect was charming.

  “Cherubino has just joined the military and is showing off his new uniform to the Countess Almaviva and her maid, Susanna. He asks them to explain love to him, why it makes him freeze and then burn, why it robs him of peace, even though he rather enjoys these sensations.”

  A chuckle went through the room, then Wendy addressed the keyboard. Vi’s voice soared, a rich mezzo-soprano, filling the tearoom with wonderful music. My heart swelled with pride, both in her and in the moment of beauty, the sort of moment I had been aiming to create all along.

  I hadn’t heard Vi sing before, not like this. A shiver went through me as I realized she really had it; she could make a career in opera. Well, of course. The Santa Fe Opera wouldn’t have taken her on as an apprentice if that weren’t true. They turned away a lot of candidates every year.

  Julio, my chef, came up
beside me to peer through the doorway, his dark eyes big with wonder as he listened. He and Vi had struck up a friendship when we first opened, and I knew that he had missed her. We all had.

  “Are the cakes ready?” I whispered to him.

  He nodded, not taking his eyes off Vi. Kris, my office manager, joined us, her black lace a counterpoint to Vi’s cream.

  The arietta drew to a close, and the tearoom burst into applause. Flushed and smiling, Vi made a professional bow. I saw her glance flick toward Mr. Solano and her smile widen a little.

  I joined her, applauding with the rest until the clamor died down. “Thank you, Violetta! That was beautiful! Before we pester you with questions, which you’ve so kindly agreed to answer, I’d like to announce a special treat.” I turned to address the room. “Our chef, Julio Delgado, has created a dessert in Violetta’s honor. It’s called an Aria Cake, flavored with Assam tea and almonds, and it’s making its debut at the tearoom today.”

  Dee and Iz brought in trays of cakes, each an elongated triangle about a finger’s length, with multiple layers of cake and icing, topped with sliced almonds and candied violets. Excitement hummed through me as I watched the girls serve the cakes and my guests sample them.

  Julio had invented the Aria Cake as an act of rebellion. I had asked him to make Opera Cakes for Vi’s tea, and he’d flat-out refused.

  Opera Cake is just glorified tiramisu, Parisian style. You don’t like coffee in the tearoom. Besides, have you ever made it? It’s a royal pain!

  So I’d invited him to come up with something better. And he’d done it.

  By replacing the coffee and chocolate with tea, he’d allowed the cake’s almond flavor to shine through. The Aria Cake was lighter and, I thought, more unusual than Opera Cake. As I watched from the doorway, it seemed to me that the guests approved. Gina caught my eye, took a bite, then closed her eyes in ecstasy. Hiding a chuckle, I stepped back out into the hall.

  “Congratulations, Julio. I think it’s a hit.”

  He shrugged. “Of course.” But he looked pleased.

  Vi, who had paused to sip some water from a glass on the piano, returned to center stage and began taking questions. The Bird Woman’s hand shot up into the air.

  “Which opera are you in?”

  “I’m in four of the five productions this season. I’m in the chorus in Tosca and Cesar Chavez, I’m one of the three ladies in The Magic Flute, and I’m singing the role of Hermia in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I’m also covering the Shepherd Boy in Tosca.”

  “What’s that mean?” said the Bird Woman, blinking through her feathers.

  “A cover is someone who learns a role so they can step in if the performer can’t go on for some reason.”

  “Like an understudy,” said Gina.

  “Yes, exactly.” Vi smiled at her.

  “That sounds like a lot to learn,” said the Bird Woman.

  “Well, it is. We’re kept very busy with rehearsals every day. The busiest time was right before opening night, when we were learning two productions at once. After that it got a little less hectic.”

  She answered a few more questions, then took another sip of water and nodded to Wendy, who turned a page in her notebook.

  “I have another aria for you,” said Vi. “‘Crude furie’ from Serse by George Frideric Handel. This is again a breeches role: Serse is the emperor Xerxes, and he’s been plotting to marry the woman he loves, but she loves someone else and through various misadventures she winds up married to her true love. Serse is enraged, and in this aria he calls on the Furies to inspire him with their venom. He wants the world to turn to ash and the sun to be eclipsed by the heat of his fury. I’m sure we’ve all had days like that.”

  As the guests laughed, Vi took her place and squared her shoulders. Wendy played the introduction, and Vi launched into Serse’s tirade, eyes flashing. It was a longer piece, but she had the stamina for it, and she was magnificent.

  Crude furie degl’orridi abissi

  Rise up, furies, from horrid abysses.

  If the mood of the aria was a little troubling for me, the beauty of the music and the obvious enjoyment of my guests made up for it. Vi received a standing ovation, which shortly dissolved into a cluster of people around her, eager to embrace and congratulate her.

  I remained in the hall, watching Vi’s success. A few of the guests began to depart, and I thanked them as they came out. The tea was breaking up.

  Victor Solano drifted toward me. There was no getting near Vi, and he probably saw her frequently at the Opera’s campus anyway. I thought it tactful of him to refrain from intruding on her moment in the spotlight, and gave him a smile as he came into the hall.

  “Thank you for coming, Mr. Solano. I hope you enjoyed the tea.”

  “Very much, especially that Aria Cake.” His gaze shifted to Julio standing beside me, and took in his chef’s jacket over the usual loud print pants (giant music notes today). “Are you by chance the creator?”

  I sensed Julio stiffen ever so slightly. “Yes,” he said.

  “Inspired work. Congratulations.” Mr. Solano offered a hand, and after a tiny hesitation Julio shook it.

  “Thank you.” Julio glanced at me. “That reminds me, I have something to give Vi before she goes. Please excuse me.”

  He strode down the hall toward the kitchen, leaving me and Mr. Solano with Kris between us. I turned to Mr. Solano with a smile.

  “This is my office manager, Kris Overland. Kris, this is Victor Solano. He’s a soloist at the Opera this year.”

  “Lovely to meet you,” said Kris, shaking hands. “What roles are you performing?”

  “I’m singing Scarpia in Tosca.”

  “And that’s quite enough for one season,” said Mr. Ingraham, joining us. “I look forward to it,” he added, nodding to Mr. Solano.

  “We’ve met, haven’t we?” said the singer, eyes narrowing a little.

  “At the Patrons Council dinner two years ago,” said Mr. Ingraham. “Good of you to remember.”

  “I remember your face, but I confess I’m terrible with names.”

  “Ingraham. Thomas.”

  “Ah, yes.”

  I knew Mr. Ingraham was an opera-goer, but I hadn’t known he was a Patron. That meant he gave them a chunk of change every season. I wished I could do the same—then told myself I looked forward to the day that I would be able to. An exercise in positive thinking.

  The Bird Woman chose this moment to lead her gaggle into the hall. With a glance at Mr. Ingraham, whom I trusted to entertain Mr. Solano for a moment, I drew her toward the front door. She only came up to my shoulder, and her hat rather eclipsed her. She had a matching purple cardigan buttoned over her pink and lavender flowered dress.

  “I hope you enjoyed the tea, Mrs. Olavssen.”

  “Yeah, it was great. Boy, that Violetta sure can belt out a tune!”

  I heard a choke of masculine laughter behind me, quickly transformed into a cough. The Bird Woman glanced toward Mr. Solano, then dismissed him with a shrug and headed for the gift shop across the hall.

  “Wish they’d been in English, though. I couldn’t understand a word of it.”

  “That’s why she told us the story,” said one of the gaggle.

  “Yeah, but it would be better in English.”

  To my relief, she disappeared into the gift shop, trailing her friends after her. Kris gave me a sidelong glance. “I’ll see if Dee needs help,” she said, and followed the ladies into the gift shop.

  I rejoined the gentlemen. Mr. Solano’s eyes crinkled with amusement.

  “One of our regular customers,” I said.

  He nodded. “She’s delightful. The world would be less without eccentrics. I can say that, because I am one.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “Oh, yes. All artists are.”

  “But the most successful ones are revered for it,” said Mr. Ingraham. “Don’t run away, Ellen. I have something for you.”

  I had been about
to go back into the parlor, but stayed. Mr. Ingraham pulled an envelope from the breast pocket of his tweed jacket and put it in my hands. “Happy birthday, a little early, from me and your aunt.”

  I glanced at Mr. Solano, then peeked inside the envelope. Two printed tickets nestled inside, and I squeaked as I recognized the distinctive architectural silhouette that was the SFO’s logo. I pulled them out to read the details. “Tosca! Oh, Mr. Ingraham, thank you!”

  “I hope you and your guest will join me for dinner before the performance,” he said.

  “You’re tailgating?”

  “But of course!”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world!”

  I was so pleased I couldn’t resist hugging him, even though I didn’t know him that well. He chuckled and patted my back.

  “May I bring something?” I asked. “Some Aria Cakes?”

  His brows went up. “I was about to say no, but now I’ll have to reconsider. Those were quite good.”

  I smiled at him, as pleased by this compliment as by his generous gift. When a noted food critic says your work is quite good, that’s something to celebrate. Not that it was my work; Julio deserved the credit, but it was still an accomplishment for my tearoom.

  I turned to Mr. Solano. “Now I’ll get to hear you sing! I wasn’t certain I’d manage it this season.”

  He bowed slightly. “Happy birthday, whenever it is.”

  “Thank you.”

  In truth, I’d planned to buy a ticket this season. I treated myself to an opera almost every summer, but the tickets were expensive and this year I’d been torn between wanting to see Mr. Solano in Tosca and Vi’s solo in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Now I didn’t have to choose; if I was lucky, I could do both.

  Even better, I could bring a guest to Mr. Ingraham’s party. A date, possibly. Would Tony be interested?

  My heart jumped at the thought, and I shied away from it. I couldn’t think about that right now. I needed quiet, and privacy, for that.