The song ended, but the breathy high-pitched hum still emanated from Candy’s nose. Her head circled lazily. She flicked her eyes open, and Etta stepped backward.
Candy frowned. “We’re out of biscuits, and the coffee’s long gone.” She rounded the ball of dough with her chubby fingers and then dropped it and punched both fists into it, flattening it onto the table.
“Is Carl here?”
Candy pretended to look under the table. “Hey Carl, take off your invisibility cloak.”
Etta smiled. “Do you know where he is?”
Candy shrugged. “If you must know, he and the director were in here for like a half hour whispering back and forth about something then the hillbilly says he has to go somewhere and he doesn’t know when he’ll be back, and now I’m stuck making all the food for the biggest party of the year.” She rolled her eyes. “He promised some stupid girls are supposed to come help, but did they even bother to show up?”
“I’m one.” Etta smiled. “I’m Etta.”
Candy said something, but a gong reverberated through the room then another and another. They grew louder and louder.
“Can we turn that down?” Etta shouted.
“It’s Peas Lite,” Candy shouted back.
Etta tried to make the words make sense. Then she spotted the stereo on a shelf across the room and made a beeline to it, grasping for the knob. The gong faded to a more humane volume. The top CD on a pile next to the stereo said Peace Light. Etta glanced through the rest of the pile. Jewels of Silence, Transformation Trance, Music for Healing, and six or seven CDs by someone named Jimmie Dale Gilmore. Etta slid one of the Jimmie Dale Gilmore CDs from the middle of the pile.
“Be glad the hillbilly’s not here, or we’d be listening to that. ‘The chef gets to pick the music,’ he says. Just my luck I have to work for a hillbilly.”
Etta set the CD on top of the others. “Carl doesn’t like New Age music?”
“He calls it Sew-age music.”
Etta laughed and studied a framed photo of a woman propped next to the stereo. The woman was young, mid-twenties perhaps. Her reddish brown hair fell below her shoulders, and she was squinting into the camera like the sun was in her eyes.
“Let me guess, you’re wondering if the hillbilly has a girlfriend.”
“No,” Etta said, even though that’s exactly what she’d been thinking.
Candy grinned. “You wouldn’t be the first one. You are a pathetic bunch of girls out here, stuck in this forest with that weird chastity code, all hot and heavy for the hillbilly. You should see the ladies at the grocery store in Hicksville Jackson fawn over him. ‘Can I help you, Carl?’ ‘Let me get that, Carl.’ It’s disgusting. I wouldn’t worry too much about the girl in the photo though. She’s dead.”
Etta’s face filled with heat. Dead? She opened her mouth to ask what happened to the pretty woman, but decided against it. She glanced at the door. Where was Olivia? “So, do you want me to cut up vegetables or something?”
Candy dropped the dough ball onto the table. “We’re going to need five quiches—two vegetarian, two with bacon and sausage, and one with smoked salmon. The ingredients are in here.” She wiped her hands on her apron and started across the room.
“Quiches?”
Candy spun around, her hair hardly moving beneath the hair net. “Don’t tell me you don’t know what quiche is?” The air hissed between her teeth as she exhaled.
“Of course I do.”
“Thank God. It would be just my luck if the hillbilly sent me someone who doesn’t even know how to cook. Don’t wait for a hand-written invitation. Follow me.” Candy pulled open the door to the walk-in refrigerator.
Etta trailed behind the intern.
* * *
Four hours later, Etta’s T-shirt and jeans were coated with flour, her upper back was stiff, and she never wanted to hear another chime, gong, or synthesizer for the rest of her life. But as she scanned the steel table holding her five quiches, in addition to the crab cakes; bacon-wrapped scallops; salad; five loaves of bread; and two layered cakes that Candy had somehow prepared in the same amount of time, she felt more pride than she’d felt about her writing in a long time. She had an impulse to put her arm around Candy, and the words thank you for letting me help bubbled into her throat. But Candy was smacking her gum and staring at the food with a dullness that made Etta swallow her words.
As Etta walked down the trail to her cabin, she started to feel giddy at the idea of a party: music, cocktails, and fancy clothes. She’d never liked parties much, but seeing all the food laid out made the idea of people and conversation seem electric.
Etta stepped into the clearing as a screen door slapped shut. It took her a minute to register that it was the door to her own cabin. Olivia’s voice flooded into the clearing. Etta stood staring at her porch. Her first instinct was to close her eyes and pretend she wasn’t seeing what she was seeing. But there they were, Carl and Olivia, coming out of Etta’s cabin, standing just inches from each other, staring at Etta.
Silence spread across the clearing. Carl drawled a hello. He’d hardly said her name when she heard her own voice, loud, sharp, and angry: “Where the hell were you guys today?”
She felt her body twisting. She ran into the trees, her feet somehow finding the trail, and she didn’t stop until she couldn’t take another step. The firs loomed around her, blocking out much of the dusky afternoon light, and the sound of her breath filled her ears, short spasms of air in and out.
She heard her name. Olivia was jogging toward her, her long hair wet and crushed to the sides of her face. “Etta. Please. Wait.”
By the time Olivia caught her, Etta was laughing. She leaned over and grabbed her knees with her hands. The laughter wouldn’t stop gurgling up. Etta had written so many scenes just like this. Of course in one of Etta’s books, it would have been Carl who raced up the trail, his shirt wet and clinging to his muscular chest, his drawling voice calling out Etta’s name.
“Etta, please it’s not how it looked.” Olivia heaved the words out.
Etta tried to swallow her laughter.
“I know how it must have looked. But . . .”
Olivia looked almost gaunt as she folded her arms across her chest; skeletal fingers clutching bone-thin arms.
“He’s going door to door. Warning everyone to be careful, to walk to the lodge in pairs and all that.” Olivia didn’t make eye contact. Shadows filled the hollows beneath her eyes.
“Are you okay?”
“Out of shape. You run fast, girl.” Finally Olivia met Etta’s gaze. “Please say you’re not mad at me.”
Now it was Etta who couldn’t make eye contact. She dropped her eyes at the hollow spot in Olivia’s neck. Olivia was just so pretty, so flirtatious. When Etta had seen Carl, she’d just assumed . . . But when she met Olivia’s gaze again, she realized she’d been mistaken. “I’m sorry, Liv.” Etta stepped toward Olivia and put her arms around her, surprised at how small and fragile her roommate felt in her embrace. When Etta dropped her arms, she took a step backward. “It’s just, you guys didn’t come today. I had to make all the food . . .”
“The party.” Olivia’s voice was sharp. She spun around and started down the trail. “The play. We can’t be late.”
Etta watched Olivia’s form disappearing around the bend.
The play.
Olivia’s play.
Etta had almost forgotten.
Chapter Eight
Someone had hung Japanese lanterns from the trees, lighting the path to the lodge. But even with the hazy light, the trail was difficult to negotiate in high heels. It didn’t help that Olivia and Poppy were striding toward Roosevelt Lodge at a stallion’s pace or that the umbrella Poppy was supposed to be holding over all three of them kept swaying so that Etta’s cheek got sprayed with the pools of water collecting on top. Etta grabbed the end of her dress. The red satin feathered across her legs, sending a tingle up her spine. As they rounded the curve to th
e Lodge, cello music floated through the trees. A man’s baritone voice and a woman’s throaty laugh buzzed through the drizzle like an electric current.
At the base of the stairs, Poppy collapsed the umbrella and shook it out. Paper lanterns hung from the porch’s eaves, illuminated spheres in the darkness that made the slanting slivers of rain shimmer silver. One of the doors to the Lodge swung closed, and Etta was standing alone.
She teetered up the stairs into the porch light’s yellow glow and unzipped her raincoat, wincing at the rush of cool air that flooded across her neck. The cello music emanated from the seams of the Lodge—a haunting melody that seemed too somber for a party.
“Ah Loretta—an expert at masquerade.” Etta jerked her head up and stepped backward. Petra Atwell’s face danced with shadows from a swinging lantern, the embers of her cigarette glowing red. The bodice of her black floor-length dress plunged low in the front, revealing surprisingly ample cleavage for such a petite woman. She held a squat glass, and it caught the porch light—two translucent ice cubes floating in clear liquid. Next to her, Walker Ryan’s lanky frame emerged from the shadows and dwarfed Petra. It must have been their voices Etta had heard in the trees. Etta inhaled the sweet hickory of Walker’s cigar and smiled at her favorite resident author.
Etta opened her mouth to correct Petra on her name then she realized what Petra had said. “Excuse me?”
Walker pulled the cigar from his mouth and swirled it between his thumb and index finger. “Ignore her. She was just elucidating her rather cynical view of human social behavior for me.”
“Trust me, I have far more cynical views than this. I merely contend that it’s plain deceit to dress in a costume and pretend to be witty when one is as boring as a Save the Children telethon.” She glared at Etta. “Don’t look like a bruised peach, Loretta. I’m not talking about you . . . per se. All parties breed liars. These unbearable literary soirees are the worst. Miserable bores who spend their days hypnotized by laptop screens masquerading as stars and starlets. Putting on airs, pretending to be someone you’re not. It’s pathetic. Wouldn’t you agree, Loretta?”
Etta held Petra’s gaze for a moment, and then Walker’s booming laugh broke the silence. “Petra, you are as charming as a viper. Let this young woman enjoy her night.” He stubbed his cigar out in an ashtray that was resting on the handrail. “Can I escort you inside?” Etta nodded, pulling her gaze from Petra as Walker opened the door for her. She stepped inside just as the cello melody ended on a low note. A round of muffled applause followed.
The sconces in the foyer were low, casting a warm glow on the oak walls. Etta let Walker take her raincoat and hang it on a hook next to the door. The door to the great room swung open, and a cacophony of voices poured into the small space. Reed stepped into the foyer, came to a halt and looked Etta up and down. “Wow.” He pushed his wire frames up with his middle finger.
“Well, hello Mr. Morinsky,” Walker said. “Will your performance be starting soon?”
“Yes, Mr. Ryan.” Reed’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “The curtain will rise in forty minutes.” His squinty eyes shifted from Walker to Etta. He had on brown corduroys and a worn tweed blazer with leather patches on the elbows in place of his usual khakis and starched shirt. A layer of foundation glistened on his forehead and nose, and blusher colored his cheeks.
Walker laughed, a booming echo. “I’m looking forward to it. Winston is one hell of a director. Julia and I saw his first Broadway show—must have been twenty-six years ago. He makes magic on the stage. If he’d move to Hollywood, I’d think about going to the show again.” He looked from Reed to Etta, and then smiled. “Break a leg, son. I need to figure out where I left my drink.”
Walker pulled the door open and stepped into the great room. Reed’s eyes shifted back and forth behind his glasses.
“Are you nervous?” Etta asked.
Reed rubbed his hands together. “Yes. I suffer from severe glossophobia prior to every performance.”
“What-a-phobia?”
“Glossophobia. The fear of speaking in public. It afflicts seventy-five percent of people.”
Etta nodded. “Oh, right. Well, just picture us all naked.”
Beads of sweat formed on Reed’s brow, and Etta wished she could take back the sentence. “I mean, I’ve heard that can work,” she mumbled.
“Yes, I have heard of that tactic as well. However in my case it would be a detriment. Regrettably, I’m also afflicted by gymnophobia.”
Etta glanced over her shoulder at the door to the great room. “A fear of gyms?”
His forehead was now slick with sweat. “Gymnos is Greek for nudity.”
Etta stifled a smile. “Oh. Well, picture us all wearing fur coats then.”
Reed pushed his glasses up with his middle finger and smiled, revealing the gap between his front teeth. Etta wondered if his makeup would roll right off his face.
“I must go through my voice exercises now. I hope you enjoy the performance.” The front door swished closed behind him sending a draft of cool air sliding across Etta’s arms.
* * *
A cello chord echoed through the room as Etta walked toward the hearth. A spray of sparks rose from the flames, which jumped in the fireplace as though someone had just teased them with an iron prod. Except Etta was the only one standing anywhere near the fire.
Everyone else stood around the cello player sitting in front of the windows. It was Rodney Patterson. His thin black hair was combed in long stripes across his forehead. It should not have surprised Etta to see Rodney. His somber short story had been as haunting as his cello notes. But he’d never seemed like someone who’d be comfortable performing in front of a crowd. Etta wasn’t sure if she’d ever heard his voice. Now he was sitting on the edge of a wooden chair, his lanky body bent over the cello. He rocked as he bowed the instrument’s strings, his eyes fluttering open and closed as the notes climbed up and down octaves, faster and faster. The effect was so raw that Etta couldn’t draw her eyes away. Rodney looked as though he was possessed by something, as did the people clustered around him. Two women stood just on the edge of the circle of light, dressed in silk. They had their backs to Etta, but their faces were reflected in a windowpane. Lorna and Lydia. Their bodies swayed in tandem with the flicks of Rodney’s slender wrist.
“As they say back home, that dress could charm the heart of a rusty lizard.”
Etta spun around. Carl grinned and lifted his wine glass.
“You cut your hair.”
Carl ran his free hand along his newly buzzed head. His face looked even more wind-chapped than the last time she’d seen him. He had on a black tailored suit jacket and a green tie, and he looked so different than usual that she couldn’t help but stare for a minute. Finally she shifted her gaze back to Rodney. His fingers flew up and down the neck of the cello as he jerked the bow across the strings. The song ended as abruptly as it started, and the room fell silent.
Then clapping and whistling erupted, and someone—Mallory Chambers?—whooped Rodney’s name.
Carl’s breath feathered across Etta’s hair. “How are we supposed to dance to that? Think he takes requests?”
Etta smiled. She was about to suggest the musician whose CD’s she’d seen in the kitchen, but she couldn’t remember his name. Jimmie Dave something? Rodney started another song, and Etta watched, mesmerized by the slow movement of the bow drifting up and down.
“I was hopin’ to talk to you . . . about earlier” Carl’s voice was just above a whisper.
Etta remembered all at once—Olivia and Carl on the porch, her own angry voice echoing into the clearing. Heat rushed into her cheeks. She waved her hand in the air to try to dismiss what he’d said. “Are you hungry?” She spun around and moved toward the long table between the fireplace and the windows. Carl strode after her. The table was covered in white tablecloths, with a candelabra in the center. The flames cast flickering shadows across the piles of plates, the tray of silv
er, the bottles of wine and the glasses, and the glistening food platters.
Carl handed her an empty plate, and his hand brushed against hers. She moved down the table, picking a few things from the appetizers: a slice of watermelon, a strawberry, and two crab cakes. She glanced at the three quiches on display, but they looked a little too familiar to be appetizing.
Carl deposited a wedge of the smoked salmon quiche onto his plate. The thought of Carl eating something she’d cooked, along with the ache that had started to resonate from the arches of her feet from her high heels made Etta feel unsteady.
Rodney finished his song, and rose, resting his cello on its stand. The room swirled with people.
“Dry Riesling will enhance the sweetness of the crab, bringing out its delicate flavor, like a lemon slice would.”
Etta reached for the wine glass Carl was extending to her. “I usually avoid California vintages like a long tail cat around rockin’ chairs, but this one’s pretty good.” Carl plucked his plate off the table and moved toward a table near the wall. Etta teetered after him, taking a gulp of wine and savoring the sweetness of it at the back of her throat.
Several of the myrtlewood tables from the dining room had been pushed together and covered in white tablecloths. The center was lined with tea candles and a dusting of glitter, which made Etta think of a high school dance. Carl sat down and Etta set her plate across from him, relieved at the release of pressure on her toes and arches when she sat down. She scanned the room for Olivia and Poppy, trying to recognize faces in the crowd.
Two people were sitting at the other end of the long table. Jordan? Yes, his whitish blond hair caught the candlelight. Etta searched for his eyes and tried to smile at him, but he was intent on someone sitting across the table. Chase Quinn?
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