Suite Scarlett (21 page)

Having met her old friends “Tara” and “Paul” by the entrance, Donna Spendler didn’t need much more confirmation that she was in the right place. She strode inside the garage and up the ramp, with Scarlett and Eric trailing a few paces behind.

“That’s the woman from the audition,” Eric said quietly. “Why is she here, and why does she look so mad?”

“You really don’t want to know,” Scarlett said, hurrying to catch up.

Donna stopped short when she saw Mrs. Amberson leaning against the outside wall, smoking and issuing orders about the placement of the stage.

“I’m starting to think we need to come about five feet forward,” she said. “That way we can have an even flow of energy around the space. Circular motion, like we’re creating a whirlpool of drama.”

“Amy?” Donna said. “It’s been a long time. I
love
your facelift. I’ve heard you can get great deals on them overseas.”

This was enough to get the attention of at least half the
Hamlet
crew. Mrs. Amberson didn’t so much as flinch.

“Hello, Donna,” she said stiffly. “I didn’t realize you could come out in daylight.”

Pleasantries thus exchanged, the two settled into an uncomfortable, grimacing silence. Spencer rolled out from under the stage, where he had been attaching a brace for one of the unicycle ramps.

“What a small world,” Donna said, giving him a nod of greeting.

“It certainly is,” Mrs. Amberson replied.

Everyone was aware of what was going on now, and all focus was on Donna and Mrs. Amberson.

“Why don’t we go get a coffee?” Donna said. “We need to talk.”

Mrs. Amberson didn’t stop smiling, but her eyes had gone hard and fixed. She squared off in that superhero stance that Scarlett had first seen her in.

“I’m afraid we’re a little busy right now,” she said. “Maybe some other time. Tell you what. I’ll
call you.
”

She meant those last two words to sting, for whatever reason.

“I have some unfortunate news,” Donna said. “In a few hours, this will all be shut down. I came down here to tell you that you should get your things out while you can.”

“What are you talking about?” Trevor said, stepping forward.

“Peddle it elsewhere, dear friend,” Mrs. Amberson said, puffing slowly on her cigarette. “We have full permission from the owner.”

“The owner didn’t look into the zoning laws carefully enough. You can’t perform here. It violates several city ordinances.”

“People have before,” Trevor said insistently. “We’re the third show in this place.”

“They would have been booted out if the shows had made the radar at the right places.”

“No,” Trevor said. “No. The city
can’t
kick us out twice.”

Mrs. Amberson dropped her cigarette, jabbed it out with her toe, and stepped forward to where Donna was standing. She looked quite menacing.

“If you want to pick a fight, pick it with me,” she said. “I’ll settle this with you in private. Leave them out of it. They didn’t do anything.”

“This isn’t me,” Donna replied. “There’s nothing I can do about this. You should have been more careful. A lot more careful. But we should talk, Amy. Give me a call when you’re finished up here. You already have my number.”

With that, she was gone, her shoes clacking in the echoey garage.

“What just happened?” Trevor asked. “Is this for real?”

Mrs. Amberson grappled for another cigarette.

“Listen,” she said, fumbling with her lighter. “I think we’re going to have to get creative. In twenty-four hours, we have a crowd of reviewers, agents, and other creative types coming to see you do
Hamlet
in this fantastic new production. And they
will
see a show.”

Silence from the group. Just the echoes of their shuffles, and the shriek of an ambulance stuck in traffic out on the street. Mrs. Amberson’s spell, which had held the cast in its thrall for weeks, was visibly weakening. Half the cast looked angry. Half looked down.

“There is nowhere,” Trevor said. “Maybe we can find somewhere in a few weeks, but by then…”

“What about the rehearsal space?” someone asked.

“Another group already moved in there,” Eric said.

Scarlett turned to see how Spencer was, but he had rolled back under the stage to block it all out.

“I found a place for you before,” Mrs. Amberson said. “It’s just a matter of…”

“We blocked this space,” Trevor said, his voice rising with emotion. “We advertised for this space. We don’t have the time or the money to move it now. We have lights coming, props…”

The reality of the situation settled on the group. Scarlett saw them all sagging. Stephanie started to cry softly. For the first time since Scarlett had known her, Mrs. Amberson looked a bit cornered. She turned and walked lightly to the other side of the garage, out of sight. Scarlett followed her. She was leaning against a concrete bumper letting the cigarette burn away between her fingers.

“It’s possible that I didn’t think this through,” she said.

Coming from Mrs. Amberson, this was the equivalent of a grand confession of blame.

“They have to do the show tomorrow,” she said. “Some of those people I got to come are very hard to pin down. It’s in their best interest to do this show. But I don’t think they feel like listening to me right now, do you?”

Mrs. Amberson smiled, but it wasn’t a toothpaste commercial smile. It was a wry, soft one.

“What do I know?” she said, almost to herself. “I seem to have really done it this time.”

“Maybe she was lying,” Scarlett said.

“Oh, I don’t think she was. I think she was being deadly serious. No, I think this is really Waterloo, O’Hara. And it’s my fault.”

Scarlett wasn’t about to say, “No, it isn’t.” Because it
was
her fault. Sort of. Maybe not about the zoning issue, but bringing Donna into it.

“What do we do?” Scarlett asked.

“Well, I think I’ve done enough, don’t you?” Mrs. Amberson opened and shut her cigarette case a few times. “I think the best
thing would be for me to go back to the hotel and get my things together.”

“You’re leaving?” Scarlett couldn’t keep her voice under control. “You’re leaving
now
?”

“Every actress should know when to make a good exit. And I think you’ll be better off.”

She thought this over for just a moment, gave Scarlett one last smile, and walked off, down the ramp, away from the broken remains of the show.

In 1931, at the height of Prohibition, Lily “Honey” Vauxhall and Murray “Jinx” Rule produced a homemade gin so high in quality that it was even deemed fit to serve in the prestigious 21 Club.

Honey and Jinx produced their wares out of two adjoining rooms in the elegant Hopewell Hotel on the Upper East Side. Guests were scarce during the Great Depression, and high-quality gin even more so. The hotel’s owner, Charlie Martin, never openly professed any knowledge of the goings-on. He did, however, install a “laundry chute” leading from a room called the Diamond Suite down to the basement. Laundry chutes are not typically installed in guest rooms—or, even more strangely, only
one
guest room, with no openings on any other floor. Nor can it be explained why the chute was outfitted with a pulley mechanism, much like the kind you would use to lower bottles of gin down to waiting hands many floors below.

Martin could hardly be blamed for going along with the scheme. It was a simple move of survival, and, some would say, a public service.

Operations came to an end in 1933, putting Honey and Jinx out of business and returning the Hopewell Hotel to law-abiding status. The quiet little hotel has never again been host to any “Jinx,” high or otherwise…

—“
A ROOM WITH A BREW
”
FROM
ILLEGAL NEW YORK

“Well,” Spencer said later that day, having returned from schlepping all of Mrs. Amberson’s bags to The St. Regis in a cab, “what now? You have no job. I have no job. Wanna play Jenga?”

Scarlett didn’t reply. She was flat-out on her bed, staring at the yellowing ceiling. Spencer was on the floor next to her, doing the same.

“Oh, right,” Spencer continued into the silence. “We don’t have Jenga. Wanna just keep pulling out your dresser drawers until it falls apart? Same thing!”

“I can’t believe this,” Scarlett said.

“I know.
Everyone
has Jenga.”

“Why did she leave?”

“Maybe because all of our stuff falls apart when you touch it. Like Jenga.”

Scarlett rolled to the side of the bed.

“If you say Jenga again, I’m going to tell Mom and Dad about that time you said you were going away for the weekend to learn about opera singing, but you really went to that party in
the Green Mountains to try to hit on that girl, Anika. Didn’t you end up sleeping in a car all weekend because she wouldn’t let you in?”

Spencer had been through this many times, but was prepared to oblige.

“Her
boyfriend
wouldn’t let me in. Big difference.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Scarlett said. “He threw you into the lake. Was the water cold?”

“I seem to remember it was a bit on the brisk side. It was January. In Vermont. I guess I was just lucky that the layer of ice was so thin.”

“That
is
lucky.”

“Yeah. I remember feeling lucky when I swam out and walked a quarter of a mile through the dark woods to the house, soaking wet.”

“They let you in then, right?” Scarlett asked.

“Only because I would have frozen to death if they hadn’t. Anika told me to go in one of the bathrooms and take off my clothes, and that she’d put them in the dryer. She said she’d bring something for me to put on in the meantime. I must have gone nuts from the cold, because I can’t believe I made such a classic mistake.”

“She didn’t bring you any clothes?” Scarlett prompted.

“Surprisingly…no. At least, not mine, or anything like mine. Someone finally brought me these girly pajamas—pink ones, with kisses all over them. They came up to my knee and I couldn’t get the top on, but it was something. It kind of sucked going home in them.”

“I love those pajamas,” Scarlett said.

“Well, I always like to get you something when I go away. But
want to know the best part? That girl who gave me the pajamas? Or gave
you
the pajamas?”

“I know, I know. She asked you out that Monday when you got back to school.”

This story was one of their favorites during times of stress. It had entertained them both during several long nights at the hospital. It always provided a few moments of comfort. They let it linger for a moment in the stifling air.

“You know what?” Spencer said dryly. “I’m starting to think Mrs. Amberson and that woman
knew
each other. What do you think?”

Before Scarlett was squarely shoved into the position of having to reveal all or lie her face off again, the door opened and Lola came in.

“I have some bad news,” she said.

“What?” Spencer replied. “Not today. Not when everything’s been going so well.”

Lola, of course, had no idea of the trauma of the morning. She stepped over Spencer to sit on the bed.

“We’re empty,” she said.

“Empty?” Spencer sat up on that one. “I thought we had those three guys coming in from Tokyo?”

“They canceled earlier this morning. That travel agency doesn’t like us anymore. I think that guy in the Sterling Suite three weeks ago complained about the toilet.”

“At least I don’t have to deal with
that
today,” Spencer mumbled. “Not that I don’t love doing that job.”

Lola slumped onto her bed. More than anyone else, she had been trying to keep things going. She had folded the toilet paper and
researched the towels and gone without sleep. It looked like she took this as a personal failure.

“It’s not your fault, Lo,” Spencer said. “And it’ll be okay. Some idiot will find us and check in. Someone always does.”

Lola shook her head.

“This is bad, Spencer,” she said. “Really bad. I’m not sure if we’ve ever been
completely
empty before.”

“We’re empty,” Scarlett repeated.

The wheels in her head, which had been ground to a halt by the many obstructions life had thrown her way that day, started to click back into motion. The plan came in a rush, a chain of ideas loosely linked together. All of the fallen fruit of the summer gathered into one basket.

“Stay here,” she said to them, shoving herself from the bed and stepping over Spencer.

“Where are you going?” Lola asked.

“Just don’t go anywhere,” she said again, as she grabbed her bag and phone. “I’ll be back in an hour or two.”

The St. Regis was one of the major grande dame hotels of New York, with a massive white and gold lobby bursting with uniformed staff and hung with massive chandeliers that were actually clean and operational. When she arrived at the plush, cream-colored room, Mrs. Amberson was splayed out on her bed. All visible parts of her were covered in something sticky and brown and wrapped in plastic, the rest was covered by a plush robe. Her chipmunky hair had been wound in a pink turban, and a woman in a long-sleeved tunic and flowing yoga pants was jamming her thumb into her right ear.

“Scarlett!” she said. “Don’t mind Katiya…my God, Katiya, I think you just resolved all the problems from one of my former lives…She came over at a moment’s notice, bless her, to unblock one of my chakras. Help yourself from the minibar, and boil some water in that kettle and make me a nice, hot cup of rosehips tea, will you? Bags are on the side table.”

She was trying to act like nothing had happened that morning, just hours before—like the show hadn’t exploded or she hadn’t moved out. But Scarlett could hear the tension running underneath the sudden chakra crisis. She filled the little coffeepot from a bottle of spring water and took a soda from the minibar.

“Ginger wrap,” Mrs. Amberson explained, pointing her chin at her wrapped body. “I do love ginger, but it…”

“Stings,” Scarlett said. “I know.”

Katiya got up on the bed, stepping onto the thick pillows, and straddled Mrs. Amberson’s reclining figure like a triumphant warlord.

“Do you want your chakras done as well? You seem off-kilter.”

Scarlett watched a smiling Katiya grind her elbow into the top of Mrs. Amberson’s head.

“I’m good,” she said. “Can we talk?”

Scarlett looked at Katiya meaningfully. Katiya didn’t notice this. She had closed her eyes and started vibrating her lower jaw in a silent chatter.

“Of course,” Mrs. Amberson said. She reached up and tugged on Katiya’s long sleeve. “Katiya? Katiya, darling? I hate to break your meditation…I think I’m done for today. I’ll unwrap and bathe myself, thank you. Same time on Friday?”

Katiya smiled, but didn’t speak. She swayed a bit, then raised her hands high before collapsing, bowing to both Mrs. Amberson and Scarlett.

“She’s just taken a temporary vow of silence and is only communicating through interpretive dance until the next lunar cycle,” Mrs. Amberson explained after Katiya had slipped out of the room. “Trust me, it’s actually a relief that she’s not talking. I’m not sure I could get through another one of her analyses of my aura without killing her. Sweet girl, though. Magic hands. Come sit over here. I can’t move.”

Scarlett came over to the foot of the endless white bed and sank into a deep, high-quality mattress. It was amazing what other hotels offered.

“Why did you leave?” Scarlett asked.

“I told you, O’Hara. I never overstay my welcome. Now, I need to shower off these toxins. They’re just flooding from my pores. Unwrap me, will you?”

She extended one plastic-wrapped arm to be helped up, but Scarlett did not budge.

“We need to figure out where to do the show,” Scarlett said.

“I’m serious, Scarlett. The toxins will get back into the opened pores. I really need a hand out of this bed.”

She continued extending her hand for help. It took a minute before she realized it wasn’t forthcoming.

“Don’t you think I’ve already caused enough problems?” she said, sinking back into the pillows. “With the show, you and Eric, your brother. And there is nowhere for the show to go in the next twenty-four hours. A week, two weeks, maybe…”

“Not a week or two,” Scarlett said. “We’re doing the show when we said we would. But the only way that’s going to happen is if you and Donna get to the bottom of whatever has been bothering you for the last thirty years or however long its been.”

“It’s not that simple.”

There was a knock on the door.

“Actually,” Scarlett said, “it kind of is.”