Patrice Greenwood - Wisteria Tearoom 03 - An Aria of Omens (5 page)

“Where’s Nat?” I asked Manny.

He nodded toward the front of the car. “Talking with Claudia.”

“Claudia’s here? Oh, how lovely!” I glanced at Mr. Ingraham, wondering if he’d invited Claudia Pearson because of our acquaintance or if he had struck up a friendship with her. She had worked with Sylvia Carruthers, and had also been at the thank-you tea that had ended in Sylvia’s death.

I thought about saying hello to the ladies, but decided it would be better not to abandon Tony. Instead, I turned to Mr. Ingraham.

“How can I help?”

“Everything’s under control, but thank you. Would you like some champagne?”

I smiled. “I won’t say no.”

He bent to reach into an ice chest on the ground under the tailgate and produced a bottle of Gruet, which he wiped down with a white napkin. I picked up a flute from the table and stood ready while he eased the cork from the bottle. He filled my glass and turned to Tony.

“Some for you?”

“Sure,” Tony said. He glanced at my glass, then picked up a matching flute from the place setting next to the one I had raided, and held it out.

“To a lovely evening,” I said, raising my glass.

“I’ll drink to that,” said Manny.

By the time all six flutes were filled, the bottle was empty. Mr. Ingraham took out another, and Manny strolled toward the front of the SUV, glass in hand. He returned almost immediately with my aunt and Claudia in tow.

“How delightful you look, Ellen!” said Claudia.

“Thank you. And you look simply stunning!” I said, admiring her high-necked, sleeveless navy gown. Her silver hair was swept up in an elegant French twist, and a squash blossom necklace of needlepoint turquoise glowed against her dress.

Nat was dressed à la Santa Fe Lady, in a black velvet broomstick skirt and matching full-sleeved blouse, with a cashmere shawl woven in wide bands of blue and green. She smooched my cheek and demanded, “Where’s my champagne?”

Hugs and greetings exchanged, we all gathered around the table, where Mr. Ingraham had set out a platter of pâté. He took his seat at the head, with Claudia to his right and Nat to his left. I sat at the foot, between Manny and Tony.

The light of the candles filled the tent with a warm glow. Though the sun was still up, the evening was already getting cool and the occasional breeze made me glad for the shelter, not to mention the privacy it afforded us. Usually when I tailgated it was a card table behind my sedan, at the mercy of the elements and under the curious scrutiny of the neighbors. Like Mr. Ingraham, I liked to put on a good show—I draped my card table in lace, and had candles when the weather didn’t make it hopeless—but he’d outdone me by several levels with the tent.

We all knew each other, and Tony was acquainted with everyone, for which I was grateful as it must make it easier for him. No need to explain his presence or describe his job. He was shy at first, but a couple of jokes from Manny made him relax. I relaxed, too, seeing him smile.

“I love that shawl, Nat,” I said to my aunt. “It reminds me of the one I wore when I was an usher.”

“Thank you! It’s a gift from my beau,” she said, leaning over to kiss Manny’s cheek.

“You were an usher at the opera?” Mr. Ingraham asked.

“Yes, when I was in high school.”

“Then you’ve seen
Tosca
before?”

“No, this is my first time, actually. I think the last time it was performed here was the year before I started ushering.”

“Too bad. I was wondering if you might have any stories of disasters.”

“Disasters?”

“Yes—
Tosca
is the ‘Scottish play’ of opera. Didn’t you know?”

“No!”

Tony shot me a bewildered glance.

“The Scottish play is
Macbeth
,” I explained. “Theater people call it that because they’re superstitious. Saying the title out loud is supposed to be bad luck.”

“Uh-huh.”

“The whole play is considered bad luck,” said Mr. Ingraham. “Bad things happen during productions.”

“Then why do they do it?” Tony asked.

“Because it’s Shakespeare,” said Claudia.

“And the opera equivalent is
Tosca
, though they’re not silly about the title,” said Mr. Ingraham. “Tales abound of catastrophes during production. Maria Callas’s wig caught fire onstage during a performance.”

Nat gasped. “Was she hurt?”

“Not badly. She’s not the only one; at least one other soprano’s hair caught fire when she was singing Tosca. And of course, in the original play, Sarah Bernhardt broke her leg jumping off the balcony at the end. Some of the operatic Toscas have been injured that way too.”

“You’d think they would be careful to make it safe,” said Claudia. “Coloraturas don’t grow on trees.”

Mr. Ingraham continued to regale us with tales of the
Tosca
curse. Gradually the conversation flowed to opera in general, then to Santa Fe politics and what the tourists were up to this year. Claudia was excited about a new project at the Preservation Trust, a house designed by John Gaw Meem that the Trust was arranging to buy. She seemed to be handling the burden of running the Trust fairly well.

When the pâté had faded away, Mr. Ingraham unswathed a Dutch oven and served up steaming coq au vin. This was accompanied by a petal-soft Bordeaux and followed by a salad of baby greens and roasted beets, and finally a platter of cheeses.

When the Bordeaux was gone and the cheeses severely depleted, our host set a cut crystal decanter by his place, then brought out the tray of Aria Cakes and presented them with a flourish, announcing that I had provided the finalé.

“Oh, good!” said Claudia. “I love these!”

“I’ve chosen a white port to go with them. Let me know what you think, Ellen.”

I took a bite of cake and then sipped from the cordial glass he filled for me. The wine was lighter than I’d expected, with a floral hint that went nicely with the cake. “Mm, lovely!”

Tony sniffed at the port, frowning. I leaned toward him. “It’s a sweet wine, a bit strong. If you don’t like it that’s all right.”

He shot me a sidelong glance, sipped cautiously, then set the glass down. His face showed nothing, but he didn’t try it again.

Ah, well. An acquired taste.

The sun was setting by the time we had finished the last of the cakes. Mr. Ingraham topped up my glass of port and I carried it outside the tent to admire the splashes of peach, orange, and crimson in the cloud-troubled sky. Tony came with me, and since I didn’t have my coat I stood close to him, using him for a wind break.

The breeze smelled of hot wax and grilled salmon. Other tailgaters were still enjoying their dinners. The parking lot had filled up considerably; at least a dozen other parties were dining al fresco, and on several tables wineglasses glinted in the sunset light. A couple of groups had even set up awnings, though Mr. Ingraham had the only true tent.

A rumble made me glance behind us at the mountains. Definitely some storm-action there, but since the usual weather track was west-to-east, I wasn’t too worried about rain.

“Great views,” Tony said.

“Aren’t they? It’s magical up here, especially in the twilight.”

“Mm.”

I turned to look at him. Sharp jaw shadowed by the fading light, dusky-dark hair and his shoulders trim in the suit coat. He looked delicious.

“Having fun so far?”

He gave a nod. “The food was great.”

“High praise.”

“Hey, I’m not good at flowery talk. You know that.”

“True.”

I looked back at the sunset, feeling content. Took another sip of port, then caught my breath as Tony slid an arm around my waist. I leaned against him, soaking in the warmth of his body. His head rested against mine.

“Hm.” His voice resonated through my skull. “The evening just got more interesting.”

A little too interesting, especially since we had an audience. I finished my port, letting the last mouthful sear itself into my senses, making me blink, then turned to face him, sliding out of his clasp.

“We should go back.”

He looked disappointed, but smiled and with a formal little bow offered me his arm. I took it, soaking up more of his heat. I’d be needing my coat shortly.

Manny and Mr. Ingraham had the remains of the feast packed away and were breaking down the table. Again, my offer of help was refused.

“If you and Tony would escort the ladies in,” he said, relieving me of my glass, “we’ll be after you in a jiffy.”

“All right. Thank you for an exquisite dinner.”

Mr. Ingraham bowed slightly, an upturned corner of his mouth beneath the salted mustache betraying his pleasure. I collected my coat, beaded bag, and humble tote of weather gear from the car.

“A jiffy?” Tony whispered hotly in my ear, making me shiver. I threw him a repressive glance but ruined it by smiling.

Tony offered an arm each to Claudia and Nat, a deferential gesture of which I approved, and the four of us headed for the opera house. We joined a short line of people already filing through the gate. I dug our tickets out of my purse and we passed through the courtyard into the theatre.

We found our seats—very good ones, orchestra center—and I put my tote beneath mine. “Since we have a little time, I could give you a tour of the grounds,” I said to Tony.

“Sure,” he said, then glanced at Nat who was settling into her seat.

“You go ahead,” she said. “We’ll stay to welcome the men-folk.”

I bent down to smooch her cheek, then stepped out into the aisle with Tony and led him down to view the orchestra pit. The stage was set with minimalist Italian-looking pillars framing the westward view: the last of the sunset glowing over the Jemez. A table that suggested an altar stood in the middle of the stage. I recalled that
Tosca
opened in a church.

“See the water here?” I said, indicating the gently restless, yard-wide band that curved around the orchestra pit. “That’s in honor of the first theatre. It had a pool between the orchestra and the audience. Something about the acoustic quality of water—I’m not sure exactly what.”

“I see why they call it a pit,” Tony said, peering at the musicians who were beginning to gather beneath the lip of the stage.

“Let’s go look at the terrace.”

I led him up the aisle and over to the Stravinsky Terrace, where the views to the north were darkened by clouds. A few planters held token petunias. The snack bar was doing a brisk business in hot beverages, and beverages of a different warming nature. Patrons with cups strolled the terrace.

Tony paused to look at the bust of Stravinsky set in a place of honor at one side of the terrace. “That
the
Stravinsky?”

“It is.”

“He conducted here?”

“He raised money for rebuilding after the first theatre burned down. I think he may have conducted something for that, but it probably would have been in town. Anyway, the second theatre wouldn’t have been built without his help.”

“Huh.”

We ambled back in the direction of the house. Tony paused, looking across toward the south side. “What’s over there?”

“Another patio, with another bar. This side is nicer.”

“What are those tall things? Sails?”

“Wind-breaks. The new roof took care of the rain problem, but it can still get pretty breezy.”

He nodded thoughtfully, then looked at me with a quirked brow. “And people pay a lot of money for this?”

“Yes. Putting on a season of world-class opera is ridiculously expensive.”

He looked over at the stage and shook his head slightly. I could practically hear his thoughts; he’d rather be home drinking beer and watching football. Or whatever they played in the summer—baseball.

“Would you like to go up to the mezzanine?” I said.

“No, Manny and Thomas just came in. Let’s go sit down.”

We made our way back to our seats. As I’d expected, Manny and Mr. Ingraham were the most formally dressed men in the house. Most of the audience were dressed casually, though a few men wore suits, and a few ladies wore long dresses. It amazed me that people dressed with so little care to attend an event for which seats cost over a hundred dollars.

But then, Superbowl tickets were also ridiculously expensive, and look how people dressed for that.

Stifling a sigh, I opened my program and flipped past the slick ads for galleries, jewelers, and real estate to find the page for
Tosca
. Tony followed my lead and was soon perusing the synopsis, for which I was almost sorry.

It wasn’t a pretty story. Jealousy, torture, blackmail, murder. High drama, and the music was powerful, but definitely not a light evening’s entertainment.
The Magic Flute
would have been a better first-time opera.

“The lead baritone is a wonderful singer,” I said. “Victor Solano. I’ve heard him here before.”

“Is he the one that was at Vi’s tea?” Claudia asked. “I thought he looked familiar.”

“Yes. He’s taken her under his wing, she told me.”

“That’s excellent. She’s off to a good start.”

“She’s singing tonight?” Tony asked.

“In the chorus, yes. We’ll have to see if we can spot her.”

“She’s hard to miss.”

Manny chuckled. I took my opera-glasses out of my bag and used them to inspect the Italianate columns on the stage.

“Are those the ones Edmund gave you?” asked Nat.

“Yes,” I said, handing them across to her.

One of many gifts my father gave me. They were French, and antique, and entirely frivolous, ornamented with mother of pearl. I adored them.

A pang of grief caught me off guard. This was the first time I’d been to the opera since my father had died. So many times we’d gone as a family. I felt the sudden pressure of tears behind my eyelids.

“I’m going to visit the Ladies’ before it begins,” I said, standing.

I left my coat and my program on the seat and hurried toward the south courtyard, needing a moment away from the others to compose myself. A couple of tears escaped, but I managed to avoid smearing my makeup, and succeeded in distracting myself.

Later, after I got home, I’d indulge in a good cry. I was about due for one.

I emerged from the washroom to hear the orchestra tuning up in earnest. The house lights blinked a warning. I returned to my seat just as the conductor took his podium, to a smattering of applause.