by Ellie Danes
We were having a party whether I wanted one or not.
After lunch, I slowly inched my way to the back door. I knew if I set even one foot toward the studio, my mother would try to rope me back into her latest project. Even as we finished with a bright dessert of fruit and cream, she was already getting that faraway look in her eyes.
“I think backbends should be next,” my mother said to no one in particular. “The effect of the hand placement on the canvas will be really interesting, don’t you think?”
Susie Q agreed, even as she pressed me for more details about my life in New York City. “Come on, Cora, you must have some sort of nightlife.”
I shook my head, tight-lipped. It wasn’t because I was hiding any sort of steamy relationship. I had been single for over a year now, but my mother knew that, so obviously her best friend did as well. What I really wanted to avoid was any sort of subject that could circle back around to my job or my finances. Susie Q loved a lavish lifestyle, and I didn’t want her or my mother sensing the downfall of my savings.
My mother wasn’t interested in my big city life and brought the subject, as always, back around to art. “How about those photographs, huh, Suz? My daughter has real talent. Not that she’d ever admit it.”
I put my hand on the back door handle. The only thing I wanted to talk about less was how much I had enjoyed taking those pictures. My phone’s camera was loaded with little shots I couldn’t help but take every day. It was the only little artistic indulgence I allowed myself, and my mother somehow sensed it. If I let myself, I would admit to loving photography but that was way too close to being like my mother, and I vowed never to let that happen.
“Thanks for lunch. Just need to stretch my legs.” I slipped out the door and shut it behind me.
My mother’s laughter rang out, but I ignored it and hightailed it through the narrow alley and onto the street. I had to do something practical, something solid, or I thought my head would burst. So, I headed over a few blocks from Main Street to where the old diner was still in business.
I took a spot at the standing counter in the window and checked my email before ordering. No responses to my dozens of resumes. No views of my multiple online job search profiles. Nothing. There weren’t even any new job postings that made me want to see more than the title.
I was sinking low when there was a sharp knock on the diner window. Outside, my old classmate and friend waved. She waved me outside and motioned for us to get real drinks. I abandoned my job search in a second and joined her.
“Cora! I’m so glad to see you!” Victoria hugged me and then pulled me toward the local dive bar. “Come on, I need a drink.”
“Tough assignment tonight?” I asked. Victoria was a journalist and blogger.
She rolled her eyes behind trendy tortoise-shell glasses. “You’re never going to believe me. Drinks first.”
I laughed and let my childhood friend drag me into the locals’ favorite bar. She navigated the surprisingly packed crowd and found us a small booth in the corner. Under the low hanging bar lights, Victoria’s platinum-dyed blond hair was glossy and perfect. She waved to the bartender, ordering us shots.
“All right. Spill.” I slipped into the booth.
“I’m going to a party at the Morris Mansion!” Victoria announced.
We both laughed, remembering all our childhood days of playing dress-up and pretending we were invited. The shots arrived, and we toasted Storm Morris before knocking them back. Then Victoria ordered another round.
“So, you aren’t excited? It’s the perfect reason to wear a tiara, remember?” I asked her.
Victoria snorted. “Or a feather boa. God, do you remember that awful purple thing? It shed all over the house.”
“I can’t believe Storm Morris is having a party. I heard he was getting ready to sell the mansion,” I said.
“Maybe that’s part of it or maybe that was all just a ploy to get people interested. Either way, there’s supposed to be a crazy party up there tonight, and my blog is making me go.” Victoria waved away the idea like an irritating fly. “But I’d much rather drink with you. What’s going on with you?”
“You know if he sells the house, Murtaugh is going to become a ghost town, right?” I neatly avoided the topic of me.
Victoria screwed up her pert little nose. “Yeah, I can imagine. Lots of shop fronts closing. Why doesn’t he just make the gardens a concert venue or something?”
“Or make that huge medieval dining hall of his a fancy restaurant?” I added. We shared wilder and wilder suggestions until the second shots arrived.
“Someone should bring the town’s concerns to his attention,” Victoria said.
“Someone like a reporter?” I asked pointedly, though the tequila was making me feel anything but sharp.
My friend shook her perfectly styled head. “No way. That’s not the angle I’ve been told to take. I can’t lose this job. It’s brutal out there.”
“I’ll tell him,” I said. “I’ll crash that party and give the host a piece of my mind for all of Murtaugh!”
Victoria leaned back and sighed. “Oh, my god, and I could actually take a bath. Thank god Maria and Dan still run a heavenly B & B.”
“Been working too hard, huh?”
She nodded. “And this is really just a little fluff piece. All I need is a few pictures and a general idea of what the night was like.”
“I’ll report back,” I joked.
Victoria leaned forward with a gleam in her eyes. “You should. Take my press pass and go party. That way, you can tell Storm Morris just what he’s doing to the people around him.”
“And you can get a night off.”
“Exactly. Plus, parties like this are no fun for me anymore.” Victoria flashed a heavy engagement ring.
I squealed with excitement that turned into an insulted gasp. “You mean, you can tell I’m still single? I mean, congratulations!”
My old friend smiled, understanding my response perfectly. “He’s the best guy ever. I’ll tell you all about him over brunch tomorrow.”
“Wait, you’re serious about me crashing the party?” I sat back as the bar seemed to spin.
“It won’t be crashing with my press pass, and we look enough alike that no one will think anything of it,” Victoria said. “And you can let loose, my little accountant. Ooo, better yet, meet someone wild and have a little fling! Do it for me now that I’m off the market.”
I shook my head. “No way. I’d have to sneak back into the studio to get my bag. I have nothing to wear.”
Victoria slapped some cash on the table and dragged me to my feet. “Just like old times.”
My mother, covered in deep swirls of purple paint, caught us halfway up the ladder to the sleeping loft where she’d tossed my bag. “Nice to see you ladies having a little fun. Hi, Vicky.”
“Hi, Caroline.” My friend dropped back down to the floor and air-kissed my mother’s cheeks. “Wow. You look great.”
“Thanks, sweetie. So, what’s going on?” my mother asked.
“Cora’s going to the Morris Mansion party,” Victoria blurted out before I could scramble back down the ladder and shut her up.
My mother shocked us both by slapping a hand over Victoria’s mouth. “Shhh, don’t let Susie Q hear, for god’s sake. She only five months sober.”
“Caroline, hun, your studio is open-concept.” Susie Q appeared in the doorway and grinned at us all. “Plus, my night’s booked. I’ve got a meeting in a church basement in an hour.”
My mother patted her best friend’s cheek, leaving a streak of purple paint. “That gives us an hour to get Cora ready for her first rock ‘n’ roll party.”
Victoria squealed with delight, and Susie Q jumped up and down. Within minutes, they had already decided on my makeup, hairstyle, and were arguing over the best colors to bring out my blue eyes.
“No!” I had to shout. “I’m not going there to party! I’m going there to tell Storm Morris he’s
got to think about the town and all the local businesses that depend on him, his father’s legacy, and the mansion to bring in tourists.”
“No reason you can’t do all of that while wearing these.” Susie Q produced a blinding pair of diamond earrings from her purse. “Too much?”
“She’s undercover as a reporter, not a princess,” Victoria joked.
“Then these.” Susie Q held up an enormous pair of freshwater pearl earrings.
“What do you have in there, a jewelry store?” Victoria asked. “How about a tiara?”
“No. Absolutely not,” I said.
After another round of arguments, two escape attempts by me, and a pause while my mother showered in order to prevent purpling anything else, I was finally dressed. The result made everyone grin except me.
My jaw dropped when I faced the mirror.
Susie Q had insisted I wear a designer skirt she had brought with her. The sapphire-blue satin skirt hugged my hips as I was curvier than her, but it fit perfectly. It ended too far above my knees for my own comfort, but I was amazed how long and sexy my legs looked in a pair of sheer black pantyhose.
I had refused the matching jewel-blue halter top and opted for a tight black cashmere sweater instead. It was the one item I had brought that the ladies deemed sexy enough; the neck did swoop down into a low V. My mother had contributed a stunning lapis lazuli necklace a wealthy patron had once gifted her. It hung on a gleaming silver chain that matched the hand-hammered silver earrings I had once given Caroline for Mother’s Day.
The earrings flashed under my now-fashionable tussled hair, but it was my eyes that had me staring. With a well-practiced hand, Susie Q had drawn subtle but effective cat-eyes that made my baby blues more dramatic than usual. Thick lashes gave me a sleepy, sultry expression.
“Oh, Cora Bora, you are going to knock ‘em dead,” Susie Q said.
“Storm Morris will definitely notice you. He might not listen to you, but I’m sure you can figure out how to make him hear you,” my mother said.
I pulled a face unworthy of my perfect make-up. “The only thing he’s going to notice is this press pass. And why do we think our reclusive one-hit wonder wants to talk to a journalist?”
“My best advice is to pretend you don’t have a story or an angle. Play drunk, and he’ll open up about all sorts of things,” Victoria said.
I made one more break for the sleeping loft ladder, but my mother caught me. “Who cares if you don’t even run into Storm Morris, love? Just go and have a little fun. Corporate accountants are allowed to do that now and then.”
My stomach clenched. No one knew about my dire career and financial situation. And, if I played my cards right at the mansion, they wouldn’t have to. I had heard of people selling candid shots of the rich and famous for very lucrative amounts. Maybe the whole night wouldn’t be a loss after all.
I thanked my mother and Susie Q, but they piled into Victoria’s car and rode up to the mansion gates with us anyway. I felt ridiculous stumbling out of the full car in front of the security guards, but they didn’t even look twice at my press pass.
I was in.
“Give ‘em hell, party girl!” my mother called from the car as they sped off and left me to face the Morris Mansion alone.
I thought I’d get away with locking myself in my large master suite and pretending the party wasn’t happening. Tyson must have anticipated my plan because he placed the DJ directly below my rooms. The floor buzzed and thumped, and I could hear the growing crowd cheering.
I ripped open my door and marched down the hallway, determined to find somewhere else to avoid the party entirely.
At the third locked door, I let loose a long line of obscenities. Tyson, always diligent, had gone through the mansion and locked most of the doors on the second floor in order to keep the party contained. My keys were in the old roll-top desk in the library, and I had no choice but to sneak downstairs to get them.
The party guests had not made it back as far as the library, and I happily closed the door behind me. They would be content for a few more hours with the paparazzi flashing pictures on the front steps, the wild performance artist engaging everyone in the main foyer, and the dining hall packed with everything tempting and delicious.
“You really outdid yourself this time, Ty,” I muttered out loud as I heard more cheers from the front of the mansion.
“I did. You should go enjoy it,” Tyson said.
I jumped a foot in the air and spun around. “Jesus! What are you doing in here?”
Tyson chuckled and held out my keys. “Looking for these?”
“All right, fine. You caught me. What do I need to do to get my keys and a little peace and quiet back?” I asked.
My manager tipped his head from side to side, contemplating the many things I could do for him. Then he grinned. “I’ll make you a deal. Play me that tune you’ve been humming, and I’ll give you back your keys and let you go be a humbug.”
“Tune?” I realized that subconsciously I had been working on the tune the woman in town had inspired. “No. It’s nothing.”
Tyson pocketed my keys. “Then why don’t we head to your bar and get this party started?”
I scowled as he threw open the library door. Tyson herded me down the wide hallway as if I might break and run. I considered it, I was in much better shape than my manager, and it would be funny to see him chugging up the stairs behind me, but just then a clump of party guests appeared.
I braced myself but not a single person recognized me. To test it out, I made my way into the ballroom with Tyson close on my heels. My pride stung a little, but it was nice to walk more than three steps without getting accosted. Fame had always been so uncomfortable to me. I was just starting to enjoy myself when I saw her.
The woman from town, the intent photographer, stood next to the ballroom fireplace. She scanned the crowd and then the tall French doors as if she, too, wanted to escape into the garden.
“Grab some champagne, will you?” I asked Tyson. “And two glasses.”
I took a deep breath and hoped she wouldn’t be any different once she recognized me. I had liked her shy smile when we met in the record store; there wasn’t any false flattery in it.
“Nice to see you again,” I said. “I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”
“Cora.” She smiled and brushed back her short, unruly hair.
“I thought it was Victoria,” Tyson said. He handed me one champagne flute but held the other out of suspicion.
She narrowed her eyes right back at Tyson. “Cora’s my nickname. Don’t you have a rock star to conjure up?”
I burst out laughing. She didn’t recognize me! For once, I had the chance to get to know someone before all my baggage buried the relationship, and it was happening in my own mansion.
Before Tyson could open his mouth and ruin it, I said, “My name’s Sean.”
‘Sean’ was code, meaning I wanted to be incognito. Tyson rolled his eyes and handed me the other champagne flute. He then poured two glasses, tucked the rest of the bottle under my arm, and disappeared back into the crowd with a muttered, “Good luck.”
Cora helped me by taking one of the champagne flutes. “That’s Storm Morris’ manager,” she said.
I chuckled. “Yeah, he and I have run into each other before.”
We clinked glasses and took long sips. The ballroom was packed with a motley group of guests. Some were locals come to view the mansion out of curiosity. Some were fans of mine that had, thank god, completely missed the fact that I had grown up and changed my look. Most were die-hard fans of my father’s who had made the pilgrimage out of fear it would be the last time. And the rest were a wild, lively bunch of new rockers that Tyson and the record label had rounded up to make the party happening.
“Want to find a quieter corner?” I asked Cora. She stood close to the wall and showed no interest at all in joining the dancers.
“Yes, please. I don’t even know what I’m doing
here,” Cora said.
The DJ started another set to big cheers as I led Cora out of the ballroom and back down the hall toward the library. She stumbled, as most people did, when she realized the painting at the end of the hall was a real Cezanne.
“So, where’d you get your invite?” I asked Cora.
She shrugged, a little uncomfortable, as she studied the beautiful painting. “It’s a big party. To be honest, I didn’t think Storm Morris had this much pull anymore.”
“Yeah, me neither. Think we’ll see him tonight?” I swung open the library door and peered dramatically inside. “Nope. No aging one-hit wonder in here!”
Cora smiled. “To be fair, he was a really good guitar player.”
We toured the library, and it was fun to see all my father’s antiques and oddities appreciated by someone new. I poured her more champagne and wondered how to bring up her work at Caroline’s art studio. I still wanted to see the photographs that had put such a passionate light in her eyes.
Cora stopped at the base of the wrought-iron spiral staircase and pointed at a low door carved into the library’s wood-paneled wall. “Is that a secret passage?” she wondered.
“I bet it’s just a bathroom,” I said.
Cora discovered it was with a delighted laugh. “I hope Storm doesn’t mind but I really have to go.”
I took her champagne flute and told her to meet me by the library fireplace. Cora slipped into the hidden bathroom and shut the door just before Tyson appeared from behind the stacks.
“What are you doing?” I hissed at him.
“Just checking on you. She seems familiar, but I can’t place her.” Tyson scowled.
“Seriously, Ty? First, you want me to join the party and now you’re going to get all suspicious of my guests?”
My manager crossed his thick arms over his chest. “She doesn’t know she’s your guest. Doesn’t that seem odd?”
“I’d think it odd if more than eight people here recognized me,” I said. “Face it, old man, we’re history. That’s why it’s time to sell this place and turn to a new page.”