Leaves

by Michael Baron

  At that point, Maria heard her name and the polite applause of the audience. She walked up the four steps to the stage and exchanged a smile with Martha before she sat at the stool, adjusted the mic, and checked the tuning on her guitar one more time.

  She looked out from the stage. The room was perhaps two-thirds full, maybe seventy-five or eighty people. That was a decent crowd for something like this, a testament to Martha’s ability to get attention for these showcases. Maria recalled doing similar things twenty years ago in front of gatherings of no more than a dozen.

  Just before she started playing, she looked over at the table where her family was sitting. In addition to Doug and Olivia, Corrina and Maxwell had come as well. Deborah was cooking at the inn, of course, and Tyler was still out of town. Maria assumed that Gardner wouldn’t be there, since he always seemed to be working, but she was surprised that Annie hadn’t come. Maxwell said something about a babysitter, but he seemed to be having trouble explaining the matter. Maria wondered if he’d be asking to see Lucretia some time soon, though Lucretia hadn’t made an appearance in a very long time.

  Maria checked her tuning a third time, superfluous because the guitar had been in tune when she first checked, and then started her slowed-down version of “Least Complicated.” As she sang the first verse, she realized that it had been decades since she’d last sung into a PA system. She’d used microphones to record, but not to amplify her voice. For some reason, she found this disorienting, as though what was coming from the speakers was not originating from her, and this distracted her to the point that she botched the last line of the first verse.

  This led to a cascade of errors. Thinking too much about the lyrics caused her to slip up on her fingerpicking. Concentrating on her mechanics caused her to blow a chord change. By the time she got to the third verse, she half expected the strings to start popping from the bridge one at a time.

  Olivia whooped at the end of the song, but applause in the rest of the room was sparse. Maria considered it to be generous.

  Just then, her eyes connected with Doug’s. He pantomimed taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. It was precisely what she’d done for him when, during one of his infrequent public presentations, he’d stumbled badly at the beginning. Maria understood that the gesture was much more than an attempt to pay her back, and she appreciated it more than she realized she would.

  Feeling bolstered, Maria regarded the rest of the audience. “Here’s some James Taylor,” she said before launching into “Song for You Far Away.” She handled the fingerpicking at the beginning of the song without incident, and this served as her own metaphoric deep breath. By the time she came to the last words of the first verse – “people keep talking ‘bout a different line but it never seems to fit” – she felt she was channeling the song rather than playing it. This was the seamlessness she remembered from her favorite times on stage. Her guitar, her voice, and her spirit were all merged. She didn’t need to think about directing things, or even worse, remembering or noticing things. She could just go along for the ride.

  The applause was much stronger after this one. She stole a quick glance at her daughter, who offered her an exaggerated thumbs-up, and her husband, who smiled appreciatively. Then she went directly into her greatly rearranged version of Queen’s “Keep Yourself Alive.” The pace of the song was considerably faster than the previous two and the crowd seemed to connect with this, even though she could tell that most of them had never heard the song before and likely wouldn’t have recognized it even if they had. By the second verse, her family was clapping along, and this caused several others to join them. Maria found herself moved to the edge of her stool, and she would have stood for the last verse if she could only think of a way to raise the mic while still playing.

  The cheering after this one seemed genuinely enthusiastic. Maybe she’d found her calling in acoustic reinterpretations of hard rock hits. Probably not. Still, the fact that several people she didn’t know were smiling after this song warmed her.

  “Thanks,” she said as the applause died down. “You’re very polite, and I’m adding all of you to my Christmas card list. I’m going to risk your disapproval now and do an original song. It’s something I just wrote, and it’s called, “What If I Told You.”

  Maria played the twelve-bar opening with her head down to the guitar, as she tried to inhabit the song. Playing her own material had always been different for her than covering others. While she could attempt to place herself in the songwriter’s head when she did other people’s songs, there was no distance between her own material and herself, and it was important that anyone listening feel this.

  This was especially vital with this song, as it was more than a little confessional.

  What if I told you I’ve started dreaming new dreams again?

  There was a certain sense of standing naked and vulnerable in performing this song, but it was liberating as well. Then there was a third thing she hadn’t anticipated: it was nostalgic. Singing these new words that gave voice to what she was feeling at this stage in her life reminded her of why she’d started writing songs in the first place, of why this particular form gave her a level of expression that she’d never found in anything other than the unspoken communication between mother and infant child.

  For a moment, right before the third verse, the emotion of this realization threatened to overwhelm her. She tucked her chin into her chest, improvised a sixteen-bar break, and gathered herself enough to finish strong.

  You say to me that you don’t know where I’m going.

  Well, what if I told you?

  As the crowd began to cheer, Maria leaned her forehead on the mic for an instant before looking out and thanking everyone. Then she blew quick kisses to her family and walked off the stage.

  **^^^**

  The house was dark when Maxwell returned from the show, even though it was only a little after ten. He’d been half-hoping that he and Annie could talk for a while. He’d tried to convince her to get a babysitter so they could go out to see Maria together, but she’d refused. How could she complain about being tethered to Joey all day and then have no interest in untethering herself to go out with him for the night?

  He got ready for bed and slid under the sheets, leaning over to kiss his wife, whose back was toward him, on the cheek. She didn’t move. Whenever he got home after she was already asleep, no matter how late, he would kiss her and she’d turn over and move into his arms. That’s how he knew she wasn’t asleep now.

  “Annie,” he said softly.

  She didn’t answer.

  **^^^**

  “Hey,” Corrina said as she stepped into Gardner’s office. He was studying a brief and kneading both of his temples.

  “How was it,” he said without looking up.

  “Fantastic, actually. I don’t remember Maria being this good.”

  He continued to rub his head. “It’s nice that she didn’t tank.”

  “Yeah. Are you okay?”

  Gardner tipped his head back and breathed deeply. “As long as you define ‘okay’ as ‘certain I’m going to lose this case.’ I also have a monster headache.”

  Corrina moved closer and started massaging the base of Gardner’s neck. He groaned appreciatively. “Do you really think you’re going to lose?”

  “Would it be possible for you to keep doing that for about an hour? No, I don’t really think I’m going to lose, but I think I might not have any hair left by the end of this trial.”

  “Sorry. Can you take off fifteen minutes to have a cup of tea with me.”

  “I really can’t. I’m panning for gold here. I might not make it to bed at all tonight.”

  She kneaded his neck for another minute and then gave his shoulders a squeeze. “I’ll leave you alone. I’m gonna spend a little time taking care of some things for the party – Tyler screwed up in a big way on the decorations – and then I’m calling it a night.”

&nb
sp; “Lucky you.”

  Corrina scoffed as she left Gardner’s office.

  **^^^**

  Tyler didn’t turn his cell phone back on until he was in his car and heading toward his house from the airport. He saw that there was a voice message and he instructed his hands-free device to play it for him.

  “Tyler, it’s Corrina. I got a call from Celebrations because they couldn’t get you. The thing with the flying bats is a total disaster. I’m taking care of it, but –”

  Tyler clicked off the phone. It was exactly the kind of “welcome home” he should have expected.

  **^^^**

  Saturday, October 30

  The day before the party

  Deborah had been in the kitchen since ten this morning, and her legs had only now started complaining, eleven hours later. The fourth course had just gone out, and she took a moment to wipe her brow and check in with her staff before beginning final preparations for the first meat course.

  The dining room was filled with many of the inn’s most dedicated patrons from the years that Deborah had been running the kitchen. She’d reserved one table for four diners from Manhattan who ran a hugely influential food site, her only concession to marketing for her next endeavor, and a table for two for the writers from the Post covering this. There was no space for the casual or the curious. There was also no space for her family. Deborah had made it abundantly clear that this night wasn’t for them, even though they’d inspired the menu.

  Sage had come by after he closed the shop, about an hour before the single seating began at seven-thirty. He was willing to offer more than moral support, but understood when Deborah explained that all the cooking had to be from her and her team tonight. Still, she reveled in wandering past his table in the kitchen for a quick kiss whenever possible. In the past, having a boyfriend hanging around while she was working would have been distracting and annoying. She felt neither distracted nor annoyed now.

  Deborah started working on the lemongrass gastrique for the roasted chicken. When she’d first learned the ideal way to roast a chicken at the CIA, her mother had insisted on eating it unadorned. “It doesn’t need anything else, sweetie,” she would say. “This is perfect.” Deborah eventually convinced her that the chicken wouldn’t be hers unless there was a sauce on it, and she’d topped the meat with several over the years. This was always Mom’s favorite, though, and it had shown up on the inn’s menu numerous times.

  The same was true of the cream of parsnip soup with rapini oil and raisin bread croutons that started the meal. Even though Corrina requested it often in the fall for Wednesday night family meals, Deborah would still bring it out for other diners on occasion. That was also the case with the roasted garlic soufflé she offered after the soup, a personal favorite that she presented with an aged Gouda béchamel that servers spooned into the center. Tyler’s pasta had never gone out to the inn’s dining room – at least not for patrons – and it required a bit of dressing up tonight. Maxwell’s diver scallops with hazelnut butter, on the other hand, was already formal and elegant enough, even though Deborah had never served it to anyone other than family previously.

  Once the chicken had gone out, it was time to work on the Aleppo pepper bordelaise to go with the beef tenderloin. This one was a favorite of her father’s, and he requested it nearly every holiday, even in the face of Deborah’s suggestions that they try something different. Once this was done, it was just a matter of stuffing the bomboloni. Gina was already frying the doughnuts and Evan was finishing the caramel.

  Twenty minutes later, as the last of the tenderloin plates were leaving the kitchen, Nancy Wilson, the head of the wait staff, came in.

  “They want you outside,” she said.

  Deborah had just started filling a pastry bag with caramel. “Who wants me outside?”

  “Practically everyone. Lots of people have asked during the night, and I kept telling them that I assumed you’d come out at some point, but now I’m starting to wonder if you’re just planning to hide in here.”

  Deborah often took a walk around the dining room at some stage in the evening. That she hadn’t tonight had much to do with the scale of the menu, but it was also at least partially deliberate.

  “I’m getting dessert ready,” she said.

  Gina took the pastry bag from her hands. “I’ll stuff the donuts. Go bathe in adulation.”

  Deborah offered her soon-to-be former sous a gee, thanks smirk. Then she turned to Sage. “Are you coming?”

  He sat upright, but he didn’t rise from his chair. “They aren’t asking for me. You should do this solo.”

  Cringing inside, she headed for the door. As soon as she entered the dining room, it erupted in applause with several diners standing.

  “You do realize you’re paying for your meals tonight, right?” she said to laughter when things quieted. “I hope you’ve enjoyed your dinner. After the beef, there’s dessert, after which we have a little something for you to take home and then we’ll have used all the food we have left in the kitchen. If you’re still hungry – and if you are, you might want to talk to a doctor – the diner down the street is open all night, and they make very good omelets.”

  Deborah paused and looked at her hands. She hadn’t planned to give a speech tonight and she’d prepared nothing. She was hoping someone would simply start applauding so she could wave her thanks and get back to her work, but that wasn’t happening.

  “You know, cooking in this kitchen is the only job I’ve ever had. Unless you count the time when my mother paid me to spend an hour playing Candy Land with my little brother. Now that was work. My parents put their souls into this place and I felt that it was only appropriate that I do the same. Since the day we decided to sell the inn, I’ve been thinking about how I would soon not be cooking here anymore, and I’ve been dragging my heels as much as I can.

  “I guess I can’t avoid it any longer. As each dish has gone out tonight, I’ve been thinking, last soup, last appetizer, last fish course. You really should eat your last meat course before it gets cold, by the way. I’m sorry I didn’t come out earlier tonight to see how everyone was doing, especially considering that all of you have had a special relationship to the inn. I had a feeling that if I did I’d never make it through the entire meal.

  “So thank you for your patronage, thank you for your kindness, thank you for not sending anything back tonight – that would have been tough. There will never be another place like this for me, and I appreciate your being a part of it more than I could possibly express.”

  With a slight bow, Deborah turned to go back to the kitchen as the applause started again. When she got back, Gina was waiting for her with a hug, and each of the staff followed her. Finally, she walked over to Sage and collapsed in his arms.

  It was a good thing someone else was handling dessert, because Deborah wasn’t sure she’d survive it.

  Nineteen

  Sunday, October 31

  The day of the party

  Inspired by his multiple conversations with Joe Elliot while he was in South Carolina, Tyler had been out with his camera since nine this morning. He’d decided not to phone Corrina about the “disaster” with the party. By tomorrow, none of that would matter. Instead, he was treating this day as another, more meaningful occasion, and he needed to take as many shots as he could.

  There were lots of children in the park, several of whom were in costume. There were two kids in Patriots jerseys throwing a football. Was that a Halloween thing for these two, or did they always dress that way to have a catch?

  Tyler got to the huge oak in the northeast corner of the park and camped under it. As he settled, a leaf dropped down, flipping in the light breeze toward him. Tyler lay on his back and caught the leaf making several turns until it landed on his stomach.

  He looked through his lens up the branches of the oak, and then did the same without the camera. The branches were now completely bare. Brushing the l
ast leaf from his shirt, Tyler snapped dozens of frames of the tree in its winter guise.

  **^^^**

  Joey was on his third shirt. The first had fallen victim to a yogurt tube explosion. The second had proven no match for the toy truck the kid thought it would be fun to stuff underneath it. Joey didn’t as much outgrow his clothes as vanquish them. Having re-dressed his child yet again – maybe he should have just left him in the tattered shirt until they were about to go – Maxwell sat his son in front of the television, hoping Joey would mellow out for a bit. Maxwell needed to get ready for the party.

  When he got to the bathroom, he saw that Annie had blown her hair dry and was now applying eyeliner at a glacial pace.

  “He’s neat again,” Maxwell said. “I’m hoping Bob the Builder can sedate him long enough for us to get out of the house.”

  Annie now seemed to be just staring at the mirror, though she did manage to say, “Good luck with that.”

  Maxwell changed quickly. At one point, Corrina had the idea that all of them should show up at the party in costume this year as they did when they were kids. Maxwell squashed this immediately. The last thing he needed was an opponent flashing pictures of Maxwell dressed as an eighties rock star or some such thing while he was trying to convince voters that he had the gravitas to be mayor. When he went back into the bathroom to brush his teeth, his wife was still gazing at her reflection.