“Alice has never been in love.” Les rolled on top of Jimmy. He wrapped his arms around her body and kissed her lips.
“How did you know that was the trail?”
“When we walked into the dining room. I looked out the window.” Les reached over and picked up Melba’s story. She arched her back and placed the document on Jimmy’s chest. Then she turned the pages until she found the passage she wanted. She read aloud.
I was the better on horseback, but Nathan valiantly kept up, more concerned for my safe passage through the trees than his own. I saw him falter when we came upon the middling oak near the trail’s end. The ocean was near so I took the occasion to drop from my horse and walk. I saw relief in his eyes, but made no remark lest his pride be injured. We tied our horses to the oak and he quickly produced a knife to carve our names into the wood. Perhaps it is still there a short distance from the cliff. The trail is marked by two large stones he left at its edge where the trees give way to the barren space made by the ocean winds.
“I saw the two stones.” She closed the story and put it to the side. Then she kissed him. They made love long into the night.
Seventy-Eight
I hate to admit that she was right. I didn’t capture the truth of Melba Whitehurst’s story. Les made me see what I missed; patience, courage, unconquerable spirit and most important, love.
- Alice Limoges
Jimmy paced. He had a headache and hadn’t eaten for twelve hours. Miles McCabe arrived the night before, all business and demanding unknowable answers about the prospects for a successful debut of The Whitehurst Legacy. His stomach was in knots. Who could know how the musical he had poured his heart into for the past year would be received? It was nine in the morning and already he was nervous and tired. The cast meeting was at noon. Jimmy’s role was less significant on this day with opening night looming. The performance rested in the hands of the director, actors and orchestra. Timothy Seligman was a fine director. Reina Whitehurst was an equally fine orchestra leader. All he could do is hope as he watched from behind the scenes.
Fortunately, Nigel was a rock of optimism. He gave Jimmy a free hand to arrange his grandfather’s music. He endorsed Alice’s script and he used his influence with the writer when Les demanded strict adherence to his grandmother’s story. Despite her critical director’s role in the orchestra pit, Reina wanted to play the demanding violin parts. Jimmy fought her on this. She couldn’t do justice to both. Nigel sided with him. Reina’s primary responsibility was too important to be scattered with another task.
The cast was comprised of unknowns. None had a boastful pedigree, but Jim Buckman gave no credence to reputation. The voices were all that mattered - that, and the willingness to take direction because the music of Nathan Whitehurst was the cornerstone of his production. It had to be played flawlessly by Reina’s musicians and it had to be performed to perfection according to Jim Buckman’s arrangements. Every word of Alice Limoge’s script would be sung, a daunting requirement involving consummate skill and energy.
Miles worked the phones all morning. There was the publisher of the Sydney Times, the Sunday magazine supplement with nationwide circulation that rivaled similar supplements in New York, London and LA. He was aware of the critic who was sent to cover the opening. He was also aware of Lloyd Gannon Clarke’s bitter reviews. He didn’t expect to influence the column that would appear the next day, but McCabe was a bundle of nervous energy. He had to try. Maybe the promise of ad revenue would help. He used the same ploy with a dozen other publications across Australia, all with critics scheduled to attend the opening. Then there were calls to Blossom’s distributors in the region. The original cast album went on sale right after the first performance. Everything had to be synchronized. Of course, if the show bombed it wouldn’t matter.
He took tea with Sister Marie, meeting her for the first time despite their many telephone calls across the Pacific. Jimmy and Nigel begged off, too preoccupied. Jimmy’s friendly wife was there. She made Miles think of how much he missed Cindy back in Millburn with their son.
After tea with Sister Marie and Miles McCabe, Les met Reina for dinner at a small restaurant around the corner from the theater. Jimmy was already backstage, struggling with his nerves. Reina needed to talk. She was as nervous as everyone else, but instead of pacing alone and silent she sought the company of another woman to calm her jitters. Nigel was blithely unworried and, therefore, no help.
Sister Marie held Fanny Holmquist’s arm as Nigel opened the door of his Range Rover. The theater was a short ride, but he wanted to be the one to escort her to her seat before things became hectic. Fanny bought the whole row although the seats were intended to be gratis. Since some of the revenue was going to the orphanage, Fanny was glad to pay. A number of Melbourne’s most notable citizens would fill the best seats in the house. Lloyd Gannon Clarke also arrived early, the better to secure his customary seat front and center in the balcony.
Les accompanied Reina to the theater entrance. They hugged.
“Break a leg? Is that how the saying goes?”
Reina nodded. “I guess.” Then she hurried inside, leaving Les to find her way backstage to find Jimmy.
Miles waited at the airport. He was in his tux, just inside the terminal, checking his watch every five seconds as a taxi idled outside. Tea with Sister Marie Bonaventuri lingered in his mind. He decided that she was a fine woman. In fact, his equal in many ways, skilled at the machinations of running an enterprise and quite able to quickly discern the character of those she met.
They rounded the corner and came into view. George was disoriented from the long flight. Miles could see it in the older man’s face. His wife held his arm. Miles signaled the porter and rushed over. He took George’s other arm and guided him to the taxi as the porter wheeled their luggage to the rear of the car.
Les found Jimmy discussing something with a distracted Tim Seligman. Actors were scurrying about making their way to the dressing rooms when she hooked her husband’s arm, gave Seligman a knowing smile and pulled Jimmy away. He was white as a ghost.
“You need to relax,” she admonished as they moved to a side room and sat on a pair of folding chairs. “Have you eaten anything?”
“Not now, my stomach’s churning. Did you see him?”
“Yes, he’s there.”
“Tim says he always arrives early.”
“Calm down.”
“I can’t. This is Tim’s sixth show and Clarke’s panned every one.”
McCabe guided George and his wife down the aisle. The faltering steps of the elderly man made Miles second-guess bringing him from Mannheim to Melbourne for the opening. They stopped to let faster people pass. He took the moment to look up at the balcony. He caught a glimpse of Lloyd Gannon Clarke, the notoriously harsh critic from the Sydney Times.
“Who’s he?” Miles turned to find George looking up as well.
“Theater critic from Sydney.”
“You know him?”
“Only by reputation. He’s widely read. Productions like ours live or die based on what he writes.”
“You don’t say?” They continued on. “Where’s Jim at?”
“He’s backstage. Here we are. Best seats in the house.”
George held back. “I wanna see him.”
“After the show. Remember, it’s a surprise he doesn’t know you’re here.”
“That don’t matter. I wanna talk to him before things start.”
George’s wife went first, taking a seat near Sister Marie who smiled and introduced her to Fanny.
“George, you’ve had a long trip. It would be better to take your seat and relax. Jim’s probably very busy at the moment.”
“Not for me he ain’t. Point me in the right direction and let me go.”
Miles sighed and looked around. The curtains would open in twenty minutes. A voice took over from the rear.
“I’ll take him, Miles.” Les kissed George on the cheek. “Jimmy will be thrille
d to see you.” She took his arm and guided him toward the side door, stage left.
Nigel helped Reina get settled in the orchestra pit. He positioned the music stand and switched on the reading light. The other musicians took their places, unconcerned that there was an intruder in their midst. Reina watched them get into position then smiled weakly at her husband.
“I wish I had my violin.”
“You lead the orchestra.” He stooped and took her face in his hands. “You make me the happiest man in the world.”
Les led George to the side room where she had sequestered Jimmy. Before opening the door she cautioned. “He’s a wreck. Make him understand that whatever happens tonight he’ll still be the same man in the morning.”
George chuckled. “That bad, eh?”
She opened the door. Jimmy was still sitting hunched over in thought on the folding chair where she’d left him.
“Sure is a long way to come just to see a Kendall boy.”
Jimmy jumped at the sound of George’s voice. Les closed the door behind them.
“What are you doing here?”
“It’s supposed to be a surprise.”
“It sure is.” The two men hugged and Jimmy guided George to a chair.
“So you’re sittin’ here all alone. Why’s that?”
“Just gathering my thoughts before the performance begins.” He took the chair next to George. “You flew all the way from Germany?”
“Yeah. It was Miles’ idea. Jeez, that’s a long ride.” He stared a Jimmy. “You ain’t looked this bad since I picked you up durin’ that fool run up there in Vermont.”
Jimmy shrugged. “In a way it feels the same.”
“Why’s that? Ain’t you a big star?”
Jimmy looked away. “I want the audience to like it.”
“If they don’t?”
“I’ll be crushed.”
“This ain’t life and death. It’s just a show.”
“I know. It’s a long story.”
They fell silent. A minute later the lights blinked on and off, summoning the cast to the stage and the audience to its seats. Jimmy stood up. “We’ll have a chance to talk after the show.”
George didn’t move “What’re you gonna do?”
“I’m too nervous to take my seat in the audience. I’ll watch from behind the curtains.” He headed for the door, but George didn’t move.
“Let’s stay here for a little while.” He reached into his coat pocket. “I been savin’ these for later, but now’s the better time.” He produced two Cuban cigars. “Do you suppose no one will notice if we just enjoy these?”
When he saw Alice Limoges take her seat in the front row Lloyd Gannon Clarke jotted down a few notes. The theater was full and the lights blinked for the second time. Two seats remained empty and he wondered when the American producer would take his place. Typical grand entrance, he surmised. He recognized some of the others from their pictures. Miles McCabe from Blossom Presents was easy to spot. Nigel Whitehurst, of course, sitting next to the executive. The nun must be from the orphanage that was receiving some of the proceeds. Fanny Holmquist, the rich philanthropist. He didn’t care about the others. The theater darkened as Reina lifted her baton. The overture commenced, bringing the audience to silence as striking notes filled the air, AABB in the familiar cadence Lloyd knew so well, but this music caused the feared critic to cock his head.
Jimmy puffed on his cigar. George gave him a satisfied look as he also puffed and rocked back in his chair. “Nothin’ you can do now. Might as well enjoy our cigars.”
“Where’s Jim?” Miles whispered to Les two seats away. She shook her head also confused.
Mid-way through the first act Tim Seligman turned away from his vantage point overlooking the stage. He was perplexed. Something was wrong. The production was perfect in everyway. In fact, it was the best work this or any other cast he’d directed had ever done. The singers were primed from the opening note. Reina drove the orchestra to a level unheard even in the best rehearsals. As a veteran director, he knew a fine production was unfolding. Yet, while the audience sat attentive, it seemed to be unmoved, no response, no applause between scenes, no rustling, no sound of any kind. He recognized panic in the faces of his young performers. They saw the stoic audience, too. He encouraged them, smiling and making certain to pat each one on the back even though his own inner confidence was wavering. He went in search of Jim.
George dozed in his chair. Jimmy stubbed his cigar, wondering at the ease with which the old man settled his Kendall boy down. The room stank of smoke. Fortunately, the first act would be over soon. He would take George to his seat. Then it was time to face the music. He smiled at his pun. The scratchy sound from the speakers did no justice to Nathan Whitehurst’s songs. Jimmy no longer obsessed about being among the cast members as they hurried between scenes. He knew it was expected. Tim Seligman explained the routine.
“Just like athletes,” the director said. “They need constant encouragement to do their best. That’s our job, to be there for them every step of the way. It’s as important as anything else we do. And,” Jimmy remembered. “Once the show begins it’s the only thing we can do for them. Good or bad we are the cheerleaders.” The door opened. Tim Seligman entered with a dark expression on his face.
Miles Michael McCabe sat awestruck. From the moment the overture commenced he found himself transfixed by the most beautiful music he had ever heard. As a businessman he knew he’d taken a big gamble, but he wasn’t thinking about that when he stared at the stage. He was totally absorbed in a story that unfolded audibly and visually before his ears and eyes.
Nigel Whitehurst touched Sister Marie’s hand. Of all the people in the theater, he alone grasped the singular satisfaction of these moments. He was more at peace than at any other time in his life. If she felt his touch, Sister Marie Bonaventuri did not show it. Like Miles McCabe, her every sense was under the spell of Nathan Whitehurst’s music and Melba Whitehurst’s story.
Alice Limoges stole away from her seat. She hurried up the aisle and out into the empty lobby stifling sobs. In her mind she could not rationalize the unresponsive audience. In her heart she was convinced that she had failed. A startled usher held the door as she burst out onto the sidewalk, finally able to scream in total disappointment.
Les concentrated on every nuance. She knew Melba’s story by heart and the battles with Alice Limoges had left both women anxious. The opening scene with Illalangi Illuka on clapping sticks, told the legend of Jonathan Whitehurst. But it offered merely a prelude since only the pamphlet written by a British journalist could be relied upon. The heart of The Whitehurst Legacy began with Melba’s words, recounting her life with Nathan. Here, the story flowed in music and lyrics so sweet that Les found herself envisioning the two lovers, not as represented by the cast, but as her mind saw them from the bustling whaling town of Nantucket to the pastoral farm of Apollo Bay.
Alice left her seat a moment earlier. Les watched as the writer she’d battled for months ran up the aisle. Their relationship was tenuous, but Les caught the anguish on Alice’s face. The high-strung Pulitzer Prize winner was distraught. Les rose from her seat, stealing past Miles McCabe to the semi-lit aisle. She hurried to the lobby. An usher led her outside with his eyes. She pushed through the door.
“Alice?” The writer leaned against the façade nervously smoking a cigarette, eyes reddened with emotion.
“They hate it.” She took a drag. “No reaction at all.”
Les approached, wanting to console. “It’s not even the end of the first act.”
“No applause. Not a sound from anyone.”
“Did you see their faces? They’re engrossed.”
“Sure.”
“Alice it’s a beautiful story. You did a masterful job.”
“With all the changes you forced me to make it’s as much yours as mine.” She dropped her cigarette to the pavement and crushed it with the sole of her red high heel. “I only did thi
s because Jimmy asked. Now, I’ve made a mess of things. The show won’t last a week.”
“It’s magnificent.” She took hold of Alice’s arm. “The audience is awestruck.”
Tim Seligman glanced at George then spoke to Jimmy. “Something’s wrong.”
“Tell me on the way.” Jimmy took George’s elbow. “As soon as the curtains close I’ll take George to his seat for the second act.”
“If there is a second act,” Seligman responded, morosely.
When the curtains closed the lights came up to a silent greeting that few in any theater had ever experienced. Tim stood stage right and watched as Jimmy took George to the aisle and handed him off to Miles. When he returned Seligman pointed to the balcony.
“If Clarke’s still here when the second act begins I’ll be shocked.”
“We’ll know soon enough.”
“Jim, nobody applauded.”
“No one has moved, either.” Jimmy stole a glance at the audience from offstage. “It’s intermission and they’re still sitting in their seats.”
“This is the strangest reaction I’ve ever witnessed.”
Reina was in her dressing room. Seligman approached, shaking his head.
“Have you ever seen this before?”
“Never,” she replied. “There ought to be applause.”
After settling George in his seat, Miles remained standing, surveying the full house where most of the audience hadn’t moved. He, too, was caught off guard. He looked up at the balcony. Lloyd Gannon Clarke was seated and staring straight out at the stage. The lights blinked on and off. Miles prepared to sit, making a mental note to look at the balcony again midway through the second act. Les came back with Alice. The executive made room for them to pass. Les touched his arm. He looked at her with no idea what to say.
“Magnificent,” she whispered.
Sister Marie leaned against Nigel.
“Do you like it?” he asked, as she turned to meet his gaze.
“Stunning,” she answered. “The music, Nigel. God’s hand at work.”
Throughout the second act Les held Alice’s hand. The heart of The Whitehurst Legacy commenced with moving melodies that closed Nathan Whitehurst’s life and heralded the wrenching emotion that followed. Aaron was depicted amidst the backdrop of war, love, pain and new love until another child was born. Melba’s story ended, but a new one began, mostly written by Les and packaged in verse by Alice Limoges. The scenes once again changed to silence as the audience sat unmoving from melody to melody, but the seats remained filled to capacity. McCabe made a quick turn, expecting to see empty space where Lloyd Gannon Clarke once sat. The critic was still in his customary spot, leaning forward in total concentration.
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