Late in the Season

by Felice Picano

“This is delicious,” she said a few moments later, sipping the tall, fresh drink. “What’s it called?”

  “Brandy and tonic, I guess. The British drank it in the Orient, to ward off malaria.”

  She led him out onto the deck, where he held his drink up and tapped its rim against her glass.

  “To your decision.”

  They clinked glasses again.

  “You don’t even know what my decision is yet,” she said. “I don’t think I do either.”

  “No. But I support it. Whatever it is.”

  Earlier in the afternoon, Stevie had pictured this very moment: the two of them here on the deck, having cocktails before dinner, the Milky Way stretched across the sky above them, the soft pounding of the surf. Several times while thinking of this moment she had panicked, wondering what they would talk about. Today, on the beach, hadn’t been a particularly illustrious beginning, she thought.

  But there was no problem. At ease here, as he must be anywhere, it seemed, Jonathan immediately began to speak of Sea Mist and its residents. He’d spent several full summers here, and seemed to know the people of the resort far more fully than she or her parents. He talked about the community, the ecology of the island, with a sense of pride and an evident pleasure that made her regret having only perceived it as a beach. Jonathan seemed to know everything about Sea Mist. He knew the various birds and flowers, the incredibly varied insect life. He knew which buds on which bushes opened in May or June, which insects were attracted to their blooms, what week the flowers fell and the leaves began to turn, which birds passed over them migrating south. He’d revived birds that had flown into plate glass windows and doors, had seen those very birds return later on in the summer, and then, the following summer with their families. He’d nursed back to health during the early spring cats and dogs lost out here the summer before, who’d managed somehow to survive the brutal island winters. He knew all the constellations wheeling majestically overhead, and as he pointed them out, he could make Stevie see terribly clearly for the first time in her life why they were called Archer, Whale, Swan.

  Over dinner, he continued talking—about the history of Sea Mist from its earliest days as a lookout station for shipwrecks, to the free port era in the middle half of the nineteenth century, when the China trade clippers dropped half or more of their cargo here, hiding it until it could be transported across the bay. Then they sailed into New York Harbor, where they naturally paid much lighter duties fees than they would have had they shipped in fully laden. The Ginkgo and red maple trees that grew like mad in the community all came from the Orient, he told her. They weren’t indigenous. They’d arrived as saplings, even as seedlings; gifts for wives and families. Some were a hundred and thirty years old. As were some of the large old houses on the other side of town—built by smugglers and stolen goods fences, low-life pirates whose descendants had become millionaires, stayed long enough to have streets named after them, then moved away.

  He pronounced the meal a complete success—and she thought so too.

  The warm night rustled indoors, touching his fine curly hair, making it glitter a strand at a time in the candlelight. His eyes were huge and dark and compelling.

  He hadn’t said anything about how she looked, so she decided to bring it up in a roundabout way, by telling him that if she’d invited Bill Tierney instead of him, Bill would have dressed all wrong for the occasion.

  Jonathan almost frowned; then, casually, with the wineglass tipped up to his mouth, in preparation for a sip, he said:

  “One of the few advantages of aging is that generally the older one gets, the easier it is to figure out what to wear.”

  “You make yourself seem as though you’re a hundred years old!” she protested.

  “I recently read that people’s height begins to decline after the age of thirty-five. That means I’ve already begun to shrink. Horrible, huh?”

  Unwilling to allow him to belittle himself, she said, “I think you’re beautiful.”

  There was an embarrassed momentary silence.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I wasn’t fishing for a compliment.”

  “I was.” She stood up, taking the dishes.

  “Didn’t I say how marvelous you looked?”

  ‘‘No.’’

  “Well, I thought it.”

  “I can’t read your thoughts,” she said. “Coffee?”

  When she returned to pour it, he was standing out on the deck.

  “You aren’t angry at me, are you?” he asked.

  “No-o. Of course not.”

  “It’s really a great night,” he said, more softly. “It hasn’t been a terrific summer for weather. Too much rain. It was cool most of July. We used blankets at night, as late as the first week of August. Damp, muggy, misty: weeks at a time. But it’s going to be really fine from now on. Better than all the rest of the summer.”

  Odd; Stevie had thought exactly that this evening, watching the sunset, the geese flying.

  “If it doesn’t storm again,” she said.

  “It won’t.” He replied so firmly, she asked how he could be certain. She wished she could see his eyes as they spoke. How could she steer him back inside where they could look at each other? So much seemed to depend on that.

  “I’m used to feeling out the moods of places I know,” he said. “It’s a telluric connection; as though a plumb line were dropped down from inside me, right into the center of the earth, with everything—the weather, the life placed around us—in a certain relationship. I don’t feel this everywhere, of course. Not in the city, for example. Here at Sea Mist, I do.”

  He was the one who turned and led her inside then, where she refilled their coffee cups. Facing him over the flicker of candlelight, Stevie felt better; he’d seemed so distant out there for a minute.

  “You know something,” he offered, apropos of nothing in particular, “you remind me of another girl, a girl named Fiammetta, in a story I’m working on.”

  “A new show?”

  He seemed surprised at her question. “Yes. A new one.”

  “I loved Little Rock. I saw it twice. Downtown, and when it moved to Broadway.” She almost immediately regretted her gushing. The last thing she wanted was for him to think her a groupie. “Everyone is recording ‘Unreal,’ you know,” she added, hoping to make good her error.

  “Not everyone,” he said, barely holding back a smile.

  “Everyone is. Come on. It’s all right to be proud about that.”

  “Billie Holiday isn’t recording it.”

  “She’s dead. Even I know that.”

  “Just testing.”

  “Who’s Fiammetta?” she asked. She was dying to know whom or what he thought could compare to her.

  “A young lady in thirteenth-century Florence, whose favorite hunting falcon has flown off. She sends three suitors to find a new one for her, equal to the first in speed, beauty, and prowess. Every time they return with a great hunting bird, she criticizes their selections. Each time she describes her falcon to them, it’s different: more fabulous than before. Each suitor goes farther and farther away from her, for longer periods of time, searching for a falcon she will accept. When they return, Fiammetta’s idea of the falcon has become more exaggerated. Two suitors give up eventually. But one, Gentile, continues to search. You see, he’s come to think of Fiammetta herself as so extraordinary, so unobtainable, that he believes no bird he will ever encounter can come up to her—to his own—expectations.”

  Stevie would have to ponder that fable later on, she thought. Meanwhile, she had a question: “Does he marry her at the end, anyway?”

  “See the show.”

  “How can I, if it isn’t even completed yet?” Then, “Do you think I’m like that? Chasing after rainbows? Is that why you told me her story?”

  “No. Chasing after ideals, perhaps. But don’t stop.”

  “And you?” She meant to ask if he were that ideal, and unobtainable.

  “Oh, naturally,
I’m still going after a few ideals too, although I ought to know better by now. Otherwise I’d stop writing music, stop writing shows. I’d give up looking for the perfectly appropriate melody, the most wonderful new modulation, the ideal form for a song.”

  She wondered if what he was saying explained why he always seemed to be looking just to one side of her, or any object he observed: as though he were looking for the music inside it. It was thrilling to think that besides being so handsome, so desirable, he was also an artist. Would he one day write something for her? A song? A show?

  So she led them into a conversation about theater and the music world he moved in—the people, the names, the entrepreneurs, directors, writers. Jonathan smiled indulgently as though he’d been waiting for this, but he did allow himself to talk about it. Doing so, he revealed another side of his personality; he was sincere and comic at the same time, blasé but intensely opinionated, yet never critical of anyone. His main targets of abuse seemed to be the various systems he’d gotten involved with—publishing houses, recording labels, conglomerate producers. He told her that he preferred live cabaret performances of his songs best of all—or intimate stage productions in small theaters. It was all getting out of hand now, his career expanding too quickly, onto Broadway stages and who knew, films too. Of course, he understood that was a natural progression, given the need for good material in all media. And he did like the challenge of a big stage, a large orchestra and cast. So long as he could still return to his origins, to small theaters, whenever he wanted to.

  He said he was merely being realistic. But Stevie thought he was finer than that—in touch with himself and his wants and needs, overmodest, mature, filled with integrity.

  Then he looked at his watch and said it was time for him to go.

  It was barely eleven o’clock.

  “I still have work to catch up on,” he apologized. “Thanks for a lovely dinner.”

  She’d somehow expected he would stay longer, make it easier for her. What could she do all night by herself, after all this stimulation? She’d go mad.

  “Come by for that bookshelf checking,” he reminded her.

  She almost said yes, she would, right now. But he had work to do. She mustn’t get in the way of his composing. That would be the worst thing she could do.

  “Tomorrow afternoon?” she asked.

  “Anytime.”

  “Good night,” she said, brightened by this.

  And was rewarded. He said good night, and quickly leaned forward to kiss her cheek. She sensed it coming and turned her head, taking the kiss on her lips, as one of his hands touched her left ear with the merest brush of a finger. A softness of lips, a tiny caress, and nearness. Then he was gone.

  Chapter Nine

  The phone was ringing again: for the third time that morning. How was he going to get any work done? He’d been at the piano all morning, trying to work out the big chorus, a triple madrigal, that would be sung when all three of Fiammetta’s suitors began their first journey in search of the falcon. But he just couldn’t get past one point in the piece; he didn’t know why. Barry’s lyrics were fine—the interweaving seemed right—why then couldn’t he make it come out sounding medieval? It always ended up vaguely French, vaguely like Gounod. He could already picture the looks on Saul’s and Amadea’s faces when he played the chorus for them; she would be kind, but afterward Amadea would sweetly ask him to look it over again. Saul would run his big fingers through his thinning long hair, and drop his head, unable to say anything, but secretly fuming, or despairing that he’d ever allowed the others to talk him into anything as monstrous as a medieval musical. Maybe Jonathan ought to set this chorus aside altogether. Come back to it when the rest of the score was done.

  And the phone didn’t stop. He’d had to take the first two calls this morning. Daniel, reporting in at 9:00 a.m. It was teatime in London, and Dan was off to tea with Lord and Lady Someone-or-other, connected with the network. Then he would be off to dinner with Ricky and Andre who’d moved to England a year ago. Then off, afterward, to bars. “The sleazy ones,” Dan hoped, “in South London. With motorcycle boys.” What had Jonathan been up to? Dan managed to ask in the last moments of their ten-minute transatlantic call. “Nothing. Composing. I had dinner with the Locke girl last night. Lady Bracknell’s ward. Over at her house. She was alone too.” Dan had replied, “You poor dear! You are having it bad there, aren’t you? Why not close up the house and go back to the city?” “Because I’m working,” Jonathan had said. Then the international operator interrupted, and it was love and kisses, good-bye, ta!

  Working. Trying to work. He’d been stuck since the night of the storm, if he really admitted it. Yesterday was almost a total loss. He’d awakened late, found he couldn’t concentrate at all, went for a walk on the beach, sat down with Stevie on her blanket, then—after she’d left the beach—had tried to work later on, but again couldn’t concentrate. Thus the recourse to the piano. He’d spent most of last night playing out the score up to this point. That hadn’t been wasteful. He’d found some nice new figurations for Fiammetta’s first song, incorporating his ideas of temperament à la Stevie Locke. He’d played a bit more with Gentile’s prayer. That was now done, quite moving, he thought. Why was this damn chorus holding him up?

  The phone rang and rang. Then stopped.

  The second phone call of the day had been from his long-time collaborator Barry Meade. Business, Barry reported. Jonathan knew better. It was check-up time. Barry was getting worried. He’d been worried right from the beginning on Lady and the Falcon: anxious from their first meeting over the scenario. Jonathan understood why. Successful as Little Rock had been, Barry felt this was the show that would make him or break him. He’d never really wanted to write musicals in the first place. Barry was a poet. He was uncomfortable among show people: uncomfortable to the point of distress around anyone, it seemed, except Amadea and Saul, Daniel and Jonathan, and a few others. He belonged in some small upstate New York college, teaching English literature and writing his lovely poetry. Not out here in the public eye, writing the book and lyrics to all-star, million-dollar musicals for Broadway. Implicit in every question he asked Jonathan, every discussion they had about the punctuation of a lyric he’d written for Lady and the Falcon, was Barry’s real question—had he overreached himself, was he deluding himself; off-off-Broadway shows were one thing; was he good enough to be writing something this big, this important? Jonathan felt like a convent mother with him, at times; spiritual and rational support was endlessly needed. And what if the show did fail? Jonathan would always have several good songs. Amadea and Saul would feel bad for a while, then, like all producers, get in line for another project. But Barry would suffer, possibly talk himself into a nervous breakdown. The responsibilities in such an undertaking seemed awesome to Jonathan. No only did he have to score a three-hour show, he had to protect the future of another man, a grown man.

  Luckily, Barry had been able to keep his anxieties to a minimum in this phone call. Contracts for the British production of Little Rock had gone through, he said, pleased. Big bucks. It seemed the English had always had a softness for country rock music. The show would be done in the West End and the investors there were extremely enthusiastic about it. On the other hand, Barry said, progress on the film version here was still inching along at a snail’s pace. There had been a nine-way conference call on two coasts yesterday: he and Amadea and Saul, their agents and lawyer; the producer in Hollywood, his choice of actor, his agent, and all their lawyers. It had gotten so confusing, Barry hadn’t known who was saying what, and had demanded that every speaker identify himself before having his say. It had turned into an insane free-for-all anyway.

  Hearing Barry talk business amused Jonathan. It also made him feel more at ease. He reported good work on the score. He explained the various changes in the pieces he’d been working on. Barry seemed delighted that his comic foil to Fiammetta—Giustina’s—first act song would be a lullaby. “I ne
ver thought of it that way,” he admitted, “but I think it’s terrific.” When Jonathan began talking about his modifications of Fiammetta’s number, he had to explain that he thought she ought to be played by as young a performer as possible—given the enormous focus she would provide: no more than eighteen years old. Barry agreed with that too. “Marge will bitch and whine about my having to audition all those nubile young girls,” Barry said. “It’s my weakness, you know.” Jonathan hadn’t really known. Was that why Barry’s wife had been so strongly supportive of his leaving Swarthmore and writing musicals with Jonathan? To keep him away from the co-eds?

  To which Jonathan had said, “You ought to be out here, then. There’s one perfectly nubile maiden, all of eighteen years old, alone, just waiting for her castle to be breached.” He’d been teasing, of course, but when Barry dropped his voice to a baritone Jonathan had never heard before and began to ask questions, he became embarrassed at how specific the details soon became in his collaborator’s imagination. “I sure wish I were there,” Barry said, concluding, realizing that Jonathan’s answers were getting more and more vague. Jonathan was sorry he’d brought up Stevie at all, glad he hadn’t been stupid enough to say anything about her serving breakfast coffee to him, naked in bed, yesterday morning. Barry might have really gotten ideas and on some pretext of the score, flown out to Sea Mist.

  The phone started ringing again. Damn! He ought to have taken it off the receiver.

  “Hello!” he finally said, hoping he sounded evil.

  “I thought you were out,” a woman’s voice replied. It took Jonathan a minute to recognize the voice as that of Janet Halpirn, Dan’s ex-wife.

  “Sorry, Jan. I was pretending it was off the hook.”

  “I’m glad you stopped pretending. Is Dan there?”

  “London. For a month. I’ll give you his phone number there.”

  “London!”

  “He gets all the breaks,” Jonathan commiserated.

  “That’s awful! He was supposed to take the boys this weekend. We planned it a month ago. Christ! Pete’s going to hit the roof. Didn’t Dan even mention it to you before he left?”