One Fine Day

by Erica Abbott

  Caroline shook her head. She knew Jill was wrong, but perhaps she’d just forgotten. It had probably hadn’t been any more than a one-night stand, anyway. God knows she herself had bedded more than a few women trying to get Jill out of her mind and heart. It wasn’t worth fighting about again.

  “It doesn’t matter anymore, Jill. I just want us to put all of that part of the past behind us, and see if we can be friends, at least. Can we do that?”

  Jill looked at her a long time. Caroline met her look, and waited, her stomach knotted and tight. She tried to breathe the knots away, but nothing seemed to ease her anxiety as she returned Jill’s gaze.

  Finally, Jill asked, almost gently, “Why did you really come back to Denver, Caroline? Why did you give up everything you’d worked so long and so hard for to come here?”

  Caroline took another deep breath. “I came back for you, Jill,” she answered, and she heard Jill’s sharp intake of air. “I’m tired of trying to be happy without you, tired of living without you in my life. Please give me a chance. Give us a chance, Jill. One more chance.”

  Jill said nothing, and Caroline’s heart was in turmoil. After a few moments, Jill snapped open her evening bag, and drew out something white. As she handed it to Caroline, she saw that it was a business card. “My numbers are there, office and cell,” Jill said. “Sometime next week, we can…talk again. Maybe go to lunch, or something.”

  Caroline was so choked up she could hardly get the words out. “I…thank you,” she managed.

  Jill said, “I’m still not sure how well this will work. But maybe we can have a conversation. I’d like to hear what your life has been like for the last eighteen years, at least. But I’m not promising anything else, you know that.”

  “Yes, I know. Thank you,” Caroline said again, regaining her composure. “I have to get back, I’m afraid. I will call you.”

  “All right,” Jill said.

  As Caroline left her and made her way back through the glittering ballroom, she clutched the card as if it were a lifeline. She had told Jill the truth, certainly, but not the whole truth. She wondered if Jill would have agreed to see her if she had told her the rest of it.

  Chapter Seven

  Caroline’s next crisis waited until Tuesday to ambush her. She hadn’t called Jill on Monday, trying to give herself—and Jill—more time to recover from their emotional confrontation on Friday night. On Tuesday morning, she’d barely settled into her day when Arthur reminded her to call the RMO’s publicist.

  “Time to start the publicity machine for next season,” he said, handing her the number.

  “Already?” Caroline asked, in surprise.

  “They have to write all the background on the productions for the next season, get the backstage dope, and set up interviews for all the principals.”

  She looked at him with amusement. “We don’t even know who all the principals are yet, Arthur.”

  “That’s why they have to start now. By the time you’ve got your stars lined up, the rest of it will be in place. They always do interviews with the directors, and with any singers out of the Young Artists Program who are singing in one of the next season’s productions. And,” he added with a smirk, “it’s your chance to get the early word out about Hits You’ve Never Heard. I know you announced it last Friday to the gentry, but it’s time to gear up for those early season-ticket sales to the hoi polloi.”

  “All right, you’ve made your point,” Caroline smiled at him. “I’ll call in a couple of minutes.”

  Unfortunately, the conversation went bad quickly. When Arthur returned twenty minutes later, he saw Caroline frowning unhappily, stabbing at her desk blotter with an ornate letter opener.

  “That is simply not good enough,” she said into the receiver. “Your firm has handled the publicity needs of the Opera for a number of years,” she glanced at Arthur for his confirming nod, “so I’m deeply distressed that you’re unable to assign anyone senior to this project right away.”

  Arthur leaned over and took the letter opener away from her before she moved on to the wood of the desk, and handed her the note he’d brought in.

  Her frown deepened at the words, “Jack Parsons is holding on line two” then snapped into the telephone, “Yes, you’re being quite clear. Fortunately, there are other firms in the Denver metro area who might be quite a bit more interested in the prestige conferred by having the Rocky Mountain Opera as a client. Goodbye.”

  She punched the line off, scowling at the telephone. “What does Jack want, did he tell you?”

  “Tell a lowly assistant? Hardly. But he did say it was urgent.”

  Caroline sighed and punched the other line. “Jack,” she said, trying to sound cheerful. “I’m sorry you had to wait. It’s always nice to hear from you.”

  “Perhaps not as much today,” he said. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

  “Not a particularly good one,” she admitted. “The publicity firm we’ve been using is apparently so tied up with some big marketing drive for the Denver Broncos right now that they’re unable to work with us.”

  “Do I need to make a phone call?”

  She winced. The chairman of the board certainly needed to know that she would, and could, handle day-to-day problems without his intervention. “Not at all,” she said, with more confidence than she felt. “I will deal with it. What may I do for you?”

  “I’m sorry to add to your problems today, but we have a rather serious issue. I got a call this morning from Bill Emerson, a partner in a law firm that represents the Appelbaum Foundation. You know they’re major contributors. In fact, you just met Mrs. Appelbaum at the reception last Friday.”

  “I remember, Jack. They gave us the opera house.”

  His sigh came over the phone. “Not precisely,” he answered. “It’s complicated.”

  Her frown was back. “Complicated? How?”

  “Legally complicated. The gist of it is, they claim we’re violating the terms of the agreement under which the opera house was transferred to the RMO.”

  “Violating it? How on earth are we doing that?”

  He sighed again. “By doing Hits You’ve Never Heard next season.”

  “What?” Caroline exclaimed.

  Jack continued, “It’s all about some sort of condition or clause in the transfer agreement. I don’t understand the legal ins and outs of it, but what it boils down to is that they’re essentially threatening to void the agreement and have the opera house return to the Foundation.”

  Her heart sank. “My God, Jack. Can they do that?”

  “Well, they apparently think they can. But this is why we have attorneys on retainer.” He hesitated, then said, “Do you want me to call Walter?”

  Caroline’s mind was whirling. After a minute to think, she said, “No. I appreciate it, but I need to handle this myself. Of course, I’ll keep the board informed every step of the way.”

  He sounded pleased. “Yes, do that,” he said. “I suppose you are planning on calling our new attorney, Ms., ah…”

  “Jill Allen.”

  “Of course.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said emphatically. “As soon as I hang up from you.”

  She opened her desk drawer and pulled out the card Jill had given her on Friday evening. Whoever answered the phone put her through to Jill almost at once.

  “This is Jill Allen,” she answered.

  “Oh, Jill,” Caroline said. “I really need you.”

  * * *

  They managed to meet at one for lunch at Governor’s Park. Caroline was skeptical at first, since it looked more like another downtown bar to her than a restaurant, all dark wood and neon beer signs, but Jill showed up to assure her that the food was a cut above ordinary. A bite into her spicy shrimp salad, Caroline had to agree.

  “When I said I wanted to have lunch to talk to you, this isn’t the topic I had in mind,” she began.

  Jill smiled a little. “I know. After I talked to you, I called the Appelb
aum Foundation’s law firm. Bill Emerson was out, but I talked to Emerson’s senior associate. He’s sending me over the documents, deed, and so forth. Until I review everything, I’m not going to be able to give you definitive answers, but I can tell you what I’ve determined so far.”

  “Anything would help my anxiety at this point,” Caroline answered. “I’ve been the artistic director less than a month and it looks like I’m going to lose the opera house.”

  She waited for words of reassurance, but she’d seen the look on Jill’s face before. It was the same look that the first doctor she’d seen had given her nine months ago. The second specialist hadn’t been any more encouraging, and she realized that Jill wasn’t going to offer her false comfort either. She took another nervous bite, crunching down on a sliver of jicama.

  Jill asked, “Are you all right, Caroline?”

  “I…I want to do well at this job, Jill. Even if this weren’t my fault, I’d be seriously worried. Part of the appeal of the RMO is the downtown location of the opera venue and the beautiful nineteen-thirties retro restoration. We’d lose subscribers, and a lot of other audience, if we had to relocate, even if we could find someplace suitable, which is unlikely.” She put down her salad fork, her fingers continuing to push at it nervously on the table. “The acoustics have to be just right, there have to be enough box seats for season-ticket holders, it can’t be too big, the orchestra pit has to be—”

  “Caroline, slow down,” Jill interrupted her. “You haven’t lost anything yet, and it’s my job to see that this is resolved favorably.”

  Caroline met Jill’s gaze. “But you can’t promise me anything, can you?”

  Jill put down her own fork. “You know I can’t. The law doesn’t work that way. But stop beating yourself up over this. Whatever is in the deed happened sixty or seventy years ago. It has nothing to do with you.”

  “It has everything to do with me,” Caroline responded with vehemence. “I’m the one that urged the board to present Hits You’ve Never Heard. I put the show together, it was all my idea. And that’s why the Foundation wants to take the opera house away, isn’t it?”

  Jill sat back, her lunch largely untouched. “Here’s what I know so far. Apparently, when the ownership of the opera house was transferred from the Appelbaum Family Trust, which is now the Appelbaum Foundation, there was a provision in the deed specifically requiring that the building be used only for opera.”

  She was using what Caroline thought must be her lawyer voice, designed to educate and guide her clients. Caroline was, not surprisingly, very attuned to voices, speaking or singing. Some voices, quite a few actually, grated on her ear. But Jill’s voice always soothed her, made her calmer. Even when they had argued about something, Jill never sounded harsh. God, she had missed Jill.

  “This kind of provision is known in the law as a restrictive covenant, and continues to be effective,” Jill went on. “The Foundation is claiming that your show isn’t an opera, per se, and therefore violates the terms of the restrictive covenant. It’s more complicated than that, but that’s what I know now.”

  “And can they really take the property back?”

  “The best answer I can give you today is: I hope not.”

  Caroline picked up her fork and stabbed at her salad, piercing a helpless shrimp. “This is my fault, Jill. I did this. You have to help me.

  Jill was still sitting back in her chair, studying Caroline. “You can always go back to the stage, you know,” she said at length. “You’re still a very big star.”

  Caroline’s fingers tightened on the fork involuntarily. “I want to stay here, Jill. And you know why.”

  Jill hesitated, as if she were trying to decide what to say.

  “Why don’t you believe me?” Caroline asked her quietly.

  “Why?” Jill repeated. “I don’t know. Maybe because it’s been so damned long. Maybe because I didn’t hear one word from you—not one word—in eighteen years, other than the note you sent when Aunt Renata died. It’s a little hard for me to believe you’ve been, I don’t know, pining away for me for all this time.”

  Caroline set her fork down carefully. “I didn’t think you cared to hear from me, frankly. And it hurt.”

  Jill flinched and said, “I know I was angry at you. I thought you were being selfish. Maybe I was too harsh. But why in God’s name would you think I didn’t want to hear from you?”

  Caroline couldn’t keep the note of bitterness from her voice. “Perhaps it was because less than six weeks after I called you from Paris you were in someone else’s bed.”

  “God damn it, Caroline!” Jill exploded quietly. “That’s the second time you’ve said that. I’m telling you it never happened. What the hell are you talking about?”

  Caroline shoved her salad away, and a worried looking waitress approached the table. “Is everything all right?” she asked.

  “What? Oh,” Caroline turned the full-wattage smile on her. “We’re fine. The food is great. We’re just taking our time.”

  Reassured, the waitress refilled water and iced-tea glasses, then went away again behind the bar.

  Caroline returned to Jill. Under Jill’s light tan, Caroline could see that she was flushed, her lips drawn into a taut line. Her bitterness dissipated. She wanted to touch Jill, take her hand, stroke the anger away. Instead she dropped her hands into her lap and said, “Jill, it was a long time ago. Can’t we just move on?”

  “Apparently not. You’ve brought it up twice, and I want to know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “All right,” Caroline snapped, yielding with poor grace. “I had an audition for the San Francisco Opera. I left a day early to stop in Denver. I went to the apartment. I was going to surprise you. We were going to work it out, I was sure, one way or another. I wasn’t going to throw away everything we had over some stupid fight. I got there, let myself in, and waited for you to come back. All night. You never came home. I took a cab to the airport the next morning, and I cried in the plane all the way to California. I could hardly sing the next day. Are you happy now?”

  Jill was staring at her, her anger slowly being replaced with confusion. “Caroline, I told you the truth. I didn’t date anyone else for a very long time. I don’t understand…” She stopped. “Wait. When was this?”

  “It was eighteen years ago. I don’t know the date, Jill,” she said shortly.

  “About when?” Jill persisted.

  “I don’t know. July. The end of July, I think.”

  Suddenly, Jill began to shake her head, laughter making her shoulders tremble. “Oh, my God,” she managed at last. “I can’t believe it. What are the chances?”

  “I’m glad you’re so amused.” Caroline tried not to snap at her, but failed.

  “I can tell you the exact date,” Jill said, wiping her eyes with her napkin. “And I can tell you it was a Wednesday night.”

  “So you do remember her?”

  Jill dropped the now damp napkin into her lap. “There was no ‘her,’ Caroline. Actually, I was at a man’s apartment.”

  “Oh, my God, Jill!” Caroline was aghast. “You slept with a man? Why on earth would you—”

  “Stop. You’ve got to be kidding. It was Sam.”

  “You slept with the guy from your law school study group?” Caroline was still indignant and shocked.

  “Caroline, stop it,” Jill said in exasperation. “You know damn well I have zero interest in sex with any man. I slept on Sam’s couch because we’d just finished two hellish days of the bar exam and we’d gone out and gotten completely blitzed. All of us, Sam and Jerry and Kelly and I. We went bar hopping, and at two-thirty in the morning we all crashed at Sam’s place because it was downtown. He drove me home the next day, about noon. I have never been hung over like that, before or since.”

  Caroline stared at her. “You’re telling me you were out all night getting drunk because you’d just finished the bar exam?”

  “Yes.”

  “
I can’t believe it.”

  “You want Sam’s number? He’s a Deputy District Attorney up in Adams County now. He’ll remember, even after all this time, believe me. You don’t forget a hangover like the one we had the next morning.”

  “No, I do believe you, I just…” Caroline struggled to put her feelings into words. For so many years, she’d had to live with the knowledge that Jill had just walked away from her and into some else’s arms. And now everything was changed.

  All those years of anger, of self-righteous bitterness, had happened over some stupid misunderstanding. It was like a silly romantic comedy, where the lovers just missed each other in the revolving door or on the top of the Empire State Building. All the time she’d fought to put away her resentment of Jill, her pain at a rejection that had never happened.

  Jill was watching her with a dark look, no longer amused, but troubled and layered with some other emotion Caroline couldn’t name for a moment. “Jill, I owe you an apology,” she said softly. “I truly thought you’d gotten over me so quickly, I doubted that we’d had anything real or true.”

  Jill leaned toward her across the table and Caroline could see that Jill was sad, grieving as much as Caroline was herself over the misunderstanding. “We both made some mistakes,” Jill said. “It wasn’t perfect, Caroline, but believe me, it was true. It was real. It was for me, anyway.”

  Now Caroline did reach for her hand. “Oh, Jill,” she began.

  But Jill withdrew from her. “I’m sorry, Caroline. I’m sorry we fought, I’m sorry you misunderstood what happened, I’m sorry for everything, but it’s over now.”

  “What are you saying? That we have no chance of being together again?”

  “We don’t,” Jill said with vehemence.

  “Why are you trying so hard to convince me of that?” Caroline said. “Or is it yourself you’re trying to convince?”

  Jill said harshly “Don’t do that. Jesus, you sound like Terry. I don’t need an analyst, Caroline. Let’s just say too much time has passed. We’re different people now.”