“She is that.”
With its mirrors and gilt, the banquet room at the Hawthorne Hotel reflected Old World elegance. Towner and Callie walked the length of the room, stopping every few moments so people could either greet Towner or introduce themselves to her.
After dyeing her hair, they had talked again about how Callie wanted to be introduced. “Pick another last name,” Towner said. “Something you can remember.”
Callie picked O’Neill, which had been the name of her first foster mother, the one who died.
“This is my favorite fund-raiser,” a local dowager in a long-sleeved crepe dress with a too-low neckline said to Towner. “May must be so proud of you!”
“I’d like to think she is,” Towner replied graciously.
Callie followed in Towner’s wake, smiling when greeted, shaking hands when introduced. Towner had told her about May Whitney, the family matriarch who ran the shelter on Yellow Dog Island. Evidently their relationship was strained, partly because of history and partly because May had left Towner doing most of this fund-raising work. May was known for her skills with a six-gauge shotgun and for being as antisocial as they come. “I don’t believe she’s stepped on the mainland for the last five years. So both the organization and the hosting of this event fall to me,” Towner told Callie.
“That’s a lot of work for one person.”
“I don’t do everything myself. I have a group of volunteers to help. And, of course, there’s Marta. If it weren’t for this fund-raiser and the money the women earn making Ipswich bobbin lace, the shelter would have closed a long time ago. When you see the work they do out there, it’s definitely worth it. Any complaint I have about this event seems ridiculously selfish.”
“There must be at least two hundred people here tonight,” Callie said, looking around to see if she was dressed appropriately. She’d purchased a simple black sheath with thin shoulder straps for the occasion, and Towner had complimented her on it, but she wasn’t sure. Some people seemed as if they’d come directly from work, but most of the older women had dressed more formally, looking as if they’d donned a lifetime—or at least a few marriages’ worth—of accumulated jewelry for the occasion. The room sparkled with diamonds and the light refracted from the crystal chandeliers and candlesticks on each table.
Even though she was dressed nicely, Callie felt awkward in this crowd. Most people glanced quickly at her and then resumed their conversations. But she noticed a few women looking at her strangely, their eyes lingering as if trying to place her. Was she being recognized? Many people here were certainly old enough to remember Olivia.
Callie was relieved when the master of ceremonies asked people to take their seats. Towner hurried Callie to a table near the stage. A handsome young man in a dark suit who’d been sitting next to a distinguished looking middle-aged woman stood politely at their approach. Their eyes locked; her steps quickened. This fund-raiser just got a lot more interesting.
“Emily, Paul, we’re so delighted to be seated with you tonight. I’d like to introduce you to my friend Callie O’Neill. Callie, this is Emily Whiting and her son, Paul. Emily and her husband, Finn, run the Whiting Foundation. They do some of the best charitable work in New England. Emily is the shelter’s biggest supporter. She never misses one of these dinners.”
“So nice to meet you, Callie,” Emily said, extending her hand. Emily’s dress was far more understated than the others Callie had seen and far more elegant, a winter white cashmere with a matching waist-length jacket. Her hair was shoulder length and deep brown, with just a few streaks of grey at the temples. Callie noticed the emerald ring on her right hand, a simple platinum and diamond solitaire on her left.
Callie shook Emily’s hand, then turned to Paul. Something about his sandy hair and startlingly blue irises made her wonder where she’d seen him before.
He held Towner’s chair first, then Callie’s. She sat, still gazing curiously at him. His eyes were amazing. She always noticed people’s eyes. Windows to the soul. She felt like laughing at her use of the old cliché.
“Callie is the music therapist I told you about,” Towner said to Emily.
“Ah, the one who awakened Rose Whelan,” Emily replied.
Callie detected skepticism in her tone.
Towner spoke over her: “I told Emily about the singing bowl and the music therapy. And about the effect it had on Rose.”
“Do you know Rose?” Callie asked Emily.
“No, I’ve never had the pleasure,” Emily said. Without pause, she turned away from Callie and focused on Towner. “Where’s Rafferty this evening?”
“He donated his ticket to Callie.”
“Generous.”
“More like relieved.” Towner laughed. “You know he hates these events. You look very lovely tonight. I take it that means the drug trial is agreeing with you.”
“All credit goes to Chanel and La Mer, not the chemo. I don’t think Finn is going to make it, either,” Emily said. “He sends his regrets. As well as the foundation’s checkbook. And I have a far more handsome escort, don’t you think?”
Chemo, Callie thought. She wondered what kind of cancer Emily was fighting. She didn’t look exhausted, the way some of the chemo patients Callie treated did. By the way Emily had gazed at her son, Callie knew instantly that the woman was crazy about him. The perfect son, Callie thought, the solace of every woman who has ever tried and failed to mold the man she married. As soon as the thought occurred, she chided herself for thinking in stereotypes. She had no idea who Finn Whiting was or what his relationship with his wife was like.
Callie was only half listening to their conversation. It was clear that Emily would rather talk to Towner, which was fine, good in fact. Callie didn’t enjoy making small talk, especially if she had to work at it. Instead, she kept stealing glances at Paul, who was easily chatting up two cougar types on the other side of the table. She could smell their too-strong musky perfume from here.
How do I know him?
Feeling her eyes on him, Paul turned. “You’re staring at me.”
“I am not.” Callie laughed, both embarrassed and amused to be caught.
“Did I spill wine on my shirt or something?” He looked down at his shirt, then, finding nothing, he flashed a smile, waiting for her to explain.
“I know you from somewhere,” Callie said.
“Isn’t that supposed to be my line?”
“Ha, you’re quite the charmer, Mr. Whiting.” She smiled back at him. “Seriously, have we met?”
“I don’t think so,” he said, now looking at her with amusement.
She shook her head. She wasn’t great with names, but faces were different. She’d seen him somewhere. Hadn’t she?
“If I’d met you, I’m sure I’d remember,” Paul said, holding her gaze. “I’ve been living in Matera since last January. So, unless we met before that or in…”
“Italy,” Callie said.
“Yes,” he said, surprised. “You know Matera?”
“Never heard of the place.”
“Okay,” he said, drawing out each syllable.
She considered telling him that she had always wanted to go to Italy, but it would have been a lie. She didn’t tell him the truth, either: that she often knew what people were going to say before they spoke. The same way she sometimes knew what was going to happen just before it occurred.
“Red or white, miss?” The waiter offered Callie wine.
“She’ll have the red,” Paul said.
He obviously didn’t have the same talent anticipating answers. “White, please,” Callie clarified.
“The red is much better, trust me.”
“Red is a little too bold for my taste.”
Paul caught her subtext immediately. Grinning, he held up his glass, toasting her. “Suit yourself.”
She took a sip and immediately made a face.
“Told you so.” Paul laughed.
“What did I miss?” Marta rushed in,
grabbing the empty seat beside Emily; she was older than Emily, but not by much. Unlike most of the women in attendance, Marta wore no jewelry at all, not even a wedding ring.
Paul started to stand again, but Marta motioned him to sit.
“You didn’t miss a thing,” Towner said.
Back at the tearoom, Towner had introduced Marta and Callie only by first names. Now, as she looked at tonight’s program, Callie saw Marta’s last name.
“Hathorne,” Callie said. “Any relation to Nathaniel?”
“He’s Hawthorne, with a w,” Marta said, after an uncomfortable pause. “And yes. A different branch on the same family tree. Which also includes the hanging judge from the Court of Oyer and Terminer, I’m afraid. The embarrassment of which is what prompted young Nathaniel to change the spelling of his name.”
It was a much longer explanation than Callie had expected and had the feeling of a rehearsed speech. This must be a frequently asked question.
Marta signaled to a waiter and pointed to her glass, never taking her eyes off Callie.
“The difference between their side of the family and mine,” Marta continued, this time less rehearsed and more conversational, “is that we have a great deal more fortitude and daring. But we who dared to keep our original spelling would have missed a great commercial opportunity in the story of Hester Prynne. We wouldn’t have seen the tragedy in that tale. Each of us would have worn that scarlet letter as a red badge of courage.”
Paul choked on his wine. His mother shot him a look.
A long silence followed. Callie realized that, beyond the literary references, Marta had made some kind of inside joke, and that she’d missed it. Not an uncommon occurrence for Callie, given how she’d grown up. She was relieved when the waiter came to take their dinner orders.
The meal was as expected, with a choice of roast beef, salmon, or chicken, but the salad course was served at the end, European style. The dinner conversation settled into predictable small talk, learned from years of etiquette classes and cotillions. Callie felt lost.
Fortunately, the inside jokes stopped. Paul asked the usual “Where did you grow up?” questions most people asked when meeting for the first time.
“New Orleans first,” Callie said. “Then Northampton, Mass.” She didn’t mention Salem.
“That must have been a big cultural adjustment.”
“I was very young when we moved. I don’t remember much about Louisiana.”
The waiter put down dessert plates, a combination of chocolate mousse and madeleines. Paul waved his away. “I’ll have a brandy instead, please.”
The waiter looked as if he were about to protest but then caught Marta’s eye. She nodded.
“Certainly, sir,” he said.
“Would you like something?” Paul asked Callie, his hand touching her forearm. “Brandy, or something else?”
“I’m all set,” Callie said.
Paul’s hand lingered for a long moment before he removed it and continued the questions. Where had she gone to school? How had she decided to become a music therapist? And what the heck was music therapy, anyway?
She tried to match him question for question, but he was far better at the dance. At one point, Callie noticed the two perfumed women glancing in her direction. Then they fell immediately into an animated conversation. What were they saying about her? She was relieved when the auction began.
The first item up for bid was a painting, a fishing shack at the water’s edge donated by Racket Shreve, a much-admired local artist.
“It’s beautiful,” Callie commented, noting the play of light and wind on the water of what looked like an early version of Salem Harbor under a moonlit sky.
Paul concurred. “Shadow and light.”
“Two hundred, do I hear two fifty?” the auctioneer barked. “Two fifty, do I hear three?”
The bidding closed at more than a thousand dollars. The next item offered was a small painting by H. L. Barnes, a historically accurate rendition of one of the merchant vessels that had sailed out of Salem during the 1800s. This painting brought even more.
The third painting was much smaller than the other two. Callie had noticed it displayed on the way in. Smartly, Marta had set up the auction items just inside the entrance to the ballroom, so you had to pass by them on the way to your table. Callie had admired each of the three paintings as she passed. While the first two were beautiful, this one had stopped her in her tracks, though she wasn’t sure why. It was an old portrait done in oil, a beautiful woman with an owl on her shoulder.
“This painting was donated from the collection of Ann Chase. Artist unknown. Titled: Minerva, Goddess of Wisdom, Medicine, and Music,” the auctioneer said. “Note the owl sitting on her shoulder. As we all know, the owl is a symbol of wisdom.”
The auctioneer held up the portrait for viewing. But it was a far smaller painting than the other two, and difficult to see, even from the front tables. As a result, the bidding got off to a rough start.
“Do I hear a hundred dollars? Come on, people, a hundred dollars is a steal for a beautiful painting like this.”
Finally someone held up a paddle.
The auctioneer went on, getting the bidding to $190 before it stopped.
“That’s ridiculous,” Paul muttered, raising his paddle and speaking loudly. “Five hundred dollars.”
Really, Callie thought. It was a beautiful painting, but five hundred dollars, without blinking an eye?
“Sold.” The auctioneer quickly handed the painting off to his assistant, gesturing in Paul’s direction, and moved on.
Several high-ticket items followed: a week at a New Hampshire summerhouse was snapped up. A New York foodie weekend complete with a breakfast very near Tiffany’s inspired a hot bidding war; a wine tasting and food pairing for ten at a local restaurant hosted by the Whiting family’s sommelier had people in a frenzy.
Emily Whiting didn’t bid on any of the items. Callie kept a rough tally in her head, and, when the auction ended, she estimated the evening had raised more than $50,000 for the shelter.
The assistant approached the table, breaking into a smile when she saw Paul. She held out a clipboard for him to sign and a credit card receipt. “I’ll hold her for you at the back table,” she told him and smiled flirtatiously. “You can pick her up on your way out.”
“Oh, bring her to me, please,” he said. “She’s too pretty to sit at the back table all by herself.”
The girl blushed and headed off to fetch the painting.
Callie was shaking her head.
“What?”
“ ‘She’s too pretty to sit at the back table all by herself’?”
“She is.”
“That’s the cheesiest line I’ve ever heard.”
“Not as bad as ‘I know you from somewhere.’ ”
Callie laughed.
As the bidding concluded, the audience applauded. Marta rose from her chair and headed to the podium.
“What? You’re not speaking this year?” Emily smiled at Towner.
“Very funny,” Towner said. Reading Callie’s curious look, she added, “Public speaking is not my forte.”
“Public anything,” Emily joked. “It runs in the family.”
“What does that mean?” Callie asked. She was tired of not being in on the joke.
Emily smiled. “Towner’s family tends to shy away from public forums. May Whitney hasn’t left her island for, what is it now, five years?”
“Almost,” Towner said.
Marta said a few words of greeting, thanking people for coming out on such a rainy night, thanking them for their ongoing support. Then she lowered the microphone and moved closer to it, softening her voice as well until all residual conversation ceased, leaving only the occasional clink of cup on saucer.
“My message this evening is brief but to the point. Twenty fourteen has been a challenging year for the shelter financially, as you all know. Yellow Dog Island usually shelters about fifty
women annually. But this year they have seen a hundred percent increase in guests.”
There was an audible gasp from the crowd.
“The reentry program that Towner Whitney runs at Eva’s Lace Reader Tearoom has funded itself and is able to provide some money for the shelter. But we need more help. Hard times can bring out the worst in people. Abuse increases as employment falters. Violence is on the rise.” She paused and took a breath, then smiled at the audience. “For most of us, times have greatly improved in the last few years…For most of us. But not for everyone. There’s a growing number of people out there for whom the economy has not improved. Nor have their lives. We need to remember that. You know the work we do out there, and you know what we need from you. Your pledge cards are on the table. Thank you.”
“Short but sweet,” Emily said as Marta sat down at their table. “Well done.”
When she saw the pledge card, Callie was embarrassed not to have brought her checkbook. “I’ll contribute tomorrow,” she said quietly to Towner.
“Don’t be silly,” Towner said. “That’s not why I brought you.” Towner raised a glass to Marta. “For all of your help this year,” she said. “We couldn’t have survived without your fund-raising skills. We don’t thank you nearly enough.”
Slowly everyone raised their glasses and toasted Marta.
Everyone sipped except Marta herself.
“You’re not drinking?” Callie said.
“One doesn’t drink when one is being toasted,” Marta said.
Callie quieted. Emily noticed her embarrassment and turned to her conspiratorially. “One doesn’t drink, and one doesn’t ever clink,” Emily said to Callie. “Nor does one ever toast with water. Oh, the many things right and proper we’ve learned from Marta! They could fill a book that would rival anything written by Emily Post or Miss Manners.”
She said it with a smile, but Callie noticed an edge to her tone.
Marta took the cue and didn’t say anything else but, instead, turned her attention to Callie. She was staring at her intently.
Callie shifted uncomfortably in her seat, trying to look away, but she could feel Marta’s eyes on her the whole time.
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