“You bet, Miss Coté.” Frank saluted in Camille’s direction and backed away from the door. Jonesy and Cindi followed him, flashing their lights side to side.
Camille watched to be sure they’d left before she approached me. I took her in my arms and she laid her head against my chest, sighing. I held her and stroked her hair, enjoying this rare moment of privacy. Her chest rose and fell against mine in a comforting rhythm. Pressing together in easy silence, I thanked God for bringing her into my life. After five years of aching loneliness, it felt good to love again. And although our relationship had been slow to start, it was blossoming into a soulful union.
“Quite an auspicious beginning to our production. I hope it’s not a bad omen,” she whispered.
I lifted her chin and reached for her lips with mine. We kissed deeply, and I drew her tighter against me, tasting the honeyed sweetness of her mouth. When we reluctantly parted, I smiled down at her. “Don’t worry about it, love. It probably was a prank, like Frank said.”
Her luminous eyes searched mine. “I sure hope so, Gus.”
We separated for the sake of propriety and walked side-by-side back to the auditorium.
Chapter Four
“O kay, it’s all over. Let’s settle down.” Camille clapped her hands, trying to corral the students who raced up and down the aisles.
The hubbub didn’t let up.
She shouted louder this time. “Time to get back to business, folks. Quiet down, please.”
A few of the students took their seats. Agnes Bigelow ran a brush rapidly through her daughter's hair, her watchful eyes following Camille’s every move.
Lisa grimaced and pulled away. “Mother, geez. Stop already.” She jumped up and trotted to Camille. “It was my turn, Miss Coté.”
Molly Frost hadn’t finished her audition, of course. Lisa knew it. Camille knew it. The whole auditorium knew it.
Camille started to roll her eyes, but caught herself and turned to Lisa with a neutral expression. I went back to my piano bench and lowered it half a turn.
The swelling enthusiasm that had been crackling through the air before the snake incident intensified. The room buzzed with electricity. The older students joked and chattered. They kicked off their shoes, lounged casually in their seats, and flaunted their carefully cultivated “I don’t care” attitudes. Most of them expected to be chosen for lead roles in the musical, since they’d starred in so many shows over the past years. They were the Drama Club Veterans, and, according to Camille, a number of them planned to go on to study theater in college.
Molly Frost sat with the advanced group of young actors. Her boyfriend, Armand Lugio, nuzzled her ear. She giggled and pushed him away.
Seventeen-year-old Randy Sherman stood in front of Molly, grinning. “Hey, Molly! Whaddya think?” He pulled off his wool cap to reveal a mass of black curls .
Yesterday, his hair was fluorescent orange.
A few kids in the back oohed and ahhed. Two freshmen girls giggled and one of them yelled, “Sexy!”
Molly tossed him a polite smile. “Nice, Randy. It works.”
Now that he had everyone’s attention, Randy began to parody one of the leads in the musical, Damian Firebrand, a handsome rock star. He gyrated his hips and pretended to hold a microphone, cavorting close to Molly. Next, he leaned over and crooned in her face, singing suggestive lyrics from one of the Spirit Me Away songs entitled “Free To Love.”
I cringed. When I’d written the musical in my days as a student at the New England Conservatory in Boston, it had been intended as a poignant satire about the hippie world. I hadn’t imagined this twist on the words. He’d taken some outrageous liberties and had substituted his own creative debauchery. I pretended to cough to mask a laugh that erupted unexpectedly from my mouth.
Maybe if I’d been more daring with the content, like Randy here, the show wouldn’t have fluttered into the dusty abyss of long-lost musicals.
Randy sang another verse, this time worse than the first, and Molly turned away, blushing furiously.
Armand scowled and stood. He stepped toward Randy, closing in on him until their noses nearly touched. “Back off, pretty boy.” Armand's dark eyes glowered.
Randy made a face at him, gyrated a few more times in defiance, and plopped into a seat on the other side of Molly.
Camille shepherded the rest of the kids into their seats. She shooed Lisa back to her place, whispered something that apparently placated her, and hopped onto the stage. She shaded her eyes with her hand and looked out into the crowd. “Come on, now, guys. Let’s get focused.”
Molly was the favored soprano who starred in numerous community theater productions throughout her childhood. Poised and well practiced, she’d been the first to audition for the lead role of Celeste Freespirit, the flower child with no memory.
Camille had already dismissed a number of hopeful actors who’d tried out on the previous day. Today she would whittle down the crowd even further and finally decide which role to award to each youngster. “Molly?” she said. “You were interrupted, dear. Want to try ‘Who Am I’?”
Lisa Bigelow sighed and pouted. She flounced back to a seat beside her mother, who cast a furtive glance in Molly’s direction. An expression of unguarded loathing flashed from Mrs. Bigelow’s eyes. She caught me watching her, masked the anger, and began to furiously braid her daughter’s hair.
“Sure.” Molly jumped back onto the stage and nodded to me.
I played the introduction to “Who Am I?” the opening piece to Act 1, in which Celeste Freespirit is discovered wandering aimlessly in front of Ma and Pa Baker’s diner with her guitar case clutched in her hand. She has lost her memory, and as she sings on the bench overlooking the Boston Commons, the servers, short order cook, soda jerk, and customers inside the diner watch her and echo her questions in a syncopated chorus.
Her strong, lyrical voice floated over the crowd.
Where do I come from?
Is it near?
Does anyone miss me?
Far from here?
A stranger looks out,
From the looking glass
Questions in her eyes,
Yet no one asks...
Who am I?
What will become of me?
Will I drown
In this sea of humanity?
She rendered each note perfectly, with pure tones couched in a controlled, lovely vibrato.
Although several other girls would try out for the part, Molly’s performance was absolutely flawless and I suspected Camille would once again cast her in the lead role.
When she finished, Molly went back to her seat. A smile played around her lips. She knew she was good, and everyone in the auditorium knew it galled Lisa and her mother to compete with such perfection.
Sitting in the back row, Camille remained impassive, scribbling notes on the clipboard on her lap. “Thank you, Molly.” When the enthusiastic applause was over, she looked up. “Lisa? Do you want to go next?”
Lisa Bigelow vaulted onto the stage before Camille finished her sentence. She wore the yellow tie-dyed skirt her mom had found in the prop room, a white peasant blouse, and a blue bandana. She pranced toward the back of the stage and turned to the audience.
I restarted the introduction to “Who Am I?”
Lisa twirled, ran with open arms downstage, and began to deliver a strong but slightly nasal version of the song. She projected well and her expressions were animated. But she missed a few of the high notes.
Polite applause followed when she strutted off the stage, slightly breathless.
“Bravo! Bravo!” Lisa’s mother beamed and clapped so loud, I wondered about her emotional stability.
When she arrived at her seat, Agnes tried to hug her. Lisa pushed her mother away and glared. “Geez, Mom. Back off a little.”
Agnes sniffed, smoothed her hair to hide her embarrassment, and settled into her seat to keep a watchful eye on the competition.
Chapter Fi
ve
F our more girls auditioned for the role of Celeste, but none came close to Molly’s performance. For the rest of the auditions, my fingers flew as I re-learned the music I’d written so long ago.
Five young men, each funnier than the last, wanted to try out for the Damian role. I fought to remember the fun but preposterous storyline I’d made up in the tradition of operatic plots featuring circles of unrequited love and implausible coincidences.
Damian, a pompous egoist who resembles the leather-clad, writhing, lead singers of the sixties, falls for Celeste Freespirit. Celeste, a sweet-voiced folk singer, holds a special place in his heart and travels from city to city with the band.
When Celeste confides to Damian’s manager that she thinks she’s pregnant, he dumps her from the tour bus on their way to Woodstock. Damian discovers her missing, and is distraught when his manager lies to him, telling him that Celeste left him for another man. Damian is desolate, because he did love her in his own limited fashion. Celeste falls when thrown from the bus, hitting her head and losing her memory. She remembers nothing of Damian or her suspected pregnancy.
I sighed and smiled sadly, remembering how the fanciful story line had mimicked the great operas in its mad scenarios, but had actually been based on a much grittier, sadder truth.
I dragged myself out of the reverie and continued to play for the boys Camille asked to dance in a group. Some of them parodied Jaggeresque movements or growled like Morrison, while others used Elvis gyrations to accompany the song.
One by one, Camille ask the boys to sing. Randy Sherman, with his mane of dyed black curls, was prepared better than most, having learned the dialogue and song lyrics by heart. He brimmed with cocky confidence, delivering his rock star caricature. The kid was a natural.
The character of Damian was coveted second only to the part of Porter Shaw. Armand and chubby, freckled sophomore Maurice Potter contested for the role.
Porter Shaw, the male lead, is a short order cook who also falls hard for Celeste Freespirit. He’s a hardworking ex-Marine with shorn hair and a lopsided smile. Porter sports a brave front, but reels with the worst case of unrequited love known to man. Porter rescues Celeste from the streets, and is actively involved in helping her discover her past. Alas, Porter is not “cool,” and thinks Celeste would not be attracted to him because he doesn’t have long hair or wear bellbottoms.
I favored Maurice Potter for the role. His fresh view of the song “Spirit Me Away” was accompanied by soulful expression and tearful dialogue. He actually brought a lump to my throat.
In this scene, Porter watches Celeste sing near the campfire on the side of the road leading to Woodstock. He stands behind the trees watching her sing for her long lost love, and echoes the words, wishing she would return his affection.
As the evening wore on, it was clear that the alto role of Lana Canberra would be awarded to Takeema Billings, a nubile black girl who danced fluidly and sang in a pleasant, raspy contralto. She moved with the grace and flexibility of a professional ballet dancer and belted her tunes with confidence. The character of Lana, an exotic dancer who frequented the diner, provides comic relief to a somewhat poignant story line. Of course, Porter doesn’t know that the salty dancer has a crush on him.
And thus the world of unrequited love revolved through the musical.
Takeema finished her song, and Camille took to the stage again.
“Thank you all for coming. I’m thrilled with the turnout this year.” She glanced at her clipboard. “Those of you who are here today will all have a role in the show, whether it’s in one of the two choruses, or even if it’s in costumes or props, you’ll be an important part of the show. So please don’t be upset when I don’t call your name to stay.”
A few groans came from the crowd.
“I’ve got to figure out the principle roles now, and I need only a few of you to stay.” She explained that those who didn’t receive principal character roles would be assigned to the large chorus to be divided into two groups. The first would play the diner customers. The second would make up the “hippy chorus” that gathers on the Boston Commons and the audience for the Free Love Festival. She began to call out names and a rustle of papers and thumping of backpacks ensued, with excited conversations floating between the remaining group of kids.
I stopped for a second to remember the people who had actually inspired this rather light-hearted treatment of a very serious set of circumstances. Elsbeth and I encountered our own flower child while attending the New England Conservatory of Music in Boston. We struggled to help our own “Celeste” find her way back from a situation beyond her amnesia, and were there when she faced her half-brother who kept her drugged and sold her favors to patrons in Cambridge. The ending hadn’t been as well resolved as it was in Spirit Me Away . Our flower child discovered a horrible truth about her stepfather and spent many a night lamenting her lost childhood.
I sighed, pushing the surprisingly vibrant memories away, and settled down to play the last few songs.
Camille finally turned her attention to the final contestants for the lead roles. She switched several of the favored contenders into various combinations, evaluating the group dynamics and watching them interact. After what seemed like endless permutations, she was done. She thanked the group for their patience, and promised to post the cast list on the chorus room door the next morning.
Chapter Six
W hen the students had gone home, Camille and I headed out to the school parking lot, where her Volkswagen Beetle sat waiting. It was almost six. A temperate September breeze rustled the overhead leaves. Several cross-country runners jogged past on their way back to the locker rooms, faces flushed from exertion and tank tops plastered to their bodies. I waved when they passed, slightly envious of the endorphin rush gleaming in their eyes.
Agnes Bigelow lingered near Camille's car, waiting to pounce on her. She wedged between us, nearly pinning Camille to her car.
“You can tell me,” she said. “Who got the part of Celeste?”
“Sorry, Mrs. Bigelow.” Camille deftly extracted herself from the woman. “It wouldn't be ethical for me to discuss this until I've posted the results tomorrow morning. Besides, you have to let me go so I can sort it all out.”
I slid my arm around my bride-to-be, admiring her skills. I hadn't seen her like this before, and was impressed with the way she handled Agnes.
Agnes huffed and pulled her sweater tight around her. “I certainly wouldn’t tell anyone, Ms. Coté.”
Camille’s smile tightened. “I’m sure you wouldn’t. But I haven’t decided yet. I’ll see you soon.”
We got into her VW, ignoring protests from Agnes. Her eyes narrowed, and she stared when we pulled away.
Usually we drove separately, me to the University, where I taught music, and Camille to her day job as social worker for the county and counselor for the school, where she helped troubled students. It seemed there were plenty of kids in need these days, more than I ever remembered in my boyhood .
This afternoon she’d picked me up after my classes ended and we’d gained a little extra time to discuss the show on the drive in.
I buckled my seatbelt and she shifted into first gear, starting up the long drive leading to Route 60.
“Camille?”
“Mmm?”
I knew she was preoccupied with the cast list. I could practically hear her brain humming. “How about a bite to eat? Want to go out?”
She glanced over, pulling up to the stop sign at the end of the school driveway. “Um...sure. Where to?”
“How about The Elderberry Inn?”
She answered immediately. “Okay.” With a sideways smile, she released the clutch, and headed for Main Street.
Chapter Seven
C onaroga University students swarmed Main Street, crossing back and forth between the historic buildings overlooking the Genesee Valley. The institution was famous for its superior programs in early childhood education, art and
design, and agricultural science. At six o’clock on a Thursday evening, all the parking spots were full. Camille drove up and down the street twice, searching for a place to park. Just as we were about to give up, a white minivan backed out in front of the Elderberry Inn.
With a victorious, “Yes!” Camille scooted into the empty space and triumphantly hitched up the parking brake, turning to me with a grin. “It’s serendipity.”
We climbed the broad stone steps to the 1826 building and pushed open the heavy wooden door.
Paulo, always the gracious host, greeted us by name, but with a puzzled expression. “Professor LeGarde? Miss Coté? Do you have reservations?” He thumbed rapidly through his book as if he’d committed a social abomination by not anticipating our arrival.
I tried my most charming voice on him. “No, Paulo. No reservations. We just thought we’d take a chance you could fit us in. Are you booked solid?”
Paulo pounced on the book again, murmuring to himself and looking back and forth between the beautifully decorated rooms that led from the elegant hallway.
While we waited, I noted that the vestibule had been repapered with a sage green and white horse-and-buggy scene. The wallpaper rose above the wainscoting and reached to the twelve-foot ceiling, anchored by gleaming pinewood floors covered with Persian rugs. A collection of tall brass girandoles with suspended prisms sparkled from a marble tabletop beside us .
“Aha! Here we go! We had a cancellation, but it wasn’t erased from the book. I can seat you in the Livingston Room.” With a flourish, he gestured to the doorway on our right. “Right this way, please.”
We followed Paulo through double doors to a table near the fireplace. A fire crackled beneath the massive cherry mantle. We took our seats, placed crisp linen napkins on our laps, and ordered a bottle of Red Knight, a smooth merlot from the Seneca Shores Winery.
Ordering from local Finger Lakes wineries was my new passion. Our local vineyards produced some of the finest wines in the world, and I intended to sample every one.
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