by Karen Welch
After devouring his lunch, he stretched out on the couch, watching the rapidly moving clouds beyond the windows. Maybe there would be a white Christmas. That could be nice, as long as he wasn't required to drive on snowy streets. He would have Robert for that, so he could just sit back and enjoy the view.
Betsy's call came at around four o'clock. She sounded excited, even breathless. She needed a huge favor, she said. Stani braced himself.
The crisis, it turned out, was not of such grave proportions. She just needed him to go to a party with her. Tonight.
“You know I'm in DC, Bets. How's that going to work?”
“I'm in DC too, in the lobby of your hotel. I've come to pick you up. We're going to this big bash somewhere in the mountains. Given by a certain rock star who chooses to remain anonymous.” She giggled at the gossip column paraphrase.
“I really can't, love. I have to stay here and get some rest. I got thoroughly wasted last night.”
“Tell me about it! But Stani really, you have to go with me.”
“Why me? What's so important about this particular party? Sounds like a long drive just to get your name in the paper.”
“I might be hooking up with someone there, but I don't want it to look like I came just to see him. If you're with me, I won't get left flat if things don't work out. Come on Stani, you owe me one.”
“How's that?”
“I pulled you out of the ladies room last night. Don't you remember? You were throwing up in the sink.”
He groaned. Oh God, what else had he done that he couldn't remember? “How long will this take? I have a rehearsal tomorrow at one. I can't miss it.”
“We'll be back before noon, I promise. And you can sleep there. This guy's rented a whole ski lodge. I promise, Stani, I'll have you back in plenty of time. Just get your stuff and come to the lobby. I'll be waiting in the bar.” She was gone before he could offer any further argument.
He grimaced as he hung up the phone. When would he ever learn to say no? It wasn't as if making Betsy mad would have meant the end of the world. But since she was already downstairs, he couldn't very well disappoint her. He'd go, not drink much, sleep and be back tomorrow before anyone knew he was gone. Milo was out of touch, so no danger of his checking in tonight. There was really no harm. It might even be fun. And it would make Betsy happy.
As they drove out of town in Betsy's car, a four-door sedan of undistinguished pedigree she’d borrowed from a friend, she told him about her latest audition. She thought she really had a shot at this chorus role. There might even be a solo number. As always, Betsy was dressed to impress, this time in a red jumpsuit that zipped up the front and shiny white boots. Stani was pretty sure she wasn't wearing anything else. She was evasive about exactly who she was hoping to meet at the party. He was someone she'd been seeing, but it was complicated. With Betsy, it usually was. But this time it sounded particularly so. This guy had been in some serious trouble recently, she explained, and his father had really put his foot down. If he made it to the party, he'd have to be careful it didn't get back to his old man. Hopeless at keeping track of gossip, Stani hadn't a clue who she might be talking about. It really didn't matter to him what she did tonight, as long as she got him back to town in the morning.
As she continued chattering on, he turned his mind to the music in his head. There was always something playing there, and now it was today's rehearsal. Something about the tempo, in just that one measure, had seemed a bit off. Had he rushed his entrance, or had the conductor held back just a breath? He played it over and over, and each time he was more certain it had been his error. Nothing had been said, but surely the orchestra had noticed. He would have to be sure to mention it to the maestro before the performance, make his apology and see that it was corrected. It would never do to have Milo hear it that way over the radio.
The lodge, situated on a scenic crest, was ablaze with torches and strings of Christmas lights when they arrived just after dark. The party was well under way, judging by the cloud of smoke that hung over the crowd. Everywhere Stani looked, there were bodies moving, dancing, pushing through the press, glasses held high over heads. Somewhere out of sight, a live band was playing, the sound pumped through speakers surrounding the room. The volume was such that sign language was the only effective means of communication.
He followed Betsy to the bar along one wall. They ordered drinks, pointing to their desired selections, and then Betsy stood scanning the crowd for whatever face she was hoping to see. Finally, she nodded and waved, apparently having located her target. When she pointed with a smile to the direction she intended to go, Stani waved her on. He quickly lost sight of her in the crowd before she reached her mystery man.
Tossing down his whisky, he ordered a refill, hoping he hadn't seen the last of her. There wasn't likely to be anyone else in this crowd he knew, or at least no one he would trust to take him back to DC if Betsy disappeared. He called down a curse on his own head for letting her talk him into coming. This was just the kind of place he hated, loud and jammed with people already lost to their pursuit of oblivion. He could either join them, or try to find some place safe to wait out the evening.
He searched the room for a less crowded spot, preferably near one of the open windows. He would never have admitted it, but a room full of reefer smoke always made him slightly queasy. Setting his sights on a space along the wall currently free of leaning bodies, he skirted the dance floor, holding his glass a safe distance above his head. He'd gone no more than a few steps when a girl twirled out of the crowd, colliding with him and clutching at his sleeve to maintain her balance.
“Hold on there, love. Are you all right?” With his free hand he tried to steady her, no small feat as she continued to dance even as she attempted to put her arms around him. Blonde, with huge blue eyes already glazed by drink or drugs or both, she smiled vacantly up at him. Her body, smelling of sweat and the odors circulating in the room, pressed against his, not, he suspected, purely by accident.
Squinting up at him, as if she thought she should recognize him, she asked, “Aren't you somebody?”
“Not really.” He tried in vain to disengage the arm she had wound around his neck, holding the glass as far away from her as possible.
“Ooh, but you're British. And cute.” Her hand went up into his hair, and her eyes, crossing slightly with the effort, focused on his face. “Want to dance?”
“Not just now. Maybe later.” Still attempting to free himself, Stani smiled down at her. “Why don't you sit this one out?”
“You are somebody. You're too cute to be nobody.” She seemed to be developing a fascination with his hair, her fingers winding deeper into the curls. Obviously, she was not a girl to be easily discouraged. He knew the routine all too well. First she would hang on him, touch him and coo over him, or she would just proceed directly to blatantly groping him, as if there were no need for preliminaries. She was stoned; he could smell it on her. She had nothing more in mind than taking him to bed, or the floor, or any other available horizontal surface, for a few minutes of mindless copulation. And he was expected to be aroused by her overly accessible charms and perform to her satisfaction on command.
“Here, love, you're spilling my drink. Why don't you go find yourself another partner?” This time he managed to pull her hand free of his hair, not without losing a few strands, and backed a half step away from her.
“Oh, but I want to dance with you. I just love men with red hair. And you're so cute. Come on, dance with me.” She was about to get a hold on him again, this time sliding both arms around his waist, when a hand came to rest on her shoulder.
Turning to look up at the man behind her, she giggled. “Oh, hi Benny. This is. . .what was your name again?”
But Benny didn't seem interested. “Come on. I want something to eat.” Completely ignoring Stani, and the fact that the girl was otherwise engaged, he turned toward the buffet.
“Sorry. Maybe later?” Obeying some unspok
en command, she started to follow, looking back over her shoulder with a grin. “You really are so cute! Call me!”
Brushing droplets of whisky from his coat, Stani made his way to the empty space along the wall. Wary of another such attack, he pressed his back in a defensive position against a window frame, where he could feel the cold air blowing across his face. He spotted the girl, now hanging on Benny's arm, popping food into her mouth directly from the buffet table. An involuntary shudder ran through him. No wonder everyone here was drunk. Watching this crowd while sober was enough to turn one's stomach.
He searched the room for Betsy, finally locating her swaying in the arms of a man he recognized after a moment as Mark Stevenson. He flinched at the realization that this was the man she'd come all this way to meet. She’d been right when she said he'd been in trouble. Although he rarely paid attention to such things, even Stani knew of Mark's recent arrest for cocaine possession. The son of a New York state senator, and the grandson of a state Supreme Court justice, his notorious conduct made for the ugliest kind of headlines. Despite the attempted intervention by his family, this offense, added to the long list already on his record, had very nearly earned him jail time. Stani wondered why Betsy was so anxious to date this man. He was bad news, not the sort of publicity she needed. Still, she looked happy, gazing up into Mark's face. Maybe she'd actually fallen in love with him.
From what little he knew of falling in love, Stani was convinced that logic rarely entered into the process. People seemed to attach themselves to one another based on a random formula involving equal parts of fantasy and chemistry. Even his own mother must have succumbed to love's illusions when she and his father had married. As a small boy, he had overheard a neighbor describe his father as a lazy drunkard who had never done an honest day's work. He’d asked his mother if that were true, and with a strangely sad look on her face, she'd told him no, his father had been a lovely young man, but he hadn't finished growing up before they had married and Stani had come along so soon after. While she rarely spoke of him, she never went out to the pubs with the men who invited her, and Stani had wondered if she hoped he might yet come back.
Perhaps Betsy was blind in the same way. Perhaps she'd fallen in love with Mark Stevenson and thought she could make him better by loving him, save him from himself. Rather, Stani suspected, she was letting herself in for a bad time of it. Mark's vices were not limited to recreational drugs, if all that was said about him was true. There had been an ugly story about a girl he'd gotten pregnant. She had made a big scene in a Manhattan restaurant, threatening to cut her wrists right there at the table where Mark was dining with his family. Word was Mark's father had paid a large sum of money to send her away to have the baby. Looking at them now, Betsy's arms draped around Mark's neck, her face pressed close to his, Stani felt something close to pity. It was most likely Betsy would end up getting her heart broken at the very least.
He stayed there by the window, nursing his whisky, for what seemed a long time. He was hungry, but unwilling to give up his relatively quiet spot. If he made a run for the buffet, would he make it back before someone moved into his space? Before he could make a decision, he noticed a girl slowly making her way through the crush in his direction. He watched her, trying to recall if she was someone he should know. Small and slender, she seemed too young for this crowd. Wearing jeans and a white tuxedo shirt, in comparison to most of the other guests, she was markedly under dressed. In her hands was a loaded plate, and she was carefully threading her way toward his wall.
When she came to a halt in front of him, she looked up with serious, dark eyes. “You're Stani Moss,” she said, as if he might not be aware of the fact himself. He couldn't help grinning.
“Yes. Is there a problem?” To his surprise, she thrust the plate toward him.
“Oh, no. I just would never have expected to see someone like you at a thing like this.” The wave of her hand took in the whole of the smoke-filled lodge. “I have all of your records,” she went on as if by way of introduction.
Turning, she tucked herself against the wall beside him. He wasn't sure what to make of her. She was pretty in a way that made him think of open green fields and sunshine. Her thick dark hair, curling softly around her face, and those searching brown eyes brought to mind a Spanish Renaissance princess—Goya or Velasquez, he couldn't remember which. She was completely out of place here, as if she had wandered in from another dimension.
She seemed to have nothing more to say, so taking a cue from her last comment he asked which of the records she listened to most.
“The Mendelssohn, for sure. You were brilliant, you know.”
Again, he grinned. “Thank you. Does that mean you don't care for the others?” He'd made the recording just before the first tour, at seventeen. The sales had been very good through the years, even after the release of several subsequent recordings. He still had copies thrust into his hands after concerts. He'd developed a rapidly scrawled autograph, “All my best, S.M.” which seemed to please most fans.
“Oh, no, it was just the best,” she replied matter-of-factly. “Aren't you hungry?”
He began to eat, asking between bites, “Are you into classical music, then?” So many of the girls who approached him didn't seem to know anything about what he actually did. They assumed he was in a rock band, or a Broadway show, although it never seemed to discourage them once they learned otherwise. It was rare to meet someone who even knew Mendelssohn from Mozart.
“I'm a viola student at the conservatory near here. I suppose you never had to study the way most musicians do.” Her tone was vaguely accusatory.
“That's true, I guess.” For a moment, he felt he should apologize for his success.
They stood for some time, silently watching the crowd. She didn't seem to want anything from him, other than to stand next to him and let him eat. It was strangely comforting, as if they were somehow kindred spirits. When he had finished eating, he set the plate on the floor at his feet, retrieving his nearly empty glass from the window ledge. Another drink would be nice, but in the end he decided to linger there, in the pleasantly undemanding company of this odd girl.
Around the room a gradual procession had begun, as entwined couples and the occasional threesome began to pull away from the dancers and move up the stairway to the balcony that ran around the perimeter of the lodge. One by one, they disappeared behind the numbered doors into darkened bedrooms.
“That's disgusting.” She made a face, exactly as if she smelled something foul. “Most of them won't even remember what they've done tomorrow, or who they've done it with.”
Stani felt a twinge of genuine remorse, knowing he could be included in those despicable ranks. He was trying to keep an eye out for Betsy, making sure he saw where she went if she too disappeared up the stairs.
“So why are you here?” the girl asked. She was nothing if not direct, he mused.
“Favor for a friend,” was the simplest answer he could think of.
“Must be a good friend. You'd never find me in a place like this if I had a choice.”
Stani was suddenly alarmed—was she in some kind of trouble? Surely she hadn't come seeking his help? “You were forced to come here?”
She nodded solemnly. “My dad is catering tonight. Since I'm home for Christmas, I had to come along to help.” She pointed toward the now empty plate.
He let out a little gasp of relief. “Ah, I see.” He certainly didn’t fancy himself a rescuer of damsels in distress.
They continued to stand there together in silence, until abruptly she pushed away from the wall. Across the room, a small round man wearing a white jacket was waving his arms, apparently in their direction.
“That's my dad. I have to go.” Starting to leave, she stooped to pick up the plate. A little smile of apology lit her eyes as she stood up. “Would it be too much if I asked for your autograph? I was thinking about telling the kids at school how we'd met, but they'll never believe me.”
“Here. On this.” Pulling the paper napkin from beneath the plate, she held it out to him. It bore the logo of “Ristorante Salvatore” on one corner. Not Spanish, Italian, he thought, reaching into his coat pocket for the ever present fountain pen. Turning to the wall to write, he asked over his shoulder, “What's your name, love?”
“Lil. Lilianne actually.” She spelled it out for him.
“Pretty name.” He wrote clearly on the napkin, so there could be no doubt, “For Lilianne, all my best,” and signed his full name rather than the usual monogram.
As he returned the napkin, she said with a look of genuine pleasure, “Thanks. I was named for my godmother. She and my mom used to play chamber music together, in an ensemble.” She pronounced the word very carefully and Stani grinned.
“Ah, you have music in your genes. That's wonderful.” Next to the buffet table, he spotted her father watching them closely. Following his gaze, she turned to leave.
“I'm playing on Christmas Eve, on the radio. In case you'd like to listen in. From DC,” he called after her, suddenly sorry to see her go. Once again she turned to face him.
“Thank you. I wouldn't miss it.” She blushed, her eyes gleaming black with pleasure. “Take care of yourself, Stani Moss. God bless you and Merry Christmas!” She held out her hand and he took it in his, shaking it gently in a gesture of friendship, one musician to another.
Stani watched as she walked away, tucking the napkin carefully in the back pocket of her jeans. What an extraordinary thing, meeting a girl like that in a place like this. She was as honest and unaffected as most of the women here were artificial and jaded. In the time they had stood together leaning against the wall, he'd come to feel better somehow, refreshed. She had reminded him of himself, years ago, when he had been totally focused on his music, before he'd become distracted by celebrity. The way he'd been before his initiation into crowds like the one in this room; crowds of idle people too absorbed in the pursuit of pleasure to ever be satisfied with anything for very long.