by Murphy, R.
I trailed to the door behind him. “I always enjoy chorus. Speaking of which, how’d you like to come to our Spring Concert in a few months? David and I could give you a ride. I don’t remember the exact date, but I could let you know.”
Stan opened the door, contemplated the gray day and the newest bout of snowflakes, and said, “Right now I find it hard to imagine we’ll ever see spring but sure, I’ll come to the concert. Just let me know when.” Waving his good-bye, he stepped carefully over the hard-packed snow, picked up his shovel, and headed home.
I closed the door behind him, shivering in the blast of arctic air that had scampered into the kitchen behind me. Right about now, my ghost Bob would usually shimmer in for a visit between the work chunks of my day. I’d pour a second cup of coffee and listen to his babbling about some ridiculous topic, like the perils of wearing a white suit or how to use 5,000 hedgehogs. His visits refreshed me, like a dab of sherbet between courses at a fancy meal. Bob as ‘palate cleanser,’ I thought to myself as I poured another mug of coffee. Oooooooh, would he ever hate that idea! I sniggered and headed upstairs to the computer to begin my official work day.
I had spent days analyzing the America Wins! requirements and then sifting through each company’s campaign data to find details that matched those requirements precisely. I’d phone-interviewed branch executives and campaign leaders and was now headed into the final stretch of creating two very strong entries. Although each submission was technically only three pages long, the written documentation to support those three pages would completely fill a three-inch binder.
I started assembling the heavy dummy binder for Amanda, my Arizona client, as dusk began to fall. As I juggled the unwieldy manuscript, I thought ruefully that I should be charging by the pound instead of by the hour. Although my final binder looked professional and tidy, the Topco Marketing Department would undoubtedly dress up the design a bit. Then Amanda would review and circulate it and get the CEO to sign off on the entry. Overall, though, I’d say this submission was 98-percent complete. A great start. I’d spend tomorrow morning double-checking everything, and then overnight a huge package to Arizona tomorrow afternoon.
I powered down the computer and stretched, loosening up my stiff neck and shoulders, then noticed the time and scrambled to get ready for David and our Community Chorus evening.
Fortunately, Stacey ran a blue jeans choir. Unless we were performing, we singers wore pretty much anything clothing-wise, from the occasional dressy suit to muddy overalls. So I fit right in. Freelance writing doesn’t require a very fancy wardrobe, but still, I liked to dress up a bit for a night out. So tonight I switched my home-alone sweatshirt for a black turtleneck covered by a bright-red cablestitch cardigan. Put on some mascara and lipstick, and ran a comb through my hair. My blond highlights had faded and, now that work seemed to be going well, I might be able to afford sprucing them up. How wonderful to be almost blond-ish again!
Just as I ran downstairs to turn off the lights and lower the thermostat, David knocked at the front door on the upper level of the house. I grabbed my coat, sprinted back up the stairs, and made it to the door, breathless, as he started ringing the doorbell.
“Hey,” I puffed, as I swung open the door.
“It’s freezing out here,” he exclaimed, running his eyes over me as he stamped his feet. “Is that the warmest coat you’ve got?”
“Yeah, but I’ve got a heavy scarf, too. See?” I twined the woolen scarf around my neck practically up to my eyeballs. “It helps a lot,” I said in a muffled voice.
“If you say so,” David said, grinning. “The truck’s all warmed up, so we should be okay. Ready to go?”
“Sure.” I flicked the lock on the door. Now there was one habit I hadn’t been able to break. Even though I lived in the middle of nowhere and, in winter, could count the number of neighbors for miles on one hand, I still locked my doors. A preventive measure against possible ax murderers, you know.
The heater in David’s truck hummed away, making the cab toasty warm.
“This feels so good,” I sighed, snuggling into my seat.
“Snowmeggedon. That’s what the weather broadcasters are calling this,” David said as he set the truck in gear and backed out to the pitch-black road.
“It feels like it will never end. I’ve never seen snow like this before.”
“Well, you wouldn’t in Nashville, would you?” David grinned to himself even as he kept an alert eye out for patches of black ice.
I’d never seen nights as dark as these winter evenings in the country. Miles from any town, barren of streetlights or sidewalks, stars glistened with an energy I’d never imagined. David drove into the black night guided solely by the truck’s powerful headlights.
“Smart aleck.” I smacked him playfully on his arm. “Don’t forget I’ve lived in Chicago and New Jersey and Connecticut, too. But I’ve never seen snow like this.”
“I don’t think you feel the weather so much when you live in a town.” David slowed before navigating an icy curve in the road, then accelerated. “In a city, the plows clear the roads, and you have public transit and sidewalks. Out here you’re mostly on your own.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
After fine-tuning the amount of air blasting from the heating vents, David asked, “So how’s your work going? You finishing up those entries you told me about?”
“With luck, I’ll have the first one in the mail tomorrow. I’ll be glad to kiss that sucker goodbye.”
“I thought you liked doing them?” he asked in a surprised voice.
“Oh, I do, and I sure love having the paycheck, but they’re long, very detailed projects. Working on those submissions can wear you out. Especially when you pile this never-ending snow on top of them. Speaking of snow, Stan came over this morning to help me with my daily shoveling.”
“He’s a good neighbor.” David nodded in silent approval. “How’s he doing without Mary?”
“He misses her so much. He came in for some coffee after shoveling and he told me how he gets up in the middle of the night and plays solitaire.”
“I know it’s rough.” David became quiet for a minute as we drove through the dark night, probably remembering the months after he’d lost Beth, his young wife, to ovarian cancer. He paused for a moment at the one traffic light between my house and town, then proceeded through the empty intersection. “Too bad I don’t know any older single women I could introduce him to.”
“I think it’s too early for that. But Stan did say he’d go to the Spring Concert with us, so that’s a good sign.”
“Yeah, I suppose.”
After a ten-minute stretch driving along the dark shores of the frozen lake, David steered into the pizzeria’s brightly lit parking lot, dodging the worst potholes and bouncing over ice-filled ridges. Once out of the truck, we skated over slick patches, clutching each other, and then burst into the warm, crowded dining room. My glasses immediately fogged up, so I grabbed David’s coat to follow his lead.
“Hey, there’s Bev and Gino,” David said, pausing inside the door and scanning the busy room. “You want to join them?”
“Sure, sounds great.” Peering over the top of my glasses, I could vaguely make out colorful blobs that might be Bev and Gino sitting in a booth in the corner. Gino waved us over. Still clutching David’s coat, I followed him through the aisles of the bright pizzeria, crowded with dangling coats and kids playing with trucks under the tables.
Bev was the first friend I’d made after moving to the lake, not counting Bob, of course. We’d met tasting wines at Royal Egret, a well-known Crooked Lake winery. Since Gino grew grapes, he received a sizable industry discount, which Bev shared with me. We’d been fast friends ever since. Together Bev and I had explored several local wineries in the fall, and she invited David and me to sing in Avondale’s Co
mmunity Chorus. Slim, gray-haired retirees, Bev and Gino enjoyed grandkids, wine, and singing—in that order.
Gino finished talking with the waitress as we arrived at the table. “Janie, why don’t you hold off putting this in for a few minutes and come back for our friends’ orders first?” he asked her.
“No problem,” she answered agreeably. “I’ll bring you some water.”
David and I stripped off our layers of winter gear and sat down on the slick plastic benches, and all four of us started talking at once.
“Whoa,” Gino said, holding up his hand like a traffic cop, “one person at a time here.” We all laughed. “David, you folks might want to decide what you’re having for dinner first. We don’t want to be late for chorus.”
“Good point. Are you two having pizza?”
Gino and Bev nodded yes.
David turned to me and asked, “Roz, does that sound good to you?” I nodded yes, too. “Okay, then, why don’t we just get our usual sausage and mushroom pizza.” David beckoned over the waitress who had our water, and we placed our order.
“Okay, now I’ve got to ask,” I said, turning to Bev, “what is up with you tonight? You’re wiggling around over there like you’re sitting on an ant hill.”
“She’s been out of control ever since she ran into Stacey this afternoon,” Gino said indulgently. “We’re going to hear big news at chorus tonight.”
I looked from Gino to Bev. “Well? What is it?” I asked, curious.
“Are you sure you don’t want to wait and hear the news with everybody else?” Gino asked.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, what difference will an hour make? Tell us now,” I urged.
Bev burst like an exploding dam. “We’re going to sing at Carnegie Hall!”
Chapter 2
Practice, Practice, Practice
“Yeah, right,” David said, in a mild, disbelieving tone.
“No, seriously!” Bev continued in almost a frantic voice. “We’ve been invited to sing at Carnegie Hall!”
Gino interrupted. “Hon, maybe you’d better start this story at the beginning. I think you’re getting David and Roz confused.”
“Bev, take a drink of water and start at the top,” I chimed in.
Bev sipped her water and made an obvious effort to organize her thoughts. “Okay, here goes. You know how Stacey’s been working with us on those songs based on lines from Shakespeare?” She sang under her breath, “‘It was a lover and his lass, with a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonnie-no . . .’” David and I nodded. We recognized it as one of our chorus songs. “Well, we’ve been singing some of those Shakespeare songs for a couple of years now, and Becky from our group posted a few videos of our performances on YouTube.”
Bev took another drink of water. “So at some point, a conductor in England, Harvey Prout, saw our video and videos from other choruses around the country doing Shakespeare songs. When Carnegie Hall invited Prout to conduct excerpts from Bach’s Easter Cantata this spring, Prout decided the second half of the concert should be songs based on Shakespeare. So we’ve been officially invited, with eight other choruses from around the country, to sing at Carnegie Hall on April 24th!”
“So soon?” I squeaked, shocked. “We’ll never be ready.”
“Oh yes we can. And for Easter!” Bev proclaimed, throwing her arms wide in excitement. “Just imagine, singing at Carnegie Hall! Easter in Manhattan!”
“Wow,” I said softly. “Bev, that’s huge!”
After a short pause, David joined the conversation. “I hate to dump cold water here, but who’s supposed to pay for this little shindig? I can’t see Carnegie Hall shelling out the money to bring in busloads of amateur singers to put on a concert. What about the hotel? And meals? And travel costs?”
“David, you can be such a wet blanket,” Bev said, half-complaining, half-laughing.
“He does have a point, though,” I observed.
Our pizzas arrived and we paused the conversation for a couple of minutes to enjoy them. Then Gino continued. “From what Bev tells me, it sounds like people have to pay their own expenses, for travel, hotel and so forth. We’ll get a few group discounts, but it still won’t be exactly cheap. When it comes to spending time in Manhattan, it never is.”
No, I thought to myself, Manhattan possesses many wonderful qualities, but ‘cheap’ ain’t one of them. My mood sank.
“Well, I’m out,” I grumbled. “I don’t have hundreds of extra dollars to throw around.”
“Nobody does these days,” Bev said. “But we don’t have to give Stacey our final decisions until next week, so give it some thought before you turn down the opportunity. How often does anyone get the chance to sing at Carnegie Hall?”
“It sounds like you and Gino have decided to go,” David said, his eyes darting from one to the other.
Bev and Gino exchanged one of those intimate, mind-reading, longtime-married glances, and Bev said, “We spent the whole afternoon talking about Easter at Carnegie Hall, and we want to be there. I don’t know what we’ll do about the money, but we want to go.”
“I thought,” she added, “that I might try to get some part-time work to help with the costs. Gino knows a bunch of people in the wine industry. Someone might have a job for me.”
“Huh,” David said.
“What?” I looked at him.
“Bev’s got a good idea about picking up a few hours in the wineries. Maybe there’d be something at Egret, if you were interested. I could ask Alex.” In addition to growing grapes, David worked at Royal Egret winery, on Crooked Lake’s east side. He could handle just about any job there, from working in the vineyards to bottling to helping with the vats and casks to pouring in the sampling room. In fact, I’d first met David at Royal Egret. My sister Katie and I had gone there for a tasting before the holidays last year.
“Me, work at the winery?” I said, surprised.
“Why not?” David responded. “You and Bev have visited many of the wineries and tasted their wines. You’ve learned a lot about the local wines, and then the winery would teach you more about their own vintages. You’d be on your feet all the time, but you could still have some fun there.”
“Even with a part-time job, though, could I make enough in eight weeks to pay for a weekend in New York City?” Money worried me so much these days, I couldn’t even imagine such a frivolous expense.
“Part-time work might not pay for everything,” David admitted, “but it would help out. Just give the idea some thought.”
“Look, folks,” Gino said, “maybe we can talk about all of this later. We’re going to be late for chorus if we don’t get a move on.”
We piled into coats and hats and drove separately to the church. The overhead lights illuminated about two dozen singers trekking from their cars through the Siberian parking lot. Stacey, our music director, waited for us in the church basement where we had our practice sessions. She bustled around distributing sheet music until we sorted ourselves out.
Young and petite with a cap of black hair framing her pixie-ish face, Stacey stepped to the front of the room. Barely containing her excitement, she opened our rehearsal with, “I have big news, folks! Guess who’s been invited to sing at Carnegie Hall?”
David and I glanced at each other across the room, while Bev elbowed me in the ribs. The others in the group looked puzzled and then, as Stacey outlined the invitation, delighted. For a brief while, excitement reigned, especially when Stacey mentioned that we’d be learning a few sections of the Easter Cantata to perform with the orchestra and soloists. Then she reviewed finances for the trip, including the option of four men or women sharing a hotel room for a substantial discount.
I don’t live in a wealthy part of the country. Hundreds of dollars for a frippery weekend in Manhattan amounts to a lot of money h
ere in the Finger Lakes. The excitement gradually fizzled, with a lot of negative head shaking. A handful of wealthier singers committed to going immediately but the majority settled on wait and see.
We tried, but rehearsal didn’t go too well that night. No one could concentrate on the music with visions of Carnegie Hall dancing in front of their eyes, just out of reach. At the end of our session, Stacey reminded us to give her our decisions at practice next week. Hefty down payments would be due in two weeks for those opting to go.
David and I said goodbye to Bev and Gino and walked out to the truck. We drove most of the way home in silence, each of us preoccupied with our own thoughts.
“I’ll ask if they have any openings for pourers at Egret tomorrow,” David said. “And didn’t you travel into Manhattan when you stayed at your sister’s at Christmas? Maybe you could stay with Katie and commute for rehearsals and the performance. You might have some options here, Roz.”
We pulled into my driveway, snow and ice crunching under the wheels in the frigid air. “Yeah, I’m sure you’re right.” I started resnapping the coat fasteners I’d opened when the truck got warm. “If Stacey puts four women into a hotel room, that would help with the cost a lot. I do have some possibilities. I just have to think through them. Want to come in for some coffee?”
“I’m going to pass tonight. I have to be at the winery by five tomorrow morning, so I need to head out. But first . . .” David opened his arms, and I wiggled over for a warm hug and kiss. My gut told me that both David and I wanted more, but this wasn’t the time or the place. After a few moments of cuddling and murmuring nonsense I hopped out of the truck, rosy red and warm all over, and tromped into my cold, dark house.