An Unexpected Suitor (8 page)

Calm down. You’ll only make matters worse.

She slowed her step and even smiled and nodded at the few people she passed. But her thoughts were on the note. Judy was right. Someone meant to warn her—to scare her. It wasn’t a question of why someone had sent the note. That was clear enough. But who would stoop to such tactics?

Starbuck?

Certainly he had the most to gain. After all, if his actors did not staff her tearoom she would be once again without the help she needed to remain open now that the tourists were beginning to arrive in earnest. And certainly the blue stationery was close at hand. The bookstore just across the street from his office kept a ready stock of it in a selection of cream and blue.

So, you are still playing pranks, Harry
, she said silently, recalling all the times he and her brothers had pulled some
trick or hoax in their youth.
And what if I simply ignore your little stunt?

“Yes, that’s the best course,” she decided, reversing her direction and walking slowly back to the tearoom as if she’d only been out for a bit of fresh air. “I will simply ignore your childish prank. In fact, I will ignore you, Harrison Starbuck.” For the rest of the day she was in unusually high spirits.

Promptly at five that evening Harry arrived for rehearsal and so, promptly at quarter to the hour, Nola shut herself away in the parlor. This continued every day after the note arrived. Whenever she could she would leave the premises altogether on the excuse of visiting a friend or attending a church meeting. But on those evenings when she had nowhere to go, she couldn’t help pulling her chair closer to the closed doors and eavesdropping as Harry and the company slowly worked their way through his script.

The process of building the show fascinated her. The changes the cast suggested for the lyrics or tempo or sometimes even the music itself opened her eyes to the fact that putting together a theatrical performance was a collaborative effort. She had imagined that once Harry began directing the rehearsals, he would simply state what he wanted and the others would do their best to comply. To her surprise, he would ask for their ideas and listen to their suggestions. Sometimes Nola would hear all of them talking over the top of one another as they called out new ideas for how a particular lyric or song should go.

And sometimes Nola would long to add her own ideas to the mix. A chord that was half a key off for Olga’s rich contralto. A little known madrigal melody that would perfectly fit the lyrics for the number at the close of the first act. Once or twice she had scribbled some notes and even made one
or two offhand suggestions to Ellie as they sat with their tea late in the evening. And a couple of nights later she heard Ellie offer those same suggestions to Harry and when he took them, Nola had felt a sense of pride and accomplishment that she hadn’t known in some time.

But every time she caught herself concentrating more on the operetta than on the business of running her tearoom, Nola would remind herself of the note. Then she would drag her chair back to its proper place at her desk and force herself to get back to work. The tearoom was struggling, but Harry Starbuck would not defeat her.

Still, Nola had to face facts. Business had not improved much even with the arrival of the first seasonal visitors and it wasn’t only Rose Gillenwater and her crowd who had shunned the tearoom since Nola put the actors to work. She was no closer to finding more permanent—and more suitable—help, and she resented the prejudice against the actors. They were doing a fine job and their behavior was above reproach. If only she could come up with some way to attract new customers, the loss of local business would not be so critical.

She kept coming back to the suggestion Billy had made that first night. Why not expand background piano music to include the occasional solo or reading? The more she thought about it, the more the idea grew into something grander—perhaps a recital or poetry series. She studied the figures on the ledger. If she extended the hours of the tearoom to include just two evenings a week, she could potentially increase her gross income by at least ten percent. “And over the course of the entire season,” she muttered aloud as she did the math, “that could possibly amount to an extra…” She stared at the number and released a long breath. But the
actors needed their rehearsal time. Extending hours would have to wait until she could find permanent staff.

Still, she decided to discuss the idea with Ellie.

“And what would you do with all that extra, anyway?” Ellie wanted to know when Nola broached the idea to her later that night as they sat together in the parlor for what had become their regular late night talk. “No, don’t tell me. You’d put it all right back into this place—fixing up the grounds or buying a new stove for Judy. Not that she wouldn’t love that. It’s just that for once in your life wouldn’t it be nice to think about getting something for yourself?”

Nola laughed uncertainly. “I don’t know what you mean. It’s all for me. This is my livelihood…my home…my…”

“Life,” Ellie replied firmly. “I may not know you all that well, Nola. But from what you have told me about your family and growing up on the island here, I have to believe that your blessed mother would want more for you than working from dawn to dusk and finding adventure in those books you read after I go off to bed.”

“Oh, Ellie, my mother certainly understood hard work.”

“No doubt. Judy told me that when your father died, your mother said that if it was the last thing she did she was going to make sure that none of you ever had to worry. Well, she didn’t get the chance to see it through, but you made sure that her dream was realized, at least for the others. And speaking of the others, where are your siblings? Why aren’t they helping out?”

Nola frowned and folded her arms tightly across her chest. Ellie’s innate bluntness could be unsettling when her questions raised doubts in Nola’s head about decisions she had made.

“Oh, Nola, I apologize. It’s none of my business, but it’s
hard for me to understand and I feel as if you deserve so much more.”

Ellie had touched a nerve without realizing it or meaning to. “After Mama died,” Nola admitted quietly, “everyone assured us that we would be better off if we each went to live with a family elsewhere on the island.”

“Split up?” Ellie was clearly horrified at the very idea. “After all you’d already lost, they would have you lose each other?”

“They meant well. The minister at the time and others—including Rose Gillenwater—tried reasoning with us. ‘It’s not as if you’ll never see each other again, Nola,’ she said. She told us we could visit one another at these foster homes.”

“And what did you say?”

“I asked where
our
home would be. No one had an answer for that.”

“So what happened?”

Nola shrugged. “I struck a bargain with the elders. If we could all stay in the house we had inherited, then we would run the tearoom in the summer and I, as the responsible one, would make sure the others completed their schooling.”

“This is like a drama,” Ellie said. “What happened?”

“The minister and a woman from the office of social services agreed to check on us regularly and the Langs agreed to move in with us until we were old enough to be on our own.”

“How old were you then?”

“Sixteen.” Nola smiled at the memory. “The minister told me that he was certain that I was acting purely out of grief and shock. He said that it was understandable that having lost both parents, I wouldn’t wish to sustain further loss. Still, in time he came around and agreed that I’d made the right choice.”

“And your siblings? What happened to them?”

“At the time my brothers were already eighteen and seventeen, so they were off and on their own within a year. Jerrod headed west to follow our father’s dream of living in California. Harold married the daughter of a United States senator and they live in Washington.”

“And your little sister?”

“Beth was just fourteen but with all the work involved in keeping this place going she grew up fast. When she was eighteen, she fell in love with a British photographer who had come to the island that summer. She ran off to London with him, sending word they had been married by the ship’s captain on their voyage across the Atlantic.”

“How romantic. Is she happy?”

Nola laughed. “Well, she’s certainly busy. Her husband is the court photographer and they live in the country where Beth is busy raising sheep and three children.”

“So why did you stay?”

Because this is home—for all of us—and someone has to be the keeper of that haven of solace and comfort.

“They have their lives and homes. This is mine.”

“And when was the last time you visited any of them? When was the last time you left this island, Nola, for anything but business?”

“Now, Ellie,” she began, but the actress held up her palms.

“Don’t you ‘Now, Ellie’ me, Nola Burns. You’ve talked of the past and the dreams you had as a girl—dreams that never included running this tearoom for the rest of your life. Let’s see, your excuses probably run along the lines of ‘It’s the busy season,’” she mocked in a falsetto tone. “Or ‘Maybe next year.’ Well, take it from me, my friend, those next years go by fast and before you know it they’ve passed you by and you’re left with only memories.”

Ellie’s eyes filled with tears and Nola rushed to her side. “Oh, Ellie, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“Oh, don’t mind me. These days I seem compelled to stick my nose into other people’s lives. It’s just that sometimes I get so caught up in thinking about all that Phil and I…” She leaned forward and clasped Nola’s hand. “I like you, Nola, and you deserve so much more than…” She started to cry in earnest now.

Nola gave Ellie a moment to compose herself. “I take it then that you would be against the idea of expanding the services of the tearoom to offering the occasional evening recital or poetry reading?”

Ellie wiped her eyes and took a deep breath. Nola had become used to the actress’s sudden shifts in mood. Suddenly she was all business. “Actually, it’s a very good idea, but as you’ve already realized, it can’t be an evening thing.”

“What if we did something on Saturday afternoons at four?”

Ellie’s eyes went wide with surprise and she let out a low and most unfeminine whistle that brought Lancelot’s ears to attention. “You’ve already decided to do this, haven’t you? What about Mrs. Gillenwater and her friends?”

“Well, I was thinking that they could hardly object if we took an offering instead of charging—and gave the money to charity,” Nola said, thinking aloud.

“And the point of that would be what? I thought this was a way to raise more money from the business.”

“The idea is to promote the business,” Nola ventured. “If we could raise funds for charity, think of the goodwill that would create.”

Ellie looked doubtful but at least Nola could see she was considering the idea. “It might work,” she said. “You could try it once and if it didn’t work then there’s nothing lost. On
the other hand, if you announce a whole program of such things and then the first one falls flat…”

“Oh, Ellie, what a good idea,” Nola said as she hugged her friend. “I hadn’t thought that it could be a one-time thing to see how it goes. And it wouldn’t take much to put it together. If we served just tea and cakes no one would order from a menu and I could handle the setup and clean-up myself.”

“And I know the others would be delighted for the opportunity to perform—even the countess,” Ellie replied. “And what do you think our friend Starbuck will say about all of this?”

Nola bristled. “It really is none of his affair,” she said, but then remembered that the actors worked for Starbuck. “You don’t think—that is, he wouldn’t…”

Ellie shrugged. “He might. On the other hand, he mentioned tonight that he has business in New York for the next two weeks. If we put everything in motion while he is away…” She smiled and shrugged again. “What can he say?”

Nola did not like subterfuge. On the other hand, surely he couldn’t object to her staging an event for charity. “After all,” she reasoned, “it could also be as good for his season at the cabaret as it is for the tearoom.”

But deep down she doubted that Starbuck would see things that way.

H
arry was beat. His meetings in New York had not gone well.

“You’re spreading yourself too thin,” Alistair Gillenwater warned him on the trip back. “This business of writing an operetta—well, frankly, Harrison, that’s all well and good. A man should have a hobby, but in your case, you’ve—”

“I write plays professionally,” Harry interjected.

“Well, label it what you will. The fact of the matter is that it’s your head for business that has brought you the successful lifestyle you enjoy. Now if you’re intent on giving that up and becoming one of those struggling starving artist types, so be it, but take my advice, son, and stick with what you do best.”

It had always mystified Harry that protocol seemed to dictate that a person was allowed only one area of success—if that. The idea that a man might pursue a variety of disparate interests seemed to intimidate those who held the purse strings. After all, no one had ever been able to explain why God would give a person multiple and diverse talents and then not be troubled when the person chose one of those God-given talents and discarded the rest.

He slumped against the seat of the railway car, hardly noticing as the train chugged past Tom Nevers Pond on its way to ’Sconset. He couldn’t deny that Alistair had a point. At first Harry had enjoyed modest success on the New York theater scene with a series of revues he had written and staged. But when he had turned his attention to more serious topics—real plays with plots and memorable characters and high drama—his efforts had been met with skepticism. And rejection always made him all the more determined to succeed. And succeed he did. He’d written and staged not one but two plays on Broadway last season. Both had played to packed houses and received rave reviews from the critics.

But he was well aware that others were more interested in his talent for taking a business idea and bringing that to fruition. He had a kind of sixth sense when it came to timing a venture and predicting what people might want at any given moment. It was that insight supported by his unique ability to deliver a project or product on time and under budget that had gained him a reputation for being someone investors could rely on to provide a significant return on their dollar. The one thing that had never resonated with his partners and investors was his theory that theater could be used to teach, to build awareness and understanding, and to change the world for the better.

“But, Harry, why would we want to change the world?” an investor had once asked. “It works just fine the way it is.”

“For you,” Harry had muttered as the man walked away still laughing at the ridiculous notion that a play could change hearts and minds, or that he would ever want such a thing.

Harry closed his eyes and let the gentle rocking of the railway car lull him into a state of half sleep. As always, when the world of business became too stressful to bear, he
escaped into the world of his imagination, storytelling on the stage. He thought about his current work—the play set to music. The very fact that he thought about almost nothing but this play told him that it was something different from anything else he’d penned.
Simple Faith
had all the earmarks of a major theatrical experience—a life-changing, heartrending experience. It could be a major artistic and financial hit. Harry was sure of it. In a single evening hundreds of people who may not have darkened a church’s door in ages would receive God’s message.

Alistair nudged him as the two cars of the train pulled up to the station at the base of the bluff and passengers began gathering their belongings. As they stepped off the platform and into the sunlight, Harry tightened his grip on his small carpetbag and headed for the stairway to the top of the bluff. Alistair fell into step next to him, swinging his umbrella and continuing his litany of details that needed Harry’s immediate attention if they were to open the cabaret on schedule.

Alistair Gillenwater had no need of luggage. He owned a fine townhouse on the Upper East Side of Manhattan in addition to the large Federal-style mansion he occupied for most of the year on the outskirts of ’Sconset. Both residences were fully staffed and fully stocked with anything Alistair, his wife Rose, or their children might need. By the time the two men reached the top of the stairway, Alistair was breathing hard.

“You need to get more exercise. I could lend you my bicycle,” Harry joked as they reached the footbridge that led into town and Alistair paused to catch his breath.

“Keep in mind that I am a good twenty years your senior, young man. Wait until you’re my age and see how well you do with climbing stairs and such.”

“Point taken,” Harry said, his good spirits restored as they always were the minute he set foot back on the island. It was as if Nantucket were his own personal oasis from the problems and trifles of the rest of the world.

“Now, concerning the cabaret opening,” Alistair continued.

“Oh, Alistair, the cabaret will open on schedule and under budget, I assure you.”

“It’s not just the cabaret, Harry,” Alistair reminded him. “Our investors are expecting a package—the cabaret, the golf course and the exclusive inn with the most modern amenities any city dweller could want. It was your idea. They bought it and now it’s up to you to deliver.”

“Even if Nola sold out tomorrow, I’ve already explained to the investors that the inn will come next year. First the cabaret and then the inn.”

“But you have to make a start, Harry. As far as I can tell you’ve made little progress buying Nola’s place.”

Harry sighed. “Stop worrying, Alistair. Tearooms are quickly becoming a relic of the past. The younger generation of families are going to be looking for something more active, more entertaining. Nola Burns is already struggling to find help. Using my actors to staff the place even temporarily was a mistake of major proportions that robbed her of a fair amount of steady business from the locals. Once her business starts to seriously fall off, it’s only a matter of time.”

“I don’t know, Harry. That place has been Nola’s entire life. I don’t see her giving up so easily.”

“If she has no help and no customers, the decision will effectively be taken out of her hands, Alistair. Now, it’s a beautiful afternoon. Can’t we just take a moment here to appreciate this glorious day? Look at that sky, that shore. Smell the roses. Look how they’ve blossomed while we’ve been
away. Now I ask you, what could possibly go wrong on a day as perfect as this?”

As he and Alistair approached the tearoom, Starbuck stopped. Several townspeople were standing outside the gate and eyeing the entrance.

“The tearoom usually closes at six and it’s nearly that now,” Harry muttered as he quickened his step. He couldn’t help wondering if something unfortunate had happened. But when he reached the gate he saw that the few people entering the tearoom were quite lighthearted, even excited. And on the post was a hand-lettered sign announcing an evening of poetry and music “with a freewill offering for charity.”

“Charity aside,” one local woman huffed, “this is simply not the way we do things around here.”

Her companion agreed. “It’s one thing to purchase a ticket for a performance in a legitimate theater but this stretches the limits of propriety if you ask me. Nola operates a respectable tearoom—or she did before those people moved in.”

The two women hurried to cross to the other side of the street as if simply being seen in the proximity of Nola’s place might taint their reputations.

“What now?” Alistair asked as he pressed forward to read the sign.

“It would appear that Miss Nola has come up with yet another new idea for staying put,” Harry said and frowned when he realized that in addition to the annoyance he was feeling, there was also a certain measure of admiration for the lady’s ingenuity.

Nola could not have been more stunned to see Alistair Gillenwater sitting in the front row just as the recital was about to begin. Alistair rarely defied his wife and Rose’s dis
approval of the performance had been made crystal clear. Nola was so caught up in witnessing this unusual occurrence that she failed to notice Harry Starbuck until she was on her way to open a window and nearly tripped over him. He was casually leaning against the wall, one ankle crossed over the other, his arms folded, his eyebrows raised as if he was waiting for an answer to some unspoken question.

“You’re back,” she said. “I’ll ask Billy to bring a chair.”

Starbuck gazed around the more than half-empty rooms. “No need. It appears that I’ll have my pick. You seem to have overestimated your audience.”

“Oh, you know how busy people are on Saturdays. I’m quite sure the seats will fill quickly. People have been talking about the recital for days.” She was chattering on like some nervous schoolgirl who wanted desperately to impress him. For his part he made no effort to put her at ease. He just kept standing there, staring at her, his brows knitted into a frown.

“But if you prefer to stand, that’s fine,” she added. “Oh my, it’s gotten so warm in here. Perhaps we should leave the front door open. That way as latecomers arrive…”

“Exactly what are you doing, Nola?” His tone was casual, even friendly, but his eyes bored into hers.

She released a nervous laugh. “As you can see, I am providing for the comfort of my guests, so if you’ll excuse me—”

At that same moment Jasper took his place at the front of the room and tapped on a glass with a spoon to gain the audience’s attention. His voice seemed almost too powerful for the room, especially given the sparse crowd he was addressing.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to an hour of the classics for the benefit of the Nantucket Fund for Orphans
and Widows. This afternoon you have the rare privilege of enjoying an hour of poetry and music as presented by professional actors from the New York stage. To open our program, it is my pleasure to present Mrs. Eleanore Chambliss at the piano.”

A hush fell over the gathering as Ellie started to play. Nola saw that Olga was quietly closing the front door and motioned for her to leave it ajar. She was about to slip past Starbuck and into the foyer when she felt his hand close gently but firmly around her upper arm.

“Your office,” he murmured as he steered her across the foyer and into the parlor. He smiled and nodded at acquaintances along the way, but once inside the parlor, he dropped his hold on her and closed the doors.

“You seem upset,” Nola said, crossing the room to stand behind her desk.

Starbuck smiled but the humor did not reach his eyes. “I think you owe me an explanation,” he said as he collapsed his lanky frame into one of the matching chairs that faced the fireplace. He threw one long leg over the arm, leaning sideways into the chair, then stared up at her and waited.

“I cannot imagine what you are talking about,” she replied.

“I am talking about the fact that you are using my actors without consulting me. Are they to be paid, Nola?”

“Not in the traditional sense,” she faltered. “The event is free and open to the public. I told you that in my note.”

“Your note?”

“The one I left in your office.”

“I see. I haven’t yet been to my office, so why don’t you fill me in on the contents of your message?”

Nola sighed. “I wanted you to know that I had taken an idea the others suggested and adapted it.”

“And that idea would be?”

Nola nodded toward the closed doors. “Offering a small event such as a recital or reading to raise money for charity.”

“Using my actors to perform,” Harry repeated. It was not a question.

“They are human beings, Harry, not your personal property,” Nola huffed.

“Nevertheless, I have hired them to perform at the opening of the cabaret and for several weeks following. I have promised investors a return on the money they have put up to finance the building of that cabaret. Did it ever occur to you that offering their talents for free might take a bit of the glow off my plans?”

Nola opened her mouth to protest but he wasn’t finished. He swung his legs to the floor and stood. He paced up and down from the fireplace to her desk and back again as he ticked off his grievances in the form of questions. “Did it ever occur to you that I can’t afford to have my performers losing valuable time while they prepare for your afternoon gatherings? And let me add that if you think offering people a free concert now and then is going to save this quaint business of yours from extinction, think again.”

Nola waited a moment to be sure he had run out of accusations. “Are you quite finished?” she said, moving toward the door.

“I’m still waiting for an explanation.”

“I do not owe you an explanation. This is an event for charity and it will surely be publicity for the opening of the cabaret. The way I see things, I am indirectly doing you a favor.”

“You don’t know the first thing about such matters,” he snapped. “They must be carefully timed, carefully planned. You don’t just—”

“And you do not own the exclusive rights to creative thinking. I am quite capable of putting such events together. Perhaps they will not have your flair for the dramatic, but in spite of today’s small turnout, they do have a certain appeal and word will spread. The very fact that I did this on my own rather than coming to you for permission is the real problem here.”