Bob at the Plaza (11 page)

Compared to the crystal and gold splendor of last night’s opera house, Carnegie Hall felt restrained, balanced and elegant. The horseshoe balcony flowed above the orchestra seats with classical grace, and no matter where I turned, the view felt harmonious, painted with warm colors of burgundy, honey, and cream.

Harvey stepped to the front of the stage. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Happy Easter to you all and welcome to Carnegie Hall. We’re going to get right to work this morning―we have only four hours to prepare for our matinee. First we’ll practice moving the chorus on and off the stage. Trevor will work with you on those mechanics while I rehearse the orchestra”—he turned and addressed the musicians behind him in a forceful voice—“who will be focusing completely on me despite the distractions behind them, correct?” (One violinist looked sheepish. I’m guessing I was not the only screw-up in this crowd.) “Then I will work with the combined group on the Shakespeare. Now, let’s get going.” Prout clapped his hands, not as a gesture of appreciation, but to get us moving.

Which we did. Up and down risers, practicing how to move off and on stage with the least noise and risk of injury.

After our riser cardio workout, we transitioned into the three choruses we contributed to the
Easter Cantata
, and from there we moved into the Shakespeare songs.  Depressing, really, how smoothly everything moved until I got into the spirit and started belting out my favorite freedom anthem from
The Tempest
, only to get such a look from Prout that I shut up and resigned myself to mouthing the words for the rest of the day.

As the penultimate song in our Shakespeare collection, Prout conducted a choral background to the stirring narration of Henry V’s “St. Crispin’s Day” monologue from Act IV. The tenor guest star recited King Henry’s speech so beautifully it brought tears to my eyes. His words made us see that young energetic king, eager to prove his men’s mettle and his own, in the upcoming battle. Henry boasts of the glory that will follow the survivors, and how they will be able to brag about their valor by future firesides.

“Gentlemen in England, now abed, shall think themselves accursed they were not here,” Henry proclaims.

Since I just moved my lips for the quiet choruses that backed the narration, I could let the dramatic, beautiful words sink into my heart.

The concert was a huge success. Why wouldn’t it be? I’d hardly sung a note.

I tried not to sulk while everyone else celebrated, and I think I pulled it off fairly well. David gave me an extra-warm hug when we met up afterward, and I enjoyed introducing him and my friends to Katie, Bill, and Amy.

“Sweetheart!” Katie rushed up to me outside the concert house. “You were all fabulous!”

Bill stood next to her, grinning gamely, with Amy at his side.

After a few minutes of hugs, kisses, and handshakes, Bill and David stood chatting about fishing season on Crooked Lake while Katie and Amy outlined their restaurant plan. David and I would be on the dinner cruise around Manhattan with our fellow singers.

“Oh, and Roz,” Katie continued, “you might have a visitor one of these days.”

“Who?” I asked, curious. We don’t get too many pop-ins out in the country.

“Well, you remember how last Thanksgiving I offered to let Terri stay at our lake cottage sometime?”

I vaguely remembered something of the sort but since I’d been actively trying
not
to remember anything associated with my sociopathic cousin I couldn’t recall the specifics. “Don’t tell me she took you up on that,” I said.

“Yeah, she’s going up sometime this week and she’ll be there for five or six days. I told her you’d be here in Manhattan this weekend, so I don’t think she’ll be camped out on your doorstep waiting for you, but you never know,” Katie concluded.

True, when it came to my cousin Terri, you never did know. Last fall I’d had almost an out-of-body experience when she’d visited me for a few days. I’d never spent such concentrated time with someone I didn’t understand, and frankly, she’d scared me a little, which says a lot coming from someone who lives with the occasional ghost. To this day, my inner child whimpers whenever someone mentions her name. In my more paranoid moments I felt like Terri wanted to move into my lake house, over my dead body if need be. Whenever I said this, though, Katie rolled her eyes, usually making some comment under her breath that always managed to include the phrase ‘drama queen.’

Our celebratory voyage around Manhattan washed out. The light spring mist we’d enjoyed Friday had deepened into a steady soaker that made me anxious to return home to monitor my water situation. Sure, we could see the lights of the city as we circumnavigated it, but only through gallons of dripping water that kept us off the romantic decks and indoors with a choral mob and a surprisingly decent buffet dinner.

After my second glass of wine—and second dessert but, hey, who’s counting—I finally put my grumpiness at my Carnegie Hall debacle behind me. After all, I’d had a great Manhattan weekend and I’d sort of gotten my ghost buddy back. Sort of. I had no idea where he’d vanished. But, knowing Bob, he’d turn up at Crooked Lake eventually. I could hardly wait. As crazy as he made me, I loved having the guy—oops, ghost—around.

And there was David, too, of course. Such a sweet man, and awfully good looking to boot. He didn’t like the whole Bob situation, which made things awkward, but honestly, I didn’t know what to do about it. 

The soggy bus ride from the dock to the hotel dampened everyone’s spirits, and we packed for our early check-out in a quiet mood. The rain continued on my train ride back to New Jersey to pick up the car, blending perfectly with my brief, quiet visit with Dad and Milly, and provided the perfect soundtrack for my somber drive back to Crooked Lake.

Chapter 11

Water, Water, Everywhere

A sodden landscape greeted me when I arrived home.  Umbrella in one hand and wheeled suitcase in the other, I wrestled my luggage over the rocky surface of my driveway, leaving it to dry in the mudroom, and walked through the house to give it the once-over. Eventually I made my way to the deck to scope out the effectiveness of my lakefront rock work with all this rain.

Unfortunately, all my labor, aches, and pains had apparently been for nothing. The tiny crest of rock that David, Stan, and I had spent weeks building now rested under about five inches of water. Those crashing tides that had haunted my dreams in March now swelled with rain and pounded the lakefront ferociously. My nightmare had been realized. The lake lapped only a few feet from my house.

I glanced over at Stan’s cottage on the spit of ground in the swollen water. So far, even though the waves crested only an inch or two from the top of his much sturdier rock wall, the water had not broken through. Thoroughly discouraged, I put on the kettle for tea, then shuffled through the mail that had accumulated in my absence. Mostly junk, the local weekly newspaper, a few bills. No personal letters―of course. I looked more closely at an envelope from the county clerk’s office. Did anyone ever get good news from a county clerk’s office? Not in my experience. Ripping open the envelope, I pulled out the official letter. As the result of an increase in the appraised value of my home, the county clerk informed me, my taxes would be going up several
thousand
dollars next year.  And me having just spent my federal tax refund frolicking in Manhattan so I could mouth the words at the Carnegie Hall concert of my dreams. Talk about kicking someone when they’re down.

I was stumped. Trying to get ahead in this economy was like waltzing with a totem pole. I could be as nimble and charming as possible, but it didn’t make my partner any more accommodating or mobile. No matter how gracefully I danced, or how hard I worked, I kept smashing into a scary reality. Hindsight being twenty-twenty, I know now that I probably didn’t help matters by spending my bit of extra money cavorting in Manhattan but I’d gone into it with my eyes open at the time.

Now a new worry, where to come up with this extra tax money? My monthly mortgage payment would zoom into the stratosphere. With the money I’d put aside from my heavy freelance work I’d be okay for a while, but my billable hours wouldn’t pick up until late summer. I could wipe out my miniscule retirement account to keep the house for another few months but then I’d have no cushion left whatsoever. A terrifying prospect for a single woman of a certain age with no soft place to fall.

It always amazes me how so many writers feel the need to create villains in their novels, dastardly criminals out to destroy the guileless heroine. Those writers’ lives must be a lot more secure than mine. It might be ingenuous to say it, but most days, in this Great Recession, the Economy is all the enemy I’ll ever need. I visualize it writhing and hissing like a huge snake. I can never get a handle on it. Just when I think I’m okay, that I’ve put a little aside to carry me until work picks up again, my taxes shoot up, and my nest egg vanishes. And it’s always like that. I feel like I’ve spent years treading water with no sight of land and some days, I wonder how much longer I can keep going.

After reviewing my depressing snail mail, I went upstairs to double-check my electronic mail in the study. America Wins! judges should have contacted their victorious candidates and I thought my two clients had submitted very strong entries. 

Sure enough, I found emails from both Amanda and Tess asking me to call them. I dialed Tess’s number at Knobox and got an exuberant, slightly tipsy client on the phone. Noises of a cheerful office party, including the pop of champagne corks, filtered past her voice.

“We won, we won, we won!” Tess yelled above the background noise. “Oh, Roz, the CEO is so happy about this and”—she lowered her voice—“I’m going to get a bonus!”

“That’s great, Tess!” I found myself shouting as well. “Great news!”

“I can’t really talk now, but I wanted to let you know as soon as I heard,” Tess continued. “I’ll call to fill you in on details in a bit.”

“Sounds fine,” I yelled back. “Congratulations on a great campaign, Tess. You deserve it.”

I disconnected the call and danced a happy jig. How great, once in a while, to have your hard work recognized. Feeling cheerfully expectant, I dialed Amanda’s number at Topco in Arizona. With their buttoned-down, conservative work environment, I doubted I’d hear a party in the background even if they had won. Sure enough, Amanda greeted me in her usual restrained, professional tones.

“Roz, thank you so much for getting back to me so promptly. Did you enjoy your holiday weekend?”

“It was lovely, thank you. Yours?”

“Just fine, thanks. Roz, I called you because I have good news . . . and bad news.”

I paused, hesitating. I thought I could guess the good news, but why bad news in that mix? “Oh?” I finally said.

Amanda spoke in a carefully neutral voice. “Thanks to your excellent work, Roz, Topco won Honorable Mentions in the two categories we entered, and we’re very pleased with that outcome. As first-time entrants, we felt it was a fine showing. We’re very grateful to you for your assistance in achieving our recognition.”

“That’s wonderful news, Amanda,” I responded in a bright voice. “Thank you so much for letting me know. Topco ran an excellent campaign, and I’m just glad I could help you document your good work for the judges.” I waited for the other shoe to drop. Always reserved and professional in our business dealings, today Amanda sounded more formal than ever. I almost felt like she read her dialogue from notes on her desk.

“That’s what I need to talk with you about, Roz,” Amanda continued in her unemotional voice. “The way you helped us out with so much of the background work on our campaign. The research, the writing, the documentation . . .” She paused, then said, “I don’t think I’ve mentioned it, but we’ve been reorganizing here at Topco in order to control costs and streamline our operations.”

I began to see where this conversation was heading, but I struggled to remain calm and professional myself. “With the recession, Amanda, I know many companies restructure and trim costs. That’s where I can offer a lot of value since I provide a service that you don’t need to hire a full-time worker to do.” As I shoehorned my sales pitch into our conversation, I tried not to let desperation seep into my voice.

“I hear what you’re saying, Roz, and I’ve certainly appreciated the skills you’ve brought to the table while working together over the past year but”—Amanda’s voice cracked and a bit of warmth, even sympathy, entered as she went on—“when the management consultants reviewed our department, they felt one of my coworkers could add our Community Chest endeavors to her current job description. I’ve been told that we need to bring this function in-house.” She paused, then added in a soft voice, “I’m so sorry, Roz. I’ve enjoyed working with you.”

A long silence fell into the conversation, and then Amanda resumed her professional demeanor. “Do you have any outstanding invoices with us, Roz, or are our payments all up to date?”

“You’re all paid up, Amanda,” I answered in a neutral tone while my brain frantically tried to see if I could salvage anything from this disaster. “I’ve enjoyed working with you a lot, and I’ll miss it. Please keep me in mind if I can help with any other communications projects in the future. Would you be willing to be a reference for me?”

Relief that this difficult conversation was drawing to a close put almost a giddy lilt into Amanda’s next words. “I’d be happy to, Roz. Anytime. This decision reflects in no way on the excellent quality of the work you’ve done for us. It’s strictly business. You take care of yourself.”

With a firm click, she ended our conversation and forty percent of my future income vanished.