The Garden of Dead Dreams (8 page)

“Ah Loretta—an expert at masquerade.” Etta jerked her head up and stepped backward. Petra Atwell’s face danced with shadows from a swinging lantern, the embers of her cigarette glowing red. The bodice of her black floor-length dress plunged low in the front, revealing surprisingly ample cleavage for such a petite woman. She held a squat glass, and it caught the porch light—two translucent ice cubes floating in clear liquid. Next to her, Walker Ryan’s lanky frame emerged from the shadows and dwarfed Petra. It must have been their voices Etta had heard in the trees. Etta inhaled the sweet hickory of Walker’s cigar and smiled at her favorite resident author.

Etta opened her mouth to correct Petra on her name then she realized what Petra had said. “Excuse me?”

Walker pulled the cigar from his mouth and swirled it between his thumb and index finger. “Ignore her. She was just elucidating her rather cynical view of human social behavior for me.”

“Trust me, I have far more cynical views than this. I merely contend that it’s plain deceit to dress in a costume and pretend to be witty when one is as boring as a
Save the Children
telethon.” She glared at Etta. “Don’t look like a bruised peach, Loretta. I’m not talking about you . . . per se. All parties breed liars. These unbearable literary soirees are the worst. Miserable bores who spend their days hypnotized by laptop screens masquerading as stars and starlets. Putting on airs, pretending to be someone you’re not. It’s pathetic. Wouldn’t you agree, Loretta?”

Etta held Petra’s gaze for a moment, and then Walker’s booming laugh broke the silence. “Petra, you are as charming as a viper. Let this young woman enjoy her night.” He stubbed his cigar out in an ashtray that was resting on the handrail. “Can I escort you inside?” Etta nodded, pulling her gaze from Petra as Walker opened the door for her. She stepped inside just as the cello melody ended on a low note. A round of muffled applause followed.

The sconces in the foyer were low, casting a warm glow on the oak walls. Etta let Walker take her raincoat and hang it on a hook next to the door. The door to the great room swung open, and a cacophony of voices poured into the small space. Reed stepped into the foyer, came to a halt and looked Etta up and down. “Wow.” He pushed his wire frames up with his middle finger.

“Well, hello Mr. Morinsky,” Walker said. “Will your performance be starting soon?”

“Yes, Mr. Ryan.” Reed’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “The curtain will rise in forty minutes.” His squinty eyes shifted from Walker to Etta. He had on brown corduroys and a worn tweed blazer with leather patches on the elbows in place of his usual khakis and starched shirt. A layer of foundation glistened on his forehead and nose, and blusher colored his cheeks.

Walker laughed, a booming echo. “I’m looking forward to it. Winston is one hell of a director. Julia and I saw his first Broadway show—must have been twenty-six years ago. He makes magic on the stage. If he’d move to Hollywood, I’d think about going to the show again.” He looked from Reed to Etta, and then smiled. “Break a leg, son. I need to figure out where I left my drink.”

Walker pulled the door open and stepped into the great room. Reed’s eyes shifted back and forth behind his glasses.

“Are you nervous?” Etta asked.

Reed rubbed his hands together. “Yes. I suffer from severe glossophobia prior to every performance.”

“What-a-phobia?”

“Glossophobia. The fear of speaking in public. It afflicts seventy-five percent of people.”

Etta nodded. “Oh, right. Well, just picture us all naked.”

Beads of sweat formed on Reed’s brow, and Etta wished she could take back the sentence. “I mean, I’ve heard that can work,” she mumbled.

“Yes, I have heard of that tactic as well. However in my case it would be a detriment. Regrettably, I’m also afflicted by gymnophobia.”

Etta glanced over her shoulder at the door to the great room. “A fear of gyms?”

His forehead was now slick with sweat. “Gymnos is Greek for nudity.”

Etta stifled a smile. “Oh. Well, picture us all wearing fur coats then.”

Reed pushed his glasses up with his middle finger and smiled, revealing the gap between his front teeth. Etta wondered if his makeup would roll right off his face.

“I must go through my voice exercises now. I hope you enjoy the performance.” The front door swished closed behind him sending a draft of cool air sliding across Etta’s arms.

* * *

A cello chord echoed through the room as Etta walked toward the hearth. A spray of sparks rose from the flames, which jumped in the fireplace as though someone had just teased them with an iron prod. Except Etta was the only one standing anywhere near the fire.

Everyone else stood around the cello player sitting in front of the windows. It was Rodney Patterson. His thin black hair was combed in long stripes across his forehead. It should not have surprised Etta to see Rodney. His somber short story had been as haunting as his cello notes. But he’d never seemed like someone who’d be comfortable performing in front of a crowd. Etta wasn’t sure if she’d ever heard his voice. Now he was sitting on the edge of a wooden chair, his lanky body bent over the cello. He rocked as he bowed the instrument’s strings, his eyes fluttering open and closed as the notes climbed up and down octaves, faster and faster. The effect was so raw that Etta couldn’t draw her eyes away. Rodney looked as though he was possessed by something, as did the people clustered around him. Two women stood just on the edge of the circle of light, dressed in silk. They had their backs to Etta, but their faces were reflected in a windowpane. Lorna and Lydia. Their bodies swayed in tandem with the flicks of Rodney’s slender wrist.

“As they say back home, that dress could charm the heart of a rusty lizard.”

Etta spun around. Carl grinned and lifted his wine glass.

“You cut your hair.”

Carl ran his free hand along his newly buzzed head. His face looked even more wind-chapped than the last time she’d seen him. He had on a black tailored suit jacket and a green tie, and he looked so different than usual that she couldn’t help but stare for a minute. Finally she shifted her gaze back to Rodney. His fingers flew up and down the neck of the cello as he jerked the bow across the strings. The song ended as abruptly as it started, and the room fell silent.

Then clapping and whistling erupted, and someone—Mallory Chambers?—whooped Rodney’s name.

Carl’s breath feathered across Etta’s hair. “How are we supposed to dance to that? Think he takes requests?”

Etta smiled. She was about to suggest the musician whose CD’s she’d seen in the kitchen, but she couldn’t remember his name. Jimmie Dave something? Rodney started another song, and Etta watched, mesmerized by the slow movement of the bow drifting up and down.

“I was hopin’ to talk to you . . . about earlier” Carl’s voice was just above a whisper.

Etta remembered all at once—Olivia and Carl on the porch, her own angry voice echoing into the clearing. Heat rushed into her cheeks. She waved her hand in the air to try to dismiss what he’d said. “Are you hungry?” She spun around and moved toward the long table between the fireplace and the windows. Carl strode after her. The table was covered in white tablecloths, with a candelabra in the center. The flames cast flickering shadows across the piles of plates, the tray of silver, the bottles of wine and the glasses, and the glistening food platters.

Carl handed her an empty plate, and his hand brushed against hers. She moved down the table, picking a few things from the appetizers: a slice of watermelon, a strawberry, and two crab cakes. She glanced at the three quiches on display, but they looked a little too familiar to be appetizing.

Carl deposited a wedge of the smoked salmon quiche onto his plate. The thought of Carl eating something she’d cooked, along with the ache that had started to resonate from the arches of her feet from her high heels made Etta feel unsteady.

Rodney finished his song, and rose, resting his cello on its stand. The room swirled with people.

“Dry Riesling will enhance the sweetness of the crab, bringing out its delicate flavor, like a lemon slice would.”

Etta reached for the wine glass Carl was extending to her. “I usually avoid California vintages like a long tail cat around rockin’ chairs, but this one’s pretty good.” Carl plucked his plate off the table and moved toward a table near the wall. Etta teetered after him, taking a gulp of wine and savoring the sweetness of it at the back of her throat.

Several of the myrtlewood tables from the dining room had been pushed together and covered in white tablecloths. The center was lined with tea candles and a dusting of glitter, which made Etta think of a high school dance. Carl sat down and Etta set her plate across from him, relieved at the release of pressure on her toes and arches when she sat down. She scanned the room for Olivia and Poppy, trying to recognize faces in the crowd.

Two people were sitting at the other end of the long table. Jordan? Yes, his whitish blond hair caught the candlelight. Etta searched for his eyes and tried to smile at him, but he was intent on someone sitting across the table. Chase Quinn?

“You okay?”

Etta’s gaze leapt to the voice. Carl was sawing at the quiche with his fork.

“Sorry, did you say something?”

He looked up, his face lit up by the tea candles. “Yeah, I was hopin’ to talk to you . . .” He dropped the fork with a clank onto the edge of his plate.

“Is it that bad?”

Carl blinked and glanced down at the quiche. “I reckon that depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether you prepared this fine dish.”

Etta laughed, all at once feeling the wine buzzing through her empty stomach. She wrapped her fingers around the stem of the glass. “If it’s horrible, you should just tell me.”

He grinned, his eyes pinching at the corners. “It’s delicious . . . ‘cept the crust might be a smidgen tough.”

“A smidgen.” Etta laughed. “What exactly is a smidgen?”

Carl frowned. “Ever tasted sheet rock?”

Etta laughed so hard that it took her a minute to register that Olivia was at her side, crouching between her and Carl. Olivia gripped Etta’s arm. Her fingers were freezing, and Etta winced, automatically jerking away. Her glass teetered, and Carl’s hand shot across the table to settle it.

“Liv, hi.”

Olivia was hissing into her ear, but Etta couldn’t make out any words. She searched for Olivia’s eyes. They were wet, glossy. Had Olivia been crying? Etta glanced at Carl.

“Are you okay?” The words sliced through whatever Olivia was whispering.

Olivia looked over her shoulder, and then snapped her eyes back to Etta. “Please come. Now.”

Etta glanced at Carl. “We were . . .”

“We’re going to miss the play.”

Her words were so sharp that Etta felt herself wince again. “Liv, I’m sure they’ll make an announcement.”

Olivia stared at Carl. “Can my friend come with me to watch the play I wrote? Is that okay with you, or do you want to keep her in this corner all night?” Her words were icy.

Carl set his wine glass down, his gaze shifting from Olivia to Etta and then down to his plate. “I was just leavin’. Got to go check on some things.” He slid off the bench and strolled past Olivia, leaving his plate and glass on the table.

“Let’s go,” Olivia hissed. Etta let her roommate pull her to her feet. She gripped Olivia’s hand and followed her through the crowd and into the dark hallway that led to the dining room. She tried to seek out Carl in the fluttering shadows. But she only saw Jordan and Chase Quinn. Their gazes seemed to be following her down the hallway. Then Etta was sure Jordan had leapt to his feet and was following them. But it must have been her imagination, because Olivia and Etta’s footsteps were the only ones echoing in the darkness.

Etta didn’t have to ask where they were going. She knew the hallway led to the theater, which was a relief, because something about the ragged way Olivia was breathing made Etta not want to ask any questions.

Smoke rolled out from beneath the blue velvet curtain and rose into the stage lights. Etta tried to pull her hand from Olivia’s. Her first instinct was to spin around and grab at the door handle. But then she inhaled the dusty smell of the theater. It didn’t smell like smoke. It must be a dry-ice machine. Etta’s feet and calves ached, and she was tempted to lean down and slip the high heels off. Instead she let Olivia pull her forward. Strands of Olivia’s hair had fallen from her hairdo, and they swung back and forth as she hurried down the narrow center aisle, her head flicking from one side of the room to the other. They had their pick of seats; the theater was empty.

Buchanan had supposedly salvaged the seating from a theater in downtown Portland that had closed in the fifties, but they were in pristine condition. They were polished maple with spring cushions covered in royal blue velvet, and they had built-in ashtrays on the arm rests and brass fedora holders beneath.

A door squeaked open, and a tumble of laughter vaulted into the theater. Etta turned to see who it was. “Pay attention” Olivia snapped, grabbing her hand. “Where will he sit?”

Etta’s face filled with fire. Who, she almost asked, but she couldn’t bring herself to say anything. Olivia looked so frantic, angry.

“The first row.” Olivia’s fingers squeezed Etta’s palm. Etta tried to tug her hand away, but Olivia had a good grip. Olivia led Etta to the space between the front row and the stage.

“We have to be able to see him.” Olivia’s head flew back and forth. Voices drifted in. The seats in the middle of the room started to fill up. “Etta,” Olivia snapped again.

“What?” Etta snapped back this time.

“Where’s he going to sit?”

“Who? Who are you talking about?”

“Olivia.” A deep voice came from the stage, and both Olivia and Etta spun around. The fake smoke swirled just in front of them. Winston Goss, the resident author directing the play, was standing over them, his legs hidden by the fog of dry ice. His torso seemed to float. “Oh thank goodness you’re early. I panicked when I realized I hadn’t saved you a front row seat.” He grinned, and Etta realized she’d perhaps never seen him smile. Winston was not unfriendly. He just usually seemed too consumed in thought to be genial. “I can’t wait for you to see what a marvelous script you’ve written. It’s just, it’s, you know . . . I think there’s too much smoke. You wouldn’t believe how much dry ice I had delivered.” He exhaled, wiping at his forehead. “I think I’m more nervous with this one than with my bigger productions, because it’s just so original, so unconventional. I hope you like what we’ve done with it.”