Chapter 13-1
1973 Words
Chapter 13
When Bill arrived at the Opera offices, he scraped in only minutes before his planned meeting with Russell.
He only had a moment to look up Russell Morgan online.
Bill tried to get organized, and thought of the shape of Perrin’s shoulder.
Russell Morgan had been a world famous fashion photographer until he’d practically disappeared two years ago, closing his New York studio. Bill clicked over to see any images. There were several paparazzi shots of Russell with that supermodel Melanie draped on his arm.
Bill shook his head in wonder, and remembered how it felt as Perrin’s strong fingers dug into his hair.
There were photos of Russell’s wedding to Cassidy Knowles at a lighthouse. And some very nice ads for Perrin’s Glorious Garb, Pike Place Market, and the Washington Wine Cooperative.
Bill was about to scrub at his face to force himself to focus when Nia called him to the front desk.
In the lobby, not only Russell, but also Angelo were chatting happily with Nia. It wasn’t quite flirting, both men were decent enough to make sure their wedding rings were on clear display, but everything else about it was flirting.
“There’s the man!” Russell’s crushing handshake warned Bill that last night’s threat before dinner might not have been so idle. Angelo’s friendly hug and very solid thump on his back reinforced the message strongly. Angelo was not as tall as Russell, but his shoulders showed he pumped a lot of iron.
The main thing Bill pumped was a lot of paper, and as much patience with work and kids as possible. He was in good shape, Perrin had remarked on it any number of times and places on his body… Gads! But if these two guys wanted to squish him into a little ball and drop him into a garbage can, there was nothing that he could do about it.
He skipped the standard office tour, though he did take them through the halls the long way around so they could see the more recent production photos on the walls.
Russell nodded his head as he looked at them. “Claude’s work, nice. Oh, and there you used Enrique. A little dark, but he always is.”
At first Bill was trying to remember the directors and designers for those productions. Then he remembered a brief meeting a few shows back as one of his assistant stage managers had reported that she’d be escorting Enrique Rinaldi during a rehearsal to photograph the production. You couldn’t have a photographer running around the house during an actual performance.
Bill looked more closely, but the photographer was not noted on the prints, only the production, date, and visible cast members. Russell Morgan was able to recognize the photographer’s work as easily as Bill recognized a well-tempered singer versus a lunatic diva, in other words, at a glance.
They went down to the Costume Shop. Jerimy wasn’t there, but Patsy pulled out the main clothing racks for Ascension.
“Damn!” Russell brushed one costume aside, then another to expose the fronts. “Look, Angelo. Look what she did. Perrin is really incredible. I swear I could take her international tomorrow. I wouldn’t do that s**t to her, but her designs could walk Paris.”
Bill agreed, then realized that this was a leading fashion photographer, he would really know. Without saying a word, Bill pulled out the Empress and hung it in the clear so that it was fully visible.
Angelo let out a long, low whistle of appreciation. “Can you imagine how Perrin would look in that one?”
Bill remembered her arrival. The manic, sleep-deprived, stunning beauty with the blond swirl in her newly black hair, and that dress wrapped around her.
“She was magnificent in it.” He lost himself in the memory for a moment, the sheer power she had radiated, like a beacon in the night.
Only belatedly did he become aware that he had the absolute attention of the two men.
“You saw Perrin in that?” Russell’s voice was low, dangerous.
“She was amazing. Then she crashed onto my office couch and slept for nineteen hours and twenty-three minutes.”
“She does that,” Angelo acknowledged cheerily.
“Your couch,” Russell’s voice went even lower.
“By Bill’s dreamy look,” Angelo offered up as if he hadn’t noticed Russell’s tone. “I’d say they used more than the couch after they left dinner last night.”
Russell took a step forward, Bill stumbled back into one of the cutting tables.
“He has this ticklish spot,” Angelo said perfectly matter-of-factly then poked a single finger into Russell’s lower rib cage and began wiggling it.
“Hey!” Russell leapt aside. “Cut that s**t out! I’m onto something here.”
Angelo went after him again, ducking what looked to be a potentially vicious headlock. “What you’re onto is messing with Perrin’s love life. And frankly, if there’s anyone scarier to mess with than Mama, it has to be Perrin.”
Russell found the headlock, just as Angelo nailed the spot making Russell squirm sideways and step back, dragging Angelo with him by his neck.
Sensing trouble, Patsy, Jerimy’s assistant, had come up behind them, though Bill had no idea what the little woman could do. She barely came up to Russell’s armpit. What she did was deftly slide a clothes hamper behind their knees as they stumbled back another step, and the two men collapsed backward onto the floor in a flurry of scarves, hats, and gloves.
Bill looked up at the ceiling and remembered Cassidy’s comment from last night: “Harmless.” Yeah, right.
After cleaning up, the three of them sat around one of the cutting tables on tall stools. It had taken longer to drag Russell and Angelo clear of the clothing than it had been to get it all back in the hamper.
Patsy went about her business, whistling the old Grateful Dead tune, Man Smart (Woman Smarter) which thankfully neither of the other guys appeared to recognize. She had members of her knitting g**g coming in to start building the last costumes and she was setting up a big table encircled by comfortable chairs. Someone rolled a large knitting machine off the elevator and Patsy rushed over to help. He hadn’t thought the costumes were that numerous to need a knitting machine, but maybe they were. The outfits for the court’s entourage characters had to match their leaders after all.
He left her to it and returned his attention to Perrin’s self-declared protectors.
“Sorry,” Russell shook his head. “Actually no. I’m not a bit sorry, even if Cassidy will kick my a*s for interfering. Perrin’s fragile. She needs protection more than she will admit or even knows.”
Bill considered pointing out that his assessment was quite the opposite, but decided that discretion was the better part of survival.
“While Russell is still blowing steam,” Angelo slapped his friend on the back, as if he was choking, hard enough to echo about the room though Russell barely wavered. “Someone care to tell me what the hell am I doing here?”
Bill could only shrug. He’d only expected Russell. And he’d mainly agreed to take the meeting because Perrin thought Russell was such an artist. That he’d dragged one of Seattle’s finest restaurateurs along with him, didn’t make any sense that he could see.
“It’s in that boy’s brain,” he pointed at Russell, “maybe you can beat it out of him. If not, I’m sure we could call Mama Maria and she’d be glad to come help.”
That seemed to work. Russell scraped his hand back through his hair.
“Man, you try to be a little protective of your friends and suddenly everyone’s threatening me with Maria.”
“Is it working?”
Russell glared at him balefully, “Yeah, I guess it is. Okay, here we go. Your new opera, are you planning any opening night events?”
“We actually have a couple of them. The high rollers, bigger donors, get a very nice catered dinner with entertainment and free passes into the final dress rehearsal. Then there’s also the after-opening-night party; that’s for the primary cast members and the really major donors.”
Russell was nodding. “Have you contracted venues or catering services yet?”
Angelo didn’t see it, still looking confused, but Bill heard it loud and clear. He’d play along as a politeness, but didn’t expect it to go anywhere.
“Consuela, our head of fundraising, has the bids, but we haven’t reviewed or signed anything yet. The first event is a large tent venue for three hundred people on the Seattle Center grounds: heaters, string quartets, arias by various artists, the whole nine yards. The second event is typically an indoor venue, a hundred people, maybe a little more, mostly standing, high-end finger food and a fair amount of champagne.”
“He can do that,” Russell assured him blithely.
Angelo caught up with the conversation. “Wait! Three hundred? Are you nuts, Russell? Is that buffet or plated?”
“Plated.”
Angelo groaned.
“That’s individual service for three hundred people of an appetizer, three courses, plus dessert,” Bill informed Angelo as if driving in the spike. He was starting to get the rhythm of these two. It was kind of fun to watch.
Angelo’s eyes had crossed. “Uh, you have any paper?”
Bill found a sketchpad and pencil in a drawer under the table and slid it across to Angelo who began tinkering and figuring.
“So, Russell.”
The man looked at him suspiciously.
“Hogan tells me you have a great sailboat. Any chance of taking my kids out for a sail?”
It was like he’d hit the magic button. Russell brightened as he talked about the fifty-footer he’d refinished and taken up the Inside Passage to Alaska with Cassidy shortly after their marriage. He even had a picture in his wallet, right next to one of a black cat and Cassidy that was absolutely breathtaking.
“Okay, I can do this. I’ll have to close the restaurant for the night and hire some extra staff as well. Russell, you’re going to be a goddamn busboy for me to pull this off, but I can do it.”
“Do what?”
Russell dug into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled printout and shoved it across to Bill.
An advertisement. It was beautiful. It had power and beauty. A picture of the Empress hijacked from one of the posters gave it a real gut punch.
Master chef Parrano’s new restaurant, Angelo’s Piedmont Hearth, hosting as its Grand Opening, the party to celebrate the World Premier of Ascension. It was a breathtaking promotion of both the opera and the restaurant. It splashed a couple pull-quotes of Angelo’s Tuscan Hearth, that sounded stunning, including one from Cassidy Knowles.
Bill pointed at the last. “That’s kind of an insider review, isn’t it? I mean you two obviously went through the same reformatory school, but why are you getting a nice lady like Ms. Knowles wrapped up in your skullduggery.”
Russell grinned at him, “Well, when she wrote that review about a meal, I was busy messing up—our first-ever, blind date—, you may be right.”
“I still don’t know how you ever convinced her to talk to you again,” Angelo was shaking his head.
“’Cause I’m just that good, doofus. And way more handsome than you.”
“Well, it sure wasn’t your brains or good manners as your cat has more of those than you by a long shot.”
Bill decided that balance was a good thing, and they’d both been beating up on Russell as an easy target. So, he turned to Angelo.
“But I have to protect our donors. I mean, how do I know your food is any good?” Angelo’s reputation was unquestioned. Bill had often wished he had an excuse to eat Angelo’s food, as he was sure the donors would be. But being a single dad with two kids didn’t really go together with fine dining.
Russell reached across the table to punch Bill on the arm in a friendly fashion while Angelo spluttered then glared at Bill.
“We’re booked solid the next two nights, but then I can set up a special. You come to my restaurant. I will show you just how goddamn good I cook.”
“Does his English always come apart when he’s upset?”
Russell nodded his head sadly. “Maria tried to bring him up right, but he’s Italian. There’s only so much you can do.”
Angelo spit out something in Italian that sounded both melodic and guttural.
“Right back at you, brother,” Russell said with some affection.
“Okay, so,” Bill had a sudden idea. “If I do deign to come and try your restaurant, I’ll want to bring a date.”
The two men sobered and shared a long glance.
Angelo answered for them, “Perrin is always welcome. Always. No matter what she drags in with her.”
Bill had the feeling that the last part was added as an afterthought insult, no real heat behind it anymore.
“And my kids.”
- Writer
