Authors: Midnight on Julia Street
“Listen, Daph,” Corlis said softly, reading her thoughts, “I know that assembling your clan again for a
wedding
isn’t number one on your list of wishes, but King and I have tried to make this pretty much a no-frills event. And if hauling that big harp of yours all the way down here from New York and plucking out ‘Here Comes the Bride’ sounds too much like work, I’d love you to be one of my bridal attendants. Both Althea LaCroix and Aunt Bethany say they’re game to walk down the aisle ahead of me at this little dog and pony show, if
you
are. Want to be an attendant instead?”
“I’m totally up for this, including transporting the harp to Natchez,” she replied with more conviction than she felt. “What kind of threads are we talking about for this clambake? Evening gowns? Afternoon garden party stuff?”
“The latter. The wedding’s at four… reception starts at five. Everybody’s wearing whatever pretty dress they want,” Corlis announced breezily. “My great aunt Marge’s giving me away in her Hedda Hopper turban. As luck would have it, Hollywood Harry’s shooting a game show pilot next week in LaLa Land, and my daffy mother’s chanting in a monastery somewhere in Tibet, so…” Corlis paused to catch her breath following her flippant description of divorced parents who had put their small daughter in the care of an aged relation so they could “follow their bliss,” as Corlis had once told Daphne privately. “It’s the perfect moment to hold this little hoolie, wouldn’t you say? As you can see, this is not your average Miss Manners event on
either
side of the aisle.”
“Well, as New York’s greatest shrink says, we’re all grown-ups now, aren’t we?” Daphne offered. “We can do what we damn well please, right?”
“That’s the spirit,” Corlis agreed emphatically. “So it’s totally up to you how you want to handle this. We just want you to
be
there, and maybe even have a little fun. Oh! Another call’s coming through. Hope it’s the minister at First Pres. More details to follow. Love you madly. See you in Natchez on Saturday. Bye.”
Click.
Have fun at a wedding?
Not anytime soon.
Then, a giant thunderbolt erased all thoughts about disastrous nuptials, disgusting ex-fiancés, self-centered parents, and trips back home.
See you
Saturday
?
Daphne inhaled a gulp of air and stared, horrified, at the silent phone receiver.
“Saturday?
” she wailed to her kitchen’s four walls, prompting the cockroaches to run for cover. “Oh
no
! Not
this
Saturday!”
***
The following morning, the skies over Manhattan continued to dump steady March rain on every pedestrian in the plaza fronting Columbus Circle, including the umbrella less harpist dashing from the subway exit toward the entrance of the Juilliard School adjacent to the Lincoln Center for the Performing Arts. As Daphne ran, she silently practiced her speech to the conductor, Rafe Oberlin, about having to be at her brother’s hastily organized nuptials in Natchez on Saturday. Despite her well-rehearsed patter, she knew that the thirty-five-year-old musical
wunderkind
was bound to make the next half hour of her life an absolute misery.
But he can’t forbid me to go
, she tried to assure herself.
This sort of thing falls into the category of “family emergency,” right? It’s covered in our union contract.
Maybe so, but March 20 at 8:00 p.m. marked the fledgling Oberlin Chamber Orchestra’s debut concert at Lincoln Center, and contract or no contract, Daphne steeled herself for trouble.
“So? You wanted to see me?” Rafe waved her into his office deep in the bowels of the Juilliard School, where he continued to teach conducting while his star rose steadily in the musical firmament. “You have exactly seven minutes to tell me what this is about before I start a master class next door,” he announced, gesturing toward a chair. “Next time, I suggest you phone for an appointment.”
“This will just take a minute.”
The dashing blond impresario wore knife-pleated gray flannels and a turquoise polo shirt that complemented a physique more suited to the winner of the Tour de France than a classical music conductor. Rafe leafed through a mammoth score on a desk large enough to accommodate architectural blueprints for a skyscraper. He made no attempt to disguise his annoyance occasioned by Daphne’s unexpected arrival.
“By the way,” he said, staring down at his score, “you were late coming in on bar thirty-two at rehearsal yesterday. Make sure that doesn’t happen on Saturday, will you please?”
Daphne found it bitterly ironic that she remained under the baton of the man whose abject betrayal had thrown her directly into harm’s way in the first place. If she hadn’t been so dazzled by the maestro’s magnetic personality, she might have seen a lot sooner what an absolute rat he was underneath all his celebrated charisma and might also have avoided a classic rebound romance with Jack back home.
Good Lord, Daphne thought, cringing at the memory. She’d certainly been naive when she arrived at Juilliard. Rafe had swiftly wooed and won the virginal heart of the younger, more impressionable Ms. Duvallon, late of New Orleans, failing to mention in the white heat of their mad affair what everyone else in New York already knew: that he was married to a British ballerina who was away on a year’s tour of Commonwealth countries.
“But you weren’t wearing a ring,” she’d wailed when she’d confronted him in a storm of grief and chagrin that swept over her like straight-line winds down the Mississippi Delta—and immediately felt like an even greater fool.
Her hasty exit from Rafe’s magnificent Westside apartment was even more mortifying because it had left her feeling like an idiot
and
a trollop. Far from taking time to lick her wounds and consider the genesis of her folly, she’d crawled home at Christmastime to the social whirl of New Orleans. Shell-shocked from Rafe’s betrayal, she allowed herself to be flattered, wined, and dined by the son of her parents’ business partners, Alice and René Ebert, co-owners of a chain of funeral homes in Louisiana that—along with the proprietors of Flowers by Duvallon—had a virtual lock on the lucrative business of being laid to rest in the Big Easy.
Daphne briefly lowered her eyes to stare at the musical score on the conductor’s desk, angry all over again at herself and everything that had happened since her double-barreled debacle with Jack and the almighty maestro Oberlin. She attempted to gather her thoughts and continue with the matter at hand.
“Rafe, I know how important Saturday’s concert is, and I realize—”
She hesitated, as unhappy images skittered through her head, erasing the carefully prepared words she’d hoped would soften the news of her untimely departure.
Rafe waited an instant, then said with rising irritation, “Well, what is it? I’m five days away from the most important night of my life, Daphne. I don’t have time for chitchat.”
Daphne inhaled swiftly and spoke before her voice froze. “I’m very sorry, Rafe, but I can’t play the concert on Saturday. My brother is getting married in Natchez on the same day and I have to be there.”
Rafe shot her a look of disbelief, and snapped, “It’s a joke, right? People plan weddings
months
in advance.”
“No. They just decided yesterday and called me last night.”
“They’re eloping,” he said flatly. “Nobody wants a lot of family around when they elope. They’re just being polite.”
“They’re not just being polite and they’re not eloping,” she replied doggedly. “It’s a full-on church ceremony in Natchez, Mississippi, and it’s my
brother’s
wedding, Rafe. Remember him?” she added, unable to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. “The man who contributed ten thousand bucks to your orchestra?”
“You signed a contract with
me
to play the harp Saturday night, remember?” Rafe replied coolly. “If you don’t show up, you’re in violation. You know the rules. You’re going to have to tell him to get somebody else to play at his wedding.”
“Our contract allows for family emergencies,” Daphne began.
“This doesn’t qualify as one,” Rafe shot back.
“That’s not how I read the contract, but I’m certainly willing to pay for my replacement,” she promptly volunteered, hoping she didn’t sound as desperate as she felt.
“That’s hardly the point,” Rafe retorted caustically. “I can’t believe you’d be so idiotic as to miss your chance to solo at the most significant concert date you’ve ever played in your life.” Rafe’s lips had compressed into a straight line and his eyes narrowed dangerously. “Now, listen, Daphne, if you were a true professional—”
Ignoring these warning signs, she jumped from her chair, her heart pounding and repressed humiliation simmering just below her ladylike smile. “No! It’s your turn to listen to me,” she interrupted. “I showed up at every single rehearsal and performance even after I found out you were two-timing me
and
—as it turned out—your
wife
with another woman. And I never missed any planning meetings, either, when you were barely paying your musicians minimum wage, before we unionized!”
Rafe eyes were practically slits now. He wagged a cautionary linger in her direction. “There are hundreds of harpists just as well trained and just as talented as you are. You’re lucky to be working for any wage, and
I’m
the one who made that possible. I strongly advise you to show up Saturday night or, believe me, Daphne, you will regret it.”
Daphne took a step forward and put both hands on his desk so she could stare directly into his turquoise eyes. “I’m flying home this week,” she said softly. “I’m going to play in my brother’s wedding on Saturday. Evelyn Farnsworth can easily move up to principal harpist for this one performance. She’s played at my side every rehearsal and knows the solo as well as I do.”
“Good!” he snapped. “She can move right into your slot—permanently.”
How could she ever have thought this man was a grown-up?
“Look, Rafe.” She switched to a conciliatory tone she hoped would bring them both back from the brink. “I’m rooting for all of us to succeed like gangbusters Saturday night. Our Lincoln Center debut marks a watershed for our group.” She softened her next remark with a crooked smile. “And I truly believe you’d regret firing me because I’m the best damn harpist in New York who ever played for union scale.”
“Then show me how good you think you are on Saturday, or you’re out.”
Daphne tried not to let a sense of panic take hold. “C’mon, Maestro,” she cajoled. “You know I have the highest professional regard for this organization you’ve created, and I very much want to continue as principal harpist. Why don’t we call a time-out for now and we’ll talk it over when I get back from Natchez?”
“I know what my decision is right
now
,” Rafe retorted, glowering like a small boy who’d just lost a game of marbles. “You’re history, Ms. Duvallon. Excuse me, won’t you? I have a class to teach.”
Unable to disguise her shock, she cocked her head to one side, and asked slowly, “You’re actually letting me go?”
“I actually am,” he replied smugly, lifting his baton off the desk. “For cause. Play or pay. Just the reason I was looking for. I’ve been thinking for quite a while that you really don’t have what it takes to be first rank.”
“That’s crap and you know it!” she cried in an uncharacteristic show of vulgarity.
“It’s my well-considered opinion,” he said as if he were enjoying this exchange.
“I’ll file a grievance,” she countered, while disjointed images of monthly bills, stomach-churning auditions, and the shame of actually being canned by a man with whom she’d been intimate collided in her brain.
“If you do, other colleagues in our business will hear my side of the story. Face it, Daphne, it was consensual sex.”
“I don’t mean that,” she said sharply. “I’m talking about
this
.” She pointed at him and then at herself. “You’re trying to intimidate me right now to prevent my exercising my rights under our union contract.”
“You’ll be known around town as capital-
T
trouble, and you know what that means.”
She certainly did. There were too many talented musicians chasing too few top-echelon jobs in New York. The last thing a harpist wanted to be dubbed was “trouble.”
“I’m willing to give you one more chance,” Rafe said with a calculating air, “but you have to tell me right now you’ll play the Lincoln Center concert—or you’re through.”
Daphne pictured her brother, King, swiftly stepping out of the line of tail-coated ushers and whisking her away from her philandering groom, down the aisle of Saint Louis Cathedral, and out the arched doors to freedom.
“I love my brother very much,” she said quietly. “I can’t let him down and miss his wedding. He saved me from mine.”
“Yeah, yeah… well, we all have problems. Mine is to fill your chair before our final rehearsal tomorrow.” He punched his intercom. “Helen? Get Evelyn Farnsworth on the phone.”