to
eat, asking between bites, “Are you into classical music, then?” So many of the girls who approached him
didn't seem to know anything about what he actually did. They assumed he was in a rock band, or a
Broadway show, although it never seemed to discourage them once they learned
otherwise. It was rare to meet someone
who even knew Mendelssohn from Mozart.
“I'm a viola
student at the conservatory near here. I
suppose you never had to study the way most musicians do.” Her tone was vaguely accusatory.
“That's true, I
guess.” For a moment, he felt he should
apologize for his success.
They stood for
some time, silently watching the crowd. She didn't seem to want anything from him, other than to stand next to
him and let him eat. It was strangely
comforting, as if they were somehow kindred spirits. When he had finished eating, he set the plate
on the floor at his feet, retrieving his nearly empty glass from the window
ledge. Another drink would be nice, but
in the end he decided to linger there, in the pleasantly undemanding company of
this odd girl.
Around the room
a gradual procession had begun, as entwined couples and the occasional
threesome began to pull away from the dancers and move up the stairway to the
balcony that ran around the perimeter of the lodge. One by one, they disappeared behind the
numbered doors into darkened bedrooms.
“That's
disgusting.” She made a face, exactly as
if she smelled something foul. “Most of
them won't even remember what they've done tomorrow, or who they've done it
with.”
Stani felt a
twinge of genuine remorse, knowing he could be included in those despicable
ranks. He was trying to keep an eye out
for Betsy, making sure he saw where she went if she too disappeared up the
stairs.
“So why are you
here?” the girl asked. She was nothing
if not direct, he mused.
“Favor for a
friend,” was the simplest answer he could think of.
“Must be a good
friend. You'd never find me in a place
like this if I had a choice.”
Stani was
suddenly alarmed—was she in some kind of trouble? Surely she hadn't come seeking his help? “You were forced to come here?”
She nodded
solemnly. “My dad is catering tonight. Since I'm home for Christmas, I had to come
along to help.” She pointed toward the
now empty plate.
He let out a
little gasp of relief. “Ah, I see.” He certainly didn’t fancy himself a rescuer
of damsels in distress.
They continued
to stand there together in silence, until abruptly she pushed away from the
wall. Across the room, a small round man
wearing a white jacket was waving his arms, apparently in their direction.
“That's my
dad. I have to go.” Starting to leave, she stooped to pick up the
plate. A little smile of apology lit her
eyes as she stood up. “Would it be too
much if I asked for your autograph? I
was thinking about telling the kids at school how we'd met, but they'll never
believe me.”
“I'd be happy
to.” He looked around, searching for
something to write on. “Sorry I don't
have a photograph, or something.” He
held out his empty hands.
“Here. On this.” Pulling the paper napkin from beneath the plate, she held it out to
him. It bore the logo of “Ristorante
Salvatore” on one corner. Not Spanish,
Italian, he thought, reaching into his coat pocket for the ever present
fountain pen. Turning to the wall to
write, he asked over his shoulder, “What's your name, love?”
“Lil. Lilianne actually.” She spelled it out for him.
“Pretty
name.” He wrote clearly on the napkin,
so there could be no doubt, “For Lilianne, all my best,” and signed his full
name rather than the usual monogram.
As he returned
the napkin, she said with a look of genuine pleasure, “Thanks. I was named for my godmother. She and my mom used to play chamber music
together, in an ensemble.” She
pronounced the
eat, asking between bites, “Are you into classical music, then?” So many of the girls who approached him
didn't seem to know anything about what he actually did. They assumed he was in a rock band, or a
Broadway show, although it never seemed to discourage them once they learned
otherwise. It was rare to meet someone
who even knew Mendelssohn from Mozart.
“I'm a viola
student at the conservatory near here. I
suppose you never had to study the way most musicians do.” Her tone was vaguely accusatory.
“That's true, I
guess.” For a moment, he felt he should
apologize for his success.
They stood for
some time, silently watching the crowd. She didn't seem to want anything from him, other than to stand next to
him and let him eat. It was strangely
comforting, as if they were somehow kindred spirits. When he had finished eating, he set the plate
on the floor at his feet, retrieving his nearly empty glass from the window
ledge. Another drink would be nice, but
in the end he decided to linger there, in the pleasantly undemanding company of
this odd girl.
Around the room
a gradual procession had begun, as entwined couples and the occasional
threesome began to pull away from the dancers and move up the stairway to the
balcony that ran around the perimeter of the lodge. One by one, they disappeared behind the
numbered doors into darkened bedrooms.
“That's
disgusting.” She made a face, exactly as
if she smelled something foul. “Most of
them won't even remember what they've done tomorrow, or who they've done it
with.”
Stani felt a
twinge of genuine remorse, knowing he could be included in those despicable
ranks. He was trying to keep an eye out
for Betsy, making sure he saw where she went if she too disappeared up the
stairs.
“So why are you
here?” the girl asked. She was nothing
if not direct, he mused.
“Favor for a
friend,” was the simplest answer he could think of.
“Must be a good
friend. You'd never find me in a place
like this if I had a choice.”
Stani was
suddenly alarmed—was she in some kind of trouble? Surely she hadn't come seeking his help? “You were forced to come here?”
She nodded
solemnly. “My dad is catering tonight. Since I'm home for Christmas, I had to come
along to help.” She pointed toward the
now empty plate.
He let out a
little gasp of relief. “Ah, I see.” He certainly didn’t fancy himself a rescuer
of damsels in distress.
They continued
to stand there together in silence, until abruptly she pushed away from the
wall. Across the room, a small round man
wearing a white jacket was waving his arms, apparently in their direction.
“That's my
dad. I have to go.” Starting to leave, she stooped to pick up the
plate. A little smile of apology lit her
eyes as she stood up. “Would it be too
much if I asked for your autograph? I
was thinking about telling the kids at school how we'd met, but they'll never
believe me.”
“I'd be happy
to.” He looked around, searching for
something to write on. “Sorry I don't
have a photograph, or something.” He
held out his empty hands.
“Here. On this.” Pulling the paper napkin from beneath the plate, she held it out to
him. It bore the logo of “Ristorante
Salvatore” on one corner. Not Spanish,
Italian, he thought, reaching into his coat pocket for the ever present
fountain pen. Turning to the wall to
write, he asked over his shoulder, “What's your name, love?”
“Lil. Lilianne actually.” She spelled it out for him.
“Pretty
name.” He wrote clearly on the napkin,
so there could be no doubt, “For Lilianne, all my best,” and signed his full
name rather than the usual monogram.
As he returned
the napkin, she said with a look of genuine pleasure, “Thanks. I was named for my godmother. She and my mom used to play chamber music
together, in an ensemble.” She
pronounced the
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