New Year's Resolutions Read online

*****

  The song was Iv-Che E Cio?, lively and sparkling in its Italian lyrics. Below, Abby was perched forward in her seat, chin propped on her hands as she listened. Her program was open on her blue satin lap, revealing the highlights of act one.

  Despite her general lack of passion for opera, Maureen usually persuaded her at the last moment to come along. Richard’s firm offered him a handful of seats every year as a bonus, resulting in Abby’s fervent wish that they would switch to steaks or wine and save her the trouble of fending off various invites.

  “But you assemble a student orchestra practically every day,” Maureen would argue in response.

  “Exactly,” said Abby, “Which is why I want a musical break now and then. To hear something beside Wagner or Vivaldi.”

  Nine times out of ten, however, she ended up saying yes.

  There was something about dark theaters that played tricks on Abby’s mind. Her concentration, instead of being rooted on whatever concerto or aria was before her, was distracted by the sense of isolation. As if the darkness might hold something more important than the performance at hand–a fire sparking the curtains, a marriage proposal in whispers, an impending breakup between a couple conducted in hush tones.

  Even now, she had a tingling sensation crawling along the back of her neck, as if someone was watching her. She stirred, shifting her attention from the actors onstage to the patrons around her. Above to the left was a balcony box, one of those private affairs usually occupied by theater devotees or wealthier patrons. She could see the outline of a man in the darkness, the shape of other patrons seated around him.

  Maureen nudged her. “Why so restless?” she whispered.

  “Ever have the feeling you’re being watched?” Abby whispered back.

  “Only if I’m being especially paranoid,” said Maureen. The clear sequins on her jacket glittered faintly in the low light. “So what? Maybe somebody’s bored by the performance.”

  Abby didn’t say anything else, turning her face towards the stage again. Maureen leaned closer to whisper in her ear.

  “Maybe it’s a hot businessman from the delegation seated over there.” Abby’s cheeks blushed; she refused to look away, towards the seats held by a Japanese corporation with guests. Now Richard’s attention was attracted by their conversation.

  “Why are you staring at those men?” he whispered. Maureen exploded in quiet giggles, a sound so addictive that Abby couldn’t resist. Her shoulders began shaking, her program rustling against her skirts as she looked downwards, trying to smother her laughter.

  “What’s so funny?” Richard sounded confused. His whispers were too loud for the patrons around them; several fierce shush! noises and hisses emerged from a few seats away.

  Abby riveted her eyes on the stage, lips pressed together in an attempt at silence as she watched the chorus move in choreographed rhythm to the music; an example followed by Maureen also, although Abby could still detect a slight twitch of the lips in her peripheral vision. All thoughts of being watched were banished with the realization that it was real–now that irritable music lovers were glancing their way.

  At intermission, Abby released a long sigh. “Aren’t you ashamed of our behavior?” she asked Maureen, with an impertinent smile.

  “What behavior? If you hadn’t been so afraid of some stalker in the darkness, we would have been silent as the grave through the first half of this evening,” Maureen answered.

  “Not for the standing ovation,” Richard reminded them; apparently his mind had assembled an explanation for their laughter during the show, judging by his humorous smile.

  “Fine, except for the applause,” Maureen retorted, eyes rolling. A heavyset businessman shuffling up the aisle raised his hand in greeting to Richard.

  “There’s Hemming from Artisan Records,” Maureen’s husband touched her shoulder. “We should say hello since he invited us to the wine tasting retreat next weekend.”

  “Wine tasting retreat?” Abby raised one eyebrow as she followed along behind them. Maureen turned and gave her a look.

  “It’s a nice gesture,” she answered, defensively. “Besides, Richard loves the countryside.”

  “I know, but more than one glass of wine at a time gives you a headache and makes you irritable,” Abby said, lowering her voice. “Does that sound like a pleasant weekend in the country?”

  Maureen shrugged. “When you’re in a relationship with someone, you’d be surprised what sounds like fun–so long as both of you are involved.” There was a quirky little smile on her face as she made this statement, something in its expression annoying Abby. Who couldn’t explain why, even if her whole future had depended upon answering the question.

  The main lobby was crowded as patrons trickled steadily downstairs from the balcony and private boxes. Crushed against Richard’s jacket, Abby took small steps forward as she tried to peer over his shoulder.

  “How did Hemming disappear so fast?” asked Maureen, raising her voice over the noise. She glanced around at the tuxedo-clad figures blocking their way, cell phone users too occupied with their own tasks to notice the irritable glances of the rest of the crowd.

  Riiiipp! The tearing sound had a long, shredding quality like the comic sound effect in a cartoon. Maureen stopped short, frozen for a split-second as her hands felt beneath her jacket.

  “Abby,” she cried, her voice soft and panicking. “Feel here–feel it–is that my zipper?”

  “Your zipper?” Abby repeated.

  “Someone trod on my dress,” Maureen said. “Quick, look and see–”

  Jostled against Maureen momentarily by someone squeezing past her, Abby lifted the sequined jacket, deftly shielding the view with her body. The zipper was intact, the seam beside it split open as if a panel of the dress was unraveling at its seams. She caught a glimpse of a lacy slip, the outline of a garter belt before she lowered it hastily.

  “It’s worse than a tear,” she whispered, although a slight giggle rose in her throat. “Oh, Maureen, we have to get out of here–”

  “How big is it?” Maureen’s voice became a squeak of alarm, distracting Richard from his forward-moving search for Hemming.

  “How big is what?” he asked, unnecessarily loud. Abby seized his arm and pulled him lower, whispering in his ear. His expression shifted from placid to shocked.

  “No,” he whispered back. “Quick, here–” He pulled Maureen in front of him, the back of her dress pressed tight against him as he steered her through the crowd towards the women’s powder room. Abby trailed behind, one hand gathering her powder blue skirt as the other clutched Maureen’s program she retrieved from the floor.

  In the brightly-lit powder room, Maureen twisted towards the mirror as Abby closed the door firmly behind them.

  “Great,” she moaned. “Ivory satin ruined by one false step. I knew I should have worn something knee-length–”

  “We can fix it,” Abby argued, reaching over to hold the rip closed. “For now, maybe I have a couple of safety pins in my bag somewhere.”

  There was a rapping noise on the door; Abby cracked it open to see Richard’s concerned face on the other side.

  “Here,” he said, “give her my coat.” He shrugged off his tuxedo jacket and shoved it through the opening. Abby slung it over her arm before closing the door again.

  “Try this on,” she said, holding it out to Maureen, who turned to face her after giving up on the mirror’s reflection of her torn dress. At the sight of the jacket, her face softened, an almost-sappy smile creeping across her lips.

  “What chivalry,” she said. “I knew he would think of something.” Taking it from Abby’s arm, she pulled it on, its waist covering all but the final six inches of the tear.

  “Perfect fit,” said Abby. Maureen buttoned it, surveying her appearance in the mirror, the long sleeves hiding her hands. Abby had a mental picture of a 50’s prom girl borrowing her date’s jacket for the drive home. A slight lump formed in her throat for a moment–was
she feeling a little sentimental? A little jealous, even?

  “We’ll have to miss the rest of the opera,” said Abby, by way of shifting her thoughts. “I mean, unless you want to risk someone seeing your open dress–”

  “Of course not,” Maureen said. “You can stay if you want–”

  “And be left alone for the rest of the show, an object of pity surrounded by empty seats?” snorted Abby. “No thanks. I’ll take my chances with a book at home.” With a glance at Maureen that sent them both into peals of giggles again. Maureen stifled hers against Richard’s jacket sleeve as Abby tried to make herself serious by staring at the dressing table’s surface.

  “What an evening,” she said. “I’m sorry–”

  “No, I am,” Abby interrupted. “If I hadn’t made us restless during the performance, maybe we would have stayed in our seats–”

  “No, we would have gone in quest of Hemming anyway–remember?” Maureen’s reflection was smoothing the lapels of the coat when Abby straightened up again.

  There was a second rap on the door; Richard’s voice was audible from the other side, slightly muffled.

  “I’m going to flag down a cab,” he called. “If you’ll meet me outside in ten minutes, we’ll go home.”

  “Thanks, sweetie,” Maureen called before Abby could speak. She collected her handbag from the table, casting a glance at the programs in Abby’s grip.

  “Why don’t you stay?” she said, softly. “I hate for you to miss all the fun. Those vacant seats in the auditorium–who knows? Maybe some dashing stranger would sneak over and claim one with that boring couple removed.”

  A fantasy, although an appealing one that softened Abigail’s resolve. An imagination like hers could see the possibilities–although the kind of masculine charms that usually attracted her were far away from the opera crowd.

  Reaching over, she squeezed Maureen’s elbow. “I think I’d rather go home,” she answered. “Thanks anyway.”

  Turning the doorknob, she helped steer Maureen’s front side through the diminished crowds as the soft chime of the bell signaled that intermission was at an end. Her glance roved from Maureen’s sequined shoulder just ahead to the figures slipping past them towards the theater doors and the balcony stairs. As if she was looking for something–or someone–among them, without any idea what she expected to see.

  Outside in the cold, Richard stood hugging himself beside a cab, Maureen and Abby’s coats draped over his arm. As soon as they emerged, he held open the topmost one, Abby’s white dress coat.

  “Thanks,” she said, buttoning it over her thin dress.

  “Nice weather for an opera,” he joked, helping Maureen slide into her coat, his dress jacket vanishing beneath its folds. “Drop you at home, Abby?” he asked. “Unless you want to come to our place–”

  “At this hour?” she answered. “Forget it–I need a hot bath and a book after this chill.” Sliding into the cab, she didn’t expect the invitation to be renewed. The thought of raiding a couple’s fridge and curling up on their sofa with a movie seemed more lonely than her own apartment. Hoping she had a half-empty box of Thai takeout awaiting her in the fridge at home.

  *****

  “Do you see her?” Seth squeezed past a mother bending to adjust her son’s blazer. Ahead of him, Henry glanced at the unfamiliar faces, the elegantly-dressed figures around him in hopes of glimpsing the girl in the blue dress. Several blondes in various shades of light and dark, a blue satin evening gown in the midst of a tuxedo crowd.

  “No,” he called back, trying to keep the disappointment from his voice. After all, they were talking about a complete stranger–the whole concept of chasing after someone in a crowd was surreal.

  Then he saw a flash of pale blue, a filmy gown disappearing ahead of him in a crowd. Forcing his way through the moving patrons, he felt his pulse quicken as he followed. He lost sight of her for a moment, a sense of disappointment following as he slowed his pace. Then the same shade of blue reappeared ahead, moving towards the door.

  He did his best to avoid shoving anyone aside, no elbows as he followed the woman in the blue dress, her elegant coiffe of hair visible above the satin wrap around her shoulders. With a final push, he caught up with her, reaching out, he touched her arm.

  “Excuse me–” he began, as the woman turned towards him, revealing a face marked with heavy lines, a crinkled mouth highlighted with lipstick. She gave him a cold glance before turning away again, her hand closing around the arm of the gentleman beside her.

  Seth caught up with him. “Was that her?” he asked. “Did you get her number?”

  “Wrong, wrong,” said Henry. “Definitely not the same girl.” Shrugging his shoulders, he glanced around the lobby at the crowd, as if hoping for a second chance. The bell signaling the close of intermission sounded as the crowd began to disperse towards the auditorium again.

  “How’d you lose her?” asked Seth. “She was right there–”

  “Maybe it wasn’t the same person in the first place,” said Henry. “Come on, this is pointless, Seth. Crazy, even.” He climbed the stairs to the balcony box again, resisting the urge to watch the final few patrons below drifting through the performance hall doors.

  He resumed his seat beside Dolores, who was adjusting her opera glasses. He was tempted to borrow them, but a glance at the auditorium below showed him the request was useless. Three empty seats were visible in the row, including the one the girl in blue had occupied.

  “What do you think of the performance, Henry?” Dolores asked. “I think the soprano’s voice is much improved since she sang in Madame Butterfly.”

  He managed a faint smile. “Maybe so,” he answered, only half-aware of what he was saying. Doing his best not to watch the empty seats below as the house lights dimmed and the curtain rose on the scenes of Italy.

  Chapter Eight

  The shop window read “Waterby’s Creative Art Supplies” in letters etched on the glass. In the canvas-draped display stood blank canvases and wooden cases filled with brushes, a sheath of quality note paper tied with a ribbon beside an antique typewriter.

  Beneath his umbrella, Henry paused to gaze at the scene through the fine drizzle. A paper sack occupied his free hand, its contents a carton of organic lima beans, some brussel sprouts and winter squash for a recipe he perused on a gourmet website.

  He had resolved to take up something creative, hadn’t he? Maybe something along the lines of painting or writing, hearkening back to the days of poetry and paint pots in college. His eye regarded the blank canvases propped on an easel and a row of fine-tipped pens on a velvet cushion before he slowly moved along again.

  Last night, he dutifully pulled a volume from one of his overstuffed bookshelves, a copy of Jane Eyre. Plopping down in his armchair, he opened the stitched leather cover and skimmed the introduction briefly before turning to the first chapter. After two hours, he gave up after finding his fingers turning multiple pages at once, as if to hasten his progress.

  He rolled his eyes as he waded through the description of Jane’s tortured life in boarding school; by the time he reached Thornfield Hall, he found himself yawning through Jane’s first meeting with her employer. Long paragraphs, the tedious reflections of the practical governess–no wonder he had given it up in his post-college years. Checking his watch, he calculated how many hours it would take him to actually finish. Days, maybe. With a groan, he shoved the volume beneath a pile of crossword puzzles beside his chair. And broke a second resolution by brewing a strong cup of coffee.

  Regret for this resolution manifested itself in a post on his personal blog, more of a rant than a protest, fueled by his guilt over the caffeine. Fingers clacking determinedly, the empty mug at his elbow licked clean of every last trace of coffee.

  That was three days ago; today, Henry was determined to fulfill at least one on the list. At home, he pulled open his bureau drawer and rummaged around beneath a pile of old sweaters and scarves. His hand touched the warped
bristles of a paintbrush. A half-empty pot of red paint congealed to a solid mass beside a chunk of hard black clay he didn’t recognize. A sheath of papers on the very bottom, attached by the remains of a notebook spiral.

  It was his poetry notebook. As he tugged on its corner, one of the pages pulled free, forcing him to lift it with both hands. The topmost lines were fading from legibility to grey shadows on the paper.

  Would I speak of her beauty with prose? Or poetry? Her hair like a cloud on the horizon, a storm over the ocean...

  With a flush of embarrassment, he shoved it out of sight again. Some scribbled daydreams on the dark-haired girl in his English class, whose appearance strongly resembled Lois. With a twinge of regret, he shoved the drawer closed, blocking out the rest of the lines. Maybe his talent was better left in a drawer.

  For dinner, he sliced the squash into generous rounds, stirring them through bread crumbs and pepper. Steam rose from the skillet filled with olive oil, splattering the stove’s surface.

  “There are too many words in books,” he complained to Seth, who was lounging on a nearby stool with a beer. “I think I should suggest to the publishers that we cut the volume of books in half. Let the reader imagine what houses and clothes look like.” He tossed a slice into the skillet, along with a little crushed garlic.

  “Dude, I told you not to take up reading again,” answered Seth. “You read books for a living, remember?”

  “Correction–I proofread books for a living. Which means I look for typos, not stylistic virtues. That, and hire artists to make the covers say ‘pick me up and buy me’ on the shelf.”

  “Then why read to improve your mind?” Seth took a sip from his bottle. “Why not just watch the movie version? Half the time and definitely not as dull as all those words.” Seth’s typical book was a graphic novel, containing more illustrations than text.

  Henry snorted in reply as he stirred a saucepan of browning butter for the brussel sprouts waiting in his colander. “So which lucky lady is coming to dinner tonight?” he asked, picturing the astrologer with the tattoos. “Is it the stargazer from your yearly opera experience?”