Where Dreams Unfold Page 4

  Bill Cullen wandered in, probably to check up on them. She ignored him, as well as she could. He was way too attractive to be allowed out in public. Not rugged like Russell or ever so handsome like his best friend Angelo. Bill Cullen’s face was striking because it was rich with character and his emotions brushed so close beneath the surface.

  She did her best to ignore his presence and spoke to the head of the costume department.

  “There’s only one story here, Jerimy.”

  “What do you mean?” He and Bill came up to stand to either side of her. She’d definitely have to make sure that didn’t keep happening with Bill, it only made her body all too aware of things it couldn’t have.

  She rearranged Carlotta’s drawings, at least getting the story’s hierarchy correct. Empress and Overlord side by side, Prince and his court below, separated for the good, the evil, and the overly-neutral drabness of the townspeople.

  “Damn!” Jerimy cursed. “I didn’t even see that. So that’s how they’re supposed to go together?”

  “I didn’t see it either,” Bill commented. “But you said it only told one story, what’s the other one?”

  “Other two. Maybe three, but I have to think about that. This,” she waved a hand at them, “is the story of the opera. Or at least one part of it.” Then she pointed at the dress now hanging behind them.

  “That is the story of the individual people, of what they are inside. Where they came from before the opera and where they’re going after.”

  Bill did his arms-crossed thing. Maybe that was how he always stood when he was thinking.

  Jerimy returned, as he had a dozen times, to inspect the costume closely as if the answer was somehow in the material itself rather than the design. Perrin recognized that blind spot, she had suffered from it for years, too fascinated by the construction to step back and see how it went together with the surrounding context.

  “The other story is the audience?” Bill barely whispered.

  Perrin twisted to look at him, she’d never expected Bill Cullen to understand. So few people saw that. From somewhere deep inside, a laugh of sheer delight bubbled forth.

  # # #

  Perrin’s joyous laugh rocked Bill back on his heels. The smile that lit her face made him feel ten feet tall, as did the approving hand resting lightly on his arm. It was ridiculous to feel so gratified about being right, but Perrin made it easy.

  “Yes! Exactly! High fashion design is about who we are, but even more about how we wish to be perceived. So few people see that. Jo in her powersuits, Cassidy in her ever so tasteful black, Jerimy sharp and snappy, and you… ” her giggle was absolutely ridiculous.

  “What? Finish it.”

  She pushed him around like one of Jerimy’s dress forms on wheels until she stood behind him. Then she pulled at his shirt collar. “JC Penny. Well, I was close.”

  He turned back to try and explain about finding a minute to grab a shirt while riding herd on a ten-year-old who kept trying to sell his need for hundred-dollar sneakers, and a sullen thirteen-year-old who kept trying on clothes, and hating all of them right along with her body that was maturing far too fast for his fatherly vision of her.

  Before he could speak, he heard the kids pounding down the stairs. He always let Nia know where he’d be about the time the school bus dropped the kids off. For the four years since Wilson had convinced him to move to Seattle, they’d practically grown up at the Opera’s offices; everyone knew to keep an eye out for them. Most days, he could just work another hour or two while they did their homework, then they’d all go home together. He often did paperwork in the evening or after they went to bed, but it all worked.

  They plummeted into the Costume Shop. Jaspar came right up for a hug, but Tamara pulled up short when she spotted Perrin. Her assessing gaze snapped his attention to just how close the designer was standing to him. He took a step away from Perrin and toward Tammy, but she detoured wide and moved to the design table.

  “Are these yours?” Tammy looked down at Carlotta’s drawings.

  Perrin turned her attention as fully on his daughter as it had been on him the moment before.

  “First tell me if you like them, truthfully, then I’ll tell you.”

  # # #

  Tammy didn’t look up from the drawings spread across the table. She didn’t like them, and they probably were this lady’s work or her dad wouldn’t be acting so weird around her.

  Last night before they left, he’d been all fussy, making sure he left a big note with his cell number in case she called. Even tucking in her blanket as if it was normal for people to sleep on his office couch. Even at home he’d been saying, “Ms. Williams this” and “Ms. Williams that.”

  So, Tammy delivered her verdict, which actually wasn’t that biased.

  “Major yawn.”

  “Jerimy!” Perrin cried out, startling all of them, causing Tammy to take a quick step back in case she’d upset her. The woman was waving her arm like a pirate captain from the quarterdeck. “The young lady has spoken! This calls for the rubbish bin!”

  Jerimy swung one out from under the bench.

  “Do it, girl!” Ms. Williams cried loudly enough for her voice to echo about the large space and draw everyone’s attention from the other parts of the Costume Shop.

  Tammy picked up the plainest drawing. She glanced up at the woman, but still couldn’t detect one way or the other what she thought. When Tammy looked at her dad, he shrugged.

  Tammy dropped the drawing carefully into the trash can and looked again for everyone’s reaction. She’d been around the opera enough to know the value of an artist’s work as well as their temperament about it. The time when Jasp was four and had drawn green flowers around someone’s set drawing had almost gotten him murdered.

  Dad opened his mouth. She could see he was about to tell her it was okay, when the lady poked her hard enough on the shoulder to make her turn away from him. The woman put her fists on her hips, glared down at Tammy, and blew out a huff of air that would have stirred her bangs if she’d had any. Instead she had that black hair with the blond stripe that was even prettier now that she was awake.

  Here it comes. Figures. Another crazy adult saying it was okay one minute and gearing up to chew you out the nex—

  “Where did you learn how to do that?” The lady didn’t wait for an answer. Instead she pointed at Jasp without even turning. “You! Boy! What’s your name?”

  “Jaspar,” he didn’t quite stammer in his surprise at suddenly being the center of attention.

  “Jaspar, show this girl how you throw out an ugly drawing.”

  With only a brief backward glance at Dad for reassurance, he took up a drawing, crumpled it a little. Then he glanced at Tammy. She grinned back at him, he was gonna show Ms. Williams but good.

  Jasp made a whole spectacle of crushing it into the smallest, wrinkliest ball he could, then ran back a couple paces and shot it into the trash like a basketball.

  Tammy could see her dad. Jasp might not get it, but she knew. Each of those paintings represented untold hours of painstaking coaxing and wheedling to get “Carlotta Nightmare,” as Jasp had dubbed her, to produce them. They were also the only designs they had, and there were less than six weeks to production.

  Last night Dad had been groaning, in between worrying about Ms. Williams, about how the publicity shots were supposed to be this week and there were no costumes yet and—

  “Better,” the lady told Jasp.

  He checked in with Tammy, but she could only twitch a shoulder in a shrug. She didn’t know how to read Ms. Williams yet.

  “Better, but still lame. Now, watch carefully.”

  Tammy had to figure out what was going on. Even without the fancy dress, she was very tall and very pretty.

  Tammy liked the black hair that matched the opera t-shirt. And she would
n’t mind trying to have a blond swirl in her hair. It pointed like an arrow to the bright yellow ECO logo over her breast. The t-shirt clung to her frame. Tammy glanced at Dad through the fall of her own long hair so that he wouldn’t notice her attention. He was staring hard at the woman, which Tammy didn’t like much.

  The lady handed her and Jasp another drawing and took one herself. So slowly that it was almost painful, she tore it in half: the paper making a long, drawn-out cry of protest. The half-dozen costumers doing touch-up work on the clothes for the present opera rushed over to see what was happening. They stopped and stared, with their jaws down.

  She glanced to Dad for permission, but Ms. Williams called them back to attention like they were both still in third grade.

  “You have to just do it!”

  Jasp raised one eyebrow in question then waited to see what she’d do. Tammy set her jaw and tore it with the same agonizing slowness, Jasp joining her part way through.

  Then Ms. Williams overlapped her two pieces and tore them the other way, a little faster.

  Tammy and Jasp did the same. Then faster and faster they all tore their paintings and tore them and tore them until they were little more than large confetti.

  With a fistful of torn paper, she sent Jasp the tiniest head nod toward Dad. He was sharp and chucked his into the air right over Dad’s head. Dad ducked and cringed beneath the shower of bits of paper. At the last second, Tammy changed her target and launched her own fistful of paper over the woman’s head who burst out with a wild laugh and threw hers right back, saving a few to sprinkle over Jasp.

  # # #

  Bill watched in amazement as three of Carlotta Nightmare’s drawings fluttered about them in tiny pieces. He tried to think of something to say, but couldn’t as Jaspar scraped up a fistful that had fallen on the table and launched them right at Bill’s face where they burst apart into a colorful flurry just inches away.

  Perrin dove for another watercolor and began tearing madly. The kids joined in. In the midst of the mayhem that ensued, Perrin very solemnly handed one painting to him.

  It was harder than he expected, making that first tear. It was the Overlord, at least he thought it was, it was hard to tell on Carlotta’s work and she’d certainly been above explaining her “Art” to anyone who couldn’t simply “intuit” it themselves. The second tear was easier, then the third.

  In moments, he too was showering bits of paper over his kids’ heads.

  After the last drawing was destroyed, and Jerimy had the honor of stuffing the last fistful down the back of Jaspar’s shirt, they all set in to clean up. Bill saw Perrin take Tammy a little to one side. He moved as unobtrusively as he could to collect some confetti that was closer to them, so that he could overhear.

  “That,” Perrin pointed at the floor. “So not me.” Then she turned Tammy to face the Empress’ dress.

  “That,” Perrin nodded as if reassuring herself. Though he could hear the doubt in her voice as if she didn’t believe in her own power.

  “That is me.”

  It was absolutely her. So powerful that she actually unnerved him a bit. And now she’d made friends with his children.

  That he was far less sure about.

  Chapter 4

  Perrin would have liked to have someone to call. But with Jo’s wedding over and the week-long closure of the restaurant, everyone was gone. Even Maria had taken the opportunity to go on a belated honeymoon with her Hogan. They were taking some extra time and had rented a sailboat for two weeks to cruise along the Amalfi coast of Italy.

  She wasn’t even sure why she wanted someone around at this moment. She was fine on her own for days at a time. Especially when a challenging design tackled her. It wasn’t that she wanted to talk to one of her friends about anything in particular. Perrin just wanted to be around them for a time.

  They were her sanity benchmark. She sometimes needed reminding, even now at thirty, that she was okay—a good person and not some product of her childhood. That people liked her who weren’t merely looking at how to use her.

  So, she sat by herself at Cutters Crabhouse, just her untouched iced tea, some focaccia, and her sketchbook. It was mid-afternoon. Through the towering windows the Seattle waterfront lay spread out below her. Pike Place Market, a close bustle of tourists and hundreds of cool little shops perched on the cliff edge. Out of sight on Post Alley, Angelo’s Tuscan Hearth Ristorante with its “Closed for Honeymoon” sign on the door. Below, the long piers of the waterfront reached out into Elliott Bay. The sun glittered off the water and the snowy Olympic Mountains loomed high in the west on the far side of Puget Sound.

  This was as close as she could be to her absent friends. This is where they usually gathered, in Cutter’s upscale bar. All dressed to the limit, shimmering together around a too small, wood-and-steel table, perched on high-leather stools, and teasing waiters far and wide. This time, instead of too much alcohol and too many appetizers and laughing until her sides ached, she sat by herself and ordered a cup of chowder and half of a hot pastrami on rye.

  It was still a bit early for the after-work crowd, so the bar was uncharacteristically quiet. It would be hopping in a couple hours, but for the moment there was mostly just her, a few stray tourists, and the wait staff.

  At the Opera, after they’d all finished the cleanup and the kids were tucked into handy cubicles outside his office, chipping away at their homework, Bill had told her the opera’s plot again. He also gave her a script.

  “No,” he corrected her. “It’s a libretto not a script, everything is sung.” Even in The Sound of Music Julie Andrews didn’t sing everything. Singing meant the clothing needed to provide room to breathe even more than room to move.

  He’d shown her photos of the lead singers. The Empress was okay, the lead tenor singing the Tragic Prince was a big guy. The Dark Overlord, a rare true bass singer, even bigger. Now she understood some of Jerimy’s comments on construction. These were people who made their livings with their chest and gut muscles. Making the proportions balance out would take some doing.

  “There was a great tenor,” Jerimy had informed her. “Whose chest grew so massive and his legs so out of shape that it actually ended his career when he could no longer stand through a whole performance.” She’d stepped through a door into a whole other world.

  She’d read the libretto, doodled a little, but she still didn’t have any ideas flowing. Perrin wasn’t worried, yet. She was supposed to go see the final performance of the current production of Turandot this weekend. Bill had assured her it would have a happy ending. Cassidy would be back by then. She’d agreed by e-mail to go with Perrin and Russell had begged to not be forced to go, so that should be fun. A mini girls’ night out.

  Tomorrow, she’d see the sets and the first rehearsal of Ascension, opening in just over five weeks. That’s what she was counting on. The libretto gave her plot, but it still told her so little of the world and the people involved.

  She doodled quick images of the three designs she’d already done as thumbnails across the top of the page as a reference.

  The chowder and sandwich arrived. She ignored the waiter’s mild flirt and paid attention to the smells of the sandwich, rich pastrami and tangy sauerkraut. The first taste didn’t disappoint in the slightest. She tried to savor it as Cassidy would savor a wine—the interaction of the caraway-seed rye bread and stone ground mustard—but instead found herself just chewing it. Food kept her body running. So many of her friends were foodies that some appreciation had rubbed off on her, but eating alone didn’t make it fun enough to be worth the effort.

  There was a benefit to ignoring the waiter and paying some attention to food that she usually saw as merely sustenance. If she did those things with the front of her mind, she didn’t pay too much attention to her sketching, shutting out that inner editor. She’d continued to idly doodle more ideas to go with the first th
ree as she ate.

  Powerful colors, but simpler.

  Less complex than Prince and Empress.

  More hopeful, brighter lights. But understated.

  Costumes to match the character rather than enhance them. To let the person show through without declaring the role outright, avoiding the dynamism of a chosen mantle that so overshadowed what nature had provided. That choice to cloak one’s self was so adult. Use the greens and golds of nature. The simplicity of youth.

  Youth.

  The children. There they were, smiling at her from her sketchpad, clothed like the parental Overlord and Empress. But they didn’t have their older brother Prince’s tragedy imprinted yet on either them or their costumes.

  She paged open the libretto and inspected the cast of characters. There was a younger daughter, a child soprano. But no little boy. Well, they could just go ahead and add a non-singing boy-child role who could follow after his older sister.

  That actually gave her drawings for one whole side of the cast, the Empress’ lineage. But what of the other side of the house, the marriage-sworn Princess and the Tragic Prince’s True Love? Before tomorrow’s rehearsal, she could start building the prototypes for the children’s costumes.

  Jerimy had assured her that they could build whatever she drew, or create patterns from anything she’d sewn. Though he had seemed less sure about the Empress’ outfit. But she always finished her design concept while doing the construction. That was her creative process. She’d have to build all of the major pieces at least once herself.

  Models. Jaspar and Tammy. Maybe Bill would let her borrow his kids as models. That would really help. She hadn’t done children’s clothing since her own first efforts, and those had been to hide, blend in, be invisible. Back when—