“I’ll supply all the food and drink,” she went on. “So, we break at five and reconvene at eight.”
The idea of the party roused the group, and they threw themselves into the work. At five, Mrs. Amberson forced everyone out except Scarlett.
“You didn’t tell me you were doing this,” Scarlett said, as they stood outside and Mrs. Amberson waved toward a van that was pulling up at the curb.
“I like surprises,” she said. “And I certainly owe you and your brother and Eric some thanks. Now, let’s get these things inside.”
Mrs. Amberson had ordered a substantial amount of food, along with several cases of beer and two cases of wine.
“For the over twenty-ones, of course,” she said with a smile. “As for you, there is underage, and then, there is underage. I believe a taste of wine is perfectly acceptable, but please stick to one glass tonight. Now, let’s work on ambience.”
It was a strangely pleasant interlude. If there was one thing Mrs. Amberson was good at, it was creating a good atmosphere. From one of the many boxes in the back, she produced a hundred or more tealight candles and strings of lights. Together, they created a bar out of crates and chairs, which Mrs. Amberson draped in fabric. They dangled the lights around the room, lined the stage with candles, created a center stage area and a few little clusters of chairs along the sides of the room. Slowly, the big dusty room was transformed into a softly lit hall.
Even her stories got more entertaining. Broadway flops, discos, schemes she’d used to get auditions…Mrs. Amberson was actually an interesting person when she wasn’t barking out orders or using Scarlett for one of her schemes. She was deeply engrossed in a story when the actors came drifting back, correctly guessing that all of the supplies had already arrived, and the sooner they got there, the quicker they could get at them.
Scarlett hadn’t really talked with the other cast members much before, but they all proved to be nice, and surprisingly interested in her. Over the course of the night, there was some impromptu singing. Hamlet got up and did a hilariously overdone version of the “To be or not to be” soliloquy. Eric and Spencer were called upon to do some of their usual routine, which they did with more manic energy than normal, throwing each other all around the room. Annoying Jeff tried to join in, but was rapidly frightened off by the speed and genuine skill it took not to get hurt. Scarlett kept an eye on Stephanie while this was going on, and sure enough, she was watching Spencer with a rapt expression. Scarlett felt a flush of pride—she really did have the best brother in the world.
Then the room broke into smaller groups. Mrs. Amberson sat with Trevor and some actors and told stories of her Broadway days. Out of the corner of her eye, Scarlett saw Spencer leaning in to talk to Ophelia. From the way he was smiling and joking with her, Scarlett could tell that he was in heavy flirting mode. While she was glad for that, it really wasn’t something she wanted to watch. She drifted around, standing with various groups and listening to them talk. They all accepted her, but she couldn’t really join in with any conversation. It was all very theatery. She was starting to feel out of place, when Eric popped up from behind one of the poles that lined the edge of the room.
“I need to talk to you,” he said. His voice was slurring just slightly, but not enough that the words slid out of place. “Meet me out front in five minutes?”
He vanished before she could answer. Scarlett had to take a heaving breath. Five minutes. She looked around to see if anyone had just noticed what transpired, but everyone was busy talking. She quietly got her bag from the corner of the room. When she went outside, Eric was there, staring into the driver’s window of someone’s car.
“Come on,” he said, taking her by the hand and hurrying her down the block. “I should have showed you this before.”
They went four blocks to see whatever it was that Eric wanted to show her, finally stopping in front of a fairly run-down apartment building, one of hundreds that dotted the East Village.
“Wait,” he said, throwing himself up against the door. “Wait a second. Before you go in. I just want to say, you don’t have to worry.”
“I’m not worried,” she said. This wasn’t true. She was experiencing a kind of terror, but a pleasant terror.
“No,” he slurred. “Remember. I am Southern. I am a gentleman. I just need you to know that. If you feel uncomfortable, you just tell me, and we go back in a second, okay? I’ve got iced tea and a television, and we can just drink iced tea and watch TV if you want. That’s all I’m saying. Or we could not go up. I wouldn’t be offended.”
He was drunk, possibly even playing it up to make his point, but it was all very sincere. He looked both hopeful and worried.
“It’s okay,” she said.