“The problem with Messiah,” Ryan Haskins started - then immediately dropped his voice to a whisper.
He was sprawled in the Miller’s armchair with a whiskey in one hand and his daughter, fast asleep, curled up against his other arm. “The problem is that you hear the Hallelujah Chorus and think - ah, we made it!”
“You do?”
His wife gently elbowed Charlie; the movement had her sinking further into the Miller’s couch. “So Ryan stands. People are applauding, it’s been nearly two hours; we’re not the only ones to make this mistake. But it’s only Ryan who stands, stretches, and says…”
“’My damned leg better work after two hours of celebrating the baby Jesus,’” Haskins admitted.
Whiskey went down the wrong pipe and very nearly out through Charlie’s nose.
“That was you?!”
A soft knock sounded at the door as she spluttered away. Haskins took one look at his peaceful daughter and shrugged helplessly.
“I can’t believe it.” Charlie hacked a few last times, then freed herself from the couch to cross the room. “We heard that all the way on stage, and - Freddy!”
“We absolutely heard that, loud and clear.” Freddy Cartwright, a smile hinting at the curve of his mouth, stood on the other side of the threshold. “It made my whole day.”
His eyes swept over the lot of them, and his smile faltered. “I… I hope this is alright? I saw you accompanying Charlotte home, and I thought…”
“You thought exactly right, Frederik.” Julia heaved herself out of the cushions to wring his hand. “What do you want to drink? The Millers have everything. We’re just waiting for Campagna to get back so that we can say hello.”
“We do indeed have everything,” Theo said dryly. “Help yourself.”
“Do you… would you mind if -”
“Cartwright drinks tea,” Charlie cut in. “Here. I’ll help.” She tugged him toward the kitchen and tried not to meet Julia’s knowing eyes as she did. “Weren’t you all going out?”
“We did go out. But Messiah is a long show and the girls were already tired, so…”
“And so you couldn’t wind down.” Charlie set the kettle on and rested her hip against the counter. “I’m glad you came up.”
“Well, and I… I haven’t forgotten,” Freddy said, lowering his voice, “what you asked those months back. About… about being available, for Theo and Haskins. Plus I was hoping to see Campagna, so I thought… a few birds, one stone…”
“Messiah is a very long show,” Haskins called from the living room. “If I were you, Cartwright, I’d be asleep on my feet by the end.”
With a growing smile, Freddy stepped out of the kitchen. “We are, but to be honest, Haskins, half the fun of Messiah is watching the first-timers make the same mistake that you did. They start moving toward the exits before they realize… it’s not done.”
“An entire additional act!” Haskins growled. “How are you still upright? How are you still conscious? How many of these have you played?!”
“Enough,” Charlie and Freddy said together; the kettle made a questionable noise and she busied herself checking it over.
“Tonight was number three,” Theo said. “The lucky thing about Messiah -“
“Lucky!”
“Is that they only perform one a day.” Theo could barely contain his grin. “As opposed to Nutcracker -”
“Where it’s doubles both weekends, Friday through Sunday, plus student matinees on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday.” With each tick of his finger, Freddy only looked more resigned.
“Dear God.”
“As Rittling will tell you, there’s no such thing as too much Nutcracker.”
The kettle began to whistle in earnest. Charlie abandoned the conversation to return to the kitchen.
“Honey is an interesting choice.” Julia came to hover over Charlie’s shoulder. “Rather than sugar. Is that a you-thing, Charlie, or -”
“That’s a me thing,” Freddy said, waffling between rejoining them by the stove and maintaining his presence by Haskins. “I told Charlotte about it once. She’s - she’s, ah, very kind to remember.”
“Hm. Of course she is. How’s Elaine?” Julia propped herself against the kitchen doorway, and Freddy’s decision to retreat fully to the living room stalled against such a guardian.
“We’d love to meet her again under better circumstances,” Haskins added.
“She’s well.” Charlie handed over his mug and found Freddy trying desperately to keep his blush in check. With a grateful nod, he passed Julia, walked across the room, and lowered himself onto the end of the couch. The cushions only mildly threatened to swallow him whole. “Looking forward to Thanksgiving with her family next week.”
“Oh! Are you going?” Julia seemed impervious to Charlie’s kicks to the ankle. “Meeting the family already?”
“No, not yet.” Despite the interrogation, at least Freddy didn’t seem like he regretted coming upstairs. Yet. “I’m not ready to inflict my family upon her, either.”
The smile was real but so were the words; Charlie frowned and set her whiskey down.
“Maybe Christmas,” Freddy continued. “I owe her a few parties, so we’ll see how we feel and… and I’ve monopolized the conversation that I invited myself to. Are your families here?”
“A decent drive,” Haskins said, “Central Ohio. Which…” He bounced Olivia ever so slightly; her face scrunched up, then she re-buried her head in his arm. “Love having an excuse not to travel too much.”
“Ryan!”
“I love getting to see Julia’s family,” Haskins corrected with a quiet laugh. “They hover less. Far more interested in this little firecracker than me.”
“As requested,” Julia said dryly. “My mother received one rule when Haskins came home.”
“Oh?”
“Let him tell you what he needs.”
Freddy’s jaw dropped.
“And in the meantime, spoil his little girl absolutely rotten -”
“She’s not rotten,” Haskins protested as his daughter snuggled in even tighter. “Would a rotten little lady make it all the way through Messiah without a peep?”
“Sounds like her dad could take notes,” Theo quipped, and Haskins nearly choked on his whiskey. “How did you accomplish that?”
“Two picture books, one of my old design pads, a packet of crayons, and the world’s biggest lollipop -”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time.” The door swung open again on Anthony’s exhausted wave. “Could use a lollipop or two. Are there any -”
“So much leftovers,” Charlie said quickly, and stood. “Along with tea. We made some for Cartwright. Would you like -”
“I would like.” He leaned on her long enough to give a quick side-squeeze and a kiss to the temple. “You’re a gem. How was Messiah?“
“Ask Haskins,” Freddy’s voice said, slightly rough. Was his tea still too hot? He cleared his throat a few times and got up to follow them to the kitchen. “He made our whole night.”
“Ask…”
“Well, now you’re all just ganging up on me!”
Freddy grinned briefly at the counter. “Campagna, can I bother you for a moment?”
“Bother away, Cartwright.” Anthony accepted his own mug with a groan of appreciation. “Milk and honey? Good idea, darling. Seriously, Cartwright, anything -”
“Ah…” Freddy’s eyes glanced at Charlie, then slowly back down to the counter. His fingers drummed against the top. “We’ve missed you these last few weeks,” he finally said. “Hasn’t been quite the same, performing without you in the audience.”
“Of course you have.” Anthony threw him the world’s sleepiest rakish grin. “But this sounds like the preamble to a favor.”
Freddy’s tension cracked; his fingers paused as a tiny chuckle escaped him. “It is. I could use your expertise. My family wants to come to Nutcracker, but they haven’t picked a show yet.”
“Mmhmm.” Anthony stuck his head into the fridge and extricated himself with two glass containers: pasta and goulash. Charlie immediately ducked over to the far cabinet for two pots.
“And I want to know which ones you feel would be the best. To see.”
“The best?” Anthony straightened, brow furrowed. “Cartwright, they’re all going to be -”
“Magnificent, I know. But I also know that you’ll be looking forward to some over others, because of fatigue or - or comfort level, or…”
Anthony cocked his head, but his gaze moved to miles away.
Charlie took the goulash from one slack hand and started portioning out a healthy double serving.
“They should come,” Anthony started slowly, “to any of the performances on the final weekend. Especially the real finale on Sunday night. Because - thank you, darling,” and he handed Charlie the pasta after a few tugs, “we’ll be tired but, we’ll be very aware that the run is coming to an end. And there will be a… an attempt,” he smiled, “to capture the magic as much as we possibly can. So.”
“So.” Freddy set his empty mug on the counter, took a deep breath, and smiled. “The final Sunday it is.” For some reason, his smile didn’t seem as bright as it had just a few minutes ago. “Thank you, Campagna.”
“Any time, Cartwright.” With a swift move, Anthony pulled a spoon out of the silverware drawer and stuck it directly into the pot of cold goulash, shoveling a bite into his mouth. “You want to stay for dinner?”
“Anthony!”
“God in Heaven.” But Freddy’s mouth broke into a real grin. “No, you enjoy your leftovers. I think I’m finally ready to call it a night.” He clapped Anthony on the shoulder, then backed away into the living room. “Besides, if I don’t leave now, I’ll catch a second wind.”
Anthony waved the spoon at him in goodbye, and Charlie was torn between stopping him from eating everything stone cold, or following Freddy to the door.
The latter won. “You don’t have to leave so soon.”
“This was exactly what I needed,” he said, and smiled down at her. “Good company, good tea. Thank you, Charlotte.”
“Any time,” she said. She tried, anyway. The words mostly sighed out.
“Haskins, Julia, Miller…” He reached around her to wave, let Julia wring his hand one last time, then the door closed behind him with a quiet click.
Anthony wandered out of the kitchen, holding the pot of still-cold goulash in one hand and his spoon in the other. “Did I scare Cartwright off?”
“Anthony!”
“Can’t see why you would have,” Theo said. His eyes kept flicking between Anthony’s continued bites, and the disappearing pot of leftovers. “Tony, is that cold goulash?”
“It is, and it’s delicious.”
“Campagna, I’m not saying that you are also scaring us off, but…” Haskins sat upright as slowly as possible. “Cartwright may have the right idea. We should head home before our munchkin realizes that she hasn’t been sleeping in her own bed for the past… hour and a half.”
“None of you want to stay and watch me eat my weight in -”
“As appealing as it would be,” Julia laughed, “we will do it another time.” She doled out hugs for each of them, then helped Haskins pull a sleepy Olivia’s limbs through her coat sleeves. “We’ll see you after Thanksgiving?”
“After Thanksgiving.”
Charlie walked them to the door; Julia was the last one through. “Honey?” she asked, and her eyes were sparkling.
Charlie didn’t have an answer, and Julia’s smile widened as she waved goodnight.
_ _ _ _ _
“Dawson, a word?”
The Musketeers were assembled en masse outside of Perry’s office.
Sans one very chief Musketeer, and Dawson raised an eyebrow at Frederik Cartwright.
For obvious reasons, Cartwright flushed the exact shade of a fire-hydrant.
“You may have several,” Perry said, opening the door wide and returning around to his own side of the desk. Cartwright, Rittling, O’Brien and Beauchamp filed in behind him, the latter’s attempt at closing the door failing repeatedly as the mechanism closed around Perry’s nearby, hanging coat.
Perry nearly covered his face with his hands. He didn’t, but it was a close thing. “How can I help you?”
“We would like tickets,” Beauchamp started. “Nutcracker tickets, specifically -”
Christopher O’Brien reached over with a sigh and covered Beauchamp’s mouth with his hand. “What Martin means to say is, we are aware that we are most likely allowed a certain number of comp tickets for Nutcracker, and we were wondering some very specific things about those tickets.”
“Were you?”
“Yes,” Cartwright said tightly, having wedged himself between Perry’s bookcases to make the most room for the others. “How many are we allowed, are there limits on what performance, and may we pool them?”
“For example,” Rittling cut in, “I know that I’m already using two pairs, which is the standard per concert cycle. But we were wondering if more were possible for Nutcracker because there are more performances.”
“Indeed, that would be the logical conclusion.” Perry steepled his hands. “Unfortunately, gentlemen, Nutcracker remains wildly popular and one of the greatest profit generators of the season, for the Ballet and ourselves. So we may eventually be able to offer you more tickets… but not at this point.”
The fluctuation between disappointment and stiffening resolve was best illustrated by O’Brien, who briefly let his hand fall from Beauchamp’s face but kept it hovering nearby.
“That said, you do receive the standard two pairs, and since you’re talking with me now, we might even be able to pool them for one performance.”
“Brilliant! We would like -”
O’Brien’s hand resumed its duty on Beauchamp’s face. “What do you need, Cartwright?”
“Nancy, Celeste, Norma, Lillian, Louise, and Jimmy…” Cartwright ticked off fingers. “At least one adult per student for supervision. So at least… twelve.”
Three of them looked at each other and Rittling looked at the floor.
“Which means that we wouldn’t get to invite anyone else -”
“Not a concern,” Beauchamp grumbled against his blockade.
“And I wouldn’t dream of asking you all to use every ticket -”
“Well,” Perry said quietly, “why don’t we start with the twelve and if you need more, we can -”
“Are we pooling Nutcracker tickets?” The door swung open, smacking straight into Beauchamp’s side, and the ancient and venerable John Elliott strode in. “I don’t need mine, Dawson. Throw ‘em in there.”
“The door was…”
“Haphazardly closed at best,” Elliott said dryly. He consolingly patted Beauchamp’s abused shoulder. “Not my best work but not my worst. Take my four,” he said to Cartwright. “I won’t use them and whoever it is that we’re surprising with this horde of tickets surely will appreciate it.” He lifted an eyebrow and Cartwright’s face achieved a previously-thought impossible shade of even brighter red.
“Ah… if you’re positive, Elliott -”
“My daughter insists on buying her own and I’ve stopped enjoying that argument. You’ll use them and like it. Now, gentlemen…” He waved at the door and Beauchamp stepped behind O’Brien for cover. “It’s time to finish my warm-up. Messiah waits for no man.”
The sound of his cane tapping down the hallway had long faded before any of them moved.
“I want to be him when I grow up,” Beauchamp rasped. “I don’t know how I’ll manage it, but Perry, make a note.”
Perry raised his empty hands, but Beauchamp was miles away.
“November 24, 1946,” Beauchamp whispered. “John Elliott: ‘You’ll use them and like it.’ It’s practically Shakespeare.”
_ _ _ _ _