The Wolves of Midwinter (28 page)

T
HE TERRACE PAVILION WAS ABLAZE
with light and sound and streaming with people when they got out of the car. The orchestra was rehearsing with the boys’ choir in a positively magical blend of glorious sound. Phil was already there, standing with his arms folded, listening to the music in obvious awe, while reporters and photographers from the local papers took pictures, and groups of mummers in medieval costume—teenagers mostly—came up to greet them until Felix introduced himself and told them how pleased he was, and instructed them to take up a position in the nearby oaks.

Reuben hurried upstairs to change. He took the fastest shower in human history, and Lisa helped him dress, handling the studs on his boiled shirt for him, and tying his black silk tie. The jacket had been “perfectly measured” for him, she was right about that. And he was pleased that she’d arranged a black vest for him and not a cummerbund, which he hated. The shining patent-leather shoes were also a good fit.

He had to laugh when he saw Stuart, because Stuart looked so uncomfortable in his black-tie finery, but he looked pretty terrific at the same time, freckles and curly hair and all.

“You’re growing right before my eyes,” said Reuben. “You must be as tall as Sergei now.”

“Rampant cell division,” muttered Stuart. “There’s nothing quite like it.” He was anxious, uneasy. “I gotta find my friends, and the nuns from school, and the nurses. And my old girlfriend who threatened to kill herself when I came out of the closet.”

“You know what? This place is done up so beautifully and this is all
going to be so much fun, you don’t have to do any heavy lifting. And your old girlfriend, she’s okay now, right?”

“Oh yes,” said Stuart. “She’s getting married in June. We’re e-mail buddies. I’m helping her to pick out her wedding dress. Maybe you’re right. This is going to be fun, isn’t it?”

“Well, let’s make it fun,” Reuben said.

The main floor was filled with people.

Caterers were rushing back and forth from dining room to kitchen. The table was laden from end to end with what appeared to be the first course—hot hors d’oeuvres of countless kinds, hot chafing dishes of meatballs in sauce, fondue, plates of crudités, nuts, wheels of French cheese, sugared dates, and a huge china tureen of pumpkin soup to be ladled into mugs for the asking by a stiff young attendant who waited with hands clasped behind his back.

The raw and beautiful sound of a string quartet suddenly broke through the murmuring of the crowd all around him, and Reuben caught the soft heartbreaking strains of the “Greensleeves” carol. The music drew him as much as the food—he drank down a mug of the thick soup immediately—but he wanted to see that orchestra outside. It had been too long since he’d seen a live orchestra of that size and he headed through the press in the front room to the door.

To Reuben’s surprise, Thibault appeared and explained that he was taking Reuben out to stand with Felix at the large east entrance of the pavilion.

“You will help him greet the guests, won’t you?” Thibault looked entirely comfortable in his formal clothes.

“But what about Laura?” Reuben whispered as they pushed through the crowd. “Why aren’t you with Laura?”

“Laura wants to be on her own tonight,” said Thibault. “And she will be all right, I assure you. I wouldn’t have left her if that were not the case.”

“But Thibault, you mean then the change has happened.”

Thibault nodded.

Reuben had come to a halt. Maybe he’d had some vain childish
hope all along that Laura would never change, that the Chrism would somehow not work, that Laura would always be Laura! But it had happened. At last, it had happened! He was suddenly powerfully excited. He wanted to be with Laura.

Thibault embraced him just as a father might embrace him, and said, “She is doing exactly what she wants. And we must let her do things in her own way. Now come, Felix is hoping you’ll join him.”

They moved out into the crowded pavilion. Dozens of people were already milling, and the caterers were serving both coffee and drinks to those already seated at the tables.

Margon, his long brown hair tied back to the nape of his neck with a thin leather thong, was escorting Stuart’s petite mother, Buffy Longstreet, up to see the crèche. Buffy, in spike heels and a short white sleeveless silk turtleneck dress and diamonds, looked every bit the starlet, and not old enough to be the mother of Stuart, who was welcoming her with open arms. Frank Vandover was making her a stately bow, and turning on that Hollywood charm for her, and she was seemingly ecstatic.

Quite suddenly the voices of the boys’ choir broke forth with the spirited lyrics of “The Holly and the Ivy,” drowning out the murmur everywhere of conversation. Reuben stopped just to savor the sound of it, vaguely conscious that others too were turning their heads to listen. The voices of the adult choir soon joined in, and the entire glorious wave of sound proceeded without the need of the waiting orchestra. At the far end very near the choir, Reuben could see Phil alone at a table clearly rapt as he’d been when Reuben first arrived.

But there was no time to go to Phil now.

Felix stood at the large eastern entrance of the pavilion greeting each and every person coming in, and Reuben quickly took his place beside him.

Felix was beaming, his eager dark eyes fixing every single face. “How do you do, Mrs. Malone, and welcome to the house. I’m so glad you could join us. This is Reuben Golding, our host, whom I’m sure you’ve already met. Do come in. The girls will show you to the coatroom.”

Reuben was soon clasping hands, repeating more or less the same welcome, and finding himself meaning it.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Sergei and Thibault stationed at the steps to the door of the house, also clasping hands, answering questions perhaps, welcoming. There was a remarkably tall and handsome woman right beside Sergei, a dark-haired woman in a striking red velvet gown, who gave Reuben a soft affectionate smile.

All the locals were streaming in, Johnny Cronin, the mayor, the three-person town council, and most of the merchants who’d been down in the village, all plainly curious and eager for the experience of the banquet. Soon there was a crush outside the entrance, and Thibault arrived along with Stuart at his side, to help speed things along.

People were enthusiastically announcing themselves and where they’d come from and thanking Reuben or Felix for the invitation. A whole group of the clergy came in, all in black clerics and Roman collars, having been invited from the Archdiocese of San Francisco, and dozens of people who had come from Mendocino on the coast, and other towns in the wine country.

The nurses from Stuart’s hospital arrived, and powerfully excited, Stuart embraced each and every one of them. Then came pretty Dr. Cutler, who’d treated him for his injuries, overjoyed to see him in such wonderful shape, and asking when Grace would arrive. There were five or six doctors with her, and other people from Santa Rosa. In came Catholic priests from Humboldt County, thanking Felix for including them, and there were ministers arriving too from churches up and down the coast, expressing the same ardent thanks.

Uniformed maids and teenage volunteers took heavy coats and wraps, and brought people to the waiting tables or invited them to go into the house, as the pavilion was filling rapidly. Other boys and girls were passing trays of hors d’oeuvres. Frank appeared and reappeared to escort guests to various destinations.

The pure and soaring voices of the choir were singing “Coventry Carol,” and there were moments when Reuben gave in to a sudden lock on the music, shamefully tuning out the introductions that he could hardly hear, but warmly shaking hands and urging the guests to be welcome.

Again and again, Felix drew his attention to this or that guest,
“Judge Fleming, let me present Reuben Golding, our host,” and Reuben would gladly respond. The state senator he’d met in the village soon arrived, and other people from Sacramento. More clergymen arrived, and two rabbis, both with black beards and black yarmulkes. Frank obviously knew the rabbis, greeting them both by name, and he eagerly led them into the thick of the party.

The excitement was infectious, Reuben had to admit, and now when the orchestra began to play with the choir, he felt that this was perhaps one of the more exhilarating experiences he’d ever had.

People were in all manner of dress, from cocktail attire and black tie to business suits and even jeans and down jackets, kids in Sunday best, little girls in long dresses. Phil didn’t look at all out of place in his tweed jacket and open shirt collar. And there were plenty of women in hats, fantasy hats and vintage hats, and those little cocktail hats with veils that Jim had described.

The sheriff came along in a blue suit with his fashionably dressed wife and his good-looking college-age sons, and there were other deputies from his office, some in uniform and some in civilian dress with wives and children.

Suddenly the word came that dinner was being served in the dining room, and there was a shift in the crowd, as many sought to go into the house, while a long line came streaming out with plates laden with food to find tables.

At last Grace came, with Celeste and Mort, their faces radiant and curious and warm as though the party had already affected them as they’d waited to enter. Grace, in one of her typically handsome white cashmere sweater dresses, wore her red hair loose and down to her shoulders in a delightfully girlish manner.

“Good Lord,” she said. “This is just fabulous.” She was waving at a couple of doctors she knew, and rattling off their names. “And the archbishop is here, how incredible!”

Celeste looked breathtakingly pretty in black sequined silk. She seemed actually happy as she and Mort made their way into the crowd.

Indeed the splendor of the pavilion swept people right through the entrance and into the swim of things.

Immediately, Rosie, the family housekeeper arrived, looking very pretty and girlish in a bright red dress with her full dark hair combed free. Husband Isaac and their four girls were with her. Reuben hugged Rosie. There were few people in the world he loved as much as Rosie. He was dying to show her the entire house, but watched her disappear into the party with Grace and Celeste.

Reuben’s Hillsborough cousins flooded in suddenly with squeals and hugs and breathless questions about the house. “Did you really see this Man Wolf thing!” Cousin Shelby whispered into Reuben’s ear, but when he stiffened she immediately apologized. “Just had to ask!” she confessed.

Reuben said he didn’t mind. And he didn’t. He’d always loved Shelby. She was his uncle Tim’s oldest daughter, and a redhead like Tim and Grace, and used to babysit Reuben when he was a kid. Reuben loved Shelby’s eleven-year-old son, redheaded Clifford, born out of wedlock when Shelby was still in high school. Clifford, a handsome and solemn little boy, was beaming now at Reuben, clearly impressed with the scope of the party. Reuben had always admired Shelby for bringing up Clifford, though she’d never identified the boy’s father to anyone. Grandfather Spangler had been furious about it at the time, and Grace’s brother, Tim, a recent widower, had been brokenhearted. Shelby had become a model mother to Clifford. And of course they’d all come to adore him, especially Grandfather Spangler. Grace doubled back at once to take Shelby and Clifford and the other cousins in hand. And then when Phil’s gray-haired sister, Josie, arrived, in her wheelchair with a very sweet elderly nurse to take care of her, Phil came to collect her and bring her up to where she might better hear the choir.

Finally Felix said they had been greeting people for an hour and a half now, and they could break to have supper themselves.

People were now moving back and forth through the entrance freely. And some people, especially those who had worked at the daylong fair, were even headed home.

Reuben wanted more than anything in the world to wander off in the oaks and see what that was like for the guests, but he was also starving.

Thibault and Frank took over at the door.

Several exceptionally beautiful women were coming in, clearly
friends of Frank’s. Hmmm. Friends of Thibault’s as well. Dressed in impressive and revealing gowns and full-length evening coats, they had the sheen of film actresses, or models, but Reuben had no real idea who they were. Maybe one of these beauties was Frank’s wife.

All over the library, the main room, and the conservatory people were eating, many with the aid of little folding tray tables covered with white Battenberg place mats, and the young catering staff refilled wine, and cleared away old glasses and coffee cups. The fires were blazing in every fireplace.

Of course there were furtive whispers of “the Man Wolf,” and “the window” as here and there people pointed to the library window through which the notorious Man Wolf had jumped the night he’d appeared at this house and slaughtered two mysterious and unsavory Russian doctors. But few were asking about the Man Wolf out loud, and Reuben was grateful for that.

Reuben could hear the thunder of feet on the old oak staircase, and the low rumble of those walking overhead.

He grabbed a plate full of turkey, ham, and roast goose, raisin dressing, and mashed potatoes, and moved to the dining room windows to look out on the wonderland forest.

It was just as he had imagined it would be, with families following the pathways, and a band of musicians playing just below him on the gravel drive.

The medieval mummers were making a snaking dance through the crowd. How remarkable they were, their green costumes covered in ivy and leaves; one wore a horse’s head, another a skull mask, and yet another the mask of a demon. One man wore an actual wolf skin cloak, with the wolf’s head on top of his head. Another wore the skin and head of a bear. Two played fiddles and one was piping on a flute, and the “demon” was playing a concertina. The others played tambourines and little drums attached to their waists. The last in line was giving out what appeared to be large gold coins—perhaps some sort of party favor.

Other costumed men and women were passing out cups of mulled wine; and a tall white-haired St. Nicholas figure, or a Father Christmas, in streaming green velvet robes, moved about, handing out little
wooden toys to the children. These appeared to be little wooden boats and horses and locomotives, small enough to go in a parent’s pocket. But from his big green velvet sack, he also took tiny little books, and little porcelain dolls with flopping arms and legs. The children were charmed and delighted as they crowded around him, and the adults were clearly pleased as well. There was that blond woman he’d glimpsed in the village, with all her crowd of youngsters, but she no longer wore her pretty green flowered hat. Could that be Jim’s Lorraine? Reuben was not about to ask. He’d never find Jim in time to ask anyway. There must have been a thousand people milling around the house and the woods.