PROLOGUE #2
“Shall we?” Gillian gestured toward an empty table near the stage—the very one where Roberta’s character, lounge singer Elaine Carr, had sat before her fateful performance. “I believe this is your mother’s table.”
As they settled into their seats, a waiter in a crisp white jacket approached them. “Good evening, ladies. What can I get you from the bar?”
“I’ll have a gin rickey,” Gillian said. “The house specialty, as I recall from the film.”
Veronica smiled at the historical accuracy. “And I’ll have a Manhattan. Mother always said her character should have ordered that instead of the poisoned champagne. Said it might have saved her life.”
The waiter nodded and retreated toward the bar as the other guests from the theater found seats around the room, their excited whispers adding to the authentic ambient noise of the club.
“You’ve outdone yourself,” Veronica said, leaning forward across the table. “This is beyond anything I could have imagined.”
Gillian’s eyes sparkled in the dim light. “Roberta deserves nothing less. Your mother wasn’t just a star, Ronnie. She was a force of nature who helped put Atlanta on the map. This city owes her a debt that goes beyond cinema.”
The waiter returned with their drinks, placing them carefully on cocktail napkins emblazoned with the fictional “Midnight Lounge” logo. Veronica lifted her Manhattan in a toast.
“To Mother,” she said. “Who taught me that dying in a film can be more memorable than living through it.”
They clinked glasses and sipped. The sweet vermouth and whiskey warmed Veronica’s throat, a pleasant burn that complemented the atmosphere of manufactured nostalgia surrounding them.
After a moment of companionable silence, Gillian leaned forward, an impish gleam in her eye. “You know what would make this perfect?”
“I’m afraid to ask,” Veronica replied, though she already suspected what was coming.
“The song,” Gillian said, nodding toward the small stage where a microphone stood, illuminated by a single spotlight. “Your mother’s song. ‘Midnight Reverie.’ You could sing it.”
Veronica felt a flutter of resistance. Though she’d inherited her mother’s vocal talents and had enjoyed a successful recording career of her own, she’d always been careful to establish her distinct musical identity.
Singing her mother’s signature song, in this replica of the setting where it had been immortalized on film, felt like crossing a boundary she’d long maintained.
“I don’t know, Gill...”
“Please?” Gillian reached across the table, touching Veronica’s wrist lightly. “For her. For all of us who loved her work.”
The guests from the theater had noticed their conversation, and a few were watching expectantly.
With a slow, deliberate breath, Veronica nodded. “Alright. One song.”
A ripple of excited murmurs passed through the small crowd as Veronica stood and smoothed her dress. The jazz quartet noticed her movement and seamlessly transitioned into the opening notes of “Midnight Reverie,” the haunting melody that had introduced Roberta Rimes to the world.
The short walk to the stage felt surreal.
Veronica’s heels echoed against the checkered floor, each step an act of transformation—daughter becoming mother, present collapsing into past. The saxophone player nodded to her, a silent cue that they were ready.
Veronica closed her eyes for a moment, summoning not just the lyrics but the spirit of her mother’s performance.
When she began to sing, her voice emerged rich and melancholy, carrying the same smoky quality that had made Roberta’s version so memorable.
The room fell into reverent silence as Veronica moved through the song, her gestures and expressions unconsciously mirroring those her mother had used in the film.
The lyrics spoke of lost love and midnight regrets, of shadows that couldn’t be outrun—ironic foreshadowing of her character’s fate in the film.
As she reached the final verse, Veronica opened her eyes and found herself transported.
For one disorienting moment, she could almost believe she was Elaine Carr, singing her swan song before an audience unaware of her impending doom.
The thought sent a chill down her spine, even as she held the final note with perfect control, letting it fade into the hush of the room.
Applause erupted, genuine and enthusiastic. Veronica bowed slightly and made her way back to the table where Gillian waited.
“That was extraordinary,” Gillian said as Veronica sat down. “You channeled her perfectly, but it was still uniquely you.”
Veronica smiled, reaching for her Manhattan. “It felt strange. Good, strange, but still...” She took a sip of her drink, noting that it had warmed slightly during her performance. The taste seemed different now—sharper, with an unfamiliar bitterness that hadn’t been there before.
“You okay?” Gillian asked, noticing Veronica’s slight frown.
“Yes, it’s just—” She put her glass down a bit clumsily. “The drink tastes off.”
A strange tingling sensation spread across her lips, followed by a disturbing numbness. Veronica’s hand moved to her throat as breathing became increasingly difficult. The room seemed to tilt sideways, the carefully recreated decor blurring at the edges of her vision.
“Gillian,” she managed, her voice strained and unfamiliar to her own ears. “Something’s wrong.”
The first spasm hit without warning—a violent contraction of her neck muscles that jerked her head backward. Veronica’s body went rigid, her spine arching as she slid from her chair onto the floor.
“Call an ambulance!” someone shouted, the voice seeming to come from very far away.
Another convulsion ripped through her, more powerful than the first. Through the fog of pain and spreading paralysis, Veronica had one last coherent thought.
Strychnine poisoning—exactly like her mother’s character in the film.