Chapter 11 #2
Stephanie read it over Caroline’s shoulder and said nothing for a full ten seconds, which was a record.
“She’s coming here,” Stephanie said finally. “On Thursday. To the kids’ concert. With a magazine.”
“With her new boss,” Luz said. “And about half the people in this town who own a store.”
Caroline put down the phone.
Something had gone very quiet inside her. The anger was still there. But it wasn’t hot anymore. It was cold and clear and steady, like the air on Walnut Street at seven in the morning.
“What time does the press portion start on Thursday?” she asked Luz.
“Twelve-forty. After the kids sing. The hospital presents the Snow Ball check. Carla talks. The cameras come in for that.”
“And the screen?”
“The big screen by the organ. The hospital has a slideshow.”
Caroline nodded slowly.
“Luz,” she said. “I’m going to need a copy of the cue sheet on that slideshow. And a copy of Rory’s texts.”
Stephanie looked at her. “Caro. Are you sure?”
“I’m not going to shout at her,” Caroline said. “I’m not going to touch her. I’m not going to say one word that isn’t true.” She picked up the plastic sleeve. “I’m just going to ask her a question.”
* * *
The Hadley’s Children’s Carol Concert happened every year on the Thursday before Christmas at noon.
It was small and sweet and not very good.
Kids from six Philadelphia public schools stood on risers in front of the tree and sang in their best sweaters, and their parents and grandparents sat on folding chairs and filmed every second.
Then the hospital presented the big cardboard check from the Snow Ball, and the kids from the fourth floor who were well enough to come got to give Santa their lists early.
This Thursday, the atrium was packed to the walls.
It was partly the story. It was partly the magazine.
There were faces in the crowd Caroline didn’t usually see at a children’s concert: the owner of the big furniture store on Arch Street, two women who ran boutiques in Rittenhouse, the manager of the hotel across Walnut, three camera crews, a writer from Philadelphia magazine with a notebook.
At twelve-fifteen, in the middle of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” Brittany Vail came in through the Walnut Street doors on the arm of Ned Stroud.
She was wearing a white wool coat. No camel today.
No black. White, like a bride at a Christmas wedding.
Her blonde hair was perfect. She was not wearing a visitor’s badge, because today she didn’t need one.
It was a public event. She walked down the side aisle and sat in the second row, next to the man from Philadelphia magazine, and she smiled at the children singing.
A few people turned to look at her. A few people whispered.
On the mezzanine, Caroline stood on her red X and watched her.
“You okay?” Luz said in her ear.
“I’m fine.”
“Stephanie’s by the candy counter. Rory’s by the organ. The slides are loaded. Just say the word.”
“After the kids,” Caroline said. “Not in front of the kids.”
“Copy.”
The kids finished “Rudolph.” They sang “Jingle Bells.” One little boy in a green sweater sang “Jingle Bells” in a completely different key from everyone else, at the top of his lungs, and the whole atrium laughed and clapped for him.
Then the teachers walked the kids off the risers to the Santa area for cookies. The parents followed with their phones.
Carla Weiss went up to the podium with the cardboard check. She cried. She thanked the Snow Ball. She thanked “Mr. and Mrs. Bradshaw,” and there was a strange ripple in the room when she said it. The camera crews filmed the check.
Then Carla said, “And now Caroline Bradshaw would like to say a few words,” and stepped aside.
Caroline came down the mezzanine stairs.
The room went quiet. She crossed the marble to the podium. Every eye in the room was on her. So were the cameras. She did not look at the second row.
She stood at the podium and looked out at everyone.
“Thank you, Carla,” she said. “Thank you to the kids. Thank you all for coming today.”
Her voice was clear and even. It sounded exactly like her announcing voice. It sounded exactly like the night of the lighting.
“I want to say one more thing about the Snow Ball,” she said, “and about Hadley’s. And about this building. Because a lot of people have been talking about this building lately.”
A little laughter. Uneasy.
“And I see that we have a guest today,” Caroline said, “who has been talking about it more than most.”
She looked at the second row.
Every head in the atrium turned.
Brittany Vail sat very straight in her white coat. For just a second, her face was blank. Then she smiled, a gentle, sad, gracious smile, and gave a little nod, as if to say, Yes. I’m here. I’m being brave.
“Brittany,” Caroline said. “I read your interview in Philadelphia magazine.”
“Caroline.” Brittany’s voice was soft and carried well. “I meant every word. I have nothing but compassion for you. I hope that we can both—”
“You said you were frozen,” Caroline said. “Under the spotlight. You said you were blindsided.”
A small pause. “Yes. I was.”
“Okay.” Caroline nodded. “I only have one question, then. And I’m asking because I run the lighting. I’ve run it for eight years. I write the cues.”
The room was so quiet that she could hear the Santa line, far away, and a child asking for a pony.
“If you were blindsided,” Caroline said, “why did you want the spotlight held?”
Brittany’s smile did not move.
But something behind it did. Caroline saw it. She had seen it once before, in her own doorway, two weeks ago. Quick and cold, like a fish turning under ice.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Brittany said.
“Luz,” Caroline said.
The big screen beside the organ went from the hospital’s slideshow to a photograph of a cue sheet.
It was enormous. It was ten feet tall. The typed cues ran down the left side. And beside the seven o’clock cue, in neat, slanted blue pen, leaning hard to the right, anyone in the atrium could read the words.
Hold spot on C.B. — do not move until I signal.
Gold star. 7:00 exactly.
A sound went through the room. It was a low sound, like wind.
“That’s your handwriting,” Caroline said.
“I’ve seen it on Snow Ball memos. Everybody who has ever worked with you has seen it.
” She didn’t raise her voice. “You wrote it on the afternoon of the lighting. In the lighting booth. And then you gave the spotlight operator five hundred dollars in an envelope.”
The screen changed again. Now it was Rory’s phone. The texts. Gold star at 7. Hold until I lift my hand. And then, that night: thanks for the help ? perfect timing. And then: this stays between us. Or you won’t work a single event in Philadelphia again.
By the organ, Rory Flanagan stood up, with his Phillies hat in his hands, red to the ears, and stayed standing.
The man from Philadelphia magazine had stopped writing. He was staring at Brittany.
Brittany stood up.
Her face had gone white under her makeup. For a moment, she looked at the screen, and at Rory, and at Ned Stroud beside her, who had leaned away from her in his chair. Then her eyes filled with tears. Real ones. They ran down her face.
“This is cruel,” she said, and her voice shook. “This is so cruel. He kissed me. He’s the one who kissed me. I’m the one this happened to. You’re standing up there doing this to me in front of everyone, because you can’t stand that your husband—”
“I’m not doing anything to you,” Caroline said. “I’m showing people what you wrote.”
“Those texts are fake. That kid is lying. He’s lying because you paid him—”
“You can take them to a lawyer,” Caroline said. “I hope you do. My lawyer is standing by the candy counter. She’d love to talk to you.”
At the candy counter, Stephanie raised a hand.
Brittany’s tears stopped.