Romance, intrigue, treachery: my WIP a boisterous adventure

I'm in the thick of writing Ms. Manon in Hankey, PA, a sequel to Don Juan in Hankey, PA that is also a contemporary retelling of a classic opera and featuring many of the same characters from the first book.

I'm basing the new novel on two operas derived from the same novel: Puccini's Manon Lescaut and Massenet's Manon. In both operas, the leading lady is named Manon. The operas are

It's been great fun thus far bringing back characters I know well and creating a few new ones for this book: Rhys DeGraw, vice president of DeGraw Furs; Mandy Manning, Knobby's younger cousin; and Sam DeGraw, Chairman and CEO of DeGraw Furs.

  1

‘Tu, tu, amore’

Carter Knoblauch slipped his hands beneath the table. He balled up his fists until his fingernails cut into his palms. But he kept smiling. He didn’t want his dinner guest to witness the nerves ready to undo him. Long ago during an acting class, he learned to release tension by knotting up his hands and releasing them. He needed that theatrical trick to work for him now. Whenever he was under stress, he began to perspire heavily, which could compromise his crucial mission. Sabotage by sweat.

“How much?” Rhys DeGraw, the man joining Knoblauch for dinner, asked again.

Any second now, perspiration would trickle down Knoblauch’s face, thanks to the gene pool he inherited from his mother’s side of the family—the Manning side. An ornery chromosome set that included wildly curly hair, rosy apple cheeks, and apple-shaped bodies. That’s why naming one of his baby daughters Apple, even if it was fashionable, was out of the question. Any daughter of Carter Knoblauch’s was just as likely to grow up looking like a Manning—a human apple—as she was a trim Longenecker, his wife’s maiden name.

Release. Clench.

Enough stalling, Knoblauch told himself. He had to come out with it. He was a grown man conducting legitimate business with another grown-up guy whose family just happened to have made a fortune selling fur coats. The best, make that the only fur retailer in Hankey, Pennsylvania. Underneath it all Rhys DeGraw, vice-president and heir apparent to the family business throne, was a shrewd businessman, who must’ve already guessed why Knoblauch had invited him to a fancy restaurant for a four-course meal.

Release.

How old was Rhys? A little younger than himself. Mid-thirties? That fact alone should put Knoblauch at ease. He should number his lucky opera stars he was dining with Rhys instead of sitting across the table from old Sam DeGraw, still heading up DeGraw Furs at seventy-five years young. Going deaf, going blind. Gone ruthless. A man to dread. Hard to believe a wizened codger like Sam could have such a hale and handsome son as Rhys. Had Oriane, Knoblauch’s wife, been able to join them, the younger DeGraw’s good looks would not have gone unappreciated.

Knobby, as he called himself, had never made a donor request of this magnitude before. The anxiety mounting inside him had ruined his appetite. Three spears of asparagus and several bites from a slab of broiled salmon lay in front of him untouched, its pungent horseradish crust tickling his nostrils. He could scarcely believe he was letting fine restaurant food go uneaten. Cincinnati boys finished their plates or got the switch—his Aunt Laverne had seen to that. He and Oriane had only been out to eat once since the twins were born. A colossal waste of the guild’s money.

Clench.

He should just blurt out the dollar figure. If Rhys balked, Knobby would shrug his shoulders and smile weakly because that’s exactly what Deanna Lundquist, the former Hankey Opera Guild chair, had instructed him to do. But he would not reduce the amount. The Hankey Opera Company needed a sponsor for every show in the 2012-13 season. Producing opera was expensive.

Release.

He set his hands on the edge of the table, noticing they looked like bruised fruits against the white sateen cloth.

“How much, Carter?” Rhys asked again. “We want to help the opera company, if we can.”

“Call me Knobby.” Knoblauch sipped his ice water and dabbed at his mouth with a napkin before staunching the side of his face. He returned the napkin to his lap and grinned as though it pained him. “Everyone calls me Knobby.” Everyone but Oriane, who insisted on calling him Carter for some reason.

“All right. Knobby—” Rhys said.

“We’d like $20,000,” Knobby spit out, wondering whether he’d just showered his own chin with saliva or sweat droplets had been dribbling off his nose and running down from the sides of his mouth, collecting there. “That’s to be the presenting sponsor for Manon Lescaut.” He reached into his briefcase and set a proposal beside Rhys. Then he clamped his mouth closed. Another of Deanna’s directives: Make the ask, shut up, and sit tight until the prospect says something. Anything. First one to talk loses.

Rhys cocked his head, savoring the last bite of his porterhouse. “Great steak. It cut like butter.”

Knobby breathed deeply through his nose, trying to revive his appetite with all the savory food smells wafting around their table. Deanna hadn’t told him what to do in the event of a non-sequitur. Where was Deanna anyway? He'd expected her to join him for the ask.

Rhys laid his napkin in front of him and glanced out the window. From their table, they had a side view of the Hankey Train Station, still operational for passenger service. “Your audience,” Rhys began, “makes up a good part of our clientele. People who attend the opera like to dress. More opera means more furs sales.”

“Fur sure,” Knobby added. It was all he could think of to say unrelated to the dollar request he’d just made.

“But many of your patrons are my customers anyway.” Rhys massaged his hairline with his fingertips.

Had the sponsorship amount undone him? Was that why he was touching his head?

“Big number, $20,000. I’ll take it back to Sam.”

“Do you always call your dad Sam?” Knobby asked.

“All the time,” Rhys said. “I can’t be in the middle of a senior management meeting, arguing about sales projections, and say, ‘Those figures are unrealistic, Dad.’” He surveyed his near-empty water glass. “Twenty thou? We’ll think about it.”

We’ll think about it? What did that mean? Was it the prelude to a long-and-drawn-out “no” or the forerunner to an eventual “yes.” Just where was Deanna anyway? How long did it take to retrieve a warm body from the Hankey Train Station? He told Deanna what his cousin Mandy looked like—an apple cheeked, apple-shaped country girl with a ruddy complexion. Typical Ohio farm girl. He’d always thought Mandy looked more like a sister than a cousin. Just look for a younger, female version of me, he’d told Deanna. He thought she’d send Arnaud, the new opera guild chair, to pick up Mandy, not do the deed herself.

Maybe Deanna was late on purpose—to make sure he’d get a taste of what she’d been doing for the last ten years on behalf of the Hankey Opera Company. As general manager, Knobby did most of the purchasing. The irony of having to raise a chunk of what he planned to spend was now doing the Argentine tango with the undigested asparagus, assailing all sides of his stomach with rhythmic kicks.

Rhys picked up the proposal, eyeing the front cover. “This Manon Lescaut?” he asked, pronouncing it MAYnin LEEscout. “What’s it about?”

Holy Italian opera based on a French novel! Did Rhys ever butcher that pronunciation! Knobby didn’t dare correct him. “Oh, it’s of my favorite Puccini operas. Puccini is quite a popular, accessible composer.”

“What do you mean by accessible?” Rhys asked.

“Most people enjoy a Puccini opera like Madame Butterfly or La Bohème, even if they know nothing about opera. Even if they don’t like opera. Very melodic, evocative music.”

“Evocative? So what’s Manon Lescaut about?” Rhys asked, again mutilating the pronunciation of the title but in a different way this time, so that Lescaut rhymed with taught.

“It’s about a—” Knobby was going to say gold digger but thought better of it. “It’s a love story.”

Rhys belly laughed. “A fancy French name for a little old love story? Someone dies, right? Someone always dies in opera while they’re singing a long song.”

Now it was Knobby’s turn to chuckle. In Manon Lescaut, the entire last act is Manon dying in the great desert wasteland of Louisiana, U.S.A. while singing most of that time. Whoever told Puccini that Louisiana consisted of desert terrain was probably the same guy who encouraged him to name his American male lead “Dick” in The Girl of the Golden West.

“But before anyone dies in this opera, a handsome man and a beautiful but shallow woman fall in love. Ultimately, she’s more sensitive than she looks,” Knobby added. “But not before making a few unforgivable mistakes.”

 Rhys’s eyes widened. “Beautiful, you say?”

“Breathtakingly beautiful. It helps the story along if you can cast a stunning Manon.”

Rhys gulped. “If there is such a female opera singer, then cast her!” Rhys instructed. “I’ll bet beautiful women sell tickets.”

“Can’t hurt ticket sales,” Knobby said, thinking beautiful women had the power to woo young businessmen, too. He’d love to cast a beautiful woman in the role. But the most important thing was finding a woman vocally qualified to sing the part who was also in their price range. Talent first. Affordability second. Availability a close third. Beauty dead last. Oriane could’ve sung the role. He’d offered it to her first—he’d learned his lesson after he failed to offer her Zerlina in Don Giovanni. But she’d said she was too busy with the twins.

Rhys sighed. “Don’t you love pretty girls?”

“I love them so much I married one.” Knobby chuckled. “Now I have two daughters just like her.”

“Lucky dog,” Rhys said.

“Married?” Knobby asked.

Rhys shook his head.

“Never?”

“Nope. So, what happens to the beautiful woman?” he asked, signaling the waiter. “Bring me a scotch. Glenfiddich, if you have it. On the rocks. After-dinner drink, Knobby?”

“Coffee with cream,” Knobby said while the waiter removed their plates.

Knobby might have enjoyed a single malt scotch, especially now that he was a father to twin baby girls and the sole breadwinner. But he had to monitor his liquor intake since his heart incident last year. He couldn’t afford to have a Glenfiddich, and he couldn’t afford to buy one for Rhys either. Should he chase down the server and tell her to bring Dewars instead? Better yet, the house scotch? No, he'd let Rhys have his obscenely expensive scotch. If it helped seal the deal, it would be pittance to pay compared to a $20K gift. Conscience makes cowards of us all, he reminded himself. A favorite line from the first show he ever stage-managed—Hamlet.

“At first, Manon comes off as a tart. A party girl,” Knobby explained. “By the end of the opera, the audience gets a glimpse of her true character.”

“Aren’t most opera singers really large women? Hefty heifers?”

Knobby shrugged. “My wife’s an opera singer. She’s one-hundred-and-twenty pounds soaking wet.”

 “Speaking of beautiful women,” Rhys said, rising from his seat, placing his napkin on the table, clearing his throat.

Knobby heard the catch in Rhys’s voice. He swiveled away from the table and saw Deanna approaching all by herself. No Mandy in sight.

“Hello, everyone,” Deanna said, laying a hand on Knobby’s shoulder. “Sorry we’re late.”

“Is Mandy with you?” Knobby asked.

The server returned with their drinks, setting Rhys’s scotch where his plate had been.

“Wasn’t that the idea?” Deanna said, adding, "She's freshening up."

As Deanna moved toward the empty chair at their table, Rhys pulled it out for her. He didn’t know diddly-squat about opera. Someday, Knobby would let him know all those long songs were called “arias.” But Rhys’d been brought up with good manners, responding courteously if not readily to women like Deanna.

Knobby didn’t consider Deanna classically lovely. He was a bit spoiled, having worked with hundreds of beautiful women during his twenty years in opera management. But Deanna always dressed smartly. Her grooming, impeccable. Men often equated her polish with attractiveness.

Though it was August, Knobby wouldn’t have been surprised if Deanna showed up wearing fur. She was one of those women who needed precious little reason to wear it: “It’s breezy today—I think I’ll thrown on my coyote fur bolero.” Well, if she couldn’t wear it, the least she could do was mention it. The opera company needed all the help it could get to close on a DeGraw Furs show sponsorship.

Deanna held out her hand. “Deanna Lundquist. I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure. But I know your product intimately,” she added. “I have your full-length fox in my cedar closet.”

Deanna played her DeGraw fur card like pulling an ace from her three-quarter-length sleeve. Knobby released his fists.

Rhys smiled warmly. “Rhys DeGraw, ma’am.”

Had Rhys just flushed red from the expensive scotch or from meeting Deanna, whom some men found irresistible? That is, until they got to know her better.

“Where’s Mandy?” Knobby asked, more than a little anxious. He hadn’t seen his young cousin in four years—not since she went off to college. Or had it been six years?

“I’m right here, Knobby,” a gentle voice said while a strange hand tousled the back of his head.

Knobby rose from his seat and whipped around to face—Mandy? The slim, sleek-haired beauty standing in front of him was his cousin?

Knobby continued to stare. “Is that you, Mandy?”

She leaned into Knobby and hugged him. “You look exactly the same.”

“Well, you certainly don’t,” Knobby said. “You’re—. Well, you’re—”

Deanna clucked her tongue. “Great description, Knobby. She looks nothing like you. That’s why we’re late. I was scouring that station high and low for a female version of you.”

Knobby tittered nervously. He should’ve known what his own cousin looked like these days.

“Won’t you have a seat, miss?” Rhys stood, indicating the chair next to him, without taking his eyes off Mandy.

“Mandy, this is Rhys DeGraw. He’s the vice president of DeGraw Furs, a potential sponsor. Rhys, this is my cousin from Ohio, Mandy Manning.”

Rhys had been standing and smiling numbly, as if DeGraw Furs had just surpassed their sales projections for the year.

Mandy extending her hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. DeGraw.”

"Call me Rhys," he said, without releasing her hand.

“So, what've you being doing with yourself, cuz?" Knobby asked.

Finally, Rhys let go of her hand and stood behind her chair while Mandy seated herself.

“Trying to keep up with you and everything going on in your life,” Mandy said with an ease that suggested she and Knobby used to be close. “You’re married. With two baby daughters. Heading up an opera company. You’re mom would be so proud if—”

“Oh, she is,” Knobby said, enthusiastically. “Mom told me so when I had a near-death experience last April, about a year ago.”

Deanna glared at him as if to say, Don’t talk about that now. But Rhys wasn’t paying Knobby a lick of attention. He was studying Mandy, as if memorizing the dusky shade of her penetrating gray eyes, the exquisite line of her heart-shaped face, the fullness of her perfectly symmetrical lips, her luminous skin. Coincidentally, Mandy hadn’t taken the slightest interest in what Knobby was saying either.

Rhys sipped his scotch. “What do you do, Mandy?”

Mandy smiled in a way that signaled she was wholly aware and further delighted to have captured Rhys’s undivided attention. “I teach preschool,” she said. “But I studied to be an opera singer. In fact, I hope to audition for a prestigious opera academy in Philadelphia while I’m here.”

Rhys’s eyes widened. “Did you hear that, Knobby? Your lovely cousin’s an opera singer.”

Knobby grimaced. “I knew that she’d studied—”

“If you get accepted, that means you’ll be in the area for a while, right?” Rhys said, his tone soft and earnest. “You won’t be going back to Ohio?”

“Yes,” Mandy told Rhys demurely. “But it’s an intense four-year program. Study, sing, more study, more singing. Nose to the grindstone, I’m told. No free time at all.”

“Sounds more like a convent than an academy,” Deanna said.

“Exactly. A convent for opera singers. You have to work hard to succeed professionally in opera these days,” Mandy added. “It would be a great honor to be accepted. Of course, I’d have to go if they wanted me. I’m willing to work very hard.”

Knobby noticed that Rhys’s breathing had become shallow. Was he panting?

“Can you sing the role in Knobby’s show—that soprano part?” Rhys asked. “Manon, is it?”

Mandy folded her hands across her heart. As if on cue, her eyes filled with tears. She opened her mouth. A sound as clear and bright as a silver bell floated from her lips to Rhys’s ears. “Tu, tu, amore? Tu? Sei tu, mio immenso amore? . . . Dio!”

Other diners turned their attention to their table. The restaurant grew silent, except for Mandy’s singing.

Rhys gulped. “That was . . . from the show?”

Mandy nodded.

Rhys’s mouth fell open like a crappie bass about to be hooked and reeled in by a silver-throated siren. “What—what did that mean?” Rhys asked. “I have to know.”

Land-o-Lakes! This middle-aged executive was tumbling head over wingtips for his young cousin faster than Knobby had ever seen any man fall for a woman. He supposed she was a lovely girl, but he couldn’t rid his memory of the image of the plump little kid with corkscrew curls and a perpetually runny nose.

“I said, ‘You, you, my love,’” Mandy purred. “‘You, my own dear love, my own. Oh, heaven.’”

As if possessed, Rhys lurched across the table to clasp her hands in his, his eyes fixed on hers, knocking over his Glenfiddich. Half-melted ice cubes skittered off the table’s edge, somehow missing Mandy’s lap, landing directly on the blond carpet. Both Rhys and Mandy were oblivious to the spill.

“I’ll say ‘Oh, heaven,’” Deanna muttered, using her linen napkin to mop up the mess.

“Oh, brother,” Knobby said, sliding his elbows onto the table, resting his head atop a pair of clenched fists, watching $15 worth of scotch soak into the shiny white tablecloth.

 

 

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