As the sun begins to set along the banks of the Chickotee, my stomach begins to flutter. “Big night!” Mom hollers as I leave the house.
Big night indeed.
It’s 7:12PM. I can see Lindy’s boat glistening on the water, each crew member handling a specific task. A young man emerges and unfurls a red carpet. Another places an arrow-shaped sign beside it that reads “WELCOME.” Two others could be seen polishing the deck.
On any other night, I’d sit and watch and daydream … but not this one. Not tonight. As any entrepreneur will tell you … when you own your own business, there are days of great feast and days of great famine.
Tonight, dear readers, there is about to be a feast.
I pull into the mayor’s driveway – she’s waiting, holding a pair of high-heeled shoes. As I place the car in park and begin to get out to open the door for her, she tip-toes toward the car and opens the one behind the passenger’s seat.
“Mayor, how are you?”
“No time for pleasantries, Bentley. Step on it.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Her phone rings and I glance toward her as I back out.
“What … what do you mean we can’t do it tonight? … This is ridiculous … Okay, okay … onward.”
She hangs up the phone and puts her shoes on her feet.
“Bentley, any chance we can make a stop before we head to the boat?”
“I’m afraid not, Madam Mayor, my dancecard’s pretty tight this evening.”
I glanced in the rear-view mirror just long enough see her sigh, resigned.
As I pull up to the red carpet, Mrs. McMurtry waves into the window toward the mayor.
Charlotte groans. “You’re sure you can’t take me away?” she asks in my direction.
“Afraid not,” I say, as I step around to let her out of the car
—
7:19PM
Just as I pull up to Carson’s home, an older man with a video camera pops out from behind a bush. I jam on the breaks.
“I got it!” the man yells jubilantly to me through the car window. He flashes a hearty thumbs up sign before retreating to a deck in the side yard where Carson, Elyse, and Mrs. Hughes are standing, champaign flutes in hand, seemingly in mid-toast.
I open my door and step into the driveway. “Hughes, party of four … are we ready?”
Quickly, I hop around the car, opening each door only to look up and see the four of them smiling, giggling … and not moving toward me.
“One last toast, Brantley,” Mr. Hughes prompts. “We are celebrating this evening!”
“Bentley, Father … his name is Bentley,” Elyse corrects him.
I look at my watch realizing that I have exactly 12 minutes to get the Hughes’ party to the boat, then get down River Road to Marjorie’s, collect and deliver her, stop again for the Nutwells, Pete and Jessica, who, after seeming to drop out of any Middle Valley social circles since all the hubbub about this memorial, decided this would be the night of their return. Then, just to top it off, two more stops – first for Bernie, then Wanda. At least they’ll be sharing a ride and I can get them there just after the sunset – “fashionably late,” as Wanda chose to characterize it.
“I appreciate that, Sir, but as you might imagine, I’m on a bit of a schedule this evening. Feel free to bring the glasses along with you if you’d like, but we really do need to get going.”
Mercifully, I could see Elyse tap her father on the shoulder. “Come on, Father, there’s plenty of time to celebrate. We should get a move on.”
I close the back door behind Elyse as Mr. Hughes settles into the front seat next to me. I make every light as I cruise through downtown and once again pull up to the red carpet. This time, I can hear the sounds of a jazz quartet eminating from the boat. Before I have a chance to get out of the car, Mrs. Hughes, Carson, and Elyse let themselve out of the backseat. Mr. Hughes turns toward me as he reaches inside his coat pocket.
“Here you are, Brantley … or Bentley, I mean, of course… like the car.”
He hands me two crisp one-hundred dollar bills.
“Sir,” I begin to object, “it was only a five minute ride down the road. I can’t take …”
“Sure you can,” Mr. Hughes says, nodding toward me. “I expect you’ll be back in a few hours to fetch us, yes?”
I nod. It hadn’t been part of the plan, but this is already a workday.
“Of course … 10 o’clock?”
—
7:28PM
It’s 7:28PM and Marjorie is a no-show.
I usually enjoy her columns, but in this moment, I vow not to enjoy them anymore.
Well, I must move on.
—
7:29 PM
The Nutwells had been conspiciously absent from the social scene for some time. Madam McMurtry had been acutely aware of their MIA status and had made arrangements for me to pick them up herself, even put it on her account for the evening, confirmed it and everything.
So I figure this is an important one and, as I pull into the circular driveway, I begin to get a sense for why.
Two footman stand at attention, one crossing in front of the car as I ease to a stop. I roll down the window. “Car service for Mr. and Mrs. Nutwell?”
He nods. It’s “Judge and Mrs. Nutwell,” he mutters, then gestures toward the house while Footman No. 1 walks up the steps and opens the front door.
Mrs. Nutwell, glowing in a canary yellow dress trimmed in what appear to be tiny diamonds, sweeps her matching cape around her neck and places a pair of sunglasses on her face. She takes each step slowly, with a hint of drama, looking in both directions to see if anyone could see her.
Of course, it was only me. And Footman No. 2 as Footman No. 1 had the car door open and waiting for her.
“Darling?” she yelled as she entered the car.
Just then, Judge Nutwell steps out, running down the steps, tuxedo tie in hand, nodding in the direction of Footman No. 1.
“Ready!”
As he enters the car and Footman No. 1 closes it behind him, a loud thunk comes from the top of the car – Footman No. 2 letting me know now that his charge (Mr. Nutwell) was in the car and I am now free to leave.
“Hey!”I couldn’t help but yell. I am both startled and more than a little ticked off.
“Sorry,” Mr. Nutwell says from the backseat. “He does that. Old habit from his days as a doorman at the Waldorf … hailed cabs all day and all night. Sometimes he gets a little carried away. I’m Judge Pete, and this is Jess.”
My cheeks are suddenly on fire as I recognize the man’s face. Judge Pete, of course. It had been several years, but I would have thought for sure he’d remember me … or just my strange name at least. It crosses my mind that he has no idea who I am.
I begin to choke involuntarily, unsure if it’s Mrs. Nutwell’s perfume that is catching my throat or seeing Judge Pete again. I sip water and lower the window just slightly. “Right, sure … my friends call me Rhodes.” I manage to get the words out before the light turns green.”
Luckily we arrive at the dock. At this point the party is in full swing. As I begin to get out of the car and come around to open their door, I see that Judge Pete is already out and reaching out for Jess’ hand. He reaches into his pocket and tosses a one-hundred dollar bill through the passenger side window. “Thanks! Sorry for the delay!”
I wave and collect the bill, thankful for the quick trip. Everything about that exchange has me rattled – the thumping of my roof, the perfume, the chance meeting of someone I’d much rather forget.
Three down, one to go.
–
7:38 PM
Mr. Rossie is next. I know the shortcut to his place since I live down the street. Of course, he’s waiting at the curb as I pull up. He lets himself into the backseat.
“Sir,” I greet him.
“It smells like someone spilled an entire bottle of perfume in here.”
“Yessir, my apologies. I can put a window down back there if you’d like.”
“Please do.”
The air did help as I found myself able to take a deep breath again. We arrive at Wanda Moreno’s home where she is also waiting outside. She is in a dress that … well, perhaps the nice way to put it is to say it looks more like a costume than a formal gown – layers upon layers of red taffeta, her hair piled high on her head, and black kitten heels that click as she approaches the car.
With all the grace of a chimp, she opens the back door and places her knitted shawl on the seat. “Bernie, move over please.”
Bernie does as he’s told. “Nice to see you Wanda,” he says to her as she piles in.
“Good evening, Mrs. Moreno.”
“Good evening, Bentley. You must have quite a lot of business tonight!”
“Yes, ma’am, pretty intense. I appreciate your kind referrals, of course.”
“No problem, happy to help. … Bernie, how’s all with you? Is this a working soiree for you?”
“Little of both,” Bernie says, and I can’t help but think he’d rather be cleaning a gutter or something rather than talking to this woman.
“Haven’t seen your byline lately, Bernie,” she continues. “Don’t tell me there’s no news out there … I mean, look at where we’re going after all.”
Bernie chuckles. “I can’t imagine that anything interesting is going to happen tonight outside of me enjoying some free Glenlivet.”
Wanda lets out a cackle unlike any I’d ever heard – and I’ve done a lot of driving.
As we enter the docks and I pull up to the red carpet for the fourth time this evening, Wanda lets loose a loud tap on the window with a long, red finger nail. “See, there’s Elyse … and, oh, Carson, the Mayor – ah the Mayor is here! Are those Elyse’s parents? Oh dear, come on, Bernie, what rock do you live under?”
As they exit, Bernie scowls in my direction and slams the door.
I guess the tipping part of the evening has ended.