Read Patrice Greenwood - Wisteria Tearoom 03 - An Aria of Omens for Free Online

elements and under the curious scrutiny of the neighbors. Like Mr. Ingraham, I liked to put on a good show—I draped my card table in lace, and had candles when the weather didn’t make it hopeless—but he’d outdone me by several levels with the tent.
    We all knew each other, and Tony was acquainted with everyone, for which I was grateful as it must make it easier for him. No need to explain his presence or describe his job. He was shy at first, but a couple of jokes from Manny made him relax. I relaxed, too, seeing him smile.
    “I love that shawl, Nat,” I said to my aunt. “It reminds me of the one I wore when I was an usher.”
    “Thank you! It’s a gift from my beau,” she said, leaning over to kiss Manny’s cheek.
    “You were an usher at the opera?” Mr. Ingraham asked.
    “Yes, when I was in high school.”
    “Then you’ve seen Tosca before?”
    “No, this is my first time, actually. I think the last time it was performed here was the year before I started ushering.”
    “Too bad. I was wondering if you might have any stories of disasters.”
    “Disasters?”
    “Yes— Tosca is the ‘Scottish play’ of opera. Didn’t you know?”
    “No!”
    Tony shot me a bewildered glance.
    “The Scottish play is Macbeth ,” I explained. “Theater people call it that because they’re superstitious. Saying the title out loud is supposed to be bad luck.”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “The whole play is considered bad luck,” said Mr. Ingraham. “Bad things happen during productions.”
    “Then why do they do it?” Tony asked.
    “Because it’s Shakespeare,” said Claudia.
    “And the opera equivalent is Tosca , though they’re not silly about the title,” said Mr. Ingraham. “Tales abound of catastrophes during production. Maria Callas’s wig caught fire onstage during a performance.”
    Nat gasped. “Was she hurt?”
    “Not badly. She’s not the only one; at least one other soprano’s hair caught fire when she was singing Tosca. And of course, in the original play, Sarah Bernhardt broke her leg jumping off the balcony at the end. Some of the operatic Toscas have been injured that way too.”
    “You’d think they would be careful to make it safe,” said Claudia. “Coloraturas don’t grow on trees.”
    Mr. Ingraham continued to regale us with tales of the Tosca curse. Gradually the conversation flowed to opera in general, then to Santa Fe politics and what the tourists were up to this year. Claudia was excited about a new project at the Preservation Trust, a house designed by John Gaw Meem that the Trust was arranging to buy. She seemed to be handling the burden of running the Trust fairly well.
    When the pâté had faded away, Mr. Ingraham unswathed a Dutch oven and served up steaming coq au vin. This was accompanied by a petal-soft Bordeaux and followed by a salad of baby greens and roasted beets, and finally a platter of cheeses.
    When the Bordeaux was gone and the cheeses severely depleted, our host set a cut crystal decanter by his place, then brought out the tray of Aria Cakes and presented them with a flourish, announcing that I had provided the finalé.
    “Oh, good!” said Claudia. “I love these!”
    “I’ve chosen a white port to go with them. Let me know what you think, Ellen.”
    I took a bite of cake and then sipped from the cordial glass he filled for me. The wine was lighter than I’d expected, with a floral hint that went nicely with the cake. “Mm, lovely!”
    Tony sniffed at the port, frowning. I leaned toward him. “It’s a sweet wine, a bit strong. If you don’t like it that’s all right.”
    He shot me a sidelong glance, sipped cautiously, then set the glass down. His face showed nothing, but he didn’t try it again.
    Ah, well. An acquired taste.
    The sun was setting by the time we had finished the last of the cakes. Mr. Ingraham topped up my glass of port and I carried it outside the tent to admire the splashes of peach, orange, and crimson in the cloud-troubled sky.