The Complete Where Dreams - Volume 2 of 2

Chapter 1-3

“Wilson, you can’t do this! What are her credentials? What productions has she designed for?”

Wilson lounged back in one of the booths next to the hot poodle-pink business suit. He propped his feet on the opposite seat next to a mannequin sheathed in a dress of tiny mirrors, like a human disco ball. As Wilson landed his feet there, it shimmered. Rather than the expected heaviness, it was a light fabric that moved easily, catching and changing light. Every breath the wearer took would be dramatic and impossible to look away from.

“Ask her yourself, Bill. She’s standing right in front of you. This rude chap is Bill Cullen our Stage Manager. Getting the show up is his responsibility. Picking the right people is mine.”

Bill turned to look down at her. Except, it still wasn’t down. It was across. And she was no longer on the verge of disappearing into her hat. Now she was very present, watching him. He couldn’t quite tell, but she almost looked amused.

“Sorry if I was rude, but—”

“No, Mr. Cullen. I’ve never designed an opera. I’ve never even been to one.”

All he could do was gasp. He held out his hands to Wilson and the damn man just did one of those seraphic smiles of his. The same smile he’d confronted Bill with four years before when he stole him from San Francisco for the Emerald City Opera.

“Further, Mr. Cullen. I have designed for no movies, plays, dramas in the park, or poetry readings. Though I have attended all of those.”

Bill reined himself in. He could hear the disdain in her voice, carefully tempered to slap him back with his own attitude. She’d have made a fine dramatic actress, no use to him on an opera stage, but still a precisely balanced performance.

“Then…” he took a deep breath and felt not the least bit better, no matter how much his daughter insisted it would help him. She’d also told him to try using “please” once in a while. “Then, please, tell me why you think you can do this.”

“Would you prefer a list of prior creative works, a sworn deposition, or a demonstration?” She was definitely mocking him.

“A demonstration? What are you talking about?”

“This way.” She turned and walked away as if he was just expected to follow along.

He looked at Wilson who simply worked his way back to his feet and moseyed along behind her. Bill cursed under his breath and brought up the rear. She led them through the dimly lit shop and through what had once been the doors to the kitchen.

The shadows were deep here. The only light source was the morning sun, reflected off the tattoo parlor across the street and shining in through the front window and the cook’s window.

The mannequins in front of the stove looked so real that he thought they were alive for a moment. Dramatic designer coats indicated this was where the outerwear must be sold. One was an apparently typical black leather coat except for massive red buttons as big around as his palm. There was something odd about the cut, but he couldn’t tell in the dim light. The other wore the cape that clearly went with the mirrored gown. It would swirl and flutter and draw every eye until the moment it was removed to reveal the mirrored spectacle form-fit to a woman’s body.

There was a theme here. Bill didn’t have it until he was following the other two into the walk-in freezer lined with shoes and accessories, and then through another swinging door into the design space beyond.

The common theme was that this woman designed for people who wanted to be noticed. Every single piece of clothing was an absolute attention grabber. On the right woman, they’d be irresistible.

Again, Bill imagined the golden bridesmaid dress on the woman who was now waiting by her cutting table. That would be a vision to behold.

“Tell me about your opera.”

Bill looked around the room. He’d been in near enough a hundred of costume design studios over the years. From this woman he’d expected chaos and disarray. Instead, it was one of the neatest and most organized spaces he’d ever seen.

The cutting table was large and immaculate, topped with a green self-healing cutting mat marked in standard one-inch squares with thin yellow lines. Two top-of-the-line sewing machines, a long-arm embroidery machine, and a five-thread serger were lined up along the back window. He almost missed an old Singer Featherweight sitting to one side on a small oak desk with the black, curlicued, wrought-iron base. Not only did it appear well cared for, it was the only one that hadn’t been tidied up, as if it were the latest used.

He turned and was confronted by a wall of fabric neatly stored in cubicle shelves that ranged floor to ceiling down the long wall. Whatever else this woman might be, she was serious about her work space.

Bill kicked free a stool from under the edge of the cutting table and sat down next to Wilson, across the table from the designer.

“Well, it is an entirely new opera, not just a new mount.”

He saw her confused expression. Great. Time to get remedial. They didn’t have time for this. But when he looked at Wilson, the man merely c****d his head in her direction and he was left with no choice but to continue.

“Operas are typically done one of two ways. A packaged opera is one that has been previously designed. We pull everything from storage: sets, costumes, props, and so on. Or we rent someone else’s. Sometimes we’ll mix it up; rent a set from Houston, but use San Francisco’s costumes. All we have to do then is adjust, fit, and perhaps replicate a couple pieces that are too worn or too drastically the wrong size. Then there’s a new mount. All new sets and costumes. That’s expensive and takes a lot of planning.”

“But you said this one was more than that.” She had remained standing and he had to look up at her. He wasn’t complaining. Despite her incoherent taste in clothing, she was fine-featured and very nice to look at. When was the last time he’d really looked at a woman? There had to be someone in the four years since Adira’s death, but he couldn’t think of one at the moment.

“Yes. A new opera is a new mount with many additional nightmares because no one has ever staged this opera before. We will be the first to present the work which has been in development for over two years. We will be making a statement that will enter the repertoire of dozens of opera companies—or that disappears quietly taking several million dollars of investment with it. Now you see why you aren’t acceptable. You make nice clothes, but that is a whole different matter from costuming a new and successful opera.”