Secrets of a Southern Belle

My fingers glide across the piano keys, playing each note of Debussy’s “Claire de Lune”. The atmosphere was heavy with silence, a pin drop could have been heard from a mile away. I finish the final notes and in that moment, the world holds its breath.

I watch the crowd for a moment. Then, as if the heavens themselves have granted permission the audience explodes into waves of applause. Every note I played tonight, each filled with my soul has led to this moment. Their Applause brings joy to my ears. My heart swells in gratitude for the love they shower upon me. I rise from my piano bench and exit with a graceful bow.

The applause still echoed as I descended the stairs. My fingers still vibrating from the memories of the keys beneath them. The Performance had gone very well.

A familiar face emerges from the shadows-Sarah, my diligent secretary, her eyes shining with admiration. Her clipboard is held tightly to her chest as she walks briskly to meet me. She has been with me since my abrupt move from New York. A hardworking girl just trying to work her way through college.

“Evelyn, that was beautiful!” her voice emits genuine awe. I can’t help but smile.

“I couldn’t take my eyes off you” she continues as we walk towards my dressing room “It is like you get better with each performance”

I chuckle at her praise. “Thank you, Sarah. But enough about me. When is the interview scheduled? am sure the critics and press are ready to have a go at me?”

Sarah hesitates “Your schedule has been cleared,” she replies

I stop in my tracks, my hand resting on the door to my dressing room. In my five years of performing, I have never had a performance without an interview afterward. The press is always hungry for more details about my next show, my return to New York.

A sigh escapes my lips, and I turn to face Sarah. “What do you mean my schedule is cleared”

There must be a good reason. Sarah is not one to make impulsive decisions without consulting me.

“Your Mother met me before your performance and told me to clear it” she replies.

My heart skips a beat. My mother is in London. This could mean only trouble. Sarah can see the color drain from my face and concern sweeps her face.

“Did I do something wrong?” she stammers. “She told me you would be returning to NewYork tomorrow so I-”

“Tomorrow” I interrupt. My legs tremble, threatening to give way. It’s too soon. I won’t turn 25 for at least five months. Why is she here now?

“Where is she?” I ask, anguish dripping from my voice.

“she is-is inside” Sarah stutters, pointing to the door, her brain probably trying to decipher the type of relationship I have with my mother.

I quickly let myself into the room, and there she is- Margret Hartfield. She wears a midnight blue gown made of luxurious silk chiffon. The dress falls softly around her figure. Her strawberry blonde hair falls to her waist like mine. In that moment as she sat in the dimly lit room, I understand why my father married her.

“Evelyn darling!” she exclaims, her eyes lighting up as she approaches me. She envelops me in a tight hug. I am still too stunned to respond.

“It is too long, darling,” she finally releases me.