Danielle Steel - Fine things

The crowd pressed them close as they walked into the huge hall where the tables were, and Liz looked up at Bernie with a smile as he squeezed her arm and another photographer took their picture.

“Having fun?” She nodded but it was difficult to call it that. It was a crush of bodies in exquisite evening gowns, and enough jewelry to fill several wheelbarrows had anyone wanted to try. But there was an aura of excitement too. Everyone knew that they were part of an important evening.

Bernie and Liz took their seats at the same table with a couple from Texas, the curator of the museum and his wife, an important customer of Wolffs and her fifth husband, and the mayor and her husband. It was an interesting table, and conversation was rapid and light as the dinner was served and the wines poured, and everyone chatted about their summer, their children, their most recent trips, and the last time they had seen Placido Domingo. He was flying to San Francisco especially to sing?ta??a?a this evening with Renata Scotto, and it would be a treat for the real opera lovers in the crowd, although there were few of those. Opera in San Francisco had more to do with social standing and fashion than it did with any real passion for music. Bernie had heard it said for months, but he didn't care. He was having a good time, and it was fun being out with Liz for such an elegant evening. And Domingo and Scotto were only additional treats as far as he was concerned. He knew very little about opera.

But as they walked across the horseshoe driveway a little later on, to the War Memorial Opera House, even Bernie felt the intensity of the moment. The photographers appeared en masse this time, to photograph everyone going into the opera house, and there was a crowd held back by cordons and police. They had come just to ogle the elegantly dressed crowd on opening night, and Bernie suddenly felt as though he were attending the Academy Awards, only the crowd was staring at him and not at Gregory Peck or Kirk Douglas. It was a heady feeling as he shielded Liz from the eddying movements of the crowd and ushered her into the building and up the stairs to where he knew their box was. They found their seats easily, and he recognized familiar faces all around him, the women anyway. They were all clients of Wolffs. In fact, he was pleased at how many of their gowns he had seen since the evening began. But Liz was by far the most beautiful in her magnificent Renaissance gown, with her hair caught up in the woven threads of gold. He found himself aching to kiss her as others looked at them admiringly, and he pressed her hand gently as the light dimmed, and they held hands through the whole first act. And Domingo and Scotto were extraordinary together. It was a breathtaking evening in every way, and they followed the others to the bar, where the champagne poured like water and the photographers were hard at work again. He knew they had taken Liz' photograph at least fifteen times since the evening began, but she didn't seem to mind it. She looked shy and demure and she felt safe at his side. Everything about her made him want to protect her.

He handed her a glass of champagne, and they stood sipping it and watching the crowd, and suddenly Liz giggled as she looked up at him. “It's funny, isn't it?”

He grinned. It was funny. It was so overwhelmingly elegant, and they all took themselves so seriously that it was difficult to believe that they hadn't been cast backwards into another time when moments like this were infinitely more important. “It's kind of a nice change from one's daily routine though, isn't it, Liz?”

She smiled again and nodded. The next morning she would be at Safeway buying groceries for herself and Jane for the week, and on Monday she would be writing simple additions on a chalkboard. “It makes everything else seem unreal.”

“That should be part of the magic of opera, I think.” He liked the importance of the event in San Francisco, and he liked being part of it. And most of all, he liked sharing it with her. It was a first time for both of them and he wanted to share a lifetime of firsts with her. The lights dimmed then before he could say anything, and then rose again, as a discreet bell sounded in the distance. “We have to go back.” He put down his glass, as did Liz, but he noticed rapidly that no one else did, and when they finally left the bar at the insistence of the bell, most of the crowd from the boxes remained at the bar, talking and laughing and drinking. That was part of the San Francisco tradition too. The bar and its intrigues being, in most instances, far more important than the music.

The boxes were half empty during the second act, theirs as well, but the bar was in full swing when they returned to it during the second intermission. Liz stifled a yawn, with a sheepish glance at Bernie.

“Tired, sweetheart?”

“A little …it's such a big evening.” And they both knew there was more. They were having supper at Trader Vic's afterwards, in the Captain's Cabin. Bernie was already a regular there, and after that they were going to make a quick stop at the opera ball at City Hall. He suspected they wouldn't get home until three or four in the morning, but it was the event that launched San Francisco's social season every year, and it stood out like the largest diamond in the tiara.

Their car was waiting for them in the driveway after the last act, and they climbed into it cozily, and then sped toward Trader Vic's. Even that seemed better than usual tonight as they drank champagne and ate caviar and Bongo Bongo soup and mushroom crepes. And Liz laughed with delight at the message in her fortune cookie. “He will always love you as much as you love him.”

“I like that one.” She beamed happily at him. It had been an incredible evening, and Domingo and Scotto and their entourage had just come in and been seated at a long table in the corner with a great flurry. Numerous people asked for autographs and both artists looked pleased. It had been a remarkable performance. “Thank you for a beautiful evening, sweetheart.”

“It's not over yet.” He patted her hand on the table, and poured her another glass of champagne as she giggled in protest.

“You'll have to carry me out if you give me much more of that.”

“I can manage that.” He put a gentle arm around her and toasted her with his eyes. It was after one when they left Trader Vic's and went on to the opera ball, which was almost anticlimactical after all the earlier events of the evening. Liz was beginning to recognize the faces she had seen earlier, at the museum, the opera, the bar, Trader Vic's, and everyone seemed to be having fun. Even the press had begun to relax and enjoy themselves. By then they had gotten most of the photographs they needed. Although they took another of Liz and Bernie as they circled the floor easily in a graceful waltz that made her dress look even more lovely.

And it was that photograph which ran the next morning. A large photograph of Liz in Bernie's arms, as they circled the floor at the opera ball at City Hall. You could see some of the detail of the dress, but more than that, you could see Liz beaming up into Bernie's face as he held her.

“You really like him, huh, Mom?” Jane had her chin propped up in both hands, and Liz had a terrific headache as they read the newspaper over breakfast the next morning. She had come home at four-thirty and had realized, as the room spun slowly around her as she tried to get to sleep, that they must have consumed at least four or five bottles of champagne that evening. It had been the most beautiful night of her life, but now just the thought of the sparkling wine made her nauseous. And she was in no shape whatsoever to spar with her daughter.

“He's a very nice man, and he likes you a lot, Jane.” It seemed the smartest thing to say and the only thing she could think of.