A Thanksgiving Reunion

"Mrs. Christine, let me help you," Chef Andre rushes toward the mistress of Phantasma laden with four woven cornucopia stacked one upon the other.

Slightly breathless, she continues on her path into the main dining room of the hotel, she says, "I am fine, but there are more in the lobby. The shopkeeper only promised to bring them as far as the hotel and even my sweetest smile could not convince him to bring them any further."

"Foolish man – you should have sung for him – he could have carried them to the penthouse then, had you asked him."

"You are most kind, Chef, but I fear his ill humor would not have been pleased by any effort I might have made – although the tip I gave him calmed him somewhat." Ending her journey at the buffet table that will hold the dinnerware for the employees' annual Thanksgiving dinner – she lays the baskets on the table with a sigh of relief. "If you could bring the others in, I would be most appreciative."

She is grateful for the trim new styling of her outfit, a coat of deep teal over a matching narrow skirt – no longer forced to deal with bustles and oversized skirts – although the cut of the skirt caused her some alarm when she was wrestling the cornucopia through the revolving door – not giving her much room to maneuver her feet – causing her to stumble.

Following her instructions, he trots out to the lobby, waving at one of the waiters observing the goings on. "Do not just stand there ogling us, help me bring the table decorations in from the entrance."

The two men drag cardboard boxes carrying the rest of the baskets into the elegant room set up with tables able to seat from six to eight people already set with white linen tablecloths, rust colored runners, green and yellow napkins and place settings of silverware.

"Why was he upset, if I might ask?"

"His helper did not show up for work and he had to load and deliver the cartons himself. I told him he should have called, we would have picked them up, but I think he preferred his anger." Surveying the room, she asks, "Do you think your staff can finish setting up the tables?"

"Of course, I would not expect it to be otherwise. Dinner is under control – one of the good things about Thanksgiving dinner is most everything is prepared in advance and we will have buffets set up for serving." A wave of his hand indicates several tables, besides the one at the entry. Each one designated for the different courses – main courses of turkey and ham and side dishes of yams, mashed potatoes, carrots and other roasted root vegetables, and gravy. The last tables with fresh plates await pies and cookies for when dinner has been completed.

"I am happy that you and your staff will be able to join us – the buffet was a perfect idea," Christine says, beaming at how well things were going thanks to Andre's suggestions and her own memories of childhood Smorgasbords. "People always seem happier with their food when they can choose what they want and what they do not. My mother said it made her job easier as well."

"Indeed it does – will everyone be here who have not gone south for the winter?"

"I believe so. We have more tables that can be set up if there are surprises?"

"Yes – and the small dining room is still open for the few guests staying the weekend."

"Are there many? Anyone alone?"

"There are the five families that arrived by train three days ago. Three are members of the same family from different parts of the country who will be served dinner here. Two other families are staying at the hotel, but will be having their dinner with relatives in Brooklyn. And…"

"And?"

"One gentleman who arrived late last night."

"Where did he come from?"

Andre shrugs. "I just know he registered last night and asked for room service today. Concierge says he is French."

A shiver runs up Christine's spine, her face flushes creating a film of moisture on her face, a wave a nausea upsets her stomach. Gripping the edge of the table to steady herself, she looks for a place to sit down.

"Are you all right, Missus?" Andre asks, taking her by the arm. "Do you want me to get Mr. Y or a brandy?"

"Both sound good, but he is likely busy, just water, though, please."

Leading her to one of the alcoves built into the large room to provide more intimate seating. "Here, sit down, I shall bring you a glass with a few drops of Armagnac for the scent and some flavor."

"Thank you, perhaps sitting down is the better idea – I have been rushing around."

"You shall have your aperitif and rest assured, everything is under control here – we shall take care of the table decorations," Andre says. "You just sit and supervise."

Loosening the buttons of her teal green coat, exposes a ruffled blouse of a paler green with cream lace trim – the colors replicated in her peaked felt hat trimmed with feathers from a teal duck – she relaxes into the Louis Quatorze armchair, upholstered in a navy blue brocade shot through with silver threads. Wiping her brow with a linen handkerchief, she smiles.

The room does look beautiful – the fall colors liven the normal blue, silver and white tones of the formal room. This American holiday has turned out to be her favorite. No religious clashes, simply a day to give thanks for the good in their lives, particularly one another. When she arrived in New York seven years earlier, she could not imagine how happy she would be now.

This hotel housed her first experience with American hospitality and was the place her life changed once again at the will of her Angel of Music. So many changes – from being the wife of one man to becoming the wife of another – her first love, although she did not know that about him then. Their rivalry for her love played out again – once more over music. This time the music won out – as it should have then. So much heartache over poor choices and not trusting her heart.

Why would she be thinking such thoughts now, she wonders? Funny how the mind works. Why think of the past with Raoul while planning their annual Thanksgiving dinner for the staff remaining behind at the end of the season to work on new projects or repairs? Likely because Raoul would be present this year – a new addition. His presence always seeming to be out of place. This was not his world. However he tried to belong – his own behavior prevents him from inclusion. Phantasma is a world of misfits – it was created to be thus.

Even here, Erik still feels he does not belong. She senses it from him most often when simply walking through the park. Much as she tries to convince him that his presence commands attention – the power of his essence draws people's eyes and comments – he is convinced of the opposite…that he is loathed and feared. Raoul ultimately did not fit in, but he did not fit in with the normal world either, in a different way. His noble birth tainted him – they were all outsiders, but his arrogance keeps him separated from everyone.

Why had he come back here? Nothing was right since he showed up again with his tales about the Leroux book – telling the author of their lives – putting all of them on guard against possible trouble with the authorities – although Nadir assured them it was unlikely anyone in France was still interested in the Phantom of the Opera other than a good story, particularly now with war raging on the continent. At the time, however, he went as far as contacting associates in Paris who confirmed his belief. Raoul was run out of town in a manner of speaking – no longer trusted by former associates. If his stories were even minimally true, then no one was safe from his loose tongue and vivid imagination.

So now here he is – back on Coney Island – soon to be the father of Meg Giry's child. The woman, who almost killed the boy who for ten years he believed to be his son. If the whole affair was not verging on tragedy, the irony would be laughable. What sort of man did she once love and trust – and why could she not be rid of him?

"The man who came in late last night alone is standing just outside the dining room if you should care to see him."

"Why would I want to see him?"

Andre shrugs. "Maybe because he looks like an older version of the Vicomte de Chagny," he says. "When the concierge pointed him out to me, both of us agreed on the resemblance. Edward checked the register and sure enough, his name is Phillippe Comte de Chagny."

"Dear Lord, not Phillippe."

"I believe it is, Madame," he says, turning to the door, "and he is headed this way."

Tidying her hair, tucking a loose curl behind her ear, Christine straightens her dress as she stands to face her former brother-in-law.

Seeing he is not yet aware of her presence, Christine has time to assess the man she often felt to be her nemesis during her marriage to Raoul. While never outwardly cruel or even mildly rude, the ice that seemed to run through his veins…at least where she was concerned, was never in doubt.

Why her presence bothered him to such a great extent was a mystery to her. Perhaps she knew him too well – whatever the whispers were in his social circles, she knew him both as patron of the opera in public and in private. His affair with La Sorelli was common knowledge – although, she supposed the lack of a marriage bond would have put him in the same position as Raoul, leaving him without that argument against her. That he loved the dancer was never in doubt – if Sorelli suffered, she never let on – at least to the rest of the company. She was never included in the family events and Christine wondered if that was an issue between them.

Once Christine and Raoul were married, she was cut off from everyone at the Palais Garnier, except for those evenings when, as a couple, she and Raoul would view a performance. Since Madame Giry and Meg were gone, and Christine was never really close to the other girls, she was saved from hearing the gossip about the nights when Raoul attended alone – leaving her at home to tend to her son. Something she frankly preferred – even if she missed performing…missed those days with her Angel and her lessons and singing as she never believed possible despite Pappa's assurances.

Now, here he was in her home, for Phantasma was as much her as it was Erik and Gustave – each of them adding their own touch to the park – once catering to Erik's darker side, but now more whimsical and attractive to children and, while still offering the burlesque numbers still popular with the public, offering lighter opera and modern pieces that suited her voice and personality.

"Phillippe," she says, walking toward him, her hand extended. "What brings you to America? More specifically, what brings you to Phantasma?"

His finely drawn face did not reflect the warmth of the smile that crossed his perfectly shaped lips. How long has it been since she questioned the sincerity of a smile? The days were long gone when each greeting was suspect, the offers of friendship merely for show. Ten years with no one to love or love her except for her son. Now her life was filled with as much as her heart could hold with enough left over for each stranger she passed on the streets of this place called Coney Island.

"Christine, lovely as always – you have hardly aged – the carnival life suits you, it would seem."

"Indeed it does, Phillippe – as you know my father and I played fairs before I was able to study at the Conservatory and perform at the Palais Garnier. There is something honest about carnival folk – we know we are characters in a play, which makes having a normal home life that much easier. We take off our masks when we go home."

"Even your Opera Ghost?"

"Particularly Erik – he is one of the most human among us because he has known hatred shown him because of his face. Beauty has a price, though, to be loved for how one looks often turns the person into someone so unlovable, no amount of physical beauty can redeem him…or her."

"Are you speaking of someone in particular?"

"Just philosophizing," she says, turning to walk back into the dining room, indicating with a wave of her hand for him to follow her. Leading him back to the small alcove where she was resting before his arrival, she takes her seat, nodding for him to join her. "Would you care for tea…or a brandy?"

"A brandy would be welcome," he says, glancing at her snifter sitting on the small oval dining table surrounded by four Louis Quatorze armchairs upholstered in white and silver brocade.

As if on cue, Andre presents himself. "Another water, Mrs. Christine? I fear the dollop of brandy was too much."

"The drink is satisfactory, Andre," she says. "The Comte would like a real brandy…two fingers, Phillippe?"

With an eyebrow raised, he ignores Andre, responding to Christine, "That will be fine."

"I understand you only arrived at Phantasma last night."

"News travels fast here."

"It is a small island and a much smaller park," she laughs. "Actually we mind our own business – except when it comes to actual business – then we are nosy as can be trying to keep up or one up our competitors. The evening concierge thought you looked like Raoul and checked the register – he told Andre. I was here preparing for our Thanksgiving celebration and voila – here we are speaking as two old friends as if our meeting was planned."

"Only speaking as friends?"

"Oh, Phillippe, my world now is one of as much honesty as possible – you have no idea how weary I became pretending to be someone I was not."

"How is my brother faring in this land of truth and honor?"

"How would you think he is doing?"

"Not well, judging from his last cable – which is why I am here."

"Will you be taking him back with you?"

"Is that what you want?"

"Yes – more than you know."

"I wish this was the woman I knew in Paris – you are quite something – your tongue is almost as tart as Veronique's." Phillippe laughs, full and loud. "You are speaking truth about Raoul, are you not?"

"Is that not what I said?" Christine looks up as one of the young waiters brings Phillippe his brandy, setting it on the table in front of him. "Thank you, Freddie. Will you be here tomorrow for dinner?"

"Yes, thank you Mrs. Christine – all the wait staff is grateful we do not have to serve – if I may say so."

"You may. I wish the kitchen staff did not have to do cooking and clean up."

"Oh, I volunteered – to make the extra wage."

"Then all is well."

"Yes, Missus." With an awkward bow, he turns and jogs back to the kitchen.

"Tomorrow is an American holiday called Thanksgiving. A great feast is prepared in honor of the first settlers, but, like many of us who came from other parts of the world – we celebrate our good fortune to be here. Many of our employees have no family as you might understand, so we all have our meal together," she explains. "The decorations are traditional as is the food. I hope you would like to join us rather than dining alone."

"I would be honored."

"As for my manner or whatever you would care to call it, Veronique had the status and confidence to speak the truth – the rest of us were at the mercy of the managers, Madame Giry and the patrons. La Sorelli ruled over all of you," Christine says, taking a sip of her water. "Since the gossip did not extend to saying you were with a companion, I assume she is still in Paris."

"She is at home." His blue-gray eyes, colder and harder than Raoul's look off into a place Christine cannot see. "The war…the war brought many changes. My sisters and I returned to Perros, once France entered the war."

"Indeed." Not the answer she expected – either about Sorelli or the war. Phillippe was a true Frenchman – one factor, a sort of obligation to having a title and the land that went with it, was service in the military. When Raoul did not return to the Navy as promised, the family lost some of their land, but Raoul was allowed to retain his title.

"To address your comment about her qualities, though, her spirit shone through whatever damage aging may have caused physically – much like yourself – you have come into your true beauty – this life agrees with you."

"It does." Setting the snifter carefully down on the table, she looks up at Phillippe from under her downturned eyes. "Enough with the pleasantries – you went into the city first before coming here – why? Did you not know where Raoul was?"

"I have been in Manhattan…and knew where Raoul was. I needed to find out what he had been about before coming back here. All his communications from the past several years were from Manhattan. I have not been…settled in one place, so I have used…others to maintain communication with him, particularly what was going on with him financially and with Miss Giry. Then they seemed to just disappear."

"Meg is pregnant."

The shock on his face was not rehearsed – part of the reason she chose to blurt it out – was he aware of this particular thoughtless act on the part of his brother. As she suspected, Raoul was still hiding the most important reason he needed money.

"I had no idea," Phillippe replies, taking a swig of the brandy without the ritual swirling of the liquid before sipping the liquor slowly.

"As I thought – he wanted money to buy a boat – to start a business."

"Yes. He made it sound very appealing – the sea was the one thing he always loved and actually knew something about." Phillippe looks around for the waiter.

Christine raises her hand signaling Freddie, who, returning to his formal role, walks swiftly yet calmly to their table, a napkin folded over one arm, awaiting their order.

"Another brandy – what was this? It was quite good."

"Armagnac – Mr. Y's favorite."

"Mrs. Christine?"

"I shall have a cup of tea – the Earl Grey…sugar and…"

"Cream," Freddie smiles and bows. "I shall be right back."

"Mr. Y?"

"His stage name. His family and friends call him Erik. I am Mrs. Saint-Rien for formal purposes."

"Your husband – the Opera Ghost is now Mr. Y?"

"My husband is Erik Saint-Rien who has used many stage names in his life. Is it he you wish to see?"

"Raoul said he agreed to help him get a business started here at Phantasma and had advanced him the price of a used sailboat – he needed some money from his trust to repay the loan."

"That is close enough to the truth."

"My contacts in New York indicated he had other debts that were paid before certain damages might have been sought against him – was that your husband's doing?"

"The threats or the repayment of the debt?"

Phillippe laughs again as Freddie brings their refreshments. "Anything else?"

"No, we are fine, thank you," Christine says.

"I know he paid off Raoul's early gambling losses – that had to do with you, I believe?"

"I gave Raoul my earnings for performing here – for acting as my manager. I stayed on working here as a singer – much as I do now. You must have seen the signage."

"I see."

"Do you?"

"Mr. Y, or Erik or Mr. Saint-Rien has never given any money to either my brother or to you out of the goodness of his heart."

"That is one way of putting it."

"How would you put it?

"Your way is fine," she says. "Back to my question. Do you wish to meet with Erik?"

"Eventually, however, I would like Raoul to know I am here – I believe my most recent communication may have caused him some distress."

"If you wanted that, you would have contacted him already," Christine says. "It appears you might be interested in finding out what he might be up to first – gathering as much of the truth before confronting him with whatever story he plans to present to you."

"True enough – we all have our stories, do we not?" Phillippe says. "So is there a chance I might meet with your husband?"

"Quite a good chance," she says, looking toward the entry door to the dining room. "Here he is now." Standing up, she walks up to Erik, kissing him on the cheek before taking his hand and leading him to the alcove. "Erik – this is Phillippe Comte de Chagny…Raoul's brother…he was hoping to speak with you about the boating venture."

"Comte," Erik says, offering his hand as he takes a seat next to Christine. "I am pleased to discover the sirens did not have their way with you after all – particularly since I was blamed for your demise."

Phillippe frowns.

"The book – in the book you were drowned by the sirens in the lake beneath the Opera House," Erik replies.

"Since there were no sirens, it was assumed the Opera Ghost murdered you," Christine laughs. "Mr. Leroux had quite an imagination."

"As did Raoul," Erik mutters. "There is something remotely Oedipal about that part of the tale. You risked traveling from Paris to help your brother get a business started?"

"Not exactly."

Christine frowns. "What do you mean?"

"He means that he has not been in Paris for some time, is that not correct?"

"The war…as I mentioned."

"You said you went to Perros."

"Yes, I did."

"But you did not stay?"

"We crossed the Channel to England, but I wanted to come to America. The war did not give any indication it would stop in the Balkans. My sisters and their husbands…and Veronique…we managed to find passage before it was too dangerous to travel."

"But you never bothered to tell your brother," Erik says.

"How long have you been here?" Christine asks, taking a sip of her tea.

"Two years," Erik responds with a smirk.

"Yes," Phillippe agrees, an edge to his voice. "Two years. I…we reside in Boston."

"But Raoul thinks you are in Paris."

"I thought it better he not know I was here."

"Why?"

"We all know my brother." Loosening his tie, he shrugs before taking another drink of his brandy.

"Yes. We do. You wanted to be rid of him – just as we do," Erik says. As he gets settled, the waiter places a snifter with perfect measurement of amber liquid in front of him. "Thank you, Freddie." Savoring the aroma of the Armagnac, he takes a sip, then asks, "So what do you want from me…us?"