And the Winner Is . . .

And the Winner Is . . .
by Vivian Gilbert Zabel

         The wind whipped leaves from the trees as branches bent and snapped. Darla hurried across the parking lot, holding her skirt with one hand and her hair back from her face with the other. The rain pelted her, but she never noticed as tears mixed with the moisture from the sky.

          “Why did I ever try? Why?” she cried aloud. “I should have known I’d make a fool of myself.”

          “I’ve heard that mad people run around in storms,” a deep voice commented behind her.

          With a startled scream, Darla whirled. Her hand covered her chest, leaving her hair to blow wherever it would. “You scared me half to death.” She shivered from the combination of cold rain and fear. “Who are you? What do you want?” she asked the tall male figure with a hat pulled low over his eyes and a dark trench coat flapping around his large frame.

          “I’m sorry. I thought you would recognize me.” The man removed his hat to reveal a nearly-movie-star handsome face, marred by a nose that had been broken at least once. “I’m Neil White, one of the judges.”

          Darla swallowed and squeezed her eyes shut. With them still closed, she whispered, “Oh, yes, Mr. White.” Will this horrible day never end? she wondered.

          “I wanted to talk with you. I probably shouldn’t say this, but you may be surprised who won that competition round.” He wiped a lock of wet hair off her cheek. “The thing is, even if your voice had sounded like a frog’s croak, Abby Costelle had no right to deliberately humiliate you.”

          Opening her eyes, Darla gazed at the deep, chocolate-brown eyes above hers. “It . . . it was what I expected, I guess.”

          “What? Why would you expect that kind of treatment?” A frown pulled his brows together. He replaced his hat, providing some protection from the rain pelting his face.

          With a sigh, she admitted, “When I knew Abby was one of the judges, I should have withdrawn. She, uh, she and I, um, well, she’s not fond of me.” Another shiver racked her body.

          “Let’s get you out of this weather.” Neil gently took her forearm in one of his hands. “Do you have a car here?”

          Darla shook her head. “I was hoping my brother had remembered to pick me up.” She gave a strangled laugh. “He sure didn’t forget to borrow my car.”

          Guiding her to a luxury car parked a few feet away, Neil pushed the button on his remote. He opened the front passenger door.

          “Mr. White, I can’t . . .

          “It’s Neil, and, yes, you can. You need to be out of the rain.” He gave a slight push, and Darla slid onto the seat, allowing the strap of her purse to slide from her shoulder to the floor.

         “Now, I’ll have the heat going in just a minute.” Neil sloshed through the deepening puddles to the driver’s side. Once in the car, he started it. “As soon as it warms up a little, I’ll turn on the heat.”

          After fastening the seat belt, Darla lay her head against the back of the seat; the soft leather seemed to wrap around her. The purr of the engine filled the silence until the heater fan joined it.

         “I guess I should tell you where I, uh, live.” Her voice broke before she finished.

          “Knowing the address would help me know which direction to drive.” A grin spread across Neil’s face. “I hope you have some coffee or something hot when I get you home.”

          “Yes,” she murmured, “I hope you’ll let me fix you a cup of coffee or tea or hot cocoa.” She wanly smiled. “It’s the least I can do since you’ve kept me from drowning. Oh, I live at 900 Elm.”

          After a few blocks, Neil asked, “Want to explain what you meant about Abby never caring for you?” He glanced at the woman next to him. Her hair hung in a tangled mass around her face. All makeup had washed away, leaving her pale. Her dress, no longer looking like the fashionable garment she wore on the stage earlier, clung to the curves of her body. Man, she’s beautiful even when nearly drowned.

          “I’m surprised you haven’t heard.” Darla wiped her hair back from her face. “I’m sorry I’m dripping all over your car.”

          “Don’t worry about it. I’m doing the same. And, no, I haven’t heard anything.” He shook his head. “I know this is a small town, but I’ve only lived here a few months.”

          Darla sighed. “Abby has always been the popular one, the talented one, the pretty one, but we were friends once.” She stared out the side window for a moment before adding, “She’s my cousin.”

          “Your cousin? And she harangued you – no, she insulted you like that?” He snorted. “Some cousin. So what happened?”

          Pushing her hair back again, Darla pressed her lips together. She shook her head before admitting, “It was so petty, really. I got a scholarship to study voice, and she didn’t. I never realized how jealous she was of me.” Darla sighed again. “Abby seemed to hate me after that. When I’d come home, and we’d meet at family functions, she’d start rumors or say nasty things to my face. I, um, I started avoiding her.”

          “You handled the situation this afternoon very well -- with dignity.”

          A short laugh ended in a choked sob. “Guess . . . guess the practice over the years, uh, paid off." Darla cleared her throat.

          When the car pulled into the drive of the small bungalow where she lived, Darla unsnapped the seat belt before bending to pick up her purse from the floor board. “Please, won't you come in for that hot drink. I really appreciate the ride.”

          “If you don’t mind, I’ll take a rain-check, pun intended.” Neil twisted in his seat to face her. “I just realized that I have an errand to run. But I hope you’ll take a warm shower and fix yourself something hot to drink.”

          “Uh, yes,” Darla stammered. “I . . . well, thanks again for the ride.” She opened the door, scooted out, and gently closed the door. With a quick wave, she hurried to the porch, dug in her purse, found her key and opened the front door.

          As soon as the door closed behind Darla, Neil put the car in reverse and backed from the drive. Yes, I have an errand: one that needs to be finished today.

          The next morning Darla arrived at the theater for the rehearsal for the second round of the talent competition. Doubts had bothered her most of the night, but she decided to be brave and face Abby again. I’ll manage somehow, she thought as she walked from her car to the backstage door. She carried a hangup bag with her dress for the competition, not willing to take a chance at ruining another outfit.

          One of the stage managers stood inside the door, telling everyone who entered, “Please go directly on stage as soon as you leave your things in the dressing room.”

          “Is something wrong?” Karen Long, another contestant, asked.

          The man shrugged. “You’ll be notified when everyone arrives.”

          The contestants for the vocal talent contest mingled and chatted. The sporadic conversations mainly concerned the reason for the meeting. Darla stood to one side, her eyes searching the group gathered just below the platform. Neil and the other judges conversed with the pageant director and talent manager. Abby, however, wasn’t part of the group. Wonder if she’s waiting to make a grand entry? Darla smiled at the image of her cousin sweeping in with a cape flying behind.

          “Excuse me!” the tournament director, Jason Jackson, called as he faced the stage. “Excuse me!”

          Talking died away as the twenty-six contestants turned their attention to Mr. Jackson. The judges sat in the front row while the talent manager, Marla Kones, walked to the steps leading up to the stage.

          The director shoved his hands into the front pockets of his slacks, his usual stance. “I have some exciting news, folks. Mercy Records has announced that they will give a recording contract to the singer they consider the best of the talent here, whether that person wins the contest or not.” He paused to allow the gasps and murmur from the group in front of him to die down. “A representative will observe the rest of the rounds, including the final Saturday night. The representative's identity will be a secret.”

          “Sorry I’m late, people,” Abby announced as she strode down the aisle toward the front of the house. “Just a bit of car trouble. Did I miss anything?”

          Mr. Jackson turned slightly in her direction. “I’ll explain later. Please have a seat with the other judges.” He then returned to address the contestants. “Now go prepare for rehearsal. I’m not sure when Mercy’s rep will arrive, but you might want to be seriously performing every time you’re on stage.” He pivoted and motioned for Abby to join him.

          Darla moved away from the chattering group toward the dressing rooms. A recording contract . . . Oh, my, how I would like that. Interesting that the winner won’t automatically receive it.

         At the end of the morning, Marla Kones met with the group. “Very good,” she said as the group gathered after the final act finished. “This was a great rehearsal. Break for lunch and be back for this afternoon’s round no later than one.” The short, stocky woman gave a quick wave before walking off stage.

          Darla, already changed into her street clothes, moved toward the outside door with a couple of friends from high school. Francis Wright, who had been two years behind Darla, giggled. “Oh, I wonder who will be ‘judging’ us other than the judges?” She gave a forced shiver. “It’s so exciting.”

          Thomas Cline, one of the major basketball players from Darla’s class, responded, “Francis, you’re not in high school any more. How about abandoning the ‘aren’t I cute’ attitude and act like an adult?”

          Just as the trio reached the door, Francis fussing at Thomas for trying to hurt her feelings, Abby grabbed Darla’s arm, whirling her around. “If you think you have any chance at that contract, forget it. I’ll make sure you don’t win the contest, and when I find the person making the decision for Mercy, I’ll see you don’t get that either.” The sneer on her face changed her from a lovely woman to a snarling harpy.

          Swallowing a half groan, half sigh, Darla asked, “Why are you determined to make my life miserable?” She reached a hand toward the other woman. “Abby, I’ve never done anything to hurt you. Why?”

          Abby laughed. “Why? Because I can.” She spun and stomped off.

          “Gosh,” Francis breathed. “Thomas, you can say whatever you want to me. You’ve never been that cruel.”

          To Darla, the performance round that night passed in a blur. She knew she had sung well, though: Most of the audience gave her a standing ovation – of course not Abby.

          If I can get through the rehearsal and final performance tomorrow . . . Darla thought as she sat in her car trying to find the energy to drive home. All I can do is my best. She watched as Neil crossed to his car. Whew! He’s sooo good-looking. With a mental shake, she started the car.

          The finals, scheduled for Saturday night, wouldn’t have a rehearsal. After the complete group sang two numbers, the master of ceremonies would announce the finalists, who would perform their selections in the order they were announced.

          The normal visiting between contestants seemed muted as Darla waited in the wings with half the group. They would file on stage together as the other half entered from the opposite side. Risers awaited for the twenty-six singers. A few wished her good luck, as she did them. Butterflies tickled her insides until she felt she would be sick. She smoothed the front of her royal blue formal with its empire waist. The dress’ simple style gave her a look of elegance yet allowed her room for the deep breaths needed for singing.

          “Hi, Darla,” Francis whispered, walking up to join her. “What if the contestant the Mercy Records person thinks is best isn’t a finalist?”

          Darla nibbled her lip before answering, “I don’t know. I wonder if anyone ever discovered who’s representing Mercy.”

          Francis shrugged. “Don’t know, but Abby sure tried hard enough. She was fussing something fierce a few minutes ago, told Mr. Jackson that the contract should go to the winner.”

          “I’m sure she would like that.” Darla sighed. “She has made sure that I’m probably not in the finals. If the contract went to the winner, she would know I wouldn’t have any chance at all.”

          “How do you know she kept you out of the finals?”

          “I’m positive she gave me a zero every time. Unless all the other judges gave me a perfect ten, I couldn’t make the top ten.” Darla wanly smiled. “Abby is very vindictive, but I don’t really understand why.” She hugged Francis. "Anyway, best of luck. I hope you do well."

          The music swelled as the curtain rose. The two groups of singers in their formal attire strode to their places on the risers. As soon as all were in place, the cue sounded, and the voices joined in a powerful rendition of the national anthem. Darla, in her place with the other sopranos, experienced the thrill she always felt when hearing or singing the song. As soon as the anthem ended, the orchestra began the introduction to the next production. By rote, Darla sang the notes and words. Finally, when the piece ended, Mr. Jackson walked to the center of the stage.

          “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for attending the Ryder Vocal Competition finals. I know you and the contestants behind me are anxiously awaiting the names of the ten finalists.” Mr. Jackson, splendid in his tuxedo, his silver hair shining under the stage lights, paused. “Tonight we have a bit of a change. Rather than ten finalists, I will announce twelve. Mercy Records will award a recording contract to the vocalist who is considered the best by their representative. This person wishes to hear two other people tonight before making a final choice, since the contract will not necessarily go to the competition winner.”

         Oh, maybe . . . Darla didn’t even finish her thought as she closed her eyes briefly, hoping, praying.

          “The vocalists will perform in the order in which their names are called. The order, by the way, is random.” Mr. Jackson pulled an envelope from his pocket. “The first spot goes to Missy Crawford.” As soon as Missy made her way from her spot on the risers to the spot to Mr. Jackson’s right, he announced, “The second finalist is Thomas Cline.” Again, Mr. Jackson stood quietly as the finalist moved to the spot everyone knew the next finalist should stand.

          Darla listened as the director announced three more names. She forced a smile on her face and politely clapped as each took his or her place on the stage.

          “The sixth finalist, Darla Townsend.”

          “Darla, he just called your name.” Francis poked her in the side. “Get down there.”

          In seconds Darla stood on the marked spot, not able to remember moving. I’m going to perform tonight. I have a chance. Soon all twelve performers faced the audience. After another introduction, they filed off stage to prepare for their chance at a recording contract.

          When Darla strolled onto the stage in the number six spot, she allowed her eyes to become dreamy, and her mind to imagine coming home after a dance. Her voice filled the theater with the joy and delight of a young woman discovering a new and wonderful part of life. The last note hung in silence for a few seconds before the applause broke. She curtsied before leaving the stage.

          In the wings, Francis hugged her. “Darla, that was the best of all. You have to win.”

          “I don’t know, Francis. Abby is still one of the judges.” Darla hugged her friend back and smiled. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, though.”

          As Darla continued toward the green room, Francis asked, “Where are you going? Aren’t you going to wait for the others to finish?”

          “I think I need to sit down,” Darla responded. “I suddenly feel very weak and tired.”

          “Oh, okay. Want some company?” Francis wondered as she walked beside Darla toward the hall to the room.

          “I'd love some, if you aren’t going to wait in the wings for the rest of the program.”

          “I really didn’t want to. I heard Thomas and you, and that’s enough.” Francis giggled. “I don’t know who I hope wins: you or him.”

         "Let's both hope one of us does," Darla laughed.

          When they entered the green room, Darla snagged a bottle of water from the refreshment table before collapsing into a soft armchair. “I don’t remember ever being so drained after a performance.”

          “You really gave it all you had tonight, Darla.” Francis took a seat on the sofa across from Darla. “I don’t see how you can keep from winning.”

          Then both women said in unison, “Abby.”

          Darla sighed, “Yes, Abby. Thanks, Francis, for the praise, though.”

          The two sat in companionable silence for the next thirty minutes, intersected with a few bouts of conversation. Glancing at the clock on the wall, Darla said, “Looks like it’s about time for the grand finale and announcement of winners.” She stood, placed the empty bottle in the trash container, and walked toward the door.

          “Yep, it is,” Francis agreed, following close behind.

          A few minutes later after finishing the last number, all the contestants stood on the risers awaiting the results from the judges. Jason Jackson stood in the center of the stage, turned partially toward the group on the risers and partly toward the audience, an envelope in his hand.

          “Ladies and gentlemen,” the director started before briefly pausing to look directly at the contestants. He then turned back toward the audience. “We’re going to do this a bit differently. Since the recording contract is in effect the ‘grand’ prize, I will announce the top three in the talent contest. Then the Mercy Records representative will give the winner of the contract.” He opened the envelope. Reading from the sheet he removed, he announced, “Second runner-up, and the winner of ten thousand dollars – Darla Townsend.”

          Darla wove her way through the other vocalists to stand beside Mr. Jackson.

          “First runner-up, and recipient of fifteen thousand dollars – Missy Crawford.” As soon as Missy was in place on Mr. Jackson’s other side, he announced, “The winner of this year’s Ryder Vocal Competition is Mr. Thomas Cline.”

          If I couldn’t win, I’m glad Tom did, Darla thought as she watched Thomas take his place between her and Mr. Jackson.

          “Please, will the winners stay where they are? Now, I’ll turn the rest of the program over to Neil White, the new CEO of Mercy Records.”

         As Jason Jackson moved toward the back of the stage, Neil crossed from the wings, taking the place Mr. Jackson had vacated. “Thank you, Jason, winners, contestants, and friends and family of the talented people on the stage.” Neil’s smile seemed to linger a second on Darla.

          CEO of Mercy? No wonder no one could find out who was making the decision, Darla mused as she nervously pleated the sides of her gown’s skirt.

          “I won’t keep you in suspense. The winner of the recording contract with Mercy Records is . . .” He stopped and looked at the three who had placed in the contest. “The winner is one of the three who placed already.” His smile teased as he glanced at each face. “Okay, the winner is Darla Townsend.” As applause erupted, he strode to Darla’s side and gently kissed her. “Congratulations.”

          Darla’s surprise froze her in place until Neil suggested, “Take a bow. You’ve earned this.”

          “Thank you.” She smiled in delight. “I really did win?”

          “Yes, and we’ll visit after this is over, all right?” Neil took her hand and walked her toward the front of the stage.

          As Darla waved and smiled at the audience, who clapped and cheered, she noticed Abby flounce from her seat and up the aisle toward the exit. “I don’t understand how I came in third with Abby’s zero points, much less how I won the contract,” Darla whispered to the man beside her as she continued to accept the accolades.

          “She wasn’t fair,” Neil whispered back. “The rest of us thought you should have been first.” He chuckled. “At least I could do something about that.” He tucked Darla's hand over his arm and escorted her back behind the curtain line as the burgundy velvet drapes closed. “Let’s go somewhere where we can talk.” As contestants and friends crowded around, he added, “As soon as we can.”

          Darla beamed, her eyes bright. “Yes, just as soon as we can.” All the time, in her mind the words kept repeating, “And the winner is . . .”