The secrets they shared were usually humorous, and often surprising. Louis revealed that he had a Master’s of Music in Piano Performance from a conservatory in San Francisco and had performed on three Oscar-winning soundtracks. “Then why are you working in set design?” queried Jason, as everyone else gasped and marveled.
“Do you have any idea how hard it is to make a living as a pianist?” Louis asked.
“But you’ve won three Oscars,” Julia protested.
“I didn’t win anything. The composers did.”
“Whatever,” said Paige, waving a hand. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re an Oscar winner.”
“Thanks, Paige,” he said sincerely, as everyone chimed in with their agreement.
Julia didn’t think Nigel would confess anything she didn’t already know, but he surprised her. “You’ve all complimented me on the flawless American accent I use inPatchwork,” he said in a British accent that seemed rougher and more glottal than his usual speaking voice, “but my Received Pronunciation is equally inauthentic.”
“That’s the accent you used inNew Kent Road,” Ellen said.
“Not only that, it’s my real accent. The one I grew up with. I’m from London, but I’m not from Knightsbridge or Mayfair.”
“I can’t believe you never told me that,” Julia exclaimed.
“I’m sure there are many things you’ve never told me, darling,” he said, reverting to his more familiar accent, as he passed on the candle.
Julia was so flummoxed that the revelations of the next several colleagues barely registered—and then the candle came to her. “Oh, dear,” she murmured, studying the flickering light. She had been considering several inconsequential confessions, but after Nigel’s revelation, she knew what she ought to say.
“I always tell people that I’m from Riverside,” she began hesitantly, noting the several acknowledging nods around the circle. “I let everyone believe I mean the city in California. I’m really from Riverside, Iowa.”
Gasps, exclamations, and a smattering of laughter went up from the group.
“Let me guess,” said Jason. “Population twelve?”
“More than a thousand, actually,” Julia countered.
“Why wouldn’t you want anyone to know you’re from Iowa?” asked Lindsay, genuinely puzzled.
“Because I have a glamorous image to preserve, of course. When I was first starting out back in the day, it was all about being a golden California girl. Once the studio created that myth, I couldn’t very well admit that it was all a creation of their marketing department.”
“Did you grow up on a farm?” Olivia asked eagerly, leaning forward. “Did you milk cows and shuck corn? How did you escape?”
“I did grow up on a farm—two hundred acres that had been in the family for three generations. Neither of my brothers wanted to take it over, so when my parents retired, they sold it to a real estate developer. Now it’s a subdivision called Stony Acres.”
“Oh, how unfortunate,” Sylvia murmured from outside the circle.
“As for how I escaped, I got a scholarship to the University of Iowa. My parents wanted me to be a teacher, but I majored in theater instead. Two days after graduation, I caught a bus for Southern California and never looked back.”
“Never?” echoed Lindsay, dismayed.
“Well, no, not exactly never. I was being dramatic.”
“Occupational hazard,” said Nigel.
“Before my parents died, I would visit them twice a year, when I could afford the bus fare. After I was more established, I offered to move them out to California to escape the brutal Iowa winters, but their roots were deeply planted, and they politely refused. My brothers left Riverside long ago.” Julia smiled ruefully and passed the candle to her left. “So there really hasn’t been any reason to go back.”
Hardly anyone she knew lived there anymore, Julia reflected as the next person in the circle cleared her throat and began to speak. She had outgrown her hometown long before she left it.
When the candle completed its circuit, Sylvia returned to the center of the open circle. “This has certainly been a unique Candlelight,” she remarked. “I hope you all feel as if you know one another quite a bit better than you did before.”
There were murmurs of agreement and thanks, and a few good-natured jokes about accordions, small Midwestern towns, and what other secrets might be lurking in their pasts. Then Sylvia reminded them of the important details they had learned at registration about how the next day would proceed—breakfast, classes, and so on—and she wished them a good night.
“Before we part company,” Nigel boomed in the voice Julia knew well, the accent she would always think of as his true one, “I’d like to make a toast.”
