Veronica nodded, suddenly eager to see what lay beyond.
The heavy soundstage door swung open with a theatrical groan, revealing a scene that made Veronica’s breath catch in her throat.Before her, meticulously recreated down to the smallest detail, stood the Midnight Lounge—the fictional nightclub where her mother’s character had met her doom inThe Night Walker.The familiar curved bar gleamed under soft blue lighting, cocktail glasses catching prisms of light along their cut-crystal edges.Cigarette smoke—theatrical haze, she realized—drifted in lazy tendrils through the air, backlit by amber stage lights that created the perfect noir atmosphere.For a moment, Veronica felt suspended between decades, the boundary between 1954 and the present dissolving like sugar in a bitter cocktail.
“Oh, Gillian,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the soft murmur of appreciation from the small crowd behind them.“How did you...?”
“Do you like it?”Gillian’s face was illuminated with pride, her eyes searching Veronica’s for approval.“We’ve been working on it for months.Our set designers used original photographs, production notes, even frame-by-frame analysis of the film.”
Veronica stepped forward into the space.Every detail was eerily perfect—the checkered floor tiles, the velvet-upholstered booths along the perimeter, even the distinctive mural of a jazz band on the wall behind the small stage.In the corner, a jazz quartet played softly, the same haunting melody that had underscored her mother’s iconic scene.
The musicians were dressed in period attire—dark suits with thin ties, hair slicked back in the style of the early fifties.The saxophonist caught her eye and nodded respectfully without missing a beat.
“We sourced period-appropriate furniture,” Gillian explained, gesturing toward the tables with their heavy ashtrays and art deco lamps.“The bar is an exact replica, and those martini glasses?They’re authentic vintage pieces from the early fifties.”
Several extras in period costume milled about—women in pencil skirts and men in suits—creating the illusion of a busy nightclub.They chatted in low voices, occasionally laughing or clinking glasses, all while maintaining a respectful distance from Veronica and the other guests from the theater.
“The smoke,” Veronica said, watching it curl upward toward strategically hidden vents in the ceiling.“It’s perfect.Just the right density.Mother always said that was one of the hardest things to get right on set.”
“Non-toxic theatrical haze,” Gillian confirmed.“Mixed with a hint of sandalwood—I remember you mentioning once that your mother always associated that scent with nightclubs.”
The small detail—something Veronica had mentioned in passing years ago—touched her deeply.She turned to Gillian, momentarily speechless, and squeezed her friend’s hand in silent appreciation.
As Veronica absorbed the scene, a few attendees instinctively reached for their cellphones, eager to capture the moment.The soft glow of screens flickered in the dim light.
Gillian noticed immediately, her eyes narrowing with playful reproach.“Ah, ah,” she chided gently, her voice carrying just enough authority to prompt compliance.“Show some respect.Remember, there were no cellphones in 1954.”
The guests exchanged sheepish glances before tucking their devices away, chuckling at their own oversight.One woman in a sleek pencil skirt offered an apologetic shrug as she slipped her phone into her clutch.A man in a sharp suit mimicked the gesture with a wink, his device vanishing into his jacket pocket.
“Thank you,” Gillian said with a smile that softened any lingering embarrassment.Her gaze returned to Veronica, who stood mesmerized by the authenticity surrounding her.
“Shall we?”Gillian gestured toward an empty table near the stage—the very one where Roberta’s character, lounge singer Elaine Carr, had sat before her fateful performance.“I believe this is your mother’s table.”
As they settled into their seats, a waiter in a crisp white jacket approached them.“Good evening, ladies.What can I get you from the bar?”
“I’ll have a gin rickey,” Gillian said.“The house specialty, as I recall from the film.”
Veronica smiled at the historical accuracy.“And I’ll have a Manhattan.Mother always said her character should have ordered that instead of the poisoned champagne.Said it might have saved her life.”
The waiter nodded and retreated toward the bar as the other guests from the theater found seats around the room, their excited whispers adding to the authentic ambient noise of the club.
“You’ve outdone yourself,” Veronica said, leaning forward across the table.“This is beyond anything I could have imagined.”
Gillian’s eyes sparkled in the dim light.“Roberta deserves nothing less.Your mother wasn’t just a star, Ronnie.She was a force of nature who helped put Atlanta on the map.This city owes her a debt that goes beyond cinema.”
The waiter returned with their drinks, placing them carefully on cocktail napkins emblazoned with the fictional “Midnight Lounge” logo.Veronica lifted her Manhattan in a toast.
“To Mother,” she said.“Who taught me that dying in a film can be more memorable than living through it.”
They clinked glasses and sipped.The sweet vermouth and whiskey warmed Veronica’s throat, a pleasant burn that complemented the atmosphere of manufactured nostalgia surrounding them.
After a moment of companionable silence, Gillian leaned forward, an impish gleam in her eye.“You know what would make this perfect?”
“I’m afraid to ask,” Veronica replied, though she already suspected what was coming.
“The song,” Gillian said, nodding toward the small stage where a microphone stood, illuminated by a single spotlight.“Your mother’s song.‘Midnight Reverie.’You could sing it.”
Veronica felt a flutter of resistance.Though she’d inherited her mother’s vocal talents and had enjoyed a successful recording career of her own, she’d always been careful to establish her distinct musical identity.Singing her mother’s signature song, in this replica of the setting where it had been immortalized on film, felt like crossing a boundary she’d long maintained.
“I don’t know, Gill...”
