Right from the Gecko (31 page)

He was wearing black pants and a white turtleneck, an outfit that screamed “director.” At least to me, who'd learned most of what I knew about the theater from the movies.

As if she'd read my thoughts, Betty leaned over and whispered, “That's Derek Albright, the Port Players' executive director.”

“This is truly a sad day,” Derek began somberly. “We have lost a man who was more than a member of our troupe. Simon Wainwright was our spiritual leader. Yet even in this time of deep despair, it's imperative that we continue,” he went on. “The expression ‘the show must go on' has never been more true. I don't think any of us doubts that that's exactly what Simon would have wanted. Jonathan, who's been playing Charles Lindbergh, has agreed to step into Simon's role of Amelia Earhart's husband, George Putnam. I'm hoping you'll all agree that the best way we can remember Simon is to bring his work off the page and into this theater. Let's work together to honor the man who was our friend and mentor by finishing what we started—”

“How
can
you?”

The high-pitched female voice that rose up from the back of the theater startled everyone, cutting through the somber mood. As I craned my neck to see who had spoken, I noticed that everyone else in the audience was doing the exact same thing.

Halfway back, a young woman stood up. She was dressed entirely in black, wearing a long dress that looked as if it was from another era. Either that or it was one of those bridesmaid's gowns I'd been wishing Betty would opt for.

Still, there was no way I would have traded my mint green frock for her getup. Not when the dress was accessorized with a dramatic black velvet cape edged with silver sequins and a black felt hat that swooped down over one eye and was decorated with a huge feather that some poor ostrich was undoubtedly still looking for.

Once I managed to get past her startling look, I saw that her features were pretty enough, if not particularly outstanding. That is, except for her green eyes, their striking emerald color no doubt the result of tinted contact lenses. Even though her eyes were ringed in thick black eyeliner, I could see that they burned with fury.

“How
can
you?” she repeated, gliding down the aisle. “How can you possibly go on as if nothing has happened?”

“That's Aziza Zorn,” Betty whipered. “Simon's girlfriend.”

“Does she always dress like that?” I asked.

But Aziza had reached the front of the theater by then. She planted herself firmly next to Derek, then, throwing her arms out dramatically, she cried, “Simon is dead! He's gone! Some vile person has taken his life. And with that cruel act, he's taken a part of our lives too! So how can we be expected to proceed as if…as if life could possibly go on in exactly the same way?”

“I agree with Aziza,” a male voice added. I turned in time to see a tall, lean man with sandy colored hair rise from his seat. “If you ask me, the best way to honor Simon would be to admit that we can't possibly continue without him.”

Instantly, the entire theater erupted in chaos. I had to admit, this was turning out to be much more interesting than I'd expected.

“People, please!” Derek finally yelled, his voice loud enough to rise above the racket. “Take your seats. Please, we must discuss this reasonably!”

Once everyone had quieted down, he held up both his hands. “I hear what you're saying, Aziza. Kyle too. When you come right down to it, we all have to mourn our loss in our own private way. But for me, that means continuing the work Simon started. Those of you who agree with me, I invite you—no, I
beg
you—to stay. Those of you who don't, you're welcome to leave, with no hard feelings.”

Aziza bobbed up from where she'd sat in the front row. “You all know what I think,” she said, turning to address the audience. “I'm just too sickened by what happened to go on.”

With that, she squared her shoulders and stalked out of the theater.

“Anyone else?” Derek asked.

The room was so still you could have heard one of Gabriella Bertucci's pins drop.

“Good. Then, I suggest that we all go home and try to get over the shock of the terrible news we received this morning,” Derek said firmly. “As for our production, we'll stick to our schedule and meet for our next rehearsal Monday evening at seven.”

As the cast and production crew stood up and the room buzzed with their conversations, Betty turned to me. “Well?” she asked anxiously. “What did you think?”

I just shook my head. “I'm sorry, Betty. I didn't really get a sense of anything aside from what a terrible loss this is for everyone who knew Simon.”

“Of course you didn't. How could you have?” Betty frowned. “I knew this wouldn't be an actual rehearsal, but I didn't think Derek would end it so quickly. Would you be willing to come back another time?”

“Of course,” I assured her.

“Oh, thank you, Jess! Let's check with Derek to make sure he's comfortable with having you at the next rehearsal.”

We walked over and waited while Derek continued the conversation he'd been having with a slim, forty-something woman.

“We've lost our Amelia!” he wailed. “I can't believe Aziza is doing this to us!”

“We'll figure something out,” the woman assured him. “Elena Brock is the obvious person to take over the lead. I'll start working with her right away.”

“Then who'll take Elena's role?” he asked, sounding just as woeful. “Who'll play Anita?”

The question remained unanswered as he let out a loud sigh, then turned and noticed Betty and me.

“Derek,” Betty began, “if you have a moment, I'd like to introduce a friend of mine, Jessica Popper. Jessie is interested in coming to Monday night's rehearsal—”

I stuck out my hand to shake, expecting him to do the same. Instead, he just stared at me, his face lighting up as if Greta Garbo herself had just walked in.

“Perfect!” he cried.

Something about his sudden burst of enthusiasm made me nervous. “Uh, what's perfect?”

“You are! You're perfect for the role of Anita Snook, the aviation pioneer who gave Amelia Earhart her first flying lesson.”

“But I never—”

“I won't take no for an answer,” Derek insisted. “Whoever you are,
please
say you'll join the cast!”

I was still trying to reconstruct exactly what had gone on in that theater as I steered my little red Volkswagen off Minnesauke Lane and bumped along the quarter-mile driveway leading to my stone cottage. After an afternoon that had left me in a fog, I was even more anxious than usual to surround myself with all the elements in my life that really mattered.

As I let myself into the cottage, I heard the water running in the bathroom, a sign that Nick was showering. Fine with me, since it gave me a chance to reconnect with my loved ones from the Animal Kingdom.

In fact, I was instantly smothered in dog kisses as my two dogs rushed to greet me, both so happy I was home that their claws skittered across the floor as if they were the Keystone Kops.

“Hey, Louie-Lou!” I cooed, throwing one arm around my one-eyed Dalmatian. Max, my tailless Westie, jumped up and down as if he was a marionette rather than a crazed terrier. “Hello, Maxie-Max. Were you afraid I'd forget to say hello to you?”

As soon as he realized his favorite playmate was now available for fun and games, Max sprang across the living room to retrieve his favorite toy, a pink rubber poodle that was eternally covered in saliva. I dutifully wrested it from his jaws, then tossed it back to the other end of the room. Both he and Lou scampered after it, their body language communicating “Don't you just love playing Slimytoy?” The fact was, I loved it as much as they did.

All this commotion prompted my blue and gold macaw, Prometheus, to start squawking his own greeting
“Awk!
Who's the pretty birdy?”

I went over to his cage and stuck my hand in so he could climb on.

“Welcome home, Jessie,” he greeted, mimicking my voice perfectly
“Awk!”

“I've got a special treat for you,” I told him, running my hand along the bright, silky-smooth feathers along his back. “I'll get you a piece of apple as soon as I get my bearing.”

“Awk!
Prometheus loves apple!”

As I put him back in his cage, Catherine the Great, better known as Cat, crept over. My lovely gray kitty was clearly feeling her arthritis. Even so, as she made her way toward me, she carried herself like a
grand dame,
someone along the lines of Queen Elizabeth—or perhaps her namesake, the enlightened Empress of Russia during the 1700s.

Cat's quiet dignity was emphasized even further by the appearance of the latest addition to my household, Tinkerbell. The spunky tiger kitten had joined our household a few months earlier, after Nick found her abandoned in a cardboard box in a field on his university's campus.

“Hey, Cat!” I crooned. “Hi, Tink!” I flopped on the couch with Cat in my lap, just as Nick emerged from the bathroom, drying his dark hair with a white towel. A second towel was wrapped around his waist, giving him a sexy beach boy look I kind of liked. “Hey,” he greeted me. “I didn't hear you come in.”

“You're never going to believe what I did today,” I returned, stroking Cat's fur distractedly.

But from the stricken look on his face, I got the feeling he hadn't heard me. Not when he clearly had something much more pressing on his mind.

“What's the matter?” I asked, sitting up straighter. A hundred different possibilities flashed through my head. He'd failed an exam at law school, something terrible had happened to one of his friends….

“It's my parents,” he announced, plopping down on the couch beside me.

“What about them?” I asked cautiously.

He cleared his throat. “You know they've been anxious to meet you for a really long time,” he said. “And now that we're engaged, they can't wait.”

“I can't wait to meet them either.” My own parents had been killed in an automobile accident years earlier. All the more reason I was looking forward to getting to know Nick's, even though he'd been warning me for years that his mother was—what was the word he always used? Oh, yes: difficult.

“No, they
really
can't wait,” he continued. “They're coming here to meet you. All the way from Florida. Soon.”

Something about the way he said the word “soon” made my stomach tighten. “How soon?”

“Monday. The day after tomorrow.”

RIGHT FROM THE GECKO

A Bantam Book / April 2007

         

Published by Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York

         

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

         

All rights reserved

Copyright © 2007 by Cynthia Baxter

         

Bantam Books and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

         

         

www.bantamdell.com

         

eISBN: 978-0-553-90354-6

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