Spellcrossed (16 page)

“Have they checked in yet?” I asked Frannie.

“No. But traffic on the interstate can be murder on a Friday. Don’t you worry, hon.”

We discussed the ongoing maid shortage and accommodations for the handful of professional actors arriving Sunday to begin rehearsals for
The Secret Garden
. Every time the bell over the front door tinkled, my head jerked up, hoping to see Mom and Chris. In the middle of perusing the horrifying estimates to install a new boiler, the bell jangled again and my mother staggered through the door.

“I thought we’d never get here,” she said by way of greeting. “The entire Eastern seaboard was fleeing north. I feel like something the cat dragged in.”

Naturally, she looked anything but. Black hair perfectly coiffed, barely a wrinkle marring her pale blue shirtdress. Martians could level Wilmington and the woman would emerge from the rubble looking chic.

She gave me a quick hug, then stepped back, frowning. “You look nice.”

“Want to try that line reading again? Without the surprise?”

“I’m used to seeing you in shorts and a T-shirt.”

“I’m dressed for dinner. I’m even skipping tonight’s
show so we can have a relaxing one. God knows we won’t have much time to talk tomorrow.”

The cornflower blue eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong? You seem tense.”

Great. She’s here five seconds and already picking up bad vibes.

“Of course, I’m tense! I’ve got a fund-raiser tomorrow, and I thought my mother was road kill.”

“We nearly were. This giant wolf lumbered across the road—”

“It was a German shepherd,” Chris remarked as he edged through the doorway with their luggage.

“It was a wolf,” my mother declared.

“It was a wolf,” he agreed. “That looked remarkably like a German shepherd.”

He dropped their bags and gave me a warm hug. He was a great hugger. One of the many things I liked about him. Along with his brown eyes that could look soulful one moment and devilish the next. And the way he teased my mother whose pursed lips had curved into a reluctant smile.

Her eyes widened as she finally registered the new and improved lobby. Hardwood floors gleamed. The dark oak paneling had been stripped and restained a lighter shade. Overstuffed couches and armchairs in deep forest green and green-and-white gingham graced the seating areas. In place of the ancient draperies that had shrouded the lobby in gloom, wooden shutters allowed morning sunlight to pour through the top half of the tall windows. Ferns and peace lilies nestled atop plant stands. And scattered throughout, a collection of funky lamps that Hal and I had scavenged from flea markets.

I’d deliberately refrained from sending her pictures and my uncommon restraint was rewarded by her look of pleasure. Needy child that I was, I couldn’t resist asking, “You like it?”

“It’s what a Vermont country inn should look like.”

“It’ll never be as elegant as the Four Chimneys…”

“It’s cheerful and homey. Like Dale. And it doesn’t cost an arm and a leg to stay here. You should have seen it before, Chris. Like something out of the Victorian age.”

“Those old draperies probably were,” Frannie called, waggling her fingers in greeting.

Mom hurried over to the reception desk. “I was so busy gawking I didn’t even say hello. How are you?”

“Just great, hon.”

“And your mother? Is the arthritis still troubling her?”

“Oh, you know. Good days and bad. But she’s as feisty as ever.”

Mom introduced Chris, then gazed around the lobby again. “You and Maggie have worked wonders.”

“Wait’ll you see your room.” Frannie winked. “Maggie put you in the Honeymoon Suite.”

“You have a Honeymoon Suite?”

“The Rose Garden Room.” I struck a pose and quoted from the Web page: “‘The romantic rose-colored décor is highlighted by a wall of windows and French doors leading out to a balcony overlooking the Green Mountains and the quaint shops of Main Street.’ Come on. I’ll walk you up.”

As we mounted the wide stairs, I said, “Your room is the only one we’ve fixed up. The rest of the second floor just got new bedspreads and curtains and paint slapped on the walls.”

“One step at a time,” Chris said.

“Yeah. That’s my new mantra.” I paused outside their room, my palm a little damp as I gripped the brass doorknob. Then I flung open the door. “Welcome to your private rose garden.”

Mom drifted through the “suite,” making more gratifying noises as she admired the canopy bed, the floral draperies and bedspread, the bouquet of pink roses on the table in the sitting area, and the claw foot tub in the bathroom that had cost me a fucking fortune.

“It’s beautiful, Maggie. When you called it the Rose Garden Room, I was afraid it would be…”

“Too girly?”

“Too flowery. You know. Flowered curtains and bedspreads and pillows and wallpaper.” Mom shuddered. “Who can relax in a room with flowered wallpaper? It gives me a headache.”

“It gives me the creeps. Like I’m staying in Sleeping Beauty’s castle and the vines will eventually strangle me.”

Chris stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Now there’s an idea. An inn where every room is decorated in a different fairy-tale theme. The Sleeping Beauty Room. The Snow White Room.”

“With a glass coffin instead of a bed,” I suggested.

“The Hansel and Gretel Room with its charming wood-burning stove—ideal for incinerating unwanted guests.”

Mom rolled her eyes. “The pair of you.”

She used to say that when Daddy and I embarked on one of our flights of fancy. But her voice held affection now instead of the exasperation I remembered from childhood.

“Maggie? You’ve got that tense look again.”

“I forgot to order flowers for the fund-raiser,” I lied.

Mom continued to study me during dinner, but Chris, God love him, kept refilling the wineglasses. By the time we said good night, Mom was pleasantly tipsy and too tired to study anything other than the inside of her eyelids.

The next morning brought a final frenzy of cleaning before the fund-raiser. Amanda did a terrific job at the matinee, but I was glad Chelsea was on the docket at night; her performance was the kind of big bang donors expected for their bucks.

After the matinee, Hal accompanied me up the hill to
oversee my toilette. Naturally, he’d helped me pick out tonight’s dress, too.

“What do you think?” I asked Janet as I descended the stairs.

“I told her the jade silk brings out the green in her eyes,” Hal prompted, “and the Chinese style evokes an air of exotic mystery.”

“The plunging neckline should bring in some last-minute donations,” Janet remarked.

“You don’t think I look like the lone Caucasian cast member of
Flower Drum Song
?”

Janet examined me critically. Then began singing “You are Beautiful.” From
Flower
fucking
Drum Song
.

“I hate you.”

“At least it doesn’t have dragons on it like Mei-Yin’s.”

“Mei-Yin’s wearing her dragon dress?” I demanded, turning on Hal.

“How was I to know? She didn’t consult me!”

“Maybe later, the two of you can put chopsticks in your hair and treat us to a rousing rendition of ‘Fan Tan Fannie.’”

“I’m changing.”

The doorbell chimed and Janet grinned. “Too late now.”

Within half an hour, nearly a hundred guests were milling around the Bates mansion, the front porch, and the patios and garden. We’d kept prices modest, but the dozen “Angels” who’d popped for the five hundred dollar tickets ensured that the evening would be a financial success.

Three minutes with Bernie’s daughter Leah made me wonder yet again how he survived the off-season. He endured her fussing with a resigned sigh, but Sarah finally said, “Lighten up, Mom,” and began talking about her recent graduation.

Hard to equate this self-assured young woman with the plump, awkward girl who had been my cast mate. I’d grown so accustomed to the agelessness of the older staff
that it was Sarah’s transformation that seemed unnatural. Maybe by the time I was eligible for Social Security, Janet might have sprouted a few gray hairs, but Rowan would look exactly the same.

You knew that going in, Graham. Deal with it!

I could only spend a few minutes with Sarah before resuming my duties. I was so busy chatting up patrons that I merely waved to Mom and Chris. When I finally caught up with them, I found her working the room just as hard, praising past productions and the dedication of the staff and board.

“They should have appointed you executive director,” I noted.

“Actually, I hate these affairs. I just put on my game face and play the devoted patron of the arts.”

“The devoted and fabulous patron of the arts.” Hal paused in the sunroom doorway to fling open his arms, then hurried over to envelop Mom in a hug. “You look gorgeous as always. What I wouldn’t give for that complexion! Please tell Maggie she doesn’t look like a Caucasian cast member of
Flower Drum Song
. She’s been obsessing all evening. You must be Chris. I can’t believe it’s taken this long to lure you up here.”

“And you must be Hal,” Chris said, smiling. “Alison’s told me so much about you, I feel like I know you.”

“I hope she’s been equally kind in her description of me,” Long boomed, edging into our circle. “Alison, Alison. Don’t break my heart and tell me that this is your inamorato.”

“Call your cardiologist,” Chris advised as he held out his hand. “Chris Thompson, Inamorato. You must be Long Martindale, Impresario.”

“I have the good fortune to be the president of the board of directors. But if you’ve won the heart of the fair Alison, then you are the fortunate one.”

“We have swords in the prop room,” I noted. “If you want to fight a duel on the front lawn.”

“Behave,” my mother said. “And you, too,” she added,
eyeing Long sternly. “Honestly, I think you’d flirt with any female between seven and seventy.”

“My cut-off is eighty,” Long whispered. “But I might have to revise my limit. I see a very rich, very elderly widow who’s in need of company.”

After he excused himself, Chris remarked, “You know, he may not be as much of an ass as you suspect. It’s hard to tell with theatre people. They’re good at playing roles offstage, too.”

“Some are.” My mother favored me with a speculative glance.

I took that as my cue to beat a hasty retreat. When I spied Nancy talking with Bernie, Bea, and Frannie, I wobbled out to the patio as fast as my spiky heels would allow.

When Nancy smiled, I realized just how much the events of the last few days had been weighing on me. She had kept me sane during our season and we’d shared a lot of ups and downs since, including my struggles to steer a course for the theatre and hers to survive the budget cuts at the library. And while she knew nothing about the secret of the Crossroads, she understood more about my relationship with Rowan than anyone. I could always count on her for sensible advice and a sympathetic ear. At that moment, I longed for both and wished I could drag her off to a quiet corner and blurt out everything.

Instead, I just hugged her. When I stepped back, everyone eyed me uneasily; clearly, my hug had been a tad desperate.

“Everything okay?” Nancy asked.

“Great!” I snagged two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and downed the first in a few deep swallows.

“You just thirsty or trying to drown your sorrows?” Bernie asked.

“Thirsty. I’ve been yapping with donors nonstop.”

“Well, save the second for a toast,” Bea said. “Here’s to a successful fund-raiser.”

As we clinked glasses, Frannie giggled. “I hope we do this every year. It’s fun getting all dolled up.”

Bea, of course, always looked gorgeous, a statuesque blonde easily mistaken for one of Wagner’s Rhinemaidens. Put her in a slinky sheath dress and she could set the Rhine on fire. Nancy looked businesslike in her tailored navy suit. Frannie’s flowered silk dress made her look like a stocky nymph transplanted from the Rose Garden Room. Judging from her fuchsia fingernails and newly brown hair, she’d stopped in at Bea’s Hive of Beauty.

I glanced nervously at my watch. “Should I start rousting people out? It’ll take forever to get them all seated.”

“I’ll give Janet the high sign,” Bernie said. “If anyone can get ’em moving, she can.”

“Great. I’ll talk to the caterers and—”

“Frannie and I are sticking around to make sure everything’s packed up,” Bea said.

“Sorry. I’m anal. And you guys are the best. You totally busted your asses for this.”

“We’re going make a fortune!” Bernie gloated. “Who knows? Maybe we’ll be able to afford some new lighting equipment. Or a turntable for the stage.”

“Or a weekend of inpatient mental health care.” My comment elicited more uneasy glances. “Lighten up, I’m joking!”

Bea and Frannie departed to supervise the caterers. Bernie followed, cautiously navigating through the crowd leaning on the same cane he’d used during
Brigadoon
.

“Okay, they’re gone,” Nancy said. “So do you want to tell me what’s bothering you?”

Evening sunlight glinted off her glasses, making it seem that her eyes were shooting fire. As I pleaded Arthur’s
death, the opening, and the fund-raiser, she shook her head impatiently. “This is me, Maggie. I know you. Is it your mom? Did she—? Oh, Lord. She’s coming.”