Spellcrossed (27 page)

“Because they will be having fun off-site,” Reinhard retorted. “If you and Lee cannot exercise a modicum of restraint, I suggest you do the same.”

The door to the lighting booth banged open. Lee bolted down the stairs and grabbed Hal’s hand, putting an end to any speculation regarding their capacity for restraint.

“If you are not back by the half-hour call, I will dock you both a month’s salary!”

As they sped toward the lobby stairs, I said, “It’s an epidemic.”

Reinhard handed me his handkerchief. “It will pass.”

Ten minutes later, Javier returned to the theatre, whistling a happy tune. Lee and Hal showed up soon afterward, leaving me to suspect they’d gone no farther than the Smokehouse. When I went down to the Dungeon to check on the cast, I heard suspicious moaning coming from the men’s bathroom. I cracked open the door and hissed, “There are children here!” After which I fled to the picnic area to allow my raging hormones to subside.

Thankfully, most of the energy had dissipated by curtain time. The overture still sounded like a 33-rpm record played at 78 speed and the girls were a bit manic in the opening scene, but Amanda got us back on track with ‘Maybe’ and after that, the show proceeded normally.

I got a little misty at curtain calls, knowing this was the last time Amanda and her orphans would perform. I also realized Rowan and I needed to get to the cast party on time or I’d miss celebrating with the little ones whose parents would whisk them off after a half hour.

I briefly contemplated squeezing in a quickie during strike. Then I shuddered: Rowan’s power plus a distracted
cast and crew plus hammers, nails, and large set pieces…talk about your recipe for disaster.

Sighing, I shooed the company out to the picnic area for the usual post-matinee meal, courtesy of the Mandarin Chalet. Reinhard led the charge. When I spied him getting into Mei-Yin’s car, I realized he wasn’t hungry for Chinese food. Before the passenger door was even closed, they were speeding off, trailing dust and the faint sound of Mei-Yin’s cackle.

I was still leaning against the stage door, smiling, when Rowan suddenly materialized beside me. Before I could do more than gasp, he grabbed my hand and pulled me up the stairs.

“Rowan! Wait!”

“Can’t.”

“But the cast is right outside. If they feel—”

“They won’t.”

“If they hear—”

“They won’t!”

“But Daddy—”

“Dinner. Janet’s.”

“I don’t have any condoms!”

“I do.”

“Where did you get—?”

“Lee.”

“Lee bought you a box of condoms?”

Rowan paused on the threshold of his apartment. “No. Lee bought me six boxes of condoms. Including Magnum Ecstasy, Magnum Fire and Ice, and one with climax control.”

I started to giggle.

Rowan glared. “It was bad enough having to ask Janet to invite your father to dinner. I’ll never hear the end of The Climax Control Crisis. Now do you want to do this or not?”

“Well, I was kind of looking forward to my shrimp and snow peas…”

He pulled me inside and kicked the door shut.

If Mei-Yin’s uncontrolled power had been a Category Five hurricane, Rowan’s was just shy of a nuclear meltdown. The aroma of honeysuckle and animal musk made me dizzy. Creamy warmth curdled between my legs. Molten heat flooded my body, and my knees buckled. Only his body pressing mine against the door kept me on my feet.

His tongue slipped between my lips, the sandpaper-rough cat’s tongue I had fantasized about for weeks. I sucked on it, and a low growl rumbled in his throat.

My breasts ached, swollen and heavy in my bra. My kicky sundress rubbed unpleasantly against my shoulders, my ribs, my waist. The very air hurt my oversensitive flesh.

The shock of his fingers on my bare thighs made me gasp. Warm hands slid inside my panties, but as Rowan pushed them down, they got caught somewhere north of my knees.

I shimmied wildly. Rowan cursed.

I heard the sound of ripping fabric, and the pressure around my knees gave way to the shivery sensation of nylon skimming down my legs and settling atop my feet.

I clawed at his shirt. Rowan batted my hands away and began fumbling with the buttons on his jeans. I moaned, nearly weeping with frustration. He seized the waistband of his pants and gave a mighty tug. Buttons clattered onto the hardwood floor like hailstones.

He dug a packet out of his pocket. Holding one end in his teeth, he ripped it open, then spat the sliver onto the floor.

He seized my hand and turned toward the bedroom.

“No. Here. Hurry!”

His mouth claimed mine again as I fell back against the door. His knuckles brushed my bare belly, sending shock waves of desire through me. I stared into those glittering green eyes, mesmerized by the golden sparks flashing in their depths. Then his hands cupped my bottom and he lifted me as effortlessly as he had torn open his jeans.

I wrapped my legs around his hips. Visions of
The Godfather
danced in my head: Sonny Corleone giving it to the bridesmaid, and—for some unknown reason—fat Clemenza drawling, “Leave the gun. Take the cannoli.” Then Rowan’s cresting desire swept away all thoughts of Corleone and cannoli and I just hung on for dear life.

It was over in seconds, shattering my previous Olympic orgasm record. My legs oozed off his hips to dangle in the air like a rag doll’s. His heart thudded against mine, as rhythmic as the blood pulsing in my ears. Then I made out another sound—just as soft, just as rhythmic—that seemed to be coming from outside the apartment.

Rowan cursed. A moment later, I identified the sound as footsteps pattering up the stairs.

The Olympic judges would have deducted points for my dismount, but I managed to stick the landing. After that, it was all I could do to stagger into the bedroom and collapse on the bed.

The latch rattled once. Twice.

“The door won’t open,” my father complained.

“No,” Rowan said. “It won’t.”

“I left my script in your knapsack.”

“Get it later.”

“But Janet’s going to run lines with me after dinner.”

“I have company, Jack.”

There was a long silence. Then a soft chuckle. “Well, why didn’t you say so? Hi, Maggie!”

I pulled a pillow over my face. Then threw it aside and called, “Hi, Jack!”

“I thought I felt something weird. Now I know what it was. Hot monkey love!”

Rowan cleared his throat. “I’ll get your things.”

“Jeez, if you wanted some private time, you should have just asked. Next time, tell me to take a walk around the pond. That’ll be the code.”

I almost wished Alex was here to share this moment.

Rowan’s boots thudded on the floorboards. The front door creaked open.

“Here’s your script. And your notebook. And a pen. Enjoy dinner.”

“I will. We’re having fried chicken and potato salad and—”

The door slammed.

I made a brief effort to sit and gave it up; my limbs felt like they were weighted down with rocks. In spite of the ceiling fan, the bedroom was stifling. That’s when I noticed that the door to the balcony was closed. As were the skylights. With any luck, Rowan’s precautions had prevented the cast from hearing my final shriek of ecstasy.

The soft sound of footsteps alerted me to his approach. He hesitated in the doorway, then strode through the bedroom and wrenched open the sliding door.

For a moment, he stood there with his back to me. It was unpleasantly reminiscent of his behavior the night of my first Olympic orgasm. But when he turned toward me, he looked so miserable that I struggled into a sitting position.

“If you ever doubted the selfishness of the Fae, you saw ample evidence of it just now. I acted like a stag in rut.”

“Well, I acted like a cat in heat, so I guess it all evens out.”

“And you’re not upset.”

A statement, not a question; he could feel that I wasn’t.

“A little unnerved, maybe. It was kind of like…that first time.”

“At least that night, I tried to control my power and failed. Today, I didn’t even try. I wanted you and I just…”

“Got what you wanted?”

He winced.

“That was supposed to be a joke.”

“And you’re supposed to be angry!”

“And
you’re
angry because I’m not?”

“I just…I don’t understand! I drag you up the stairs.
I pull you into the apartment. I mount you like an animal…”

“I could have said no when you were dragging me up the stairs. Or when you asked if I wanted to do this. Your power wasn’t influencing me then.” I patted the bed, and he sank down beside me. “What happened wasn’t exactly what I expected. But I wanted you, Rowan. You must have felt that.”

“Yes, but—”

“That’s why I’m not mad.”

The tension in his body drained away, but his frown remained. “It was supposed to be perfect. Our first time together. I wanted it to be slow and beautiful and romantic. Yet when push came to shove—”

“So to speak.”

That won a small smile from him.

I mustered my energy and leaned forward to plant a kiss on the tip of his nose. “So this time we ended up with wham, bam, thank you, ma’am. And Daddy pounding on the door. Next time, we’ll do slow and beautiful and romantic. Okay?”

He just stared at me. “I can sense your feelings, your moods. Sometimes, I can even guess what you’re thinking. But I’ll never be able to understand you, will I? Not completely. Or predict how you’ll react.”

“Well, how dull would that be?”

“Predictable isn’t dull. It’s reassuring. And safe. And—”

“Dull. People aren’t predictable, Rowan. Life isn’t predictable.”

“It was. For me. Once. Then I met you.”

“You’re supposed to smile now and say it was the best thing that ever happened to you.”

“It
was
the best thing that ever happened to me. But it was also…frightening. It still is. I’ve never behaved like I did today. Even when I was young and stupid and susceptible to every shift in emotion. Ever since I came back, I feel like I’m walking on quicksand. I’m not even sure who I am any more.”

Did he even realize he was echoing my father’s words? I considered assuring him that he, too, would find the answers he needed. Instead, I cupped his face between my hands.

“You’re a faery in a human world. A man without an identity. A director who’s not directing. And a lover who’s spent almost no time with his beloved. If you weren’t unsure, you’d be nuts! But it’ll get easier.”

“Promise?”

I crossed my heart. “And when we’re old and gray…well, when I’m old and gray and you’re still raven-haired and handsome and we have to pretend you’re my son or you have to do the whole glamour thing in order
not
to look like my son because we’d totally creep people out if they saw us together and we were making out…I forget my point…”

“We’ll laugh about this?”

“Absolutely.”

Rowan nodded. But his smile was disturbingly bleak.

B
LEAK PRETTY MUCH DESCRIBED HELL WEEK, too. Even with a cue-to-cue Sunday afternoon and a walk-through of the scene changes Sunday evening, Monday’s tech rehearsal lasted a brutal five hours.

The set was simple enough—a stepped unit with two playing areas for the children’s bedrooms upstage left and right and a larger central area for the other interior scenes. The maze and greenhouse would be created downstage. Hal had also built a painted “frame” around the proscenium arch that looked like elaborately turned wrought iron until the lights came up for the finale to reveal it as a flower-bedecked arbor.

Lee’s lighting set the mood: a fiery Indian sky and a cloud-filled one in Yorkshire; the ghostly blues of the storm sequences and the amber pools of light that illuminated the dreary mansion; the silvery moonlight that poured through the door to the secret garden in the final moments of Act One and the brilliant sunlight that flooded the garden at the end of the show. But all those effects required a zillion cues and twice that many stops and starts to ensure that they were coordinated with the music and scene changes.

A few of Hal’s design elements had to be raised and lowered from the flies: two crystal chandeliers for the ballroom, large portraits of Lily in the gallery, damask
draperies in Archibald’s library. Unfortunately, one bank of draperies kept getting stuck in mid-flight, adding a Salvador Dali-esque touch to the Yorkshire sky. The portraits were more obedient, but the empty frame in which Michaela was supposed to stand swayed back and forth as if she were on the deck of the Titanic.

The other set pieces were placed and cleared by the actors. Most were easy—a garden bench here, a settee there. What they couldn’t carry on was supposed to roll smoothly. Given the Crossroads tradition of reluctant rolling, Catherine had been zealous about her casters—a bit overzealous judging from the way Colin’s bed whizzed onto the platform, accompanied by the startled shrieks of its occupant.

However, the giant topiaries in the shapes of stylized birds and flowers took top honors in the “Neither Smooth nor Seamless” competition, turning “It’s a Maze” into a rousing Edwardian bumper car sequence. Every time an actress brushed against them, her dress clung to the damn things like Velcro. The ghosts spent more time tugging at their skirts than wafting.

And then there was the mist. Our fog machine had been recalcitrant during
Brigadoon
and surly during
The Fantasticks
. Now, it was gleefully bent on world domination. By the end of tech, the atmosphere was more
Jekyll and Hyde
than
The Secret Garden
.

Rowan gave me a magical neck rub. Janet gave me whisky. Between the two, I managed to sleep.

Our first dress rehearsal was rocky. Our second was marginally better. Whatever substance Hal applied to the topiaries mitigated their desire to snatch at the women’s clothing. Whatever magic Alex applied to the pit band helped them discover volumes other than fortissimo. The set changes more or less worked. The actors more or less found their pools of light. The Dreamers wafted, menaced, and comforted at most of the right moments. Michaela looked and sounded beautiful, Gregory looked and sounded tormented, and Roger avoided filial
fondling. Hal’s costumes were flat-out gorgeous. Gregory’s worked so well that I serenaded Hal with a non-Lerner-and-Loewe approved version of “I’ve Grown Accustomed to His Hump.”