Spellcrossed (45 page)

But there was little time left.

Instead of using mine to research grants, I moped around the theatre. Alex, too, was moping, and I was certain it was because Debra had left for New York. When I found him drifting aimlessly around the garden Tuesday morning, I dragged him to the apartment for lunch.

“Look at us,” I said. “We spend half the summer complaining about how overworked we are and we can’t even enjoy our freedom.”

“You need to start thinking ahead,” Rowan said.

“We are,” Alex replied gloomily.

“Thinking about the theatre, I mean.”

I inscribed another figure eight in my gazpacho. “Debra had this idea for a murder mystery series at the Bates mansion.”

Alex poked at his salad. “She mentioned that to me, too.”

“It’s not exactly part of our mission, but it might be fun. And it would bring in money. Do you think Janet would go for it?”

Alex shrugged. “She’s always complaining that she’s bored during the off-season.”

He sighed. I sighed.

Rowan said, “What about that reading series you were telling me about? The one to showcase new works by Vermont playwrights.”

“That’s not until the spring. The scripts have just started coming in. But there’s always the Christmas show.”

“You’re doing a Christmas show?”

“Do you even look at the program?” I complained. “There’s been a notice in every one! We’re doing
A Christmas Carol
. Long loves the story. Ghosts. Redemption. New beginnings.”

The perfect summation of this season at the Crossroads.

“He loves all the children’s roles even more: Cratchits and carolers and street urchins. He’s sure we’ll make a fortune. But so far, Alex and I haven’t found a version we like.”

Alex’s fork clattered onto his plate. “My God. I’m so stupid. There’s our version!”

“You guys wrote a musical adaptation of
A Christmas Carol
?”

Rowan nodded. “The first show we ever wrote together.”

“Mostly as a lark,” Alex said. “We started talking and the next thing you know, Rowan presented me with a draft.”

“Why didn’t you suggest it from the start?” I demanded.

“It felt wrong to do it without Rowan,” Alex replied. “And once the season got underway, I was too busy to even think about Christmas.”

“We’d probably want to make some changes,” Rowan said. “We’ve both learned a lot about putting a musical together since then.”

“The plot’s not going to change,” Alex replied. “And most of the songs are done. The orchestrations will take a couple of weeks, but—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” I exclaimed. “You’re starting school soon. When will you have time to—?”

“I’ll make time! Besides, Rowan and I work fast.”

“We wrote
The Sea-Wife
in six months,” Rowan added, catching Alex’s enthusiasm. “This is just polishing.”

“If we put our minds to it, we could have the whole thing ready by mid-October.”

“And begin rehearsals in early November,” Rowan said.

They turned to me, a freckled face and a pale one, both alight with excitement.

“I’ll need the completed script before the September board meeting,” I warned them.

“But we’re a known commodity!” Alex protested.

“A winning commodity,” Rowan added.

“I still need to let them read it. If they want to.”

Rowan shoved back his chair. “I must have a copy somewhere.”

“I still have mine,” Alex said, following Rowan into the office. “If you can’t find yours, I’ll dig it out this afternoon and—”

“Here it is!” Rowan crowed. “On the shelf with our other shows.”

I found them sitting thigh-to-thigh on the floor, their heads bent over a green binder. I considered volunteering to make another copy, but they had already begun
dissecting the opening number, exclaiming over some bits and groaning over others.

Reluctant to become an unnecessary third wheel, I wandered down to the production office and pulled out my lesson plans for the new after-school program for elementary school kids. I jotted some notes, went through my inbox, then slumped back in my chair.

Alex had something to look forward to when Debra left. Rowan had a project to fill the next two months. But the project I wanted to focus on—getting to know my father—was going nowhere.

So focus on something else, Graham.

I picked up the phone and called Long.

When I told him about the Mackenzie-Ross adaptation of
A Christmas Carol
, he exclaimed, “That’s wonderful! I’ll call the board today and let them know.”

“Umm…shouldn’t they vote on this?”

“A new musical by Rowan Mackenzie and Alex Ross? What’s to approve?” Then he added, “They’re not doing some radical reinterpretation, are they? The Ghost of Christmas Past wandering around in the nude.”

“I sincerely doubt it. Apart from the sensation it would cause, it would be way too chilly for the poor actor.”

“I suppose we do need an official vote. Boards can be so tiresome sometimes.”

“Tell me about it,” I replied without—as usual—thinking.

Long just chuckled. “I’ll e-mail everybody today and ask them to weigh in. I’m sure they’ll be thrilled. And once it’s approved, I’ll announce it before the remaining performances of
Into the Woods
. If you think that would be appropriate.”

“It would be perfect.”

There was a brief silence on the other end. Then Long said, “I didn’t get a chance to speak with your mother after the show, but I saw her talking with Jack.”

“It went okay. Better than I thought it would. But it was…stressful. For both of them.”

“And for you. A lot to deal with in one week. And that show Saturday night! It was excellent,” he hastily added. “But…strange. Harder to watch somehow.”

When I told him my theory about Jack’s performance and the joke that unexpectedly turned around to bite him—and the audience—in the ass, he said, “Yes, you might be right. But everyone I talked with afterward seemed delighted. Maybe it was just us. Because we were expecting one thing and got something different.”

Much like Long himself. From the moment I’d met him, I had pegged him as one sort of man, but this season, he had turned out to be something else.

“Well, you must have a million things to do,” he said. “And I need to get out those e-mails. I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve heard back from the board.”

I resisted the urge to keep him on the line, to soak up some of his excitement. Everyone seemed to be caught up in the Christmas spirit except me.

Rowan must have sensed that. He appeared in the doorway a few minutes later and said, “Alex has gone home to search for the music. We’re going to meet tomorrow afternoon to play through the score. Want to join us?”

“Love to. When do I get to read the script?”

“How about tomorrow morning?”

“What’s wrong with right now?”

“I thought we might walk into town. See the sights. Have dinner at the Golden Bough.”

I jumped up and hurried around the desk. Then I hesitated. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

“Absolutely.”

I flung my arms around his neck and buried my face against his shoulder.

“He’ll come around,” Rowan whispered.

O
UR WALK TO TOWN WAS UNIMPEDED BY SLAVERING DOGS. It was the cats that slowed us down.

A succession of furry wraiths darted through the grass and twined around Rowan’s ankles, purring in adoration. When he attempted to remove the first one, it went limp, as if his touch had induced a fainting spell. The next treated his fingers to a lascivious tongue bath. When I tried to extricate the third, it shot me a disdainful glance, dug its claws into Rowan’s pants, and hung on with grim determination.

We shambled and stumbled and shooed our way past the large houses outside of town, only to glance back and discover a line of cats trailing after us. Rowan broke into helpless laughter, then a tremulous rendition of “There’s a Parade in Town,” made even more discordant by the yowls of his admirers. When I pointed out that his Pied Piper act might blow his cover, he called on his magic to gently discourage his feline courtiers.

The human inhabitants of Dale were as curious as their cats. If they didn’t exactly faint, they popped out of shops and restaurants to greet me and exclaim over Rowan.

“Do you know everyone in town?” he asked after our shouted conversation with Mrs. Grainger who was a dear, but deaf as a post.

“It’s a really small town.”

But there was no denying that Rowan was a bigger draw than the Fourth of July parade.

As yet another wave of admirers approached, he seized my hand and pulled me into the General Store.

“Well, if it isn’t Rowan Mackenzie,” Mr. Hamilton exclaimed.

Every head swiveled in our direction. Fortunately, most were tourists, who went back to their browsing.

Rowan greeted Mr. Hamilton pleasantly, but his wide-eyed gaze swept the scuffed floorboards, the exposed wooden beams, the woven rugs that hung over the railing on the second floor, and the moth-eaten heads of various dead animals that eyed us glassily from the shadows near the rafters.

“This is what a General Store
should
look like,” he declared. Then he spied the widowed Kent sisters making a beeline toward him and darted off.

Mr. Hamilton watched Rowan prowl through the narrow aisles filled with Vermont-made products plus a hodgepodge of stuff ranging from dishware to clothing to camping equipment.

“Doesn’t get out much, does he? First time I remember him coming to town in all the years he’s lived here.”

“He was claustrophobic. Or agoraphobic. Something phobic.”

“That’s what I heard, too. Doesn’t seem to bother him now, though.”

“I think he got treatment. While he was away.”

As Rowan clambered up the steps to the second floor—pursued by the indomitable widows—Mr. Hamilton frowned. “Not afraid of heights, is he?”

“Heights he’s okay with.”

For half an hour, Mr. Hamilton and I discussed the weather, the Blueberry Festival, and
A Christmas Carol
. Then Rowan zoomed up to the counter and paused to study the rack of postcards.

“That’s what we need. A postcard of the theatre.”

As he took off again, I exchanged a long look with Mr. Hamilton. “Why didn’t we think of that?”

“Beats me. Every shop in town would carry them. Out-of-town ones, too, I bet.”

“If we get them printed up soon, we could have them in stores by fall foliage season.”

Mr. Hamilton tugged his right earlobe, a sure sign that he was calculating expenses.

“Why don’t I work up some figures?” I suggested. “We can go over them before the September board meeting.”

As he beamed approvingly, Rowan strode toward us again and laid two beeswax candles and a wallet on the counter.

“Who’s the wallet for?”

“Me.”

I refrained from pointing out that he had nothing to put in it. He hadn’t made a dime all summer and had repeatedly refused to accept any of the money he had given to me.

After studying the glass jars of penny candy for five minutes, he selected a striped stick of sarsaparilla.

“Would you like one?”

“No, thanks. But let’s get a licorice one for Jack.”

I unzipped my purse and froze when Rowan pulled a wad of bills out of his pocket. With a proud smile, he paid for his purchases and carefully slid the remaining money into his new wallet.

As soon as I dragged him outside, I demanded, “Where did you get all that money?”

“Never mind.”

“Did you sell one of your books?”

“Not an old one.”

“
Which
one?” I persisted.

“To Kill a Mockingbird
.”

“You own a first edition of
To Kill a Mockingbird
?”

“Not anymore.”

“But how could you let it go? It’s such a wonderful story.”

“And I can still enjoy it whenever I like. Reinhard bought me a paperback copy after he arranged the sale.”

“I should have known Reinhard was in on this.” I lowered my voice to ask, “How much did you get for it?”

“Guess.”

“Five thousand dollars?”

He glanced around before whispering, “Fifteen thousand.”

“Holy crap!” I exclaimed, drawing giggles from two passing kids.

“Reinhard’s holding most of it. I just have what’s in my lovely new wallet.” He glanced up and down Main Street. “Now where?”

“Hallee’s. But we have to hurry if we want to get there before it closes.”

Although Hallee’s was just across the street, it took us fifteen minutes to escape the new tide of well-wishers that surrounded us. I groaned in disappointment when I discovered the door was locked. Rowan stared at the window display, transfixed.

“It’s Hal’s annual tribute to blueberries,” I explained.

The display featured the usual assortment of scantily clad mannequins, all sporting blue lingerie: blue panties and bras, blue teddies and negligees. A mannequin in a blue corset cradled white bowls of blueberries beneath her breasts. Two male mannequins in tight blue briefs posed with pies like discus throwers. Off to one side, a mannequin in a blue negligee leaned languidly against a white picket fence. Her left hand toyed with her sparkly “sapphire” necklace. Her right proffered a single blueberry to the male mannequin—in obligatory blue thong—that reclined at her feet amid a veritable ocean of berries. High above, a blue moon smiled benignly.

“Merciful gods,” Rowan breathed.

“Wait until apple season. He’s planning a Garden of Eden theme.”

Rowan was still mesmerized by the display when the door to the shop banged open and Hal flew out.

“Oh, my God! I can’t believe it. You’re here. In Dale!”

As he burst into “Miracles of Miracles,” the door opened again and Lee walked out, grinning. “When Hal and I saw you through the window, we just about—”

“Do you like it?” Hal interrupted. “The display?”

“I love it. It’s sexy and funny and inventive. Just like the man who created it.”

Tears welled up in Hal’s eyes. With a tremulous cry, he ran back into the shop.