Spellcrossed (9 page)

I slumped back in my seat, drenched by a wave of flop sweat. Maybe Fifi had stepped on something or gotten a cramp in one of her stumpy legs. It didn’t matter. She was fine now.

But Chelsea wasn’t. Instead of speaking the lead-in lines to “Tomorrow,” she just crouched there, staring at Fifi.

I’d run this scene half a dozen times with both girls. Amanda had broken down the first time Fifi appeared
instead of Arthur. If Chelsea had been shaken, she’d hidden it well.

But she was clearly rattled now. She took a series of deep breaths before she finally began to speak. Her voice was so high and quavering I barely recognized it. When she broke off, unable to say the line about taking care of Sandy, my fingers closed convulsively on Janet’s arm. She shook me off impatiently, her face screwed up in a frown of concentration.

Alex signaled the band to begin the intro to “Tomorrow.” They repeated the vamp once. Twice. A third time.

Oh God, oh God, oh God…

Chelsea’s head jerked up. For a moment, she stared out at the audience. Then her dazed eyes focused on Fifi. She flung her arms around the dog’s neck and began to sing.

Her voice was halting and uncertain at first. When she scrambled to her feet for the bridge, Fifi yipped once as if to encourage her. Chelsea nodded firmly and sailed through the rest of the verse with confidence.

“Good old Sandy” hit every cue during the dialogue interlude, crossing to Chelsea when called, jumping up to place her small front paws on Chelsea’s thighs, wagging her tail as Lieutenant Ward strolled off, and obediently trotting downstage for the repeat of the bridge.

Chelsea ruffled the curly fur on Fifi’s head. Then she stuck out her chin and grinned and belted the bejesus out of the D flat.

Goose bumps rippled up my arms. The audience broke into spontaneous applause. They quieted down immediately so they could hear the rest of the song. But when Chelsea hit the final note, they began to cheer and kept on cheering long after the music ended.

As soon as the lights came up for intermission, I rushed to the women’s dressing room and drew Chelsea into the corridor.

“Are you okay?”

She stared at the scuffed linoleum floor and nodded. “I’m sorry I screwed up.”

“You didn’t. The song was wonderful. The best you’ve ever done it.”

Her head came up. “Really?”

“Really.”

“It was just…when Fifi stumbled…all I could think of was…”

“Me, too. But you kept going. That’s the important thing.”

“It was funny. All of a sudden, I felt…”

“What?”

“It’s stupid.”

“Tell me.”

“It was kind of like…an arm around my shoulders. Not a real arm. Just something telling me that everything would be okay. I know that sounds totally lame—”

“No. That happened to me once.”

Rowan’s touch before “You’ll Never Walk Alone,” as reassuring as if he cradled me in his arms.

“Maybe it was knowing there were so many people rooting for you.”

“Maybe,” she said, clearly unconvinced.

“Well, whatever happened, you were a pro out there. I’m really proud of you.”

Her expression grew thoughtful. “You were right. About the song. I always thought it was stupid. But when I sang it tonight, it felt…real.”

“I had a song like that. In
Carousel
.”

Chelsea grimaced. “That ‘when you walk through a storm’ song?”

“You got it.”

When I grimaced, too, she surprised me by laughing. I tried to remember if I’d ever heard her laugh before. It made her seem less of a world-weary adolescent and more like…a kid.

“Watch it,” I warned her. “Or thirty years from now,
you’ll be back on this stage singing about clambakes and June bustin’ out all over. Unless, of course, you’re on Broadway. In which case, I expect you to tell everyone that working at the Crossroads changed your life.”

She laughed again, and I sent her back to the dressing room to prepare for Act Two. As I turned toward the men’s dressing room, I discovered Debra standing outside one of the bathrooms. I raised my eyebrows in silent inquiry.

“Not bad,” she admitted. “Maybe there’s something to all this touchy-feely crap you and Alex have been dishing out. For the kids, anyway.”

It was as close to a compliment as I was as likely to get from Debra, and I acknowledged it with a smile.

Janet’s seat remained vacant after the house lights went down for the “Entr’acte.” When she finally appeared, the stage lights were coming up for The Oxydent Hour of Smiles radio show, giving me no opportunity to ask about her role in averting Chelsea’s meltdown.

Both versions of “Fully Dressed” worked like a charm. Less charming was the interminable Cabinet meeting, but Otis won the restless audience back with “Something Was Missing.” His slow waltz with Chelsea standing on the toes of his wingtip shoes provoked sighs. So did Chelsea’s reprise of “Maybe” which had all the bittersweet longing I could desire.

When the Secret Service agents led off Rooster, Lily, and Hannigan, the audience cheered. They even clapped along to the horrible reindeer number. And when it was all over, they gave Chelsea a standing ovation. Of course, Annie
always
got a standing ovation. I was more relieved to see the cast smiling and clowning during their curtain calls.

Maybe I would never be able to heal the wounds of the Mackenzies or help people find their paths in life or create the ineffable magic that held an audience spellbound. But I had helped Chelsea and Amanda and Otis. And with the staff’s talent and dedication and just a dash
of magic, the new Crossroads Theatre would be a success.

After the house lights came up, I was surrounded by board members and neighbors and parents. I made the kind of gracious remarks every director offers at such moments: “I’m so glad you enjoyed it.” “The credit really goes to the cast.” “Yes, they were wonderful.” It was more professional than screeching, “We pulled off a fucking miracle!”

After a brief detour to the Dungeon to congratulate my cast, I headed to the breezeway to make the rounds of newspaper critics and theatre “Angels” and indulge in hugs with my staff. I kept an eye on the stage door, waiting for the cast to appear, eager to see the reaction of their relatives.

Chelsea looked embarrassed but proud when her mom burst into tears. Paul and his wife broke into an impromptu duet of “Fully Dressed.” Otis’ face lit up when he spied Viola, then went utterly blank when he saw his children standing behind her.

As he covered his face with his hands, the trio made their way over to him. Otis’ son awkwardly patted his shoulder. His daughter hugged him. Viola’s gaze met mine and we shared a conspiratorial smile. I didn’t know how much persuasion—or bullying—it had required, but she had gotten them up here. I just hoped that sharing their father’s triumph would help them see him with new eyes.

“Was that your doing?”

I turned to find Lee watching the family reunion, too.

“Not really. Viola and I both had the same idea.”

“I remember when my mom came up to see me in
West Side Story
. It was the first time she and Reinhard had spoken in…God…forty years? And when Hal’s mom dragged his dad from California to see the first show he designed.”

And when Mom broke down after listening to me sing “You’ll Never Walk Alone.”

“This is what the Crossroads is all about,” Lee said. “What it has to be about. For everyone who comes here—not just the Mackenzies.”

I nodded. We might be in the business of theatre, but there had to be more than just putting on good shows. The board would never understand, but the staff did. We had all been changed by our seasons at the Crossroads.

The reception broke up quickly, the adult performers eager to get to some real drinking and the parents vainly hoping to bring their kids down from the combined highs of opening night and sugary cake.

The board volunteered to handle cleanup. Instead of pitching in, Long motioned the staff to the far end of the breezeway. Acknowledging us with a pontifical nod, he said, “We can be proud—very proud. An excellent start to our season.”

“Thanks, Long. I’m glad you were pleased.”

“Weren’t you?”

I shrugged. “You know how it is with the director. She sees every little mistake.”

“Well, I thought most of the actors did quite well tonight. Even that Otis fellow. But next season, we really must get some higher caliber performers.”

“Then we need to start paying higher caliber salaries,” Janet noted dryly.

“Rowan Mackenzie used nonprofessionals and look what he accomplished.”

Well, duh. He’s a faery!

“Naturally, I wouldn’t dream of comparing your efforts to his, Maggie. You’re still a novice.”

I bit back my retort. He was right, after all. But I really didn’t need to hear this tonight.

A sudden gust of cold air made me shiver. Long used that as an excuse to wrap his arm around my bare shoulders.

“I don’t want you to be discouraged if the production fell a bit short.”

From “an excellent start” to falling short in fifteen seconds or less.

As I eased free of Long’s arm, another blast of cold air swirled around us. Long glanced skyward, frowning. Bernie was examining the skies as well, but the rest of the staff regarded Long with stony expressions.

I had felt the chilly blast of Rowan’s anger often enough to recognize what was happening. The staff was pissed—and some of them were unable to rein in their power.

“Do you suppose a storm’s blowing in?” Long asked, oblivious to the one that was brewing on the breezeway. “Ah, well. It’s like Twain said: ‘If you don’t like the weather in New England, just wait a few minutes.’” He chuckled. “Don’t worry about the show, Maggie. You’ll reach Mr. Mackenzie’s level of excellence one day. You’re like a fine wine that only grows more—”

“That’s enough!” Alex thundered.

“You’re damn right!” Lee exclaimed.

I had expected Lee’s outburst. But I had never seen Alex lose his temper.

“Do you really think we need to hear remarks like that on our opening night?” Catherine was literally shaking with anger. Like her father, still waters clearly ran deep.

“Maggie worked her ass off for this show,” Javier said, his expression nearly as threatening as Lee’s.

“We ALL did,” Mei-Yin added.

“And for you to say such things is so…so…” Hal’s face got redder and redder as he struggled to find the words. “It’s just wrong!”

My throat tightened. How many times had they warned me to curb my temper around our not-so-beloved board president? Now they were ignoring their own advice to leap to my defense.

God, I love these people.

“The members of this staff are fully aware of how talented Rowan was,” Reinhard said with icy deliberation. “But Maggie is our director now. And she deserves your support.”

“But I
do
support her.”

“You got a funny way of showing it,” Bernie said.

Long’s gaze darted from face to face before coming to rest on mine. “I didn’t mean…you seemed dissatisfied with the show and I thought…why, you’ve worked wonders this past year. I’ve told you so a hundred—oh, no, please…”

As he fumbled in his breast pocket for a hanky, I swiped at my cheeks, furious at my unprofessional behavior. “Sorry. It’s been a long week.”

Janet took Long’s arm. “I’ll walk you to the parking lot.”

Instead of picking up his cue, he thrust his hanky into my hand. “Forgive me, my dear. I wouldn’t hurt your feelings for the world. Or ruin this night for you.”

Which turned on the waterworks again quite effectively.

“Parking lot,” Janet said. “Now.”

As she pulled him down the walkway, I groaned. “I’m such an idiot.”

“HE’S the idiot!” Mei-Yin hissed. “If the Archangel GABRIEL had touched down on that stage tonight, he’d complain that it wasn’t Jesus CHRIST.”

“Everything he said was true. I
am
a novice. The show
did
fall short.”

“We don’t think so,” Alex said quietly.

“I just mean that Rowan—”

“Was
Brigadoon
perfect?” Reinhard demanded. “Or
The Sea-Wife
? Or
Carousel
? No! And neither was
Annie
. But we put on a show that none of us had ever attempted. We pulled good performances out of amateurs and excellent ones out of professionals. We gave children an opportunity to work in the theatre and experience the thrill of hearing an audience laugh
with them and cry with them and cheer their performances. Is that not cause for celebration?”