Crazy Ride

by Nancy Warren

  There was something bothering him about the show, and suddenly Joe realized what it was. He leaned over to Emily. “Didn’t Olive and Lydia say they were playing—”

  “Nuns,” the woman with the clipboard snapped and just as the poor Tony took another breath, a gaggle of nuns tumbled out on stage.

  “How do you solve a problem like Maria?” they chorused, clearly under the impression that this year’s production was The Sound of Music.

  For a moment the nuns stared at Tony and he stared back.

  After a long moment of agonizing silence, Tony rallied. “I’ve just met a girl named Mar-ee-er,” he sang, sounding less sure of himself.

  The nuns looked at each other. And at the audience. And at Tony. Joe noted that one particular nun had shortened her habit to mid thigh, showing off a nice pair of legs in black stockings. She’d also let enough red curls peek out of the white nun-thing on her head that he recognized Lydia.

  “How do you catch a cloud and pin it down?” the nuns questioned.

  “And suddenly that name, will never be the same…”

  Oh, you said it, brother.

  Back and forth they went, Tony and the nuns, singing about their two Marias. It wasn’t the best-timed duet Joe had ever heard, and the band wasn’t sure what to do with it, so they mostly seemed to play whatever the hell notes they felt like. They did their best, but at the end of it, you had to wonder about who this Maria was. A flibbertijibbet Austrian training to be a nun or a soulful Puerto Rican shop girl?

  He might have suspected the nuns interrupting Tony was deliberate if Emily hadn’t started shaking beside him in silent giggles.

  Now he remembered that the two factions refused to rehearse together and he supposed that somewhere along the way there’d been a slight misunderstanding about which play they were putting on; perfectly normal for what he’d seen of Beaverton.

  Well, after that, holding a wave upon the sand would have been a cinch compared to holding Beaverton’s production of West Side Story together. Frank Elbart, the man with no short-term memory, was supposed to play Bernardo, Maria’s brother who is accidentally killed by her new love Tony. It was a part he’d played many times as a young man, Emily had explained, so the part was firmly embedded in his long-term memory. The poor guy couldn’t remember what he’d eaten for breakfast but he remembered soliloquies from thirty years ago. However, he became understandably confused when he stepped on stage as Bernardo to find a bunch of nuns who displayed some odd habits.

  In the melee, Ernie had walked on to see what was going on and he still held his switchblade.

  Watching Mr. Elbart, Joe was amazed at how the man transformed the instant he clapped eyes on that knife. He wasn’t a geriatric gang member anymore. Suddenly imbued with fierce dignity and a commanding air, he stalked forward toward Ernie, whose wig had slipped over one ear. Everybody stared at Frank Elbart. You couldn’t help it. He was mesmerizing.

  He wrested the switchblade from Ernie, turned to the audience and held the knife high so the light from the overhead gym lights flashed off the razor sharp blade. Joe wished he had his cell phone in case someone needed to call 9-1-1.

  “Is this a dagger which I see before me? The handle toward my hand?” Frank Elbart intoned gravely.

  “Oh, my God,” Joe whispered to Emily. “He thinks he’s Macbeth.”

  “Macbeth?”

  “We did that one last year. He’s a brilliant Macbeth.”

  Elbart continued, speaking to the knife as though he doubted it were real.

  Come, let me clutch thee.

  I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.

  Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible

  To feeling as to sight? or art thou but

  A dagger of the mind, a false creation,

  Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?

  Talk about a heat-oppressed brain! In his passion, Frank waved the knife over his head with flair. He was a tall man to begin with, and the reach of his arm was commanding, certainly long enough to slice through the flyrope suspended above his head. There was a funny noise, like a large balloon popping.

  “Oh, shit,” said the stage manager, dropping her clipboard with a thump.

  In seconds, flimsy paper hearts and tiny silver stars floated down on the heads of everyone on stage like a twirling silver and pink snow storm.

  Every single person on stage turned to the stage manager as though she’d know what to do. Joe had to give her credit. She might be hard of hearing, but she didn’t lack aplomb.

  “Kiss her,” the stage manager yelled to Tony. “Kiss Maria.”

  “She’s not on stage!” he called back. And Joe had a feeling she was the only cast member who wasn’t.

  “Well kiss anybody.”

  The Tony glanced at the assembled company. With a shrug, he walked smack up to Aunt Lydia, easy to spot in her mini-dress nun’s habit, and kissed her full on the lips.

  The stage manager stepped forward and started clapping, so they all joined in. Emily wiped the tears of laughter from her face while the actors began bowing.

  The poor band meanwhile was in a fix. Those who’d ever figured out their place in the music had long since lost it. A lone clarinet piped out a few notes and gave up.

  It seemed as though the musical would end with a whimper when a lanky kid with a tuba, who Joe guessed would one day be mayor, suddenly stood and yelled to his band mates, “In the Mood.” He snapped his fingers and counted them in, “and a one, two, three!”

  Well, the Beaverton high school band might not know Bernstein’s score to West Side Story as intimately as possible, but they knew In the Mood. All the band members rose and went at it with gusto, enthusiasm, and volume. Eddie/Tony, who’d been kissing Aunt Lydia a pretty long time considering the woman was supposed to be a nun, grabbed her hand and began to boogie. Not to be outdone, Macbeth took the stage manager’s hand and started to swing, kicking up puffs of pink and silver paper.

  The audience clapped and laughed, and cat called and then they all started dancing: cast, crew and audience.

  Joe turned to Emily and said, “May I have this dance?”

  She blinked and looked dubious as though she thought he’d mash her toes.

  So naturally, being a competitive sort, he led her down the bleacher steps to the gym floor, then spun her into a complicated jive sequence that ended with her locked right up against his body.

  “I didn’t know you could dance,” she said a little breathlessly.

  “I can not only jive, but I can fox trot, samba, waltz -- both fast and slow -- and do pretty much any dance called for at weddings, dinner dances, or on cruise ships.”

  “A man of many talents then,” she said with a laugh.

  “And you keep up just fine,” he told her, pleased at how easily they’d fit together even in an impromptu sock hop.

  It lasted until the band ran out of music. When In the Mood came around for the second time, Joe said, “Let’s go,” and walked his girl out into the starry evening.

  “I have a couple of questions about tonight’s performance,” he said after a few minutes of blessed silence.

  “I’ll bet you do.” Her voice sounded a little strained, which he suspected was from laughing so hard while trying not to make any sound.

  “What were the hearts and stars floating from above all about?”

  “They weren’t supposed to be released until the grand finale at the end, when Maria and Tony kiss.”

  They walked a few more steps. “The last time I saw West Side Story it was a tragedy. I could have sworn Tony got knifed to death.”

  “Well, the Beaverton Little Theatre Company thinks that there are enough sad stories in life, so they give every play we do a happy ending. In this version, Tony gives Bernardo a bloody nose, and Tony gets a cut requiring no more than a bandage. After the blissful final kiss, I believe he and Maria move to Queens and open a dry cleaners.”

  “Ah.”

  “Do you want to
know how they fixed Macbeth last year?”

  He thought about it. Then said, “No.” Some things were better left unknown.

  They walked hand in hand like a couple of high school sweethearts and Joe began to wonder if Emily really needed rescuing from this place – or if he should worry that he was starting to appreciate its distinctive attributes.

  “Are you up for the cast party? It’s at Ernie’s.”

  “Oh, I am.” So they altered course and soon found themselves in a packed, raucous bar where cast and crew showed up – some still in costume. As far as Joe could tell, there were no hard feelings about the tiny misunderstandings. He got the feeling that sort of thing happened all the time.

  He chatted to those he knew, met some new people, grabbed a couple of beers and passed one to Emily. He mingled, and she mingled, but he was always aware of her position in the crowded place. A couple of times they made brief eye contact, and he knew she was as aware of him as he was of her.

  When the aunts arrived, the party really started, continued for several hours and including an impromptu sing-along as well as passages from Hamlet and Death of a Salesman, courtesy of the versatile Mr. Elbart.

  When Joe and Emily returned to the B&B much later, Joe realized he was crazy about this woman, crazy in a way he’d never felt before. They paused outside the front door and, maybe because the high school sweetheart image was still with him, he leaned in and kissed her softly. “Thanks for a truly unique evening.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “Morning, ladies,” Joe said as he walked into the dining room the next morning looking awfully good for a guy barely out of the hospital.

  “What are you going to do today, Joe?” Olive asked him.

  “I’m going to visit Miss Trevellen, and Emily’s coming with me. Right Em?”

  “That’s right. But we shouldn’t go too early. She’s probably tired from last night.”

  “Nonsense. She’s always up with the larks. What are you going over there for?”

  “Joe wants to see her collection of toy soldiers,” she said before he could let the aunts in on his true purpose.

  “She’s quite a collector. And a walk will do you both good. Very relaxing, walking.”

  Not for Emily, knowing that Miss Trevellen didn’t have Joe’s cell phone. But he’d wanted to ride his new Ducati over there yesterday, she figured she could stall if she got him riding. Riding to another piece of paradise that shouldn’t be strip mined.

  She’d almost forgotten how much she loved to ride. She loved feeling the wind in her face and the power of the machine beneath her. And she loved watching Joe get used to his new toy. She took him down side roads, making sure to hit the prettiest spots. Even the weather cooperated, kissing fields and gardens with sunlight.

  As they came around a corner he slowed suddenly. She came up beside him and he pointed. A herd of deer stood stock still, ears on alert, noses to the wind.

  He watched them for a long moment and she hoped like hell he was thinking that this was not a place to be mined.

  He wasn’t as distractible as she’d hoped. He also had a wicked sense of direction so she couldn’t lead him far astray. Sooner than she’d hoped they were at Miss Trevellen’s house.

  They arrived at her door and she seemed delighted to see them, if puzzled. Crafty old thing. Emily had always half suspected her pilfering was connected to loneliness. She often had fresh baking on hand when Emily arrived to retrieve one of her things.

  Joe, to give him credit, acted genuinely happy to see the older woman and gave as his excuse his desire to see her snuff box collection again.

  “Of course, my dear young man. I’ll make some coffee.” While she was gone, Joe quickly scanned the room but, of course, there were no cell phones.

  “Where is it?” he asked in an undertone.

  “If she’d borrowed it, it would be in this room.”

  Once more he walked around, shifting objects to look behind them, opening a cigar box to see if the phone was inside.

  Emily wasn’t enough of a hypocrite to help him when she knew perfectly well the phone wasn’t here. Instead she went out to the kitchen to help their hostess with the coffee. In a few minutes Joe joined them, using the opportunity to scan the kitchen. There was one old wall phone. Miss Trevellen wasn’t even in the age of the portable, never mind the cell.

  He pointed to it with a smile. “That’s a pretty old fashioned phone, Miss Trevellen.”

  “Oh. Well. I don’t much care for the telephone. I don’t spend much time on it and if I had one of those carry-around ones I’d only lose it.”

  “Don’t tell me you don’t have a cell phone.”

  “Goodness no. I wouldn’t know what to do with one.”

  “Well, I would,” he muttered.

  They drank their coffee and chatted about the weather and Joe’s recent illness, and even about antique snuff boxes and toy soldiers. Emily was impressed that he actually did know something about antiques.

  He didn’t mention the phone again and she didn’t bring up the subject. Instead once they were back at the Shady Lady he said, “Can I book my room for the next week?”

  “Of course.”

  He laughed. “You’re not a very astute business woman, you know. You should at least tell me you have to check your bookings.”

  She sent him a rueful glance. “You strike me as an intelligent man. You must have figured out by now that business at the Shady Lady isn’t exactly booming.”

  “Business in Beaverton isn’t booming.”

  “Oh, well. We all get by. And you can’t put a price on happiness.” She sent him a pointed glance. “Or health.”

  “Is there any chance of adding dinners into the equation?”

  “Tonight’s is already in the oven.”

  He let out a breath. “Thanks.”

  They entered the Shady Lady and he followed her into the kitchen. When she’d taken a seminar in Boise on running a B&B she recalled an entire workshop session on how to keep the proper distance from guests while still making them feel at home. Somehow, she’d botched things up completely with Joe. He had her cooking dinners for him as well as breakfast, he’d technically had sex with her, and he followed her into the kitchen without so much as asking permission.

  He picked up her kitchen phone as though he had every right and she only stopped herself from snatching it away from him when she realized that his New York office would be closed now. He could phone, but he wouldn’t reach anyone.

  He punched in numbers and she was startled when he said, “Here, would you take this?” and handed her the receiver.

  “What--?”

  “I called my cell phone. It’s ringing. I must have lost it here in the house somewhere.”

  “Oh, but…” There was little point in continuing to speak when he’d left the kitchen. She could hang up, of course, but she’d practiced enough passive deception today.

  She sank on to a stool at the breakfast bar, and waited.

  She didn’t have to wait long.

  “Emily,” Joe said, when he came back into the kitchen. He thrust his hands in his pants pockets and leaned back against her countertop. The position might look casual, but it was clear he was anything but. “Your great grandmother appears to have swallowed my cell phone.”

  “Ah.” Okay, ‘ah’ wasn’t going to cut it but she wasn’t sure how to handle this situation – yet another one that had never cropped up during her weekend seminar on running a B&B. Honestly, she was beginning to think she should ask for her money back from that useless seminar. After her brilliant, ‘ah’, silence reigned for a few moments.

  “Of course, it occurs to me that a painting couldn’t swallow a phone.”

  “No. I suppose not.”

  “I’m guessing there’s a safe behind the picture.”

  “Good guess.”

  “Let me go one further. I’m guessing that you locked my phone in your safe.”

  “Right again.”r />
  “For safe keeping?”

  “Oh, you can shove your snotty sarcasm. You want an explanation for why I locked your phone in my safe? I’ll give you one. I’m trying to save your life here, Joe.”

  “By ruining my business?” he yelled.

  “Joe, you’ve had a warning from your body. If you don’t slow down, the next pain in your chest will be a heart attack.”

  He closed his eyes briefly. She distinctly hoped he was counting slowly to ten so he wouldn’t yell at her again. It was a weak hope at best, and clearly unfounded. ”What did you tell Anna?”

  “The truth. Mostly. I told her your doctor recommended rest and quiet and she shouldn’t contact you until next week.”

  A menacing pause ensued. “And did you happen to pass on to Anna my instructions to get me out of here?”

  She breathed in slowly. “No.”

  “What is she going to tell the client who’s been breathing down my neck about getting this deal sewn up?”

  “I think she’s going to tell them to chill.”

  He stalked forward until his body was completely in her personal space. With the counter at her back, there was nowhere to go. She was literally backed into a corner.

  He seemed suddenly very fierce and strong. Not a bit like a man who’d just been released from hospital. She had to admit to herself that she was in trouble here.

  His eyes bored into hers, fierce and molten lead, the planes of his face sharp and unyielding. “Are you going to give me my phone back?”

  She swallowed hard, glanced up into his implacable countenance and shook her head. Why was she doing this? She should give him the damn thing and let him kill himself with work if he wanted to so badly. Except that she cared about him. More than she wanted to admit.

  They’d had the briefest affair in the history of sex, but he had been inside her body, and she didn’t let anyone in that she didn’t care about. She had confiscated his phone out of the highest regard for his health and well being, and he’d better be smart enough to realize it.