Opening Acts

by SFnovelists

  *** ***

  I reviewed my options to the accompaniment of Jorge's sorrowful ruminations in Spanish.

  No way was I staying in my apartment. It was just too damn depressing.

  I could scurry down to Delaware, but I knew I'd run afoul of my mother's bullshit detector. Realizing that some major life crisis had prompted my spur-of-the-moment visit, she'd interrogate me ruthlessly until I came clean. And then I'd have her desperation to deal with on top of mine.

  A colleague's apartment? Half my coworkers had lost their jobs in today's bloodbath. The rest felt guilty about hanging on to them. Either way, they didn't need me showing up on their doorsteps, and I didn't need to relive the whole saga with them.

  Friends from college? The few I kept in touch with were scattered around the country.

  Friends in the city? None.

  Still clutching the pair of socks I'd been rolling up, I sank onto my futon. Two years in the city, zero friends. There were the other residents of my brownstone, most of whom I knew by sight rather than name, my colleagues at HelpLink, a few blind dates that my colleagues had arranged, but no real friends. The nice West Indian greengrocer who occasionally tossed an extra mango in my bag didn't really count.

  I hauled out the stash of travel books I'd been collecting since I got the job at HelpLink. I'd never gone anywhere, but I had two weeks severance and two years of meager savings, and if ever I needed to escape Brooklyn, it was now.

  I weighed the relative merits of Southern hospitality, Rocky Mountain vistas, and Pacific coastlines before deciding I couldn't afford to splurge on airfare. Then I picked up a guide to New England's bed and breakfasts.

  And bing! I had the answer.

  What could be more New Englandy than Vermont? The perfect place to retreat, relax, regroup. Patchwork quilts on the bed. Rocking chairs on the porch. Groves of maples. Babbling brooks. Cows.

  Normally, I would have spent hours researching amenities and prices. But if I was going to spend the next God knows how many months winging it, I figured I might as well start now.

  The next morning, I threw an overnight bag into my ancient Honda Civic and headed north. My spirit of adventure faded somewhere on I-91. Everyone in Connecticut and Massachusetts seemed to be fleeing their respective states. It was like gold had been discovered in the Green Mountains or I'd inadvertently entered an alternate universe where lemmings could drive. After six endless hours, I bailed onto a two-lane road and set off in search of a quaint country hideaway.

  The road wound through dense stands of trees that still wore that new-leaf green that had adorned New York a month earlier. Eventually, the forest gave way to rolling countryside that looked like it had posed for a Vermont Life calendar. Stone walls surrounded fields where black and white Holsteins grazed. Purple wildflowers ran riot in a meadow, while daffodils hugged the foundations of a dilapidated shed.

  I passed farmhouses and barns, a Buddhist meditation center and a blacksmith's forge, but the closest thing to a town was a collection of rundown mobile homes that had definitely not posed for a Vermont Life calendar. I was beginning to regret the whole winging it thing when the road came to an abrupt end.

  A sign informed me that I had reached the township of Hillandale, evidently Vermont's version of the Twin Cities since Hill lay a mile to the north and Dale three miles to the south. Logic and my sore butt called for a right turn towards Hill, but the same instinct that had made me bail told me to turn left.

  As I rumbled over a wooden trestle bridge, I glimpsed a man crouched on a slab of rock on the stream bank below. A little girl clung to his hand, staring intently at the opposite bank.

  "Who knows what might be under those tree roots, Maggie! Pirate treasure. Or a family of gnomes. Or a gateway to another world."

  I pulled over, astonished and angry to find tears burning my eyes. A couple of deep breaths banished the unwanted memory, but my first glimpse of Dale was a little blurry.

  Once it came into focus, it proved to be the quintessential New England town, minus the fall foliage. White church steeples. Open fields. Virgin forest. A stream gleaming like polished brass in the last rays of sunlight still peeking over the mountains.

  A green-and-white sign welcomed me to Dale, founded in seventeen-something-or-other. I felt like I'd reached the Promised Land.

  I passed a deserted lunch stand and a well-manicured cemetery. Then I spied a large white barn in a meadow. My foot came off the gas pedal as if it had a mind of its own.

  It wasn't your typical Vermont barn. Narrow windows along one side formed five Gothic arches. A tall cupola with the same slatted windows sprouted from the roof. Atop it, a spire pointed heavenward, furthering the barn's odd resemblance to a cathedral. Or a Wiccan house of worship. For under the steep central gable, there was an enormous five-pointed star.

  I hit the brake. Architectural anomalies aside, I had the weird feeling that I'd seen the barn before. But that was impossible. I'd never been in Dale in my life.

  "Need help, miss?"

  The words jolted me out of my reverie. A pickup truck had pulled up next to me. An old guy in a John Deere cap regarded me from the passenger side, patiently awaiting my response. It was such a far cry from the typical New York reaction that I just stared at him. Then I stammered, "No. Thanks. I was just…"

  Gawking at a barn like a stupid tourist.

  "If you're looking for the crossroads-"

  "Coffee. I could really use some coffee."

  "Chatterbox cafe. Next to the hotel."

  A hotel sounded promising. Maybe I'd skip the bed and breakfast and crash there.

  As I continued down the road, the rearview mirror reflected the shrinking image of the barn. It seemed forlorn somehow. But that was as much a product of my overactive imagination as that earlier moment of deja vu.

  The town looked anything but forlorn. White clapboard houses lined the street, most with porches and many with rocking chairs. No B&B signs on the front lawns, just an elderly couple sitting in a pair of Adirondack chairs and a little boy throwing a Frisbee to an enthusiastic golden retriever.

  There were a surprising number of cars on the road, most heading in the opposite direction. Traffic slowed to a crawl at the village green. I circled the roundabout, fighting the absurd desire to take another look at the barn. After my second circuit, I became absorbed in the town.

  The tree-lined street, neat shops, and small white Congregational church created a setting so perfectly Norman Rockwell that I began to suspect it was secretly Ira Levin. But the women looked normal enough in jeans and sweaters. Nary a Stepford Wife in sight.

  As I escaped the traffic circle, the Norman Rockwell aura imploded. A screaming pink neon sign advertised "Hallee's." Judging from the lingerie in the window, Hallee's was a shopping mecca for New England hookers. Two doors down, a gingerbready building with dragons flanking the front door turned out to be the Mandarin Chalet. Bea's Hive of Beauty and a pub named Duck Inn revealed a strange local penchant for puns.

  The Golden Bough Hotel turned out to be a colonnaded edifice that looked like it had been transplanted from a Tennessee Williams play. Next to it, as promised by my Good Samaritan, was the Chatterbox cafe.

  Placards in the front window announced "Free WiFi" and "Bikers Welcome," neither of which I'd expected in a country town like Dale. I slowed to a crawl as two ladies exited the cafe and got into their car. Their flowered dresses and elaborate hats suggested they were off to a revival meeting. I waited for them to back out, then whipped into the vacated parking space.

  My arrival seemed to be the cue for a general exodus from the Chatterbox. In addition to bikers, Dale's tourist trade included Goths, Renaissance Fair refugees, and a small Asian street gang.

  Time warped as I stepped inside. Patrons and decor seemed to have escaped from the set of Happy Days or Bye, Bye Birdie. In one of the booths lining the left wall, an AARP couple hunkered down over their early bird specials. A noisy group of twee
ns crowded around the table in the front window, gobbling ice cream sundaes. The linoleum counter with its soda fountain stools reminded me of the Eckerd's drug store Nana used to take me to when I was little. Same red vinyl seats on the stools. Same glass domes covering the cakes and pies. Same pleasantly stout waitresses in powder blue uniforms.

  One of them ambled over as I slumped onto a stool.

  "Long day, huh?" Frannie or Francie - there was a dark smear in the middle of her nametag - clucked sympathetically.

  "Very."

  "Coffee?" she asked, already reaching for the pot.

  "Please." I must have sounded desperate, because she shot me a quizzical look over her shoulder. "Cream, no sugar."

  Wondering if I looked as frazzled as I'd sounded, I stole a glance at the long mirror behind the counter. The black flecks in the ancient glass made my auburn hair look polka-dotted, while my face seemed to be showing early signs of bubonic plague. My gaze drifted over a framed photograph next to the mirror, then snapped back as I recognized the barn.

  Frannie/Francie jerked her head towards it. "Yep. That's the Crossroads Theatre."

  "If you're looking for the crossroads…"

  Maybe that was why the barn had looked so familiar. I'd spent my first season in summer stock at the Southford Playhouse, a converted barn that seated about one hundred people uncomfortably. Bats made occasional appearances, drawing gasps from the audience and stealing focus from the performers. We made a hundred bucks a week, which included living quarters in a dilapidated rooming house nicknamed "Anatevka" after the village in Fiddler on the Roof. And performed in front of a mottled black-and-gray backdrop that we dubbed "The Shroud."

  Hands down, the best ten weeks of my life.

  The mirror reflected back my smile. Quickly descending to earth again, I asked, "Is there a bed and breakfast in the area?"

  Frannie/Francie sniffed. "There's one over to Hill calls itself that. Charge you an arm and a leg and give you toast in the morning. But the theatre folk all stay at the Bough."

  As she plunked a plastic travel mug on the counter, I quickly said, "Cardboard is fine."

  "This is better," she assured me as she poured. "Ten cents off each refill. Think of the savings." I was still doing the math when she added, "Be ready in a jiff. I know you don't want to be late."

  "Late?"

  "To see the cast lists."

  "Cast lists?"

  Frannie/Francie froze in the act of snapping the lid on my travel mug. "You mean you haven't auditioned yet?"

  I shook my head. "I'm just up for a few-"

  "Well, you better head right on over. Auditions close in ten minutes."

  I may have inherited my father's love for acting, but that was more than offset by my mother's practicality. I'd given theatre a try, but when I turned thirty, I wrapped my acting dreams in mothballs and got a real job.

  As I reached for my coffee, Frannie/Francie snatched up the travel mug and placed it under the counter. "I'll just keep this for you."

  "You're holding my coffee hostage?"

  "It'll taste even better after you audition."

  "Oh, come on…"

  When I ignored her shooing motions, she flung back the counter's bridge and marched towards me. I headed for the door, still complaining that I really wanted my coffee and I really, really didn't want to audition.

  "Sure you do. It'll be fun."

  No, it would only remind me that I'd failed as an actress. Just as I'd failed as a college admissions counselor, a telemarketer, and a HelpLink representative.

  "You'll do fine. Don't worry about your hair."

  She followed me out of the cafe and stood at the curb while I got into my car. As I eased into traffic, I heard her shout, "Break a leg, hon!"

  "Break yours," I muttered.

  A quick check of the rearview mirror at the roundabout proved she was still standing guard, ruining any chance of sneaking back to the Golden Bough. Resigned to searching for the overpriced B&B she had disdained, I headed north.

  As soon as the barn came into view, my heart started racing. And - right on cue - my foot came off the gas pedal. Clearly, my body wanted me to stop, even if my mind was firmly against the idea.

  What the hell. It couldn't hurt to look at the place.

  I eased my car down the narrow lane, trying to avoid deep ruts that looked like they had been carved by the Conestoga wagons of Dale's original settlers. A white farmhouse sprawled atop a hill, overlooking the meadow and barn much the way the house in Psycho looms over the Bates Motel. As I drifted closer, I glimpsed a couple of outbuildings and what might be a small pond. Beyond that stretched the forest primeval.

  There were close to two dozen cars in the gravel lot, sporting license plates from all over the Northeast; I even spotted a few from the South.

  Even more astonishing were the hopefuls milling around the picnic tables. In addition to the motley crew I'd glimpsed leaving the Chatterbox, I saw a Rocky clone in a muscle shirt, Luca Brasi's twin brother, two Legally Blonde sorority chicks, a black Rasta dude, a white Rasta wannabe, and an elderly man in a walker serenading a mousy looking woman with a quavering rendition of 'Some Enchanted Evening.' A few clutched sheet music, but most were empty-handed and looked as bewildered as I felt.

  Up close, the theatre was as unimpressive as its prospective actors. The timbers of the barn were more of a sun-bleached gray than white. Ivy crept over its stone foundations to snake up the wood slats. Atop the cupola, a black weathervane in the shape of something vaguely mammalian creaked in the gusting breeze. Shivering, I slipped through the open front door.

  Warmth enveloped me. Not merely the physical sensation of walking into a heated building, but something more - like the embrace of an old friend. I shook my head impatiently; no use getting sentimental about the good old days of summer stock.

  The small lobby was empty save for an elderly woman sitting in the box office. She looked up from her magazine and examined me over her reading glasses. Her patrician New England face - bone structure to die for - only added to the impression that she was looking down her nose at me. Then she smiled and morphed into the elegant but warm-hearted fairy godmother the Disney animators should have given Cinderella.

  "Reinhard will be out in a moment."

  I nodded politely and made a mental note to flee before then. There was still time to look around, though; beyond the two sets of double doors that led to the house, the current victim had just launched into a quavering a cappella version of 'Born to be Wild.'

  A flyer impaled to the wall with a thumbtack advertised next weekend's Memorial Day parade. Another - bright pink - the "Spring into Summer" sale at Hallee's. All corsets 25% off.

  A poster between the house doors revealed that Janet Mackenzie was the theatre's producer, while Rowan Mackenzie was its director. Doubtless some chirpy husband and wife team with pretensions of artistic brilliance. They clearly loved musicals because that was all they were doing: Brigadoon, Carousel - hoary chestnuts both - and an original show called The Sea-Wife. Book and lyrics by Rowan Mackenzie. He'd probably bombed in real theatre, but had enough money to start his own to soothe his wounded ego.

  God only knew what The Sea-Wife was about; if there were mermaids involved, I was doomed. I'd be perfect for the comic lead in Brigadoon, but I'd always despised Carousel. Maybe because the story hit a little too close to home. Abusive ne'er-do-well woos small town girl, who continues to adore him no matter what kind of crap he pulls. Returns to earth years after his death to square things with his wife and daughter. Misty-eyed finale with everyone singing some plodding anthem of hope and love.

  To be fair, Daddy never hit us. And it was only during that last year that he began vanishing for weeks at a time. Then Mom kicked him out and he vanished for good.

  A weight descended on my chest. I shrugged it off. I had no intention of wallowing in the past. Or spending the summer singing about bonnie Jean and real nice clambakes. Or auditi
oning for the Crossroads Theatre.

  Belatedly, I realized that 'Born to be Wild' had concluded. Before I could beat a hasty retreat, one of the house doors opened. A middle-aged man clutching a clipboard strode towards me.

  "Name?" he demanded, pen poised.

  "No. Sorry. I'm not-"

  "Name."

  "No. See, I'm not here for the auditions."

  "Name!"

  The Teutonic bullying brought out my Scotch-Irish temper. "Dorothy Gale. From Kansas."

  His deepening frown chiseled new lines into his forehead. "And I am Glinda, the Good Witch of the North."

  "As if," a voice proclaimed behind me. "That's my role."

  I turned to discover a plumpish young man posed dramatically in the entranceway. His pink shirt was roughly the color of Glinda's gown, but he wore ordinary blue jeans rather than a chiffon skirt and, in lieu of wand, trailed a plum-colored sweater across the floor.

  "Reinhard bullies everyone," he said as he breezed towards us. "But he's really a pussycat. I'm Hal. Welcome to the Crossroads."

  "Maggie."

  "Ha!" With a triumphant grin, Reinhard scribbled down my name.

  "Hal as in Hallee's?" I ventured.

  "Aren't you the little Miss Marple? Actually, I'm only half of Hallee's. My other half-"

  "Better half," Reinhard muttered.

  Hal stuck out his tongue. "Lee's closing up shop for me. I have to be here when the cast lists go up. So exciting."

  His radiant smile dimmed as he studied me. In my black tunic and sweatpants, I resembled a lumpish ninja. Doubtless, Hal wished he'd brought along one of those 25% off corsets.

  The smile returned with so little effort that it had to be genuine. "You'll be wonderful. I have a sixth sense about these things. Next week, after you're settled, you come into the shop. I have a green sarong that'll look fabulous with that hair."

  Reinhard sighed heavily. "Last name."

  "Graham. I bet you own the Mandarin Chalet."

  "His wife does," Hal volunteered. "Reinhard is a pediatrician."

  With that wonderful bedside manner, he probably terrified the local children into good health.

  "Mei-Yin also does our choreography. I, of course, do costumes. And set design. Lee-"

  "She will find all of this out later," Reinhard interrupted. "Now, she auditions."

  I cast a despairing look at each of my fairy godmothers, but Hal just beamed and the lady in the box office waggled her fingers.

  I knew I should turn around and walk out. But something - curiosity? instinct? my father's musical theatre genes? - impelled me to follow Reinhard into the house.

  The doors whispered shut behind us, cutting off the light from the lobby. We stood motionless in the aisle, allowing our eyes to adjust to the dimness.

  I'm a sucker for darkened theatres. There's an air of hushed anticipation, more patient and mysterious than the hush that descends before the curtain rises. As if the theatre holds secrets that it will reveal only to those who will surrender to its magic and allow it to carry them away to another place, another time, another world.

  Beneath the odors of dust and old upholstery, I smelled paint and fresh-cut wood, as if the theatre had been erected that morning instead of decades ago. And something more elusive that made me think of warm summer earth and a thick mulch of pine needles.

  A shiver crawled up my back. I rubbed my arms, firmly quelling my imagination and the emerging crop of goose bumps.

  Mr. 'Born to be Wild' must have left via another door for the stage was empty. Thick clouds of dust motes lent a Brigadoony mistiness to the pool of light center stage. The music director's head peeped over the rim of the orchestra pit, hair gleaming like a newly minted penny. In the center section of the house, I spotted the dark silhouette of the director.

  My stomach went into freefall.

  "Break a leg, sweetie."

  I started at Hal's whisper, unaware that he'd slipped in behind us. As Reinhard edged past me, I whispered that I didn't have any material, that I hadn't brought a resume or headshot. He ignored my running monologue and marched down the aisle. And once again, I trotted after him like an obedient puppy.

  I mounted the five steps to the stage with the alacrity of Marie Antoinette en route to the guillotine. Then I remembered that I was a New Yorker, for God's sake. And once upon a time, people had paid to see me perform. I straightened my slumping shoulders and strode onto the stage as if I owned it.

  A shock of static electricity stopped me in my tracks. And with it, that weird sense of coming home that I had felt when I stepped inside the barn.

  Get a grip, Graham.

  I took a deep breath, let it out, and walked into the pool of light.

  "Good afternoon. And welcome."

  Although I knew the invisible director was just adopting the same soothing tone I used on HelpLink calls, my heartbeat slowed from rabbit speed to human.

  "I'd like you to read a scene first. Something from Brigadoon."

  I couldn't place his faint accent, but it was also strangely soothing.

  "If you please, Reinhard."

  Reinhard thrust a piece of paper at me. Meg and Jeff. Funny, secondary lead stuff. No sweat. Hearing Jeff's lines delivered in a German accent reminded me how absurd this whole thing was.

  "Very nice," Rowan Mackenzie said when I finished. He probably said that to everyone, but a warm glow blossomed in my stomach.

  "What will you be singing for us today?"

  Exit warm glow, stage left.

  I shot a panicked glance at the music director, who just stared up expectantly from his piano in the pit. I couldn't think of anything. Neither the uptempo number nor the ballad I'd always used for auditions. I tried to remember the plodding anthem from Carousel, but all I came up with was 'A Real Nice Clambake.'

  Then a title popped into my head. Before I could stop myself, I blurted it out.

  I had to hand it to the music director; the guy didn't miss a beat. Never mind that it was a man's song. And a major cheese-fest. With a rippling arpeggio, he launched into the intro of 'Some Enchanted Evening.'

  In spite of my horror, I noted that Penny Hair had chosen a good key for me. Silently blessing him, I dove in. The first verse was shaky, but by the second, I'd begun to enjoy mocking the sappy lyrics and over-ripe music.

  But at the end of the bridge, something strange happened. I found myself remembering how I'd felt when I met Michael freshman year. And how Eric burst out laughing when I bumped into him at the Cineplex and drenched him with Diet Coke. That giddy, unexpected, "Oh, my God" magic that warms you like single malt whisky and leaves you cold and shivering at the same time.

  And just like that, I was singing my heart out. My voice soared during that final verse, only to drop to a choked whisper at the end. The last note was still hanging in the air when Hal shouted "Brava!" and began clapping. The silhouetted head turned, and the applause stopped.

  Just as abruptly, my chick flick sentimentality evaporated. Moisture prickled my armpits and forehead, that awful cold dampness that actors call "flop sweat." I hung my head, desperately searching for a trap in the floor so I could plummet quietly to my death.

  "Now as to your availability…"

  "She came in late." Reinhard's disapproving voice boomed out of the darkness. "She did not fill out the form."

  "Thank you, Reinhard. Rehearsals begin after Memorial Day. The season ends in mid-August. We hope our actors will be able to join us for the entire summer, but that's not always possible. I need to accommodate everyone's schedule when I make casting decisions, so if you could tell me your availability…"

  "Oh, I'm available. Free as the wind. No job. No husband at home. Not even any home to speak of since the bathroom ceiling caved in."

  Realizing that I sounded more pathetic than amusing, I shut my mouth. The ensuing silence brought on another wave of flop sweat.

  He'd given me the perfect cue and I'd blown it. I shou
ld have politely but firmly told him that I wasn't looking for a job. Not here, anyway. I had to get back to Brooklyn. File for unemployment. Check out jobsites.

  As I opened my mouth to explain, he said, "Thank you. Would you please wait outside? The stage door is to your right."

  I slunk into the wings where a work light guided me to the door. As I stepped into the real world, the little old man with the walker advanced carefully over the grass.

  "Such a lovely song. Not so often you hear a girl sing it."

  The familiar cadences of New York restored my spirits.

  "We danced to it at our wedding, Rachel and me." As I glanced around, he added, "No, no. She passed away a few months ago."

  "I'm so sorry."

  "Fifty-two years we were married."

  "Wow. That's terrific. Sometimes it feels like I've gone that long without a date."

  "A nice young thing like you? You've got plenty of time to find Mr. Right. Who knows? Maybe here. Look at my granddaughter." He jerked his head over his shoulder. "The one with the blue hair who's eating up whatever Jack Kerouac's dishing out."

  I smothered a laugh; the kid did look like a young Jack Kerouac.

  "The two of you drove all the way up from the city?" I asked.

  "You're a New Yorker, too?" he exclaimed. Because of course, to New Yorkers, there is only one city.

  "Transplanted," I admitted.

  "Born and bred." He thumped his chest proudly and listed a little to starboard, but steadied himself before I had to leap to the rescue. "Prospect Park."

  "Crown Heights."

  "We're practically neighbors! Well. Would have been. I live with my daughter now. Over in Manchester."

  "If you don't mind my asking…"

  "Ask."

  "Are you an actor?"

  "Dentist. Retired. Bernie Cohen."

  "Maggie Graham. But you auditioned?"

  "Me and Sarah both."

  "How did you even find this place?"

  "Well, it's funny…" His gaze moved past me, and he whispered, "I'll tell you later. Here comes Hermann Goering with the cast lists."

  It seemed impossible that Rowan Mackenzie had made his decisions so quickly; I'd known directors who spent days mulling over their choices. But Hal was tacking sheets of paper to the side of the barn.

  The buzz of conversation died, replaced by a silence so profound I could hear the creak of the weathervane and the soft whistle of Dr. Cohen's breathing.

  Reinhard surveyed us, frowning. "The casts lists are up. Three copies. So do not crowd."

  We darted nervous glances at each other, uncertain if this was our cue to inspect the lists and reluctant to move without Reinhard's permission. He nodded, clearly pleased by our obedience, then said, "Now. You look."

  In the general stampede that ensued, I stuck close to Dr. Cohen so he wouldn't be trampled. There were excited exclamations as people found their names. A few retreated in obvious elation. Most just looked confused. But clearly, everyone had gotten a role, because there were no tears or brave "It's an honor to be nominated" smiles.

  After the first wave subsided, I edged forward with Dr. Cohen and his granddaughter. Once again, my heart was pounding like a demented bongo, but I tried to appear nonchalant as I scanned the list.

  Brigadoon - Chorus. Chorus? I nailed that scene. And he put me in the chorus?

  The Sea-Wife - Chorus. Again.

  Carousel - Nettie. Who the hell was Nettie? The tough-talking carousel owner?

  The ear-shattering squeal of a pig being slaughtered turned out to be Dr. Cohen's granddaughter. "Grandpa, I got Louise!"

  "That's wonderful, sweetheart!" He angled away from her to mouth, "Who's Louise?"

  "I think that's the daughter in Carousel," I whispered. "With the big ballet number."

  "Ballet?" He glanced at Sarah who was jumping up and down, plump bosoms, belly, and thighs quivering like Jell-O. "Oy. So who's this Mr. Lundie? If he's got a ballet number, I don't want to know."

  "You're safe. He's the village elder who explains the miracle of Brigadoon."

  "What miracle?" Luca Brasi demanded, shouldering a geeky accountant type aside.

  "Of why the town vanishes into the mists and returns for one day every hundred years."

  "Cool." One of the Legally Blondes nodded solemnly.

  "What about this Heavenly Friend in Carousel?" the shorter church lady asked.

  "I think he…she's a sort of angel."

  As the church lady preened, the straw hat of her taller companion loomed behind her shoulder. "And Mrs. Mullin?"

  I suddenly remembered who Nettie was: not the tough-talking carousel owner but the salt-of-the-earth woman who sings the plodding anthem whose name had eluded me earlier: 'You'll Never Walk Alone.' As well as 'June is Bustin' Out All Over.' And the fucking clambake song.

  It wasn't the age thing I minded. Much. I was rarely cast as the ingenue, even when I was the right age to play one. I'd played Mrs. Kendal in The Elephant Man, the Witch in Into the Woods. But those were sexy, witty, glamorous roles. Starring roles. Not well-meaning, anthem-singing, clambake-loving frumps.

  "Does anybody know who Mrs. Mullin is?" the second church lady pleaded.

  "I think she's the owner of the carousel," I replied.

  "And Carrie?"

  "Hey! I'm Harry."

  "Not Harry. Carrie."

  "What about this guy Charlie?"

  In moments, I was surrounded, spitting out plot synopses and character snapshots. It was clear most of them knew nothing about these shows. What the hell were they doing here? More importantly, what the hell was I doing here? Chorus in some dreadful original musical. An anonymous villager in Brigadoon. And Our Lady of the Clambake.

  Rowan Mackenzie must be blind. Or on crack. Why would he cast me as Nettie when he had his pick of not one, but two church ladies? Or cast the geeky accountant as sinister Jigger when he was clearly made to play the insufferable Mr. Snow? And what bonnie Jean in her right mind would go home with Luca Brasi?

  What made it more confusing was that some of the casting was spot on. Dr. Cohen was perfect for wise old Mr. Lundie. And Jack Kerouac would be great as the brooding guy who nearly destroys Brigadoon. So how come some of Rowan Mackenzie's picks were so right and others so woefully wrong?

  There was an onslaught of shushing as Reinhard waved his clipboard.

  "Rehearsals start after Memorial Day. You will be paid $100 a week. You will live at the Golden Bough. No charge. You will have breakfast at the Chatterbox. No charge. All this is spelled out in the contract. But you do not sign now. Tonight, we celebrate. Dinner at the Mandarin Chalet. No charge. Rooms at the Golden Bough. No charge. Tomorrow, ten o'clock, company meeting. Here. You meet the director. You meet the staff. You make up your minds. Any questions?"

  Only about a thousand. But they could wait. I'd take the free food and the free night's lodging. Hell, I'd even stick around for the company meeting to get a look at the demented Rowan Mackenzie. After that, I would hit the road.

  SPELLCAST is now available at:

  Amazon.com

  Barnes & Noble

  About the Author

  Barbara Ashford abandoned a career in educational administration to pursue a life in the theatre, working as an actress in summer stock and dinner theatre and later, as a lyricist and librettist. Her musicals have been performed throughout the world, including such venues as the New York Musical Theatre Festival and the Edinburgh International Festival.

  Barbara's first trilogy was a finalist for the Mythopoeic Society's Fantasy Award for Literature. In writing Spellcast, she exchanged epic fantasy in the Bronze Age for paranormal romance in Vermont, and cannibalized much of her life to create her protagonist's.

  Her short stories appear in the anthologies After Hours: Tales from the Ur-Bar and The Modern Fae's Guide to Surviving Humanity (2012).

  Barbara lives near New York City with her husband whom she met while performing in the play
Bedroom Farce. (You can't make this stuff up, folks.)

  Visit her at www.barbaraashford.com