by Janice Hanna
“All right, everyone. Outside. Pronto!”
She led the way across the parking lot and into the field on the south end of the property, chatting with Woody all the way.
Steve watched as Jackson and Sarge unloaded the horse and mare from the back of the trailer. A better man would’ve offered to help. Take Pete, for example. He headed over to offer assistance. And so did Darrell. And Grady.
Steve sighed then took a few steps in their direction. Thankfully, they didn’t need him. Sarge led the mare to the field and Jackson followed behind with the mule on a short leash. Would’ve made for an interesting photo op. Where was that reporter when you needed him? Oh yeah. Taking pictures of Lucy, Annabelle, and Blossom.
“C’mon, everyone,” Woody called out when the camera stopped clicking. “Let’s get busy on that jousting scene.”
Steve glanced across the parking lot at Jackson, wondering if the idea of riding the horse while carrying a sword made him nervous. No, the guy looked as cool as a cucumber. Figured. He probably taught fencing lessons on the side. Or raced horses.
Amy took charge, script in hand. “Okay, in the jousting scene, Lancelot faces three of Guinevere’s finest horsemen.” Amy turned to Grady, Sarge, and Pete, who all looked a little green. Steve didn’t blame them.
“The scene starts with Sir Lionel,” Amy said. “Pete, that means you’re riding first. You will be followed by Sir Dinadan. Grady, that’s you. Then comes Sir Sagramore. Sarge, you’re Sir Sagramore. You’re the one who…” She paused and looked at the script. “Oh. Hmm.”
“What is it, Amy?” Sarge asked.
“Well, according to the script, you’re the one who goes last. You die and then you’re prayed back to life by Lancelot. That means you have to fall from the horse—er, mule—and pretend to be dead.”
“Hmm.” Sarge shrugged, rubbing his hips. “If I fall from B-52, I will be dead. Won’t even have to act. A’course, that might be problematic for the second show. And the third. And so on.” He chuckled.
“I’ll take the part of the dead knight,” Pete said. “Don’t mind a bit. I’ll do my best to fall soft. And slow.”
“Just be careful, Pete,” Steve said, his alarm growing. “We don’t need any more broken bones.”
“Yes, please be careful,” Amy echoed. She turned to Sarge. “Since you and Pete swapped, that means you’re up first.”
“Are we practicing with real swords?” Sarge asked.
“No.” Amy shook her head. “Definitely not. I hadn’t really thought about what to use for rehearsal, to be honest. This whole scene has eluded me, which is why I’ve put it off till now.”
“Oh, I know….” Grady went to his car and returned with a couple of fishing poles. “Here ya go, Amy. Perfect for fightin’.”
Steve looked on as Grady handed one to Jackson and the other to Sarge. Then he watched, with his stomach in his throat, as Jackson climbed aboard Katie Sue and Sarge mounted the mule. Not that the stubborn animal had any intention of running. Oh no. He seemed content to stand in one place. Forever, apparently.
A gentle swat on the hip from Sarge sent B-52 shooting across the field. Not exactly in the right direction, but at least he was running. Sarge whooped and hollered and finally got the animal turned around. At this point, he and Jackson barreled down the field toward each other, pretending to stab their opponent with a fishing pole. Jackson very nearly succeeded. In fact, he came a little too close, to Steve’s way of thinking.
Off in the distance, Blossom, Annabelle, and Gwen cried out, “Get him, Lancelot! Get him!”
“Aren’t they supposed to be cheering for Sir Lionel?” Steve asked, pointing to the script. “Someone needs to remind them.”
“Oh, that’s right.” Amy turned to the girls and gave them instructions. Gwen’s smile quickly faded.
Sarge climbed off the mule, all smiles. “Well, that was a blast. Haven’t had that much fun since I rode a donkey into town back in Vietnam.” And off he went on another war story.
“Thanks, Sarge,” Amy said, interrupting him. “Okay, Grady’s turn.”
“Y’all know I’m not a churchgoer,” Grady said, climbing aboard B-52. “But I sure could use some prayer right about now.” He managed to get the mule in place, though he nearly slid off a time or two in the process.
Steve looked on, wondering how this would end. He watched as Jackson’s horse took off across the parking lot and headed straight for Grady, who looked a little pale as he hung on for dear life. B-52 kicked into gear once again and took off running. At the last minute, Jackson threw out his fishing pole and caught Grady’s cap.
“Oops. Sorry, Grady,” he said.
“Enough already,” Steve called out. He took a few angry steps in Amy’s direction. “He’s being too rough. Lancelot—I mean Jackson.”
“What?” She looked his way, confusion registering in her eyes. “You think so?”
“Yes. These other men don’t have the…” He hated to say the word. “Skill. They don’t have the skill that he does.”
“Are you going to let me direct this scene, or would you like to take over?” Amy’s tight expression clued him in to her frustration.
“You’re working with men here, Amy. You don’t understand how crazy this could get if you’re not careful.”
“Steve, don’t be silly. Everything is fine.”
“I’m just saying you shouldn’t plow ahead without thinking it through. It could get dangerous, especially when we trade in those fishing poles for real swords. Remember that line near the end of the play—‘Might doesn’t always mean right’? Well, that applies in this situation.”
“You’re quoting lines from the play at me?” she asked.
“If that’s what it takes. Just trying to put things into perspective.” He paused to calm down then carefully chose his words. He lowered his voice to make sure no one else heard. “We need to move carefully. We don’t need another accident.”
She turned her attention back to the group, clapping her hands. The mist of tears in her eyes gave away her anger. “Let’s keep this thing moving.” She faced the cast and plastered on a smile. “Okay, guys. Enough jousting. Let’s move on to the garden scene, the one where Guinevere and Lancelot declare their undying love.”
Ugh. Steve turned away from the crowd, wanting to put an end to this rehearsal here and now. Still, with so many people depending on him, what else could he do but stick around and watch the woman he loved declare her affections for another? Steve had to admit, the idea of Amy and Jackson quoting the mushy lines from the play made him nauseous. Even if they were just acting.
Oh, how he prayed they were acting.
Amy released a breath and counted to ten, trying to put Steve’s words out of her mind. What is his problem? Did he not realize they only had a few weeks to pull this thing together? She’d put off the jousting scene till now, knowing it would be the toughest one in the show. And yet the rehearsal had gone pretty well. Better than expected. No one had gotten hurt. Why had he created such a scene?
“You ready, fair maiden?” Jackson appeared at her side, the kindness in his eyes calming her at once. “I’ve been working extra hard on this scene.”
“I–I’m ready.” She looked at Woody, nerves suddenly getting the best of her. “Are we rehearsing this one outside?”
“Might as well,” Woody said, pointing. “Use that bench. It will make a great prop.”
Amy took a seat on the bench and released a slow, steady breath, letting go of her angst and preparing for the scene ahead. This would be a tough one. Tougher still with Steve looking on.
“Okay, let’s start at the top,” Woody said. “Jackson, pick up at the line where you’re telling Guinevere how much you love her. Start behind the bench, then work your way around to the front and take a seat next to her.”
Amy closed her eyes for a second, getting her bearings. She did her best to ignore the clicking of Mickey’s camera. As Jackson’s lines began, she found herself
caught up in them. How wonderful would it be to have a man speak those intimate words over her…for real. Was such a heartfelt speech really possible from a man’s lips, or did all men dance around the “I love you” issue as much as Steve did?
Stop it, Amy. Focus.
As his lines continued, Jackson approached the front of the bench. He sat so close she could feel his breath on her cheek as he spoke his lines. His words held her spellbound, his enunciation perfect, his volume exactly right. More than anything, she loved the cadence of his voice—the rise and fall as he delivered his lines—the genuine emotion he poured into the heart and soul of the character. Something about the lines felt so compelling. By the time he reached the “If Ever I Would Leave You” opening, Amy found herself completely caught up in the moment.
Until she glanced across the field at Steve and saw the pain in his eyes. Then she just felt…confused.
She rose from the bench and slipped her hands into the pockets of her jeans. “We’ll have to stop there, Woody. The music CD is inside.”
“That’s okay. We’ll run through Arthur’s soliloquy,” Woody said. “Steve, c’mon up here and let’s get this scene going.”
Steve rose and, with everyone looking on, delivered his lines perfectly, every word heartfelt. As Amy listened to his compelling speech—the one where he offered up forgiveness to Guinevere and Lancelot for betraying him—her emotions got the best of her.
Unfortunately, she didn’t really have time to process any of this. Off in the distance, an approaching vehicle caught her eye. And when Fred Platt, county commissioner, got out of the car, she realized the other scenes she’d planned to rehearse would very likely have to wait till another day.
Chapter Nineteen
As in a theater, the eyes of men, after a well-graced actor leaves the stage, are idly bent on him that enters next.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Less than ten minutes after the county commissioner interrupted the rehearsal, Amy dismissed the cast. What would be the point of continuing, with Steve in such a strange mood and Fred Platt consuming so much of his time? No, she’d rather pack it in and go for a drive. Only then would she be able to clear her thoughts and think. And pray. Maybe she still had time to get God’s perspective on all of this before she opened her mouth and said something she’d later regret.
“Walk with me?” Jackson asked, drawing near. “I’ve got to put Katie Sue in the trailer.”
“Sure.” She stepped into place beside him as he guided the mare across the parking lot, beyond Lucy’s powder-puff pink car, and past the pest control van.
At first Jackson made small talk. But after a while he shifted gears. “You okay?” he asked, giving her a sideways glance. “You seem a little…”
“Stressed?” Amy sighed. “It’s okay. You can say it. You won’t hurt my feelings.”
He nodded and patted the horse on the rump to get her to walk up the ramp to the back of the trailer. “Yeah. Stressed. Guess that’s the right word. Just don’t seem yourself.” The horse let out a whinny but made her way into the trailer. That job done, Jackson turned to Amy. “Was there something wrong with that scene we acted out? Are you upset by my performance or something?”
“Good grief, no.” She groaned, wondering why he’d even ask such a thing. “Just the opposite. I thank God every day that you’ve come to Camelot, trust me.”
“You do?” He quirked a brow and a boyish grin lit his face. “That’s good to hear.”
Immediately her stomach felt queasy. “Oh, I didn’t mean…well, you know. Glad for the sake of the play.”
“Ah.” His eyes never left hers. “Just the play?”
So she hadn’t been imagining it. He really thought he stood a chance with her. Surely he realized she and Steve were…
What were they, after all? Would you really call it “boyfriend and girlfriend” at their age? And could you call it that if you weren’t exactly getting along? Steve seemed to be upset at her today. And she…
She needed time to think. Something felt off, and she had to chew on it for a while.
“I have to get out of here, Jackson,” Amy said. “We can talk more tomorrow. But right now I need to take a drive.”
“Gotcha.”
She turned on her heels and headed for her car on the far end of the parking lot. As she passed Steve, she offered up a little wave. He responded with a nod but didn’t say anything. So strange. Oh well. Hopefully nothing a bubble bath and a good night’s sleep wouldn’t cure. After a long drive in the hills.
As she pulled out of the parking lot, Amy’s gaze shifted to Pastor Crane’s hearse. It seemed oddly ironic, since everything inside of her—the feelings she’d shared with Steve, her hopes for a great production, her plan to save the town—suddenly felt like it had died. Her hopes had been buried alive, swallowed up in an instant.
She pulled out of the parking lot and onto the highway, her breathing coming a little easier as she rounded the first bend in the road.
For as long as Amy could remember, driving had served as her cure-all for life’s ills. The backwoods of Tennessee could lift the spirits of anyone, even the weepiest woman. And that’s what she was right now. Weepy.
She turned off toward town, the winding road bringing a strange sense of relief. And when she turned off onto Merlin Circle, her pain lifted. Really, was there anywhere on earth where the contrast of colors was more vivid? Was she the only one who noticed it? The trees practically hugged her on Merlin Circle. They were so close together they almost made her feel a part of them.
Amy continued to drive as the road stretched out in front of her for a spell. Then, just as quickly, she hit a winding patch. She contemplated how much her life felt like that road, taking her places she never dreamed she would go. Okay, some she didn’t exactly want to go to—but she learned something about herself at each stop along the way. Some spots were higher than others, some were lower. But they were all part of the journey. And for some odd reason, today the journey seemed longer—and tougher—than ever.
Steve watched as Amy pulled away in her car. She hadn’t even said good-bye. Okay, she’d tried to communicate with him through a wave, but he’d…Steve sighed. He’d ignored it, his heart too heavy to respond. What he should have done—what he’d do next time—was sweep her into his arms and kiss her soundly, then share every thought in his head about how she made him feel.
Well, how she made him feel on a good day.
Today, he just felt…jealous. Yes, jealous was surely the word. And now he had to face the added frustration of a lengthy conversation with Fred Platt. Perfect. Just what he needed to wrap up a wonderful afternoon. What would happen next? An incoming storm? A newspaper headline announcing the doomed production?
He looked up just in time to see Mickey talking to the commissioner with his writing tablet and pen in hand. Oh no. He would have to head this thing off at the pass, and quick. Steve took a few determined steps in their direction, interrupting their conversation with a brusque nod. “Fred, I’m all yours. Would you like to go inside?”
“No, let’s walk around back. I need to point out a few remaining concerns. It won’t take long this time, I promise.”
“Okay.”
Steve spent the next ten minutes talking through Fred’s short list of concerns, including a spot for handicapped parking and a wheelchair ramp. Not quite as bad as he’d anticipated, really, and things he’d already put on his to-be-addressed list, anyway.
By the time they arrived back in the parking lot, most of the ladies had gone. Sarge and Jackson stood next to the horse trailer, talking and laughing.
“I’ll be in my car, filling out some paperwork,” Fred said. “Will you be around for a few minutes, in case I have any more questions?”
“Sure, I’ll hang around.” Steve glanced at his watch: 6:39. “I need to talk to a couple of the guys, anyway. We’ve got a lot going on around here.”
From across the parking lot, Pete gave him a wave.
“Steve, do you have a few minutes?” he called out.
“Sure.” Steve headed toward the pest control van, his gaze shifting to poor Bugsy, who still clung to the top as if his life depended on it. Maybe it did. As he drew near, Steve couldn’t help but notice that Pete appeared to be flustered. “You okay? You look a little…I don’t know. Ill?”
“Ah. Well, I, um…” Pete’s sigh spoke volumes.
“Spit it out.”
“All right. I want to talk to you about…well, women.”
“Ugh.” Steve groaned. “Do we have to?” Today, of all days?
“Just need some advice. Do you mind?”
“What kind of advice?”
“I’d rather talk privately,” Pete said. He gestured to his van.
“Sure. I guess.” Another glance at his watch followed. Steve climbed into the pest control van, the aroma nearly doing him in. After a few minutes, however, he became acclimated to the odor. Mostly. From the passenger seat—with the window rolled down, anyway—he could barely smell it anymore.
From his spot in the driver’s seat, Pete turned his way. “I feel so ridiculous talking to you about this. Don’t know why I even bothered you, now that we’re in here. I feel like an idiot.”
“No, it’s okay.” Steve squirmed in the seat; the springs were giving him a little trouble. “What’s up?”
Pete’s face contorted. “It’s Lucy.”
“Lucy Cramden?” Steve felt his curiosity pique. “What about her?”
“I’ve tried every which way to get her attention, but she’s just not seeing me. Sometimes I think I’ll have to perform some sort of miraculous act to get her to focus on me. She’s only got eyes for Charlie Hart. My gut tells me he’s not interested in her. Otherwise, I wouldn’t even dare to hope. But still…”
“I hear ya.”
“Don’t know what else I can do.” Pete slumped over the steering wheel, a look of defeat on his face. “Guess she’s just not interested. Either that or she’s just distracted.”