by Nikki Logan
But Mackenzie misinterpreted the tilt. She stood and took visible care to face him. ‘I’m responsible for the theatre props department.’ She sighed. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know any sign language.’
Wow. He was really losing his touch if that was the first clue he had that Mackenzie thought he rather than Phantom was deaf.
Okay!
Before he could get the truth across, she barrelled onwards.
‘Probably easiest to just show you,’ she said, straightening up. ‘Come on.’
He’d been camping out behind this theatre for a few days, but hadn’t set foot inside it. Though he’d entertained the idea a few times.
‘Bring Phantom,’ she said before he could sign for the dog to stay. She followed it up with a gesture. ‘It’s okay.’
Phantom trailed him into the dark, but only one of them was perky about it. Dylan had no problem with closed spaces—nor with activities that distracted anyone from conversation—but seeing behind the scenes at Mackenzie’s place of work was like expressing interest in her life, and doing that would only lead to a familiarity he’d rather avoid.
Then again, he’d started it by offering to help with the varnishing. That’s what you get for acting on instinct. And he couldn’t deny he’d been curious to see beyond his little nook.
‘Here it is,’ she announced on a spin after leading him down a long service corridor. ‘Props HQ.’
He dutifully walked around the crowded storeroom, as he was given a guided tour of sorts, making sure to take pains to admire the occasional item.
‘This bed?’ she said, pointing at the only bed in the room. ‘This has been in every production we’ve ever had. In some form or another. Every one! For five decades.’
It was a bed, plain and serviceable, but to Kenzie it was clearly something more.
‘And look at this, it’s just in. Bruce is helping me to restore it.’
The old sled hit him right between the ribs. Memories of winter with his brother.
‘It’s a little chaotic, I know,’ she rushed, ‘but when I first took it over? Wow. The old guy that ran it before me …? I know it looks like a hoarder’s collection to some people but it’s utterly streamlined by comparison.’
Lucky he wasn’t actually deaf because he’d have had a hell of a time trying to make sense of the sentence fragments pinging around the room. Ah, passion. It came in many forms and all of them were engaging even if they weren’t even close to his own. Anything became interesting if it was shared by someone who loved it enough. In the comparatively dim light of this room, Mackenzie’s cheeks were glowing. It made her already bright eyes sparkle. Showing some interest in this assortment of bric-a-brac was the least he could do.
She finally drew breath and took a moment to consider. ‘You know, I’m not even sure you can understand me. I’m only assuming you can lip-read.’ She stared at him intently. The scrutiny reminded him of all kinds of uncomfortable from a long time ago. ‘So, can you?’
Understand her? He nodded, and her smile returned threefold.
‘Okay. So I need to show you this. It’s my collection of antique candlesticks …’
‘We need something stiff to mask that drawer before we varnish it. Otherwise the drawers will stick at a pivotal moment for someone …’ Kenzie hunted in her kit for something suitable until a different rustling brought her attention back to Dylan.
He held up a tourism leaflet, crisp and new with a machine-folded straight edge. Perfect for their needs. But it did feature a very familiar face.
She sighed and turned half away as she muttered, ‘Of course you have one.’
But towards Dylan she just said, ‘No shortage of these in circulation now that we’re getting closer to Brachen’s bicentennial. They won’t miss one.’ It sounded hollow, even to her.
Dylan tipped his head again in the way she was fast becoming used to.
‘It’s nothing. Just … This town does have other things going for it other than being the birthplace of a comedian.’ She ducked her head behind the dresser, specifically so he wouldn’t read the pique on her thinly pressed lips as she muttered. ‘A comedian who hasn’t set foot in Brachen since the day he shipped out of it.’
When she re-emerged a moment later, his steady hazel gaze was on her. He ferreted in his pockets for another leaflet and pointed to a bit of text. She knew it immediately.
‘Yes. I know. This theatre is named after de Vue. But it is also much more. When you’re part of this theatre, you’re part of this family—it’s one of the reasons I love to come here. So, Rivervue feels like ours. Not just his.’ Again, she ducked out of his view. ‘It never really was his.’
He leaned forward and plucked the pen from the pocket at the top of her shirt. Moments later he flipped the brochure back around so she could read his scrawl in its margins.
Not President of the Ron de Vue fan club?
‘There’s a reason they lock me away below the stage. I think I’m bad for Brachen tourism.’
He looked almost as surprised as she was at the laugh that burst out of him. It wasn’t speech but it was a sound, and sound was a kind of communication, right? She’d spent years trying to show people how things could add meaning as easily as words. Why should a laugh be any different?
As their varnishing progressed, Kenzie chatted about the theatre, the town, their current production for the bicentennial, Larrikin, her props and briefly about her job at the vet clinic. He showed no interest in stalling the runaway train that was her mouth and so she even bored him to further silence with Rivervue’s tale of woe with the shire’s eviction notice. She forgot completely about the whole lip-reading thing but that didn’t trouble Dylan, who nodded and tilted and politely smiled through the whole thing. Even Phantom seemed rapt.
‘You can imagine just how filthy we all were to find out that our time here is up,’ she went on as they varnished. ‘How hard would it have been for de Vue to make the lease perpetual instead of for fifty years for goodness’ sake? But then the man wasn’t known for his consideration.’ She sloshed the varnish over the edges of her container. ‘Lexi’s been carrying this alone for months. She was working her way up to breaking it to us as a group, those of us that loved Rivervue most. But then Mayor Forsdyke just … blurted it out at a council meeting a couple of weeks ago: “Rivervue Revitalisation”. With no thought. No consideration. Like it was old news. It took about four minutes to make its way across town and to our shocked ears.’
Her hand stilled and she shook her head. ‘Rivervue is practically our home.’ She stared into the drawer in front of her. ‘You don’t knock someone’s home over without a bit of consultation, right? But there was none. Just the mayor and whatever dirty deal he did with developers. Lexi’s fighting it of course, but …’
She shrugged and finally looked up. It was only then she realised that his brush had been still the entire time she’d been ranting.
‘I’m so sorry. I’m talking you to death. You don’t need to hear all our woes.’
A few long, raised fingers somehow managed to communicate that it was no problem. That had to be a lie, but Kenzie appreciated it nonetheless. It was hard carrying the conversation load for two all afternoon.
‘I want to ask questions about you, but I don’t want to presume.’
She dumped their brushes into an old cat-food tin half filled with turpentine and knocked the lid back on the varnish tin.
Dylan sank back onto his haunches and gave her a thumbs up. Then he laid his palms on his thighs. Waiting.
She wanted to ask him why he was alone—a deaf man travelling with only a dog for company. She wanted to know if he and Phantom were safe at night in the places they went. She wanted to know why he’d come to Brachen and why he had to live rough. She wanted to know what he was running from. But none of those had yes/no answers. And that’s what he needed.
She’d played this game as a kid and had always sucked at it.
‘Are you Australian?’
He shoo
k his head.
No.
‘Did you bring Phantom with you from overseas?’ Australia was an island continent and quarantine was expensive so a yes would mean he’d had some money at some point. Even if he didn’t now.
Again the shake.
‘Have you had him since he was a pup?’ Because Phantom’s teeth suggested he was about five.
No. Okay.
‘Did you find him on the way? He was lost?’
This time a nod. Hooray!
She took a deep breath. ‘Is that your mobile number on his tags?’
He reached behind him, pulled a mobile from his pocket and wiggled it. That threw her for a moment—why did a deaf man need a mobile? But she had one and most of the time she used it to send and receive messages. Maybe he did the same. What it did tell her was that he at least had the funds for phone credit. And that, presumably, he had someone to message.
So not entirely alone, then.
She opened her mouth to ask about his choice of transport but what came out instead was, ‘If I offered you a place to sleep tonight would you accept it?’
Everything in her wanted to invite Dylan and Phantom into her home. Her little, empty three-bedroom cottage. To give them somewhere safe and comfortable and warm to rest their heads. But that was a bad idea, right? Not the sort of thing you offered to random strangers you met in fire exits. As ever, her heart had taken her somewhere her head—and twenty-five years of social conditioning—shouldn’t want to go.
Dylan watched her closely with a kind of softness in his gaze, but then shook his head.
That should have been relief trickling through her body. She had just dodged a bullet. What if he’d said yes, for goodness’ sake! Then what?
‘Why not?’
Oh, for crying out loud, heart, will you shut it! He’d just given her an easy out.
But ‘Why not?’ was scarcely a question he could answer with yay or nay.
He scribbled in yet another margin on the brochure. Phantom’s grown used to us sleeping together.
‘He could sleep inside with you. That’s fine.’
For the first time since she’d met him, she saw something resembling frustration on Dylan’s face. He scribbled again. He was going to run out of brochure.
Not good with people.
She looked at the tongue-lolling staffy. ‘He’s great with people!’
But Dylan just lay a hand on his chest.
‘Oh, you’re not?’ If that was true, he’d have packed up and left the moment she spotted him in the fire exit. ‘You prefer your own company?’
Yes.
Okay. She’d asked, he’d refused and she respected his reasons. He’d clearly been doing fine out here in his travels. Commence tactical retreat.
‘I was thinking about the props room, actually.’ What? That wasn’t true. ‘I’ve slept in there myself a few times. It’s quiet, you’ve seen the bed. And Phantom can stay right there with you.’
His gaze grew intense. His fingers whitened around the pencil.
What if I steal your stuff?
Oh, please. ‘What if I steal yours?’
Charity, he scrawled.
‘It won’t be charity if you work for your room,’ she improvised. ‘We’re about to start a new production. Bruce could use the help, I’m sure. Or … OH!’
Her upthrust arms startled Phantom up onto his feet. Dylan calmed him with a reassuring signal.
‘Yes! Brilliant. There’s a dog in the play. I think Lexi was going to just borrow someone’s paddock dog and shove it out on stage. How much better would it be if that dog was trained to follow hand signals? Like a proper city production.’
He flipped the brochure and reversed it. You want to put Phantom in your play?
‘It’s not my play.’ A casual observer might think that it was Draven’s play, or even Ron de Vue’s since he was the subject. But it was their play now. Rivervue’s. ‘It’s also not mine to cast, but I’ll suggest it to Lexi. I’m sure she’d be stoked. And if not, then you can just help with props. We are a community theatre after all.’
And they’d get around the whole deaf-mute thing later.
‘What do you think?’
About six different emotions chased across his face. He took to the brochure again but this time his scribble was considered.
I might—he started and then paused, choosing his words carefully—I might need to move on again.
There was no reason for that to fill her with such sadness, but Kenzie found herself having to fake her casual reply.
‘Que sera.’ She shrugged. ‘We’ll have a doggie understudy. It’s not that great a favour, if I’m honest. As rehearsals kick in I’ll be using the props room in the evenings more often than not. But it’s warm and dry and comes with both plumbing and a kettle. When was the last time you made your own coffee?’
Dylan was tempted. She could practically see the fast calculations his mind was doing.
He leaned forward and wrote a single word on the last available space inside the brochure.
Trial?
It took everything in her not to break into a triumphant smile. If it didn’t work out, she figured that she’d just come in one morning and find the bed carefully made and no further sign of either him or Phantom anywhere in Brachen. He could just move on whenever he wanted. But if boundaries were important to him …
‘Sure. One week?’ That was seven days fewer on the streets for the two of them. And she’d earn some decent paying-it-forward points.
Dylan slowly brought up one thumb and complemented the gesture with a reserved smile. Then the rest of his fingers stretched towards her.
Kenzie met his outstretched hand and slid hers firmly into the shake.
Chapter Three
Mackenzie seemed a bit dismayed at how little time it took to get Dylan and his scarce belongings settled into a corner of her props room. She wrestled out an old military locker for his belongings—hopefully not needed for the upcoming production—and then slid it to the foot of the old wireframe bed. Jeez, Phantom would feel redundant with this setup. The dog’s job was usually to guard their meagre possessions whenever he couldn’t be there but, in here, no-one was going to be rifling through their stuff anytime soon. With one exception, it would be impossible to distinguish them from any of Mackenzie’s two-dollar barn antiques.
But just to be safe, he slid his laptop into the underside of the pillowcase and plumped the feathers up above it to make it inconspicuous.
Feathers. How long had it been since he’d slept on feathers?
‘Come on, Dylan. I’ll introduce you to Lexi. She’s our creative director.’
He automatically tensed, and not just because the woman was yet another stranger. But a director … That was a very different thing to some prop-loving stage assistant. He’d have to tread carefully.
He signalled Phantom to curl up on the foot of the bed and then followed Mackenzie out into the theatre. There were definite signs of people being around now—a different story to that of a few days ago when he’d first arrived and barely seen a soul—but they were all squirrelled away in their various corners of the labyrinthine building doing whatever they did. As she led him through the corridors behind the stage area, he trotted after the compact blonde the way Phantom trotted after him. Everything he saw was familiar and new at the same time.
But the smell of an old theatre never changed.
‘Lexi!’
The dark-haired woman standing lost in thought centre stage brought her focus around to them as they approached. He’d assumed she was a performer in costume given her 1950s outfit but apparently not.
‘This is the man I was telling you about.’ Mackenzie turned more fully to him so he could see her speak. ‘Dylan, this is Alexis Spencer, Rivervue’s creative director. Lexi, this is Dylan North.’ She said the last bit extra slowly. Like she needed to be particularly careful with his name.
The director tucked her notebook under her arm and the
n began a complex series of manoeuvres with her fingers, ranging from her belly up to her forehead. He stared, wide-eyed, as her hands danced energetically in a kind of exaggerated finger-origami.
Oh crap.
Sign language.
He should have fessed up by now. He’d missed his first window and he’d been waiting for another one, but what exactly was he expecting? When was the right time to say Hey, surprise, I’ve been keeping a secret?
Many secrets, in fact.
But Mackenzie already knew him well enough to read his body language and awareness flooded her face. As it did, his breath froze deep in his lungs.
Busted.
‘Oh! He was reading philosophy in French. Maybe he’s French?’
‘And I don’t know French sign language,’ Lexi said, somewhat anxiously.
‘He’s been reading my lips. So he must understand English; maybe he just can’t read Auslan.’
God, he was a jerk. Look how kind both these women were being …
The creative director switched effortlessly to speech. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dylan,’ she said, slow enough for him to read on her smiling lips. ‘Kenzie tells me you’ve been travelling a while.’
Kenzie. His mortification took a momentary time-out to think about how much that nickname suited the vibrant blonde. Australians, he’d discovered, had a habit of contracting everything down to the bare minimum. Odds were, she was also known as Kenz among her friends. Or maybe even K. All of a sudden, a name that had suited her perfectly well thirty seconds ago now felt too formal.
He nodded, realising a reply was expected. How about the truth, North?
‘And you’re going to settle here for a little while?’
Amazing how this had all come together. Because, yes, that’s exactly what he wanted to do. For a while.
‘Well, you’re very welcome to work with us on our current production. Kenzie also mentioned that you have a trained dog?’
Trained to guard his stuff and stay close and tolerate regular physical check-ups. Not exactly trained to tread the boards.
He splayed his hand and rocked it side to side.