Spellcrossed

by Barbara Ashford

  Before I could answer, Bernie called, “Rowan! About time you crawled out of that apartment!”

  “That’s Bernie,” I whispered to Daddy as Rowan trotted down the steps. “He’s on the board, but he helps out with the box office and program, too. He doesn’t know anything about Faerie. We just told him the story you and Rowan came up with. Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

  “Maybe later.”

  “He’s a great guy. You’ll like him.”

  Reluctantly, Daddy followed me into the house. Rowan and Bernie walked down the aisle, Bernie chattering like an excited squirrel and Rowan smiling at him with affection.

  “Would it have killed you to age a little? I’m not asking for much. A couple lines around the eyes. A few gray hairs. Something to prove you were miserable without us.”

  “Trust me, Bernie, I was miserable.”

  “Good!” He smiled at Daddy. “Bernie Cohen. You must be Jack. How does it feel to be back at the Crossroads?”

  “Well, I won’t lie to you. I went through some bad times. Drugs, alcohol, you name it. But a few years ago, I finally got my shit together. Even started acting again. I was in between gigs and staying at a friend’s cabin in the mountains when I wrote to Rowan’s dad, asking if he had anything for me here. And who do you think shows up at the door? Rowan! Hadn’t seen him since he was a kid. Well, you could have blown me away with a feather.”

  Clearly, his monologue was in danger of blowing Bernie away, too, but he recovered quickly and said, “Well, it’s great to have you here. Maggie tells me you’re becoming quite the computer expert. If you feel like pitching in with the program, I’d love the help.”

  Before Daddy could reply, laughter rang out in the house.

  “Do my eyes deceive me,” Long called, “or is that Rowan Mackenzie?”

  “Longford Martindale,” I murmured to Daddy. “President of the board.”

  Daddy straightened. Rowan merely looked resigned. I’d warned him that Long might be here tonight. No matter how many times I begged him to wait until dress rehearsal to see the show, he invariably “popped in” for the run-throughs. The squirming usually began during the first scene, and by the time we were finished, he was convinced we had a disaster on our hands.

  “This is a pleasure!” Long exclaimed as he shook Rowan’s hand. “Although not exactly a surprise. I always suspected there was something between you two. And Maggie’s blushes prove that my instincts were correct.”

  After favoring me with a brief leer, Long turned to Daddy, eyebrows elevated.

  “This is Jack Sinclair,” I said. “An old friend of Rowan’s.”

  “Long Martindale. Delighted.”

  “Jack worked here years ago,” Rowan said. “He played Billy Bigelow in Carousel.”

  “Why, of course!”

  Hard to tell if he remembered or was just turning on the charm, but his enthusiasm made Daddy beam.

  “What have you been doing since then, Jack?”

  “Well, I won’t lie to you. I went through some bad times—”

  “But he’s turned the corner in the last few years,” Rowan interrupted. “Since he was between acting jobs, I invited him to spend a few weeks at the Crossroads.”

  “Wonderful! And what about you, Rowan? Are you just visiting? Or dare I hope that you’ll be staying?”

  “I hope to stay a very long while.”

  Rowan’s warm gaze brought another wave of heat to my cheeks.

  “Excellent! We must have dinner. We have a great deal to discuss. Maggie’s been filling in as artistic director because of our precarious funding situation, but all that’s changing. I’d love to get you back on board and free her up to focus on her responsibilities as executive director.”

  As he rambled on, my face grew even hotter. Was he actually suggesting that I step aside? In the middle of the fucking season? Maybe Rowan was a hundred times the director I was, but these were my shows.

  Before I could vent my outrage, Rowan said, “There will be plenty of time to discuss next season after this one’s over.”

  “Naturally, naturally. But you can’t blame me for being eager when I see my dream team standing before me.”

  “Your dream team?” I faltered.

  “Why, you and Rowan, of course! Normally, I’d be leery of hiring a couple. So much potential for professional difficulties if personal ones should arise. But the rest of the staff manages just fine. I’m beginning to think this theatre is the crossroads of romance!”

  Sweat prickled my forehead as I realized how close I had come to going off the deep end, alienating Long, and making a complete fool of myself.

  Long glanced at his watch. “Well, it’s almost time. Let’s take our seats, shall we?”

  As he escorted my reluctant father up the aisle, Bernie whispered, “Don’t worry about your dad. He just needs to get his sea legs. And I meant it about helping with the program. Get him involved, that’s the ticket!”

  I hugged him so hard that Rowan had to grasp his arm to steady him.

  “Catherine and I usually sit behind Maggie,” Bernie told Rowan. “We’re the ‘Pat Her Shoulders During the Train Wrecks’ Brigade. But if you need me to keep Long out of your hair…”

  “I’ll manage,” Rowan replied. “Besides, I’d hate to break up the brigade.”

  I waited for Bernie to make his way up the aisle before whispering to Rowan, “Thanks for jumping in with Long.”

  “Did you really believe he wanted to replace you?”

  “He thinks I’m a novice.”

  “Well…you are.”

  “I know! But on opening night of Annie, he told me the show fell short of your high standards, so excuse me if I’m a little sensitive.”

  “Stop bristling.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Yes, you are. And stop comparing yourself to me.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Yes. You are.”

  I sighed. “Yes. I am.”

  “Maggie, I have more directing experience than Hal Prince, George Abbott, and Jerome Robbins combined. You could direct for the next fifty years and you’d still be a novice compared to me.”

  “I know that!”

  “Lower your voice. Long’s watching.” Rowan studied me, frowning. “Why do you do this to yourself?”

  “Because I know what it’s like to work with you. And I want to give my actors that same magic.”

  “Well, you can’t. You’re not a faery. So give them your passion, your determination, your…the staff’s told you this a hundred times, haven’t they?”

  “Two hundred, three hundred. I’ve lost count. I’m just nervous about tonight. I don’t want you to be disappointed.”

  “If it’s anything like my run-throughs, the cast will blow their harmonies, drop half their lines and all of their props, and exit through a window instead of a door.”

  “Well, as long as you have high expectations.”

  He smiled. “Go do your job. I’ve got to keep an eye on Jack.”

  Please God, don’t let Daddy say anything damaging in front of Long. And don’t let the run-through suck.

  For about thirty seconds, the run-through was terrific. In her coral chiffon garden dress, Michaela looked as beautiful as she sounded. Then Paul came on for his solo. It took me a few seconds to figure out what was off about his performance: his nighttime role as Oxydent Hour of Smiles host Bert Healy was bleeding into his Secret Garden role. The result was a cheesy, breezy Indian Fakir chanting the Hindi equivalent of “you’re never fully dressed without a smile.”

  The Dreamers clomped through the rest of the opening like Clydesdales. During “The House Upon the Hill,” Debra managed to shout out her lines over their impossibly loud “Oohs,” but Natasha looked like a mime trapped in a glass box.

  From somewhere behind me, I heard the ominous squeak of Long’s seat. The squirming had begun.

  The squeaking became more prolonged after Gregory’s entrance. I’d complained t
o Hal that the first hump he’d created was barely noticeable under the layers of shirt, vest, and frockcoat. No such worries tonight.

  “He looks like a goddamn DROMEDARY!” Mei-Yin whispered.

  Hal was already hurrying toward the stage. The next time Gregory appeared, he was humpless.

  He was also largely unintelligible. It wasn’t entirely his fault. “I Heard Someone Crying” was the first of several numbers where each actor sang a different lyrical thread. In the best of all possible worlds, their voices would weave together to create a unified whole. In our world, they created a wall of incomprehensible noise. “It’s a Maze” was marginally better, but only because Ben and Natasha kept dropping out, Ben when he lost his melody line and Natasha whenever she tripped over her jump rope.

  In spite of my repeated notes, Roger and Gregory were all over each other during the library scene: gripping a shoulder, squeezing a bicep, smoothing a fucking shirtfront. Long before the scene concluded, I wanted to inter them both in “A Bit of Earth.”

  They redeemed themselves with “Lily’s Eyes.” And Natasha and Ethan captured all the anger and resentment, humor and pathos I could have wanted in the Scene 7 meeting of Mary and Colin. Even the blocking in the final storm sequence worked—at first. Then the number devolved into yet another wall of noise with Natasha looking more exhausted than terrified and the chorus staggering around like zombies in the final stages of decomposition.

  By the time Natasha opened the door to the secret garden and Alex pounded out the final chords on the piano, I was awash in flop sweat. The staff gamely applauded. Bernie and Catherine patted my shoulders. Mei-Yin whispered, “I need a DRINK!”

  Although I felt like a condemned prisoner walking the green mile, I put a smile on my face and a bounce in my step as I trotted down the aisle. Alex hoisted himself out of the pit, smiling just as brightly. The cast slumped onstage, grim-faced and silent.

  “Come on, people, it wasn’t that bad. We’ll smooth out the staging and the vocals in the big musical numbers over the next few days. Now for the good news. Natasha and Ethan—you both did terrific work tonight.”

  “Here, here!” Debra said.

  The cast applauded. Natasha and Ethan glowed.

  Maybe I couldn’t create magic for my actors, but I had helped create this sense of community. And maybe before the end of this season, my father would be able to share it.

  I praised their hard work, “oyed” over some of the mishaps, and promised Gregory that Hal would give him a good hump. Gregory looked startled, I blushed, and the cast began to chuckle. I removed my foot from my mouth and said, “Notes can wait until tomorrow. For now, go home and get a good night’s rest.”

  Alex and I kept our smiles in place until the last actor drifted into the wings. Then we sank down on the stage, our feet dangling over the apron.

  “Sorry I let you down,” he said.

  “You never let me down.”

  “The group numbers were awful.”

  “They’re hard numbers, Alex! We knew that going in.”

  As Lee brought up the house lights, the rest of the staff trooped down the aisle toward us. I was dismayed to discover Long heading my way as well—and even more dismayed when I realized Daddy had vanished. Maybe he’d just wanted to escape from Long. Rowan was still sitting quietly in his seat, so nothing too awful could have happened.

  I focused my wandering attention on the changes we would have to make in the schedule to accommodate the extra musical rehearsals we clearly needed.

  “These local actors and their work schedules are KILLING us!” Mei-Yin complained.

  “Tell me about it,” Alex replied. “Next year—”

  “Let’s get through this one,” I interrupted.

  “Next year,” Alex repeated, shooting a stern look at Long, “we’ve either got to cast people who’ll commit to attending every rehearsal or hire an assistant vocal coach. Or both.”

  “We have never had to hire an assistant in the past,” Reinhard pointed out.

  “Because I always managed to wheedle some poor fool actor into helping out.”

  I raised my hand. “Poor fool actor. Duly wheedled.”

  “So wheedle someone NOW!” Mei-Yin demanded.

  “The best musicians are in this show,” Alex replied. “And they need to concentrate on learning their material, not teaching their cast mates.”

  Long regarded us with a beneficent smile. “You’re overlooking your most valuable resource.” When we all stared at him, he called, “Would you mind coming down here, Rowan?”

  “I can’t ask Rowan to be my assistant,” Alex said in a soft but vehement voice.

  “Nonsense. I’m sure he’ll be happy to help out.”

  Rowan joined us, his expression carefully neutral. He listened politely to Long and glanced at me before turning to Alex.

  “Tell me what you need.”

  “Four more hands.”

  “I only have two. But they’re yours if you want them.”

  “Rowan, I can’t ask you to plunk out harmonies.”

  “Why not? You do it. Besides, I can’t just be Maggie’s personal chef all summer.”

  Although his voice was light, his longing lanced through me. Long started and glanced around uncertainly. By then, Rowan had tamped down his power and Long’s smile returned.

  “Thank you, Rowan. A true team player. Now that we’ve got that settled, I’ll—”

  “Hold your horses,” Bernie said. “If Rowan’s going to be on staff, he needs to get paid.”

  Janet glanced heavenward. I suppressed a sigh. Bernie was just trying to help, after all.

  In the old days, Helen had simply handed Rowan an envelope filled with cash. Asking Long to pay him under the table would raise too many questions. And if Rowan refused to accept any of the money he had left me, he would never allow me to give him part of my salary.

  As Long hemmed and hawed, Rowan said, “Thank you, Bernie. But if you can volunteer your time to the theatre, so can I.”

  Long looked genuinely touched. Bernie shook his head. “So be it. But before the end of the year, you’re sitting down with the board and hashing out a long-term contract. You and Maggie both! This year-to-year stuff is for the birds. Who can plan a life based on that? Especially a young couple starting out.”

  I smiled at Rowan and hoped I could disguise my jumble of emotions. He obviously needed something more fulfilling than babysitting Daddy and cooking me dinner. And the actors were blessed to have someone so talented working with them. But a small part of me wanted to prove that we could mount this production without his help.

  “Maggie? Alex? Are you okay with this?”

  “Are you kidding?” Alex’s smile was more convincing than mine, but his voice was just a bit too hearty. “It’ll be great working with you again.”

  CHAPTER 20

  THE “YOU-DON’T-WANT-TO-PLAY-WITH-ME” BLUES

  I INTRODUCED ROWAN AT THE COMPANY meeting the next morning. Judging from the awed expressions of the locals, they had seen the shows he’d directed. Doubtless, word would spread to the rest of the cast in the time it took to walk to the Smokehouse.

  Alex and I left the chorus with Rowan and worked some of the principals’ scenes and songs. Then I took Gregory and Roger aside for a little chat.

  Lee’s instincts were right. Turned out Gregory—a local—was so impressed by Roger that he was simply following his lead. And far from putting the moves on Gregory, Roger was groping—literally—to make his character more sympathetic.

  I pointed out that his performance in ‘Lily’s Eyes’ accomplished that and suggested he find one or two moments to use gestures to show that Neville wanted to break out of his shell, but couldn’t do it. If he indulged in five or six gestures during the subsequent rehearsal, at least he and Gregory kept their hands off each other.

  At the break, Alex and I wandered outside for some fresh air. As we reached the picnic area, piano music poured through the open windows of
the Smokehouse. The voices of the chorus matched the wildness of the music, but each word was distinct, the harmonies perfect.

  I glanced at Alex as the storm of music subsided, but his gaze was riveted on the Smokehouse.

  Slowly, the piano built the chord in the bass. One by one, voices took up the chilling “Mistress Mary, Quite Contrary” chant. And then a new vocal thread—“It’s a Maze”—offered a solemn counterpoint that built into a relentless round.

  More voices joined in, more threads in the musical tapestry, the gorgeous complexity of the number revealed at last: the lament of the Fakir and Ayah a quiet sostenuto; Wright’s echo of Mary’s skipping song playing off the “Mistress Mary” chant of Shaw and Claire; the fear that shook Alice’s soaring soprano; and weaving in and out of all those vocal threads, the sadness of Mary’s mother and the growing desperation of her father as he searched for his lost child.

  I shivered as their voices united in the dissonant harmonies of “Mistress Mary.” And shivered again as the number reached its terrifying climax.

  I let out my breath and heard Alex do the same.

  “We knew it would be like this,” I reminded him.

  Alex nodded.

  For a few moments, there was only the murmur of Rowan’s voice, punctuated by occasional chuckles from the chorus. Then I heard the scrape of chairs and the buzz of conversation.

  The Smokehouse door swung open. Rowan emerged, surrounded by a cluster of local actors. Like a king and his courtiers. The Mackenzies trailed behind, wearing the exalted expressions I remembered from my season at the Crossroads. Most of the entourage dispersed when Rowan walked toward our picnic table, but a few lingered by the stage door, whispering and watching.

  As Rowan dropped his score on the table and slid onto the bench beside me, Alex regarded him with a rueful smile. “Magic wand’s still in good working order, I see.”

  “A little magic, a lot of hard work. And as soon as they get back onstage, half of what they learned will fly out the window again.”

  “Maybe. But look how excited they are.”

  “The cast always left your rehearsals smiling.”

  “Not lately.”