Spellcrossed

by Barbara Ashford

  I found them sitting thigh-to-thigh on the floor, their heads bent over a green binder. I considered volunteering to make another copy, but they had already begun dissecting the opening number, exclaiming over some bits and groaning over others.

  Reluctant to become an unnecessary third wheel, I wandered down to the production office and pulled out my lesson plans for the new after-school program for elementary school kids. I jotted some notes, went through my inbox, then slumped back in my chair.

  Alex had something to look forward to when Debra left. Rowan had a project to fill the next two months. But the project I wanted to focus on—getting to know my father—was going nowhere.

  So focus on something else, Graham.

  I picked up the phone and called Long.

  When I told him about the Mackenzie-Ross adaptation of A Christmas Carol, he exclaimed, “That’s wonderful! I’ll call the board today and let them know.”

  “Umm…shouldn’t they vote on this?”

  “A new musical by Rowan Mackenzie and Alex Ross? What’s to approve?” Then he added, “They’re not doing some radical reinterpretation, are they? The Ghost of Christmas Past wandering around in the nude.”

  “I sincerely doubt it. Apart from the sensation it would cause, it would be way too chilly for the poor actor.”

  “I suppose we do need an official vote. Boards can be so tiresome sometimes.”

  “Tell me about it,” I replied without—as usual—thinking.

  Long just chuckled. “I’ll e-mail everybody today and ask them to weigh in. I’m sure they’ll be thrilled. And once it’s approved, I’ll announce it before the remaining performances of Into the Woods. If you think that would be appropriate.”

  “It would be perfect.”

  There was a brief silence on the other end. Then Long said, “I didn’t get a chance to speak with your mother after the show, but I saw her talking with Jack.”

  “It went okay. Better than I thought it would. But it was…stressful. For both of them.”

  “And for you. A lot to deal with in one week. And that show Saturday night! It was excellent,” he hastily added. “But…strange. Harder to watch somehow.”

  When I told him my theory about Jack’s performance and the joke that unexpectedly turned around to bite him—and the audience—in the ass, he said, “Yes, you might be right. But everyone I talked with afterward seemed delighted. Maybe it was just us. Because we were expecting one thing and got something different.”

  Much like Long himself. From the moment I’d met him, I had pegged him as one sort of man, but this season, he had turned out to be something else.

  “Well, you must have a million things to do,” he said. “And I need to get out those e-mails. I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve heard back from the board.”

  I resisted the urge to keep him on the line, to soak up some of his excitement. Everyone seemed to be caught up in the Christmas spirit except me.

  Rowan must have sensed that. He appeared in the doorway a few minutes later and said, “Alex has gone home to search for the music. We’re going to meet tomorrow afternoon to play through the score. Want to join us?”

  “Love to. When do I get to read the script?”

  “How about tomorrow morning?”

  “What’s wrong with right now?”

  “I thought we might walk into town. See the sights. Have dinner at the Golden Bough.”

  I jumped up and hurried around the desk. Then I hesitated. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

  “Absolutely.”

  I flung my arms around his neck and buried my face against his shoulder.

  “He’ll come around,” Rowan whispered.

  CHAPTER 46

  LET’S TAKE AN OLD-FASHIONED WALK

  OUR WALK TO TOWN WAS UNIMPEDED BY SLAVERING DOGS. It was the cats that slowed us down.

  A succession of furry wraiths darted through the grass and twined around Rowan’s ankles, purring in adoration. When he attempted to remove the first one, it went limp, as if his touch had induced a fainting spell. The next treated his fingers to a lascivious tongue bath. When I tried to extricate the third, it shot me a disdainful glance, dug its claws into Rowan’s pants, and hung on with grim determination.

  We shambled and stumbled and shooed our way past the large houses outside of town, only to glance back and discover a line of cats trailing after us. Rowan broke into helpless laughter, then a tremulous rendition of “There’s a Parade in Town,” made even more discordant by the yowls of his admirers. When I pointed out that his Pied Piper act might blow his cover, he called on his magic to gently discourage his feline courtiers.

  The human inhabitants of Dale were as curious as their cats. If they didn’t exactly faint, they popped out of shops and restaurants to greet me and exclaim over Rowan.

  “Do you know everyone in town?” he asked after our shouted conversation with Mrs. Grainger who was a dear, but deaf as a post.

  “It’s a really small town.”

  But there was no denying that Rowan was a bigger draw than the Fourth of July parade.

  As yet another wave of admirers approached, he seized my hand and pulled me into the General Store.

  “Well, if it isn’t Rowan Mackenzie,” Mr. Hamilton exclaimed.

  Every head swiveled in our direction. Fortunately, most were tourists, who went back to their browsing.

  Rowan greeted Mr. Hamilton pleasantly, but his wide-eyed gaze swept the scuffed floorboards, the exposed wooden beams, the woven rugs that hung over the railing on the second floor, and the moth-eaten heads of various dead animals that eyed us glassily from the shadows near the rafters.

  “This is what a General Store should look like,” he declared. Then he spied the widowed Kent sisters making a beeline toward him and darted off.

  Mr. Hamilton watched Rowan prowl through the narrow aisles filled with Vermont-made products plus a hodgepodge of stuff ranging from dishware to clothing to camping equipment.

  “Doesn’t get out much, does he? First time I remember him coming to town in all the years he’s lived here.”

  “He was claustrophobic. Or agoraphobic. Something phobic.”

  “That’s what I heard, too. Doesn’t seem to bother him now, though.”

  “I think he got treatment. While he was away.”

  As Rowan clambered up the steps to the second floor—pursued by the indomitable widows—Mr. Hamilton frowned. “Not afraid of heights, is he?”

  “Heights he’s okay with.”

  For half an hour, Mr. Hamilton and I discussed the weather, the Blueberry Festival, and A Christmas Carol. Then Rowan zoomed up to the counter and paused to study the rack of postcards.

  “That’s what we need. A postcard of the theatre.”

  As he took off again, I exchanged a long look with Mr. Hamilton. “Why didn’t we think of that?”

  “Beats me. Every shop in town would carry them. Out-of-town ones, too, I bet.”

  “If we get them printed up soon, we could have them in stores by fall foliage season.”

  Mr. Hamilton tugged his right earlobe, a sure sign that he was calculating expenses.

  “Why don’t I work up some figures?” I suggested. “We can go over them before the September board meeting.”

  As he beamed approvingly, Rowan strode toward us again and laid two beeswax candles and a wallet on the counter.

  “Who’s the wallet for?”

  “Me.”

  I refrained from pointing out that he had nothing to put in it. He hadn’t made a dime all summer and had repeatedly refused to accept any of the money he had given to me.

  After studying the glass jars of penny candy for five minutes, he selected a striped stick of sarsaparilla.

  “Would you like one?”

  “No, thanks. But let’s get a licorice one for Jack.”

  I unzipped my purse and froze when Rowan pulled a wad of bills out of his pocket. With a proud smile, he paid for his purchases and careful
ly slid the remaining money into his new wallet.

  As soon as I dragged him outside, I demanded, “Where did you get all that money?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Did you sell one of your books?”

  “Not an old one.”

  “Which one?” I persisted.

  “To Kill a Mockingbird.”

  “You own a first edition of To Kill a Mockingbird?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “But how could you let it go? It’s such a wonderful story.”

  “And I can still enjoy it whenever I like. Reinhard bought me a paperback copy after he arranged the sale.”

  “I should have known Reinhard was in on this.” I lowered my voice to ask, “How much did you get for it?”

  “Guess.”

  “Five thousand dollars?”

  He glanced around before whispering, “Fifteen thousand.”

  “Holy crap!” I exclaimed, drawing giggles from two passing kids.

  “Reinhard’s holding most of it. I just have what’s in my lovely new wallet.” He glanced up and down Main Street. “Now where?”

  “Hallee’s. But we have to hurry if we want to get there before it closes.”

  Although Hallee’s was just across the street, it took us fifteen minutes to escape the new tide of well-wishers that surrounded us. I groaned in disappointment when I discovered the door was locked. Rowan stared at the window display, transfixed.

  “It’s Hal’s annual tribute to blueberries,” I explained.

  The display featured the usual assortment of scantily clad mannequins, all sporting blue lingerie: blue panties and bras, blue teddies and negligees. A mannequin in a blue corset cradled white bowls of blueberries beneath her breasts. Two male mannequins in tight blue briefs posed with pies like discus throwers. Off to one side, a mannequin in a blue negligee leaned languidly against a white picket fence. Her left hand toyed with her sparkly “sapphire” necklace. Her right proffered a single blueberry to the male mannequin—in obligatory blue thong—that reclined at her feet amid a veritable ocean of berries. High above, a blue moon smiled benignly.

  “Merciful gods,” Rowan breathed.

  “Wait until apple season. He’s planning a Garden of Eden theme.”

  Rowan was still mesmerized by the display when the door to the shop banged open and Hal flew out.

  “Oh, my God! I can’t believe it. You’re here. In Dale!”

  As he burst into “Miracles of Miracles,” the door opened again and Lee walked out, grinning. “When Hal and I saw you through the window, we just about—”

  “Do you like it?” Hal interrupted. “The display?”

  “I love it. It’s sexy and funny and inventive. Just like the man who created it.”

  Tears welled up in Hal’s eyes. With a tremulous cry, he ran back into the shop.

  Lee caught the door before it swung shut. “He’s just verklempt,” he told Rowan.

  “Ver—?”

  “Ask Bernie,” Lee and I chorused.

  As we entered the shop, the pink velveteen curtains at the back parted and Hal emerged, dabbing his eyes with a tissue.

  “I’m fine,” he insisted. “Lee, Maggie—talk among yourselves. I have to give Rowan the tour. Oh, where to begin? Accessories? Gowns? Nightwear!”

  While Hal played tour guide, I idly sifted through a rack of camisoles and corsets.

  “Who buys something like this?” I asked Lee, holding up a plaid prep school uniform with cutouts around the breasts.

  “You’d be surprised. I just wish his high-end stuff sold as well as the kitsch. He makes out pretty well on the costumes he designs for the drag queens, but when he opened the shop, he planned to sell all custom-made clothing. People just aren’t willing to shell out the bucks for it.”

  I glanced at Rowan and Hal who were in hushed consultation in nightwear. “Mr. Hamilton and I were talking about making up a series of postcards of the barn. What if we expanded the idea to include note cards featuring Hal’s artwork?”

  Lee’s face lit up. He seized my arm and dragged me over to Rowan and Hal. “I’m taking over the tour, Hal. Maggie needs to talk with you.”

  Hal was even more excited than Lee. “We could do different versions. Reproductions of the pen-and-ink sketch on the program. Original watercolor renditions of the barn. I could do a whole Dale Collection! The barn. The General Store. The town hall.”

  “Hallee’s.”

  Hal shook his head. “The tourists will want Ye Olde New England Towne.” He gasped and clutched my arm. “A gift shop. We need a gift shop with theatre tchotchkes. T-shirts, hats, note cards, books, posters. My posters!”

  For a moment, we were both transported into the wonderful world of merchandising. Then I descended to earth.

  “One step at a time. First, work me up some prices I can show the board. Then we’ll tackle the gift shop.”

  We hurried over to share our latest brainstorm and found Rowan and Lee examining a pair of black leather boots with stiletto heels.

  “Just what I need. I fall over my feet when I’m wearing sneakers.”

  “But think how well they would go with this leather bustier,” Rowan said.

  “I’d sweat like a horse. Come on, I’m hungry.”

  We made it about fifty feet down Main Street when a barrel-like figure stormed out of the Mandarin Chalet.

  “So you FINALLY made it into town!” Mei-Yin exclaimed. “This calls for a CELEBRATION. A special DINNER!”

  “That’s what we were planning,” I said.

  Her eyes narrowed to slits. “Where?”

  “Why, the Chalet, of course,” Rowan lied smoothly.

  “GOOD answer!” She flung out her arms. “WELCOME to the Mandarin Chalet. Where EAST meets WEST. And the ELITE meet to EAT!”

  When dragons flank the doorway of a giant gingerbread house, you expect the interior to be a hellish amalgam of Flower Drum Song and The Sound of Music. I’d been shocked the first time I walked into the Chalet and found nary a dragon or cuckoo clock in sight.

  The snow-covered mountains in the mural would have felt equally at home in Sichuan Province or Switzerland, as would the intricately carved wooden screen that separated the restaurant from the bar. Soft pools of light illuminated the tables, while the rose and gold accents conjured a glorious sunrise. Throw in the faint music that combined sounds from the natural world with harp and flute, and the Chalet felt like a mountaintop retreat or a relaxing day spa.

  “So what do you THINK?”

  Although Mei-Yin was beaming, a discordant twang of anxiety shivered through me.

  “It’s so restful,” Rowan said. “Exactly what I need after all the excitement today.”

  Her relief surprised me; clearly, Rowan’s approval meant as much to her as it had to Hal. But she just whispered, “Makes people STAY longer. And SPEND more.”

  She snatched up a sheaf of menus and marched off. Although it was only 6:30, the restaurant was already half full, mostly with the AARP crowd, all of whom regarded us avidly, all of whom expected us to stop and chat. When we finally reached the corner table where Mei-Yin waited impatiently, we both sank gratefully onto our chairs.

  “Order whatever you want,” Mei-Yin said. “Chinese, Swiss, Mexican…” She punctuated each cuisine by slapping a different menu on the table. “I’ll have Max cook you up something SPECIAL.” She slapped the wine list down, too, then snapped her fingers at a hovering busboy. “YOU! Clear off these utensils and bring out the REAL silverware.”

  “You keep the family silver here?” I asked.

  “Just a couple of place settings. When Reinhard and I try out one of Max’s new recipes, we like to do it up in STYLE.”

  More likely, she had brought the silverware in after Rowan’s return in anticipation of the day he would dine at her establishment.

  Rowan just thanked her quietly and watched her march back to the kitchen.

  The restful atmosphere was somewhat undermined by the staff’s o
bvious terror of offending their boss’ special guests. Ice rattled like chattering teeth as the busboy tiptoed over with the water pitcher. Our server’s voice shook as he announced the specials. Both relaxed so quickly that I knew Rowan must have called on his power to calm them.

  Mei-Yin emerged from the kitchen with her stepson in tow. Max was a younger version of Reinhard from the premature gray of his brush cut to his stocky build. He even gave a little bow when Rowan rose to shake his hand.

  “It’s an honor to have you here.”

  “And a long overdue pleasure for me. But with all these choices…” Rowan waved his hand at the pile of menus. “…Maggie and I are at a loss. What would you recommend?”

  As the two men launched into a protracted discussion of menu options, I brought Mei-Yin up to speed on recent developments. She demanded good dance music for Fezziwig’s party and the opportunity to play the killer in our yet-to-be-approved Halloween murder mystery. But she also suggested that until we scraped together funds for a gift shop, we set up tables on the breezeway at intermission to hawk merchandise. And volunteered to teach some movement classes for the after-school programs if I got swamped. Which seemed likely given all the new initiatives.

  Max announced our dinner selections. Rowan’s main course sounded like a phlegmy sneeze, mine like the worst salad ever imagined. They turned out to be veal strips in a cream sauce and a cold sausage salad that was unexpectedly delicious. Mei-Yin and Max lingered long enough to share a toast, then left us to savor our meal.

  Dinner in town—another first. And Rowan’s sweet smile made it even more perfect.

  When we passed on dessert, our server brought us coffee and a small bowl filled with chocolate-dipped strawberries. What he didn’t bring was the check.

  “It’s on the HOUSE!” Mei-Yin declared when Rowan called her over.

  “I can’t let you do that.”

  Once more, her eyes narrowed into dark, dangerous slits. “You gonna tell me what you’ll ‘LET’ me do? In MY restaurant?”

  “No, of course not. I just—”

  “GOOD! It’s SETTLED.”

  We thanked Max and Mei-Yin profusely. And after she had escorted us to the door, Rowan pressed a kiss to her cheek.