Spellcrossed

by Barbara Ashford

  “You are a very gracious lady. And you made this an evening I will never forget.”

  Her happiness zinged through me, but all she said was, “Don’t get run OVER walking home.”

  Rowan caught my arm as I turned toward the theatre. “What about the Bough? Don’t I get to see all the changes you’ve made?”

  “We could do that another time.”

  “Nonsense,” he said, steering me down the sidewalk. “Besides, Frannie’s feelings will be hurt if I don’t stop in.”

  From the rapidity with which Frannie descended, I suspected she’d been watching our progress from the front windows. But Iolanthe still reached us first. I caught a blur of movement near the front desk. A moment later, she was draped over Rowan’s boot.

  “Cats like Rowan,” I told Frannie.

  “My goodness. I can’t remember the last time I saw her move that fast.”

  “I can’t remember the last time I saw her move.”

  Naturally, Frannie insisted on showing him around. And naturally, Iolanthe insisted on accompanying us. But her burst of energy had faded and she yowled so plaintively that Rowan finally picked her up. She spent the rest of the tour cradled against his chest. Now and then, her paw came up to touch his cheek, as if she—like Frannie—had difficulty believing that Rowan Mackenzie was actually here. The cast members in the lounge took his presence in stride, but of course, they had no way of knowing they were witnessing a minor miracle.

  Rowan declined a drink, but when we returned to the lobby, he said, “The hotel looks beautiful. It reminds me of Helen’s sunroom.”

  Frannie and I exchanged startled glances.

  “You’re right,” Frannie said. “Maybe it was Helen’s spirit guiding us all along.”

  Rowan smiled. “Maybe so. She’d be so happy to know that you’re watching over the cast.”

  “And even happier to see you two together again.” As the grandfather clock struck ten, Frannie added, “It’s late. You better run along. I’ll give you the rest of the tour next time you’re in town, Rowan. I’ll even show you the room Maggie stayed in during her season. Where she laid awake nights dreaming of you.”

  “Frannie!” I protested.

  “Well, you did, didn’t you?”

  “Yes! But you’re not supposed to tell him that. It’ll give him a big head.”

  “Rowan’s head’s just fine. Now scoot, you two.”

  Rowan carefully deposited Iolanthe in the inbox and we started for home. The streets were already deserted, everyone in Dale tucked in for the night. We said little, content to mosey along in silence. My heart was filled with happiness at sharing Rowan’s adventure in town and my mind was buzzing with ideas for the theatre. Astonishing that Rowan’s casual mention of a postcard could lead to so many new possibilities.

  As we walked up the hill to the house, I said, “This has been a perfect day.”

  “Has it? I’m glad.”

  I stopped, struck by the eagerness in his voice.

  “What?”

  I was so stupid. I knew he’d suggested this outing because he’d seen how depressed I was. But even if he’d enjoyed seeing Hal and Frannie and Mei-Yin, he’d also had to rub shoulders with strangers, endure an endless succession of little chats, an endless exchange of stupid pleasantries. If the cocktail party with the staff had been a challenge, this afternoon must have been agony.

  “What?” he repeated.

  Before I could reply, the screen door creaked open and Janet walked onto the porch with Jack trailing behind her.

  Hands on hips, she surveyed us with a frown. “Well, I hope you’ve had fun. I’ve been on the phone all goddamn evening. Half the population of Dale has called to inform me of Rowan Mackenzie’s historic visit. There will probably be an article in the next edition of The Bee: “‘Local Recluse Tours Town. Citizens Agog.’”

  Rowan proffered the two beeswax candles. “By way of apology.” Then he produced the penny candy for Jack. “Maggie thought you might like this.”

  Jack held the stick up to the porch lantern, then slowly lowered it and stared at me. “Licorice. My favorite.”

  “I know.”

  An awkward silence descended. Janet poked her elbow into Jack’s ribs. He cleared his throat and said, “I was thinking. Maybe tomorrow, we could all go on a picnic. If you’d like.”

  I stared at Janet who enjoyed picnics about as much as Rowan liked long car rides, and promptly burst into tears.

  Jack looked horrified. Rowan put his arm around me. Janet said, “Oh, for God’s sake, stop bawling like a constipated calf.”

  I snuffled like a congested calf and said, “That would be lovely.” Then I remembered. “But Alex—”

  “Alex called,” Janet said. “He forgot he had a dentist appointment tomorrow. So he’d like to postpone playing through the score until Thursday.”

  I knew damn well there was no dentist appointment. I fought the return of the constipated calf and whispered, “Okay.”

  “Good,” Janet said. “I am now going to reheat my dinner for the third time.”

  As the screen door slammed behind her, Jack said, “I guess I’ll head down to the apartment. Unless you want me to take a walk around the pond.”

  “I think we’re both a little worn out,” Rowan said. “I’ll see you down there.”

  “And I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said.

  Rowan led me over to the old wooden porch swing. I listened to the mournful creak as we rocked gently back and forth, then asked, “Was it awful for you today?”

  “No. Well. A little daunting. All those people…”

  “I’m so sorry. I should have realized—”

  “No,” he repeated. “I loved seeing Hal’s shop and Mei-Yin’s restaurant and your hotel. All the places I’ve been hearing about for so many years. I just never expected such a welcome. Such…kindness. Humans really are quite magical, aren’t they?”

  “Kindness isn’t magical.”

  “It is to me. Kindness, compassion, love. Those qualities are alien to the Fae. And innate to humans.”

  “But they’re not magical.”

  “Yes, Maggie. They are. You are. Look at what you’ve accomplished this season. You helped your mother come to terms with her past. You forged a disparate group of actors into a company. You made the staff partners in this theatre in a way they never were when I was director. You laid the groundwork to make the Crossroads financially viable. You pushed and pulled and dragged me into this world that I had only glimpsed secondhand. You’ve done far more with your magic than I ever did with mine.”

  “How can you say that? I know what your power can do.”

  “But don’t you see? No matter how beautiful or terrifying or extraordinary the magic of Faerie is, its ultimate purpose is to disguise. Human magic…reveals. I never understood that until this summer. It’s like when I call the Mackenzies. My magic sets the stage, but human magic—your capacity to love, to change—that’s what makes the drama unfold.”

  His smile was a little sad, as if the revelation had diminished him somehow.

  I squeezed his hand. “I loved the nice, normal, ordinary day you gave me. But I love your magic, too. You can calm me with a touch or carry me to the brink of ecstasy. You can make paper flowers bloom and help an actress overcome her fear of heights—and help heal a lost soul like my father. Your magic is the most wondrous thing I’ve ever known in my life. Never forget that. Or think that I want you to be like other men.”

  His love flowed into me and through me, as strong as the earth, as boundless as the sky.

  My father had said that the Fae carry the light of the sun and the moon and the stars. And maybe they did. But Rowan’s love shone with the soft glow of the fireflies that danced in our dreams.

  CHAPTER 47

  STAY WITH ME

  WE WERE BLESSED WITH A BEAUTIFUL DAY for our picnic, but the cool breeze reminded me that autumn was quickly approaching. The four of us tramped along the trail, content t
o savor the peacefulness. Occasionally, our pace slowed as we skirted a boggy area. In springtime, those places had been a riot of wildflowers: carpets of white-petaled bloodroots giving way to shy violets, yellow trout lilies, red trillium, and the green sprawl of jack-in-the-pulpit. Only after I’d walked the woods in spring did I fully understand what Alex had wanted us to capture during “June is Bustin’ Out All Over:” that giddy relief at feeling the world awaken.

  When I mentioned that, Janet snorted. “And to think, she once thought spring peepers were birds.”

  “Well, who knew frogs could sing?”

  “When she came back to the house one fine spring day and told me about the beautiful buttercups she had found, I decided to take her in hand.”

  “Marsh marigolds?” Rowan guessed.

  “Yellow violets,” Janet replied.

  “Yellow violets?” Jack echoed. “Well, no wonder you got it wrong. Talk about your oxymoron.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “And as for you two, cut me a break. I lived in cities all my life.”

  “You had Prospect Park,” Rowan said.

  “Which I hardly ever got a chance to visit.”

  “And the one in Wilmington. What was it called?”

  Jack inscribed a slow crescent through the leaves with his boot.

  “Brandywine Park,” I finally said. “And it was hardly the hundred acre wood.”

  “Just some open space along the river,” Jack added. “With picnic tables and barbecue grills.”

  A tiny step for mankind, but a giant leap for father and daughter.

  The conversation drifted to other topics, but when we stopped at the ancient beech, I told my father, “The first time I saw it, I thought of that tree on the Brandywine. The one with the roots that could hide pirate gold or a family of gnomes.”

  Jack stared at me in astonishment. “I can’t believe you remember that.”

  Rowan seized Janet’s hand to help her ascend the hill to the plateau. After a moment’s hesitation, Jack took mine. When we reached the top, we exchanged shy smiles like kids on their first date.

  But that’s what this was. And Janet and Rowan were the chaperones easing us through it with food and conversation and sensitivity.

  We talked mostly about the theatre, but somehow our discussion of A Christmas Carol led to a comparison of Christmas celebrations in Dale and Wilmington, just as Rowan’s story of building his first snowman with Jamie’s children encouraged Jack to talk about the first time he went sledding and broke his nose.

  During those two hours, I learned more about my father than I had ever known, including the shocking discovery that he’d had an older brother who had died when Jack was thirteen. Less shocking was the revelation that Jack had been considered “the bad Sinclair boy” who had grown even wilder after Jimmy’s death.

  Although he quickly changed the subject, it was obvious that acting had saved him from getting into serious trouble, that the theatre was more of a home than his parents’ house. What better place to forget his troubles—as a teenager and as an adult? And what better way to do it than by becoming—for a few hours, at least—someone else?

  I’d done it myself.

  The stage was playground and therapist’s couch. The one place we could safely explore our fears, our hopes, our deepest selves. A place where the laughter was approving, where we could bask in the applause and the admiration—and yes, the love—of our audience.

  Little wonder he was drawn to Faerie. It was another sort of playground—more fantastical, more dangerous, and infinitely more alluring. And unlike a theatre where the magic vanished as soon as the curtain came down, its glamour never faded.

  That was the first of many conversations with my father—and many walks in the woods. Somehow, it was easier to talk under the open sky, maybe because it allowed us to walk the trails in silence if we preferred.

  Cautious at first, we skirted the difficult parts of our shared past to concentrate on the happy memories. But as the season neared its conclusion, we began sharing stories from the years after he had left. His were often confused and disjointed, the description of a glorious sunset over the red rocks of Sedona suddenly shifting into a vision of Stonehenge at sunrise—as if his memories were as mutable as the landscape of the Borderlands. At such moments, I glimpsed the fragile, confused old man I had met in June. It saddened me to realize how much of his life was lost—and frightened me to think that the glamour of Faerie would blot out his remaining memories.

  Including his memories of me.

  By piecing together his stray comments I managed to fill in some of the blanks of his final years in this world. Dark years, mostly, when his money was gone and he lived hand-to-mouth, picking up work where he could find it, staying in one place only long enough to make enough cash for the next leg of his journey. The homeless shelters he resorted to when there was no work and no money. The struggle to find the clarity of mind to continue his quest.

  He was far more at ease listening to me talk about my life, offering only an occasional quiet comment. I had rarely seen his introspective side. And while I was grateful to discover this other Jack Sinclair, it made the prospect of losing him more painful.

  Perhaps he felt the same for during the final week of Into the Woods, his silences grew longer, his expression more troubled. When we returned to the theatre Thursday afternoon, he suddenly blurted out, “I can stay. If you want me to.”

  Once before, he had made that offer and been relieved when I didn’t accept it.

  I nodded to one of the picnic tables and sat down opposite him. Choosing my words carefully, I said, “Of course, I want you to stay. But most of all, I want you to be happy. Do you really want to give up Faerie for this world?”

  “I wouldn’t have to give it up. Just…postpone going for awhile.”

  “And what would you do here?”

  “I suppose I could teach.”

  “Do you want to teach?”

  His shoulders sagged. “Not really.”

  “It’s okay to want Faerie. You’ve been looking for it most of your life.”

  “It was all I had. But now…I just keep thinking about what Allie said. About getting a second chance and not screwing it up.”

  “We’re bound to have regrets. No matter what you choose. If you go, I’ll miss you and you’ll feel guilty. If you stay, I’ll feel guilty for keeping you from Faerie. And you might be bored out of your skull.”

  My weak attempt at humor failed to evoke a smile.

  “It’s not like the clock runs out when the curtain comes down Saturday night. Let’s both think about what we want. And talk about it again on Sunday.”

  His performance that night was more solemn, as if the decision he had to make weighed on him. I listened to “Stay with Me” and longed to speak those same words to him. I wanted to protect him from the unknown dangers of Faerie, to assure him that the theatre was his home, that I was his home.

  Rowan had told me that the night he returned. But Rowan loved me more than my father ever could.

  When Kanesha hobbled onstage, wearing her one golden slipper, and began to sing “On the Steps of the Palace,” the song seemed an ironic commentary on my situation. Cinderella was trying to make a decision, too. And like me, she was stalling. Should she allow the Prince to find her or just keep running? Was she better off at home where she was safe but unhappy? Or with her prince in a palace where she would always be out of place?

  It was a jolt to realize that her words reflected Jack’s dilemma far more than mine. To stay or to run. To remain in the safety of this world or exchange it for the dangers of one where he would always remain an outsider.

  Cinderella’s decision was not to decide, but to leave a clue—a shoe—and let the Prince make the next move. A clever choice that neatly absolved her of responsibility.

  Like Cinderella, my father was afraid of making a choice for fear it might be the wrong one. And like her, he had left his own clues: his assertion that he w
ould stay—if I wanted him to; his fear of screwing up; his compromise of postponing his departure—and his decision—a little longer.

  He had always allowed Mom to make the tough choices. He was waiting for me to do the same.

  If I forced him to choose, he would stay. For a few weeks, a few months. That was easier than hurting me.

  And if, like Cinderella, I chose not to decide?

  We would drift along. I would offer him a role in the Halloween murder mystery. The role of Scrooge in A Christmas Carol. I would use the glamour of theatre to combat the glamour of Faerie. And for a few weeks, a few months, it might work.

  But then the show would close and the New Year’s celebrations would end. The long, dark days of winter would creep by. And faced with the piercing cold and the gray-white silence of this world, his eyes would turn to Faerie, the longing greater, the need to see it more urgent.

  I would watch him grow increasingly restive and resent him. He would sense my reaction and feel guilty. The tentative relationship we had built this summer would slowly erode and we would end up angry and alienated.

  Cinderella’s song ended in a dizzying confection of clever rhymes and clever compromise. But although we had both learned something new, our choices were very different.

  After the show, I found Rowan waiting for me at the top of the stairs. Whether he knew my decision, he certainly sensed my turbulent emotions. He poured two glasses of whisky and together, we waited.

  Jack’s steps slowed when he saw us sitting on the sofa. At Rowan’s gesture, he sat beside me. Knowing a long preamble would only make him more anxious, I said, “I’ve been thinking about our conversation this afternoon. It means the world to me that you offered to stay. But you lost your heart to Faerie years ago. And that’s why I think you should go there.”

  His head drooped, and he began to tremble. For a moment, I thought I’d made a terrible mistake. When he looked up, there were tears in his eyes.

  “You’re so much like your mother. So strong.”

  I took his hand between mine, feeling the rough calluses on his fingertips, the loose, dry skin on the back of his hand. He had been in the prime of his life when he found the portal to the Borderlands, but he was older now. Was desire enough to sustain him in that other world?