by Robbi McCoy
“I’m so glad you got here before the play opened,” he said as she rejoined him on the sidewalk, “so we could do some sightseeing together. It’s been fun, but as of tonight, I belong to the theater.” He twirled his hand above his head dramatically. “Ready for lunch?”
She took his arm. “‘Lead on, MacDuff!’”
“Speaking of Hamlet,” Raven said, “that’s my goal, to play him. Can’t you just see me dressed all in black, the brooding Dane with his unrelenting angst?”
“Hmmm.” Wren eyed him, enjoying his expression of brooding angst. “I don’t know. I can definitely see you as Ophelia.”
He whacked her playfully on the shoulder. “Okay, okay, I get that. I wouldn’t turn her down either.”
Looking at one another with the pure delight of being together, they both burst out laughing.
CHAPTER FOUR
All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women, merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages.
—As You Like It, Act II, Scene 7
Sprouts had eight square tables arranged in a tight pattern behind a wall of glass providing a view of the street. A small coffee bar was tucked into one corner with self-serve coffee, tea and pastries. Prominently displayed on the back wall was a carved wooden sign that read, “No Shakespeare!”
When Wren brought that to Raven’s attention, he shrugged good-humoredly. “I’ll try to restrain myself.”
Ellie Marcus, who introduced herself as the owner of Sprouts, also served as their waitress. She was a pleasant, ordinary looking woman about their age with a round face and surprised looking eyes. Something about the angle of her eyebrows, Wren decided. Her honey brown hair was piled asymmetrically on top of her head and held there with a silver clip. She brought them fragrant rustic bread and a round of rosemary butter to spread on it. Wren opened the menu to a list of vegetarian dishes that awakened her appetite and curiosity.
“This looks great,” she said.
“I knew you’d like it!” Raven bounced gleefully in his chair. “The restaurant scene here is surprisingly vibrant.”
“It’s a tourist town, so not that surprising. I’m hoping to find a few gems up here. That Ginnie’s Café was fabulous. The boysenberry pancakes, my God!”
“I’m sure it caused quite a stir when your review of Ginnie’s appeared in the local paper this morning. Can’t you just hear the clamor?” He lowered his voice to an emphatic whisper. “Eno Threlkeld is in town! Hide your cheap wine and limp broccolini!”
Wren glanced around to make sure nobody was within hearing distance. Ellie was by the coffee bar, setting out a fresh pot of coffee.
“Do you think they know me up here?” Wren asked. “It’s kind of off the map.”
“Maybe off the geography map, but not off the culinary map. Like you said, it’s a tourist town. Food is important here. In fact, they’re having this big cooking competition in a couple weeks, a cupcake bake-off.”
“Cupcakes?”
“Yeah, just like on TV. The winner gets to cater dessert to the theater’s annual fundraiser, the Midsummer Night’s Dream Gala. Biggest party of the summer.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“You’re invited. Hey, maybe you could get in on that bake-off somehow. A big-city critic would help publicize it. I know they’re bringing in some celebrity chef to judge it.”
“The whole secrecy thing kind of makes me unavailable for public appearances.”
“Oh, sure. Duh!” Raven shook his head in self-derision.
“Who’s the celebrity chef?”
“Don’t remember.”
Ellie came by to take their order. Wren chose the Burmese red rice salad and Raven ordered vegetable lasagna.
“Not a Shakespeare fan, eh?” Raven asked, gesturing toward the No Shakespeare! sign.
“If by not a fan,” Ellie answered, “you mean despising everything about Shakespeare, then, yes, I’m not a fan.”
“Ouch!” Raven said, wincing.
“Are you an actor?”
“Yeah.”
“I thought so. My father was an actor too. Shakespeare was his thing. Drummed the goddamned crap into us from infancy. From birth, even. The story goes, at his first sight of me, he said, ‘A daughter and a goodly babe. Lusty and like to live.’”
Raven snickered. “That’s actually sort of sweet.”
“If you’d lived it, you wouldn’t think so. The only bedtime stories my sister and I ever heard were Shakespeare plays with the occasional Molière or Marlowe tossed in for grins. Not just comedies, but the histories and tragedies too.” Ellie snorted in disgust. “Can you imagine doing that to a little kid? I can tell you the plot of all of them, frontwards and backwards. Even Coriolanus.”
“And you don’t like any of them?”
“Not a one. Mistaken identities running rampant, love at first sight, all those twins! Men disguised as women, women disguised as men and nobody knowing the difference. Gimme a break!”
“You mentioned a sister?” Wren asked. “Does she hate Shakespeare too?”
“Unfortunately, no.” Ellie rolled her eyes before moving on to another table.
Raven shrugged and grimaced.
Wren took a drink of her iced tea, noting the slightly floral edge to it and wondering what sort of tea it was. She couldn’t place it. She usually didn’t ask questions in a restaurant because if she happened to write about it later, in a review, the person she’d spoken to might put two and two together and remember their conversation, thereby remembering her. She’d learned to carefully conceal her professional identity from restaurant staffers. If they knew she was a critic, they’d immediately begin pandering to her and suddenly a perfectly acceptable asparagus risotto would have shaved black truffles on it and her dessert plate would be adorned with rose petals as though she were being wooed by a besotted lover.
The opposite was also true, she reminded herself, remembering the scene in Josephine from six weeks before when John Bâtarde had been so angry with her review, he’d threatened her destruction and thrown a cake into a fan. Fortunately, he had no idea who Eno Threlkeld was. Yes, secrecy was essential.
When Ellie brought their meals, they both turned their attention to food. After a few bites of her red rice salad, which was excellent, Wren stuck her fork in Raven’s lasagna and helped herself to a generous bite. “Um, very tasty.”
He sat back and took a swallow from his water glass. “I know you said you weren’t seeing anyone. Not even a little bit?”
She shook her head. “Not even a little bit. I’m just so tired of that scene. All the drama. The screaming, the tears, the gnashing of teeth.”
“Maybe you should try dating women rather than Godzilla.”
Wren nodded appreciatively. “The problem is, you don’t know they’re Godzilla at first. Almost all women have the uncanny ability to appear completely sane, reasonable and wonderfully easygoing for exactly three weeks. And by then, you’re hopelessly entangled and it takes months, even years, to escape.” She shook her head morosely, remembering her nightmarish dating history. “I’m some kind of freak magnet. Freaks and flakes. It never fails.”
“That sounds like a breakfast cereal.” Raven punctuated the air with his fork. “Freaky flakes.”
“Exactly!”
“You’re exaggerating. You’re just too picky.”
“Oh, no, no, no!” Wren waved her hand between them. “You don’t know what I’ve been up against. Let me give you an example. Erica. Second date. The woman served me a fabulous, home-cooked meal with English peas from her own garden. She’s perfect, I’m thinking. She says she wants me. I want her. I’m taking off her clothes. Her body is gorgeous. I’m ready to dive into her.”
Raven nodded encouragingly, raising his eyebrows expectantly.
“Then comes the inevitable freaky deal breaker.
She wants me to wear a costume.”
“A costume? What kind? I’m all for costumes.”
“Snow White. The black wig, the blue and yellow dress, high-backed collar, the classic Disney cartoon version.”
“Oh, I love it!” Raven quacked.
“She tells me she can’t have sex with anybody other than Snow White. Just not possible. Her therapist has been trying to get her to branch out a little, maybe try Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz or Wonder Woman.”
Raven tried unsuccessfully to look serious. “What happened?”
“What do you think happened?”
“You put the costume on?” He burst into laughter again. “Come on, Wren, it wouldn’t have been that bad, would it?”
She smiled indulgently at him. “I couldn’t do it. Maybe it was my failing.”
“Yes, maybe. I could have done it.” He popped a tiny roasted red potato in his mouth.
“That was one of the more interesting whack jobs. I won’t even mention the run-of-the-mill crazies.” She also decided not to mention Maia from Gravlax, the most recent of her dating nightmares. Too recent. It gave her a shiver to even think of it.
Raven sputtered out a laugh. “Oh, my! You have had an interesting dating life, haven’t you?”
“Which is why I’m happily single for now. I’m enjoying the peace and tranquility.”
Raven dropped his fork, which clattered against his plate. “Peace and tranquility? My poor misguided sister!” He thrust an arm before him and spoke with his stage voice. “Rage and blow! Think not to contain thy passions. Without passion, life is an empty wine flask, a slice of unbuttered bread, a monochromatic rainbow.” He lowered his arm and faced her with a scowl. “Otherwise, get thee to a nunnery.”
Ellie stopped what she was doing, stared hard and threateningly at Raven, then pointed to the No Shakespeare! sign.
He nodded sheepishly toward her. He was keyed up today, preparing for his performance, keeping himself in tune like an orchestra during warm-up. Wren leaned back in her chair, thinking how much she liked Raven’s company.
“No nunnery for me, thank you,” she said flatly. “I’m sure it’s temporary, but I’m not in the market for a relationship.”
“Who said anything about a relationship? I was talking about dating. Why are women incapable of sleeping with someone without making a lifelong commitment of heart and soul? Why can’t you just have a good time? Enjoy the moment, then let it go.” He made a fluttering gesture through the air between them. “Men are superior when it comes to enjoying sex. Women seem to have to be in love before you can do it. It’s physically impossible otherwise. In fact, I believe it violates the fourth law of thermodynamics.”
“Very funny!” she said sarcastically.
She thought back over the last few years, her doomed relationships and bungled dates, trying to remember such a thing as casual sex with no hope for something more. She came up blank. “You make a one-night stand sound like a noble accomplishment.”
“In a way, it is. Why shouldn’t two consenting adults be able to enjoy one another’s company without all of the emotional traps? A purely physical encounter is a thing of beauty. It’s simple and satisfying. It asks nothing of you. It doesn’t hurt your heart or your mind. You’re the one complaining about relationships, after all. You shouldn’t have to swear off sex because you’re too emotionally immature to avoid falling in love with every person who kisses you.”
“Are you calling me emotionally immature?”
“No. I’m speaking in generalities. About women…in general.” She noted the twinkle in his eye. “Of which you are one.”
She took another bite of her rice, eying him across the table. Ellie stopped to refill their glasses.
“How’s your lunch?” she asked.
“Fantastic!” Raven answered. “I think this has officially become my favorite restaurant in town.”
Ellie smiled with genuine appreciation and said, “Thank you. That’s so good to hear.”
A commotion near the door drew their attention. A heavily clothed woman with long, tousled blonde hair was entering the restaurant. Wren immediately recognized her as the person Cleo had run off the theater property earlier.
“What delightful distraction is this?” Raven asked.
“Oh, my God!” shrieked Ellie, darting over to the woman in the doorway as her wild eyes flitted over the people in the room. Wren stiffened as the woman’s stare locked on her, followed by a toothy, frightening grin.
Ellie had hold of the sleeve of her cape and was pulling her toward the kitchen. But the woman resisted, standing her ground, still staring at Wren. Ellie tugged more emphatically, throwing apologetic smiles around the room.
Before she disappeared into the kitchen, the intruder, still eying Wren, proclaimed, “By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes!”
Wren felt stunned, wondering if the woman had followed her here, was targeting her for some reason. “What the hell was that?”
Raven patted her hand. “Your next date would be my guess.” Then he burst out laughing.
She took a deep breath as the rest of the diners returned to their meals. A minute later Ellie came hurrying over. She leaned down to Wren, whispering. “I’m so sorry. That’s just my weird sister Cassandra. I’ve told her over and over to leave my customers alone. I hope she didn’t upset you.”
“Your sister?” Wren said uncertainly. “Oh, no. It’s okay.”
“Are you sure? I can take you in the back and get her to apologize.”
“No!” Wren shrieked. Then more calmly, “No, thanks. I’m fine. Just a little unexpected.”
The door bell tingled again. Wren spun around to look, illogically expecting the ghost of Christmas past or some such horror. She was relieved to see an ordinary woman pushing through the door, pulling a Styrofoam box on a wheeled cart. Maybe not an entirely ordinary woman, she thought, recognizing the woman from an hour ago outside the theater, the one who’d fallen on the sidewalk. Yes, it was definitely the same woman. Her clothes, jeans and a cotton shirt, didn’t distinguish her, but Wren held the image of her face in her mind. She recognized those remarkable blue-gray eyes.
“Oh, hi, Sophie!” called Ellie, hailing the newcomer with a wave.
Sophie.
Sophie smiled a greeting to Ellie, then the two of them went together toward the kitchen while Wren watched Sophie from behind, noting with appreciation how her hips moved as she walked. Those hips had a special way of turning with each step, like a dance. They had a mesmerizing quality that held Wren’s attention until they were gone from view.
A captivating woman, she thought with a sigh, but if she were gay by some extraordinary stroke of luck, she was probably just another freaky flake.
CHAPTER FIVE
This bud of love by summer’s ripening breath,
May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.
—Romeo and Juliet, Act II, Scene 2
Sophie held her breath as Ellie sliced a wedge off the chêvre log and tasted it like the connoisseur she was, with a seriously determined slant to her compact mouth and a distracted stare in her eyes. The cheese sat like an anxious debutante awaiting its coming out ball—creamy white with its flecks of purple sage, its claim to fame. Or perhaps its undoing, if all did not go as Sophie hoped.
“Ummm,” Ellie said as her tongue teased out the depth of flavor from the sample.
Was that a good Ummm or an undecided Ummm, Sophie wondered, watching Ellie’s face for the answer.
They both stood at a gleaming stainless steel counter in the kitchen of the restaurant. Johanna, the cook, was at her station with her chef’s knife, preparing some quiet wonder. That was the difference between the kitchen at Sprouts and most other restaurant kitchens. The food here was nearly silent. There was a noticeable absence of sizzling and spitting and splattering. It was fresh and simple and mostly uncooked.
In the back at a small table, Ellie’s younger sister Cassand
ra sat over her lunch, eating noiselessly, her wild hair surrounding her face like a mane. Seeing Sophie looking at her, she waved. Sophie smiled and nodded. “One of the witches from Macbeth again, is it?” she said to Ellie.
“She’s been on that for a while now. It’s always been one of her favorites. I wish she’d go back to Desdemona. I mean if she has to be somebody from Shakespeare. She rocks Desdemona. Or even Lady Macbeth. But, you know what, I can’t complain. I’m just relieved she’s off the Caliban kick. That sucked big time!”
Sophie laughed, remembering a few months ago when Cassandra had wandered the streets of Ashland in the guise of “a freckled whelp hag-born—not honour’d with a human shape.” It was a trial for Ellie to have such a loathing of Shakespeare’s works and have a sister who lived perpetually in them. It was a legacy from their actor father, Anthony Marcus, each daughter responding to his vocation with opposing attitudes on the Bard.
Ellie was Sophie’s first and best customer, one of the restaurant owners who bought as much of the small-batch chêvre as she could turn out, which wasn’t a lot. Quality over quantity, that was the philosophy at Tallulah Rose Creamery. Sophie had known Ellie since they were kids. They were the same age and had gone to the same school. Ellie had always been single, not just unmarried, but unpartnered. Sophie was nearly certain she hadn’t even been on a date since high school when she had agreed to go to the senior prom with the first boy who’d asked her, not because she was interested in the boy, but because, like so many teenagers, Sophie included, she was interested in not being different. Ellie was one of those rarities, a woman with no drive to couple. She was reasonably good-looking and certainly pleasant enough to attract a mate. She just had no desire to do so.