Pressing the Issue

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  We sprinted across the parking lot to the huge white tent and entered on Nick’s coattails.

  The mayor applauded. “At last. The king has arrived.”

  The tent was dressed up to look like a street at the fair with a few stalls and wooden signs. Carpet that resembled the boardwalk lined the floor. Well-placed klieg lights helped give the area ambience.

  “Okay, everyone, listen up, please.” The mayor gestured to a group of more than a dozen players. “Bow to the king and let’s get cracking.”

  The entire group, except an outlier who was manning a handheld video camera, made courtly bows.

  “Don’t you mean bow to the bombastic king?” the outlier said.

  Nick held a hand over his forehead and searched for the offender.

  The outlier removed the video camera from his eye, and I realized he was none other than Nick’s younger brother, Alan. The two were as different as night and day. Whereas Nick was brown-eyed and tan and looked like a man who worked the earth, Alan was green-eyed, pale, and not in the least muscular.

  “Very funny.” Nick saluted Alan, who in turn mimed tipping the brim of an imaginary hat. Neither was smiling.

  Those bowing to Nick rose and burst into laughter. The men in the group huddled around him and whacked him heartily on the back.

  “Let’s get this show on the road.” Mayor Zeller, or Z.Z., as many call her—short for Zoey Zeller—clapped her hands. “Grab what you need over there.” She gestured to a table filled with bottles of water and props. “Jenna and Rhett, good to see you here. Want to act?”

  “Uh-uh,” Rhett said. “I’m camera shy.”

  “Don’t kid a kidder.” Z.Z. knuckled his shoulder. “I’ll bet you’re as much of a ham as Nick.”

  “I’m content to watch.”

  I said, “Z.Z., I recognize most of the players but not the lady in gold.” I indicated the willowy blonde that we’d seen speaking with Nick near the Punch and Judy show.

  “You don’t know Melody?” Z.Z.’s brow puckered. “No, I don’t suppose you would, come to think of it. This is her first fair in Crystal Cove. She and her husband are renting Pepper’s house.”

  Though Melody was tall, she appeared as delicate as Pepper had described.

  “She makes pottery in San Francisco,” the mayor continued. “She has quite the knack. Nick is holding something she made. Do you see it?”

  “I do.” It was one of the pieces I had admired in the Beauforts’ stall.

  Nick sidled up to Melody and said something. Her mouth formed the word no. Dabbing her nose with her handkerchief, she moved on to a frizzy-haired older woman in a lavender gown with split sleeves.

  “Okay, folks!” Z.Z. signaled to Nick’s brother. “For now, Alan, roam through them without running the camera. Give them a feel of what it’s like to have you among them. In a minute, turn it on.”

  Alan shot her a thumbs-up gesture.

  Z.Z. said, “Remember, people, use the words aye, anon, and prithee. Don’t forget that the Internet is the ether, and if you see a cell phone, act as though it is a strange novelty from another world. Ask about it. Make fun. Tease. Fantasy is what matters, even to those who will be dressed in shorts and crazy T-shirts.”

  Not everyone who attends the fair comes dressed for the occasion.

  “Ready . . . and action.”

  Nick pursued Melody, who had separated from the woman in lavender. He said something. Melody shook her head and coyly lowered her chin. Nick spoke again. Melody responded briefly and then sashayed to a couple of women dressed as wenches.

  Moving on, Nick strutted to a man in a brown tavern owner’s outfit and loudly said, “Good morrow!”

  “Good morrow, sire,” the man replied.

  “Wherefore willst I find ale for my parched tankard?”

  “I shall fetch yon ale mistress.” The tavern owner bowed gallantly and swaggered away.

  At the same time, the woman in lavender approached Nick. “Varlet! Fie on thee. How dare ye slander my daughter.”

  “What ho?” Nick planted his hands imposingly against his hips.

  Melody hurried up to the woman and gripped her arm. “Nay, Mother, do not assail him. Verily, he is not the scoundrel.”

  The woman in lavender shot a finger at Nick. “By my faith, should I learn otherwise . . .” Letting her threat hang in the air, she made a U-turn and pranced away.

  Nick clasped Melody’s elbow and said something under his breath and then gently swept a loose strand of her hair to one side. In keeping with her character, Melody swatted his hand away and traipsed after her mother.

  The players continued interacting for a good ten minutes. I hadn’t attended a Renaissance Fair in a long time, but watching them all having such fun and relishing their roles made me eager to participate during the rest of the week. Tomorrow I would encourage Bailey, Tina, and my aunt to use fair-speak language nonstop in the shop. The more fun we had, the more fun our customers would have.

  “Let’s take a break,” Z.Z. announced. “Great job!”

  As the group disbanded, Sean Beaufort entered the tent. He was carrying a lady’s white knit shawl. Melody caught sight of him and waved. He hustled to her, pecked her on the cheek, and draped the shawl over her shoulders.

  “Everyone, this is Sean,” Melody announced. “My husband.”

  The players greeted him in unison.

  Sean responded cheerfully and sauntered to the edge of the tent, obviously not intending to take part.

  Playacting resumed and Melody weaved through the crowd, speaking to everyone with an easy grace.

  A few minutes into the scene, a gawky young man in a royal blue messenger’s costume, his tunic trimmed with gold braid, raced into the tent. “I have a missive.” His strident voice could have carried halfway across the ocean. He cut through the knot of players. When he came upon Melody, he dropped to one knee. “My lady. For a beautiful lady of song.”

  How cute, I thought. A lady of song—Melody.

  He offered her a tube of parchment tied with ribbon, like the gift Rhett had presented to me.

  Rhett nudged me. “Looks like someone is receiving a love note.”

  “Looks like.” I pecked him on the cheek. “I adore mine.”

  Melody accepted the note and started to open it, but Sean strode to her and held out his hand. Had he decided to join the playacting after all? He didn’t say a word. He gazed into her eyes. Melody’s face flushed. Without reading the note, she handed it to him, took his hand, and allowed him to usher her toward the exit.

  The mayor yelled, “Sean, what ho! Wherefore goest thou? Do not make haste.” Apparently, his interruption wasn’t part of the scenario.

  “We have to leave,” he said without an accent—definitely not part of the scene.

  “No, you don’t, young man.” Z.Z. hustled to him and clasped his arm. “Melody promised to star in our production, so now you’re taking part. Come on, ye yellow-livered, moneygrubbing rascal, buck up. Act the merchant that ye are. Or at the very least pretend to be bellicose Petruchio, come to dominate your Kate.”

  I elbowed Rhett. “Whoa! Aren’t you glad you didn’t try to remove me from the building? Z.Z. would’ve taken you to task.”

  Sadly, the mayor’s magic didn’t work on Sean. He wrested free of her and murmured something to Melody.

  “Apologies, everyone,” Melody said, addressing the group. “I must take my leave. I shall be with you in spirit. Until the morrow.” She waved like royalty and followed Sean out of the tent.

  Z.Z. hurried to Nick and held a quiet conversation. Then she darted to Alan and did the same. He cut a look at Nick and splayed his arms, as if asking what could he do. Obviously miffed, the mayor circled a finger to continue. “Again, fine ladies and gentlemen. Anew! We may have lost a precious lass, but we are a force.”

  She retreated to us and said, “Come on. Join in the fun. For a few minutes. You’ll get a videotape for your troubles. Two more players would really help us
out.”

  Rhett shrugged. “Sure, why not.” He charged into the group and began interacting with the others.

  I did the same. My fair-speak wasn’t very good, but the others were kind enough to help me with it.

  Alan, who must have picked up on my unease, slipped up beside me and said, “Go for it. The newbies at the fair will love your courage.”

  Emboldened, I took up with the frizzy-haired woman in lavender and led with the story about Melody. “Good mother, you seem to have lost your daughter.”

  The woman glowered at me. “Wretched varlet ran off with her.”

  “Didst thou not know him?”

  “I have never spied him before.”

  “Verily, he is a long-distance runner,” I said, stating what Pepper had told me about Sean.

  “Forsooth, he is a fool.” Enjoying her slur, she slapped her thigh. “My daughter shall return, and when she does, I shall chain her to the bed for her disobedience.”

  Rhett joined us. “Thou art a vengeful soul, woman.”

  “Aye, I am, sir.” She clenched a fistful of skirt and did an about-face.

  Alan left us to keep pace with her.

  I slipped my hand around Rhett’s elbow. “Having fun?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Do you think Melody is okay?”

  “Why wouldn’t she be?”

  “Her husband seemed angry.”

  Rhett shook his head. “Alas, I think you missed the signals, my love. I believe he has other plans for the two of them tonight.” With a wink, he added, “Me-thinks the love letter was an invitation to go home and play footsie.”

  “You . . .” I swatted his arm.

  Nick approached us. “What ho, Maid Marian. You have a secret. Share it with the king.”

  I peeked at Rhett.

  “Out with it,” Nick demanded. “The secret hast made you blush.”

  “Do I blush, sire?” I put a hand to my cheek.

  Rhett wrapped an arm around me. “We were discussing the sweet Melody, who needed to leave so quickly.”

  “Fie on her husband,” Nick cried. “A pox on his house. Her departure didst not please the king.” He hailed his brother. “Alan, come hither.” He waved for Alan to join us. “Make sure these two are part of the fun.”

  Alan looked miffed. Under his breath, he said, “I already have.”

  “Make sure,” Nick said.

  Alan pivoted and said to Rhett and me, “Go ahead, you two. Make another pass. Ready. Action.”

  He followed us for a few minutes. Rhett asked a tavern owner for a pint of ale. I begged for directions to the theater. It was challenging.

  When Z.Z. announced a break, Rhett and I said goodbye and exited, ready to taste the wares on the Pier. For some reason, as we neared the exit, I felt compelled to turn back. I caught sight of Nick genially wielding the foot-shaped wine tool he’d purchased from Ye Olde Wine Shoppe like a baseball bat. He was making everyone in the tent laugh.

  Everyone, except his brother.

  Chapter 4

  The next day, Bailey bustled from the storage room to where I was tidying a display table and set down a stack of books bound with raffia ribbon. She heaved a sigh. “Jenna.” A world of woe filled that single word.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “I have to check on things at the vineyard. Nick made me promise I would meet the chef today and go over the menu. Come with me.”

  “I can’t. We’re slammed.”

  We had been hopping for six straight hours. Customers, in fair costumes and normal dress, had been arriving in waves since we’d opened. Many were browsing the main attraction, a table I’d packed with Shakespearean-themed books including The Shakespeare Cookbook, which included recipes for a feast, and Shakespeare’s Kitchen: Renaissance Recipes for the Contemporary Cook, which featured lovely recipes and annotations from seventeenth-century cookbooks. Others were flipping through baking-themed cookbooks while enjoying the assortment of bite-sized scones Katie had set on the table in the breezeway.

  “Please, Jenna,” Bailey pleaded. “I need moral support. I’m so nervous that I’ll screw everything up. I am not a hostess. Tina”—she caught the attention of our darling assistant—“these are for Gran.” Gran is our best customer; she buys at least ten items each week. “She’ll be here in a half hour.” She carried the books to the checkout counter and slipped a note under the raffia ribbon. “Got that?”

  Tina, who was clad in an apple-red wench costume that she had sewn herself, nodded. She didn’t miss much.

  Bailey returned to me and grabbed my hands. “Pretty please. An hour. Tina has this place under control. And your aunt is here.”

  “For a nanosecond. She’s heading back to the fair in minutes.”

  Bailey’s eyes glistened with apprehension. She pressed a hand to her chest. “Prithee, have mercy on this wretched soul.”

  I laughed. How could I refuse? “Okay, fine, but no more than an hour.”

  We drove through town, a breeze cutting through the opened windows of my VW. Renaissance Fair people were out in droves. At most Renaissance Fairs, the main event is held within the confines of one location, but in Crystal Cove the entire town was serving as the setting. City regulations didn’t allow booths or tents along Buena Vista Boulevard, but there were plenty of fairgoers carrying turkey legs or meat on a stick. I saw a couple of people toting our shopping bags and joy zinged through me. Business was good. Free advertising was priceless.

  Baldini Vineyards is located near the top of the Santa Cruz Mountains and boasts a spectacular view of the ocean. The slope below the vineyard’s main buildings is packed with pinot noir grapevines.

  I maneuvered my VW Beetle up the winding road and pulled to a stop in front of the Baldinis’ stately Italianate house. Bailey hustled out of the car and slammed the door. I paused on the gravel driveway and took a moment to admire the trellises of red bougainvillea that flanked the grand windows and the flower beds overflowing with gorgeous red roses.

  A diminutive Hispanic housekeeper met us at the door and led us through the expansive foyer and living room. As I had on previous occasions, I enjoyed taking in the lavish white furniture and hand-carved white mantel around the marble fireplace, as well as the dozens of portraits that decorated the walnut-lined walls, all of whom were Baldini ancestors. They had arrived in Crystal Cove in the early 1900s. Their family history was rich.

  “Over my dead body!” a man yelled. Nick. I recognized his distinctively gravelly voice.

  “You can’t make me do anything,” a second man shouted. His brother, Alan, I was pretty sure. “I run my life.”

  “I’ll tell the history. Everyone will know.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “I’ll cut you off.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Try me.”

  Through the opened doors leading to the expansive verandah where the vineyard often hosted lavish tasting parties, I saw Nick pacing the light gray travertine tile. His face was hard, his eyes as dark as his shirt and trousers. Alan, also clad in black on black, was wielding the winepress that Nick had purchased at Hannah’s stall and jabbing it toward Nick like he was an animal in a cage.

  “Put it down,” Nick ordered.

  Alan didn’t.

  “Do it. Now.”

  “Fine.” Alan flung the tool to one side. It crashed against the railing. “I quit!” He threw up his hands.

  “You can’t quit.”

  “Sure I can. I’m an employee, not a partner.” Chuffing like a tiger—a very meek tiger—Alan stormed into the house, flew past Bailey and me, and exited through the front door. He slammed it so hard that the walls shook.

  “Mr. Nick?” the housekeeper said.

  Nick whirled around, caught sight of us, and rubbed his jaw. “Geez, ladies, I’m sorry you had to witness that. Alan can be a hothead.” He twirled a hand. “C’è la vita, as we say in Italian. Such is life.”

  “Alan quit?” B
ailey stammered. “But he’s the wedding photographer.”

  “Don’t worry. He’ll chill and come crawling back. He likes to quit once a week. He’s very opinionated and hates that I am, too.” Nick picked up the winepress and waved it nonchalantly. “Promise. It was a typical brother go-round. Brothers fight. Nothing to it. Come with me.”

  He gestured for us to follow him into his kitchen, which also served as his office. The granite counter was cluttered with plates and glasses, typical countertop items like flour and sugar containers, a bowl of fresh fruits and vegetables, a desktop computer, and a mess of folders. The long-necked cerulean piece of pottery Nick had bought yesterday stood on the sill by the kitchen window. Inspirational magnets clung to his refrigerator. Post-it notes adhered to his computer. The computer screen displayed an impressive photograph of the view of the ocean from the verandah.

  Nick crossed to the adjacent utility room and stowed the winepress by its “toes” on the hat-and-coat rack that stood next to the exit door. In addition to sunhats and raincoats, a huge leather glove dangled from one of the rack’s pegs. Piles of laundry cluttered the floor.

  “Josefina, please set up a beverage tray,” Nick said, “and take care of the dishes, would you? Tomorrow you can tackle the dirty clothes.”

  The housekeeper opened cupboards and fetched three colorful goblets.

  “What’ll it be, ladies?” Nick asked. “White wine, red wine, iced tea, water?”

  “Water for me,” I said. “I’ve got to have a steady head the rest of the day.” Back when I worked at Taylor & Squibb, I drank liquor once during the middle of the day and I was a basket case for the rest of it. All I’d wanted to do was curl up in a corner and take a nap.

  Bailey opted for water, as well.

  The housekeeper set a pitcher of ice water beside the goblets and exited the kitchen.

  Nick filled three glasses and handed one to each of us. “Follow me. We’ll sit outside and breathe in the fresh air as we deliberate.”