Spellcrossed (28 page)

Daddy skipped both dress rehearsals. He said he wanted to be wowed opening night. I just hoped he—and the rest of the audience—would be.

I approached the opening without my usual blend of hope, terror, and excitement. Even with the staff, the possibility of disaster had always existed. When a faery’s got your back, the “anything can happen in live theatre” vibe dissipates—especially since we had discussed the moments that required a little magical boost.

I yearned for my days as an actress when Rowan’s magic had been mysterious and thrilling and occasionally unnerving. The whole idea of planned magic felt wrong.

Nancy’s “break a leg” phone call lifted my spirits. Having lived through Hell Week of
Brigadoon
, she knew how to transform this one from a hair-whitening disaster into a series of comical misadventures.

By the time my mother called, I was able to greet her with a cheery hello.

“What’s wrong?” she demanded.

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“You sound too cheery.”

“I was trying to disguise how exhausted I am.”

“Well, you failed. Was Hell Week awful?”

“No more than usual. But the show will be fine. You’ll see for yourself on Saturday.”

There was a brief silence, then a sigh. “Sue’s mother has taken a turn for the worse. The hospice people think it’s only a matter of days. Flaky Leila and her husband are doing some shamanic circle thing this weekend. Laura said she’d try to fly in next week. By then, her grandmother will be in the ground.”

As her tirade escalated, a shameful feeling of relief washed over me: at least now we wouldn’t have to worry
about hiding Daddy. I didn’t want Sue’s poor mother to die or Sue to be grief-stricken or Mom to be worried about her best friend, but I had to admit the timing was terrific—and that I was an awful person for thinking that.

“There’s a special circle in Hell for unfeeling daughters,” my mother declared.

“I feel bad!”

“I’m talking about Laura and Leila. Anyway, I hate to leave you in the lurch, but…”

“Of course, you have to be there for Sue.”

“I’ll pay for the room. And the tickets.”

“We’ll fill the room. And sell the tickets. Just let me know when you’re coming up and—”

“It’ll have to be closing weekend. We have a birthday party for Chris’ granddaughter next Saturday.”

“I’ll put aside two tickets. And if there’s no room at the inn—”

“You’ll put us up in a stable?”

“Only if you arrive on a donkey. And pregnant.”

“Round up some wise men to offer me gold and frankincense and I’ll consider it.”

“No myrrh?”

“Ancient embalming fluid is not my idea of a hostess gift.”

“I’ll talk to Janet. I’m sure she’d be happy to put you up.”

“
I’ll
talk to Janet. You have enough on your plate.” There was a brief pause. Then she said, “How are…things?”

“If you mean Rowan, they’re okay.”

“Just okay?”

“I’ve hardly seen him since…”

He ravished me against the front door.

“…Hell Week started. We’ll have more time together during
Into the Woods
.”

“Yes. I suppose you will.”

Her voice was heavy with disapproval. She’d been
openly skeptical about the wisdom of casting Rowan and our ability to work together.

“So the two of you are…?”

“We’re fine, Mom.”

“Don’t get defensive.”

“I wasn’t…okay, I
was
defensive. But I hate that you want this to fail.”

“That’s not true! I want it to last a lifetime.” In the silence that followed, I could practically hear her choosing her words. “I’m just afraid it won’t.”

I sighed. She sighed. We avoided talking about Rowan. By the time I hung up, my cheery mood had vanished.

“Snap out of it!” Janet ordered. “You’ve got more important things to worry about than your mother’s opinion of Rowan.” When I stared at her blankly, she exclaimed, “
The Secret Garden
? Opening night? Ring any bells?”

“I don’t have to worry about the show. Rowan will work his magic. Everyone will be awed…”

“Is that what you’ve been in such a funk about?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. It just feels so…predictable.”

“Theatre? Predictable? You’ve got to be kidding. And since when has Rowan pulled all the strings? There were plenty of flubs in
Brigadoon
and
The
Sea-Wife
and
Carousel
. Rowan’s magic is the icing on the cake. And he’ll use it as sparingly as he always has.”

“But when you know the garden will look real at the end of the show, it kind of kills the anticipation.”

“You’re on the inside now, Maggie. Knowing how the magic works is never as much fun as watching the magician pull a rabbit out of his hat. It’s our job to make the hard work look effortless and the magic seem like a cool special effect or an especially wonderful performance. But we can still marvel at those moments. Because
we
know they’re really magical.”

W
HETHER JANET’S WORDS GOT ME OUT OF my funk or I realized I was being a total drama queen, I was back in my groove by that evening: the heart racing, cotton-mouthed, armpit-soaked, stomach-lurching, everything’s-coming-up-roses-unless-we-bomb excitement of opening night.

I stopped in Rowan’s apartment when I arrived at the theatre. Daddy preened when I complimented him on the seersucker shirt and chinos I’d bought for him. Then Rowan walked in from the bedroom.

“Catherine and I did a little online shopping.”

The black leather pants were the same ones he’d worn to
The Sea-Wife
’s opening, but the silk shirt was new. The deep green made his eyes sparkle like emeralds.

He shrugged, as if his beautiful shirt had suddenly shrunk two sizes. “I just wanted to do you proud on your opening night.”

“You always do me proud. And you look gorgeous.”

“So do you.”

His gaze traveled over the green sarong that Hal had insisted I wear. I’d resisted at first; I’d worn it my final night with Rowan and it carried too many sad memories. But Hal claimed the bamboo pattern was perfect for opening night of
The Secret Garden
. And the warmth of Rowan’s gaze made me happy I had acquiesced.

“I carried the memory of you in that dress every day we were apart.”

I let out a shaky sigh and reluctantly said, “We better get down to the green room.”

“Not yet. Jack and I have an opening night gift for you.”

Mystified, I followed them into the bedroom. On the bed I discovered a jug of detergent, a bottle of fabric softener—and two stacks of neatly folded clothes.

Most women wouldn’t get weepy about grown men doing their own laundry, but for my men, it was a milestone.

“Rowan didn’t like touching the machines,” Daddy said. “Even with gloves. So I did most of the work.”

“You also said that bleach brightens everything,” Rowan said. “Fortunately, I insisted on a test run.”

He opened the armoire and pulled out the jeans he’d ripped open during our quickie.

“The tie-dyed look’ll come back,” Daddy declared.

“And I’ll be in the fashion vanguard when it does,” Rowan replied.

“It’s the best present you could have given me.”

“Don’t worry,” Daddy said. “He got you flowers, too. But it’s bad luck to give them to you before the show.”

I nodded. “And tonight, we don’t want anything but good luck.”

When we gathered in the green room for our toast, I discovered why Hal had been so insistent about my sarong—and why Rowan had taken the unusual step of wearing a green shirt: the entire staff had gone not-so-secret garden. Alex sported a red rose on the lapel of his tuxedo. Reinhard had tucked a green pocket square into the breast pocket of his black suit. Hal had chosen a mauve shirt for the occasion, Lee, a gold one. Janet wore a pale green silk sheath, Catherine, a breezy little flowered number, and Mei-Yin, a scarlet dress with white
plum blossoms. As captain of the stage crew, Javier was doomed to wear black, but he sported a goofy circlet of flowers on his head—our ninja Queen of the May.

I got predictably sniffly, Janet predictably rolled her eyes, and even Catherine took a tiny sip of champagne during our toast.

Although Janet and Reinhard flanked me as I led warm-ups, it was the faery lounging against the back wall of the green room who made the magic. As many times as Rowan’s power had touched me, I had never deliberately called it forth. As I instructed the cast to close their eyes, I felt like an ancient priestess summoning the elemental forces of the universe.

My toes tingled as his power touched them. My feet grew heavy, as if rooted to the very bedrock of Vermont. A steady vibration rose up through my legs, like sap rising in the spring.

Heat flushed my body as the power flowed up through my belly and chest. My voice fell into a rhythmic chant. My fingers uncurled like new leaves. My body swayed like a sapling, moved by an otherworldly force as ageless as wind and sun and time.

I was caught in the spell yet standing apart, observing its effects. Driven by the growing urgency of the power yet directing it from my little island of calm.

Rowan sensed every shift in my emotions and responded as I framed the words for the cast. We were dancers, our spirits moving together instead of our bodies. We were music, he the song and I the singer. We were separate yet linked by the power flowing between us and through us, between and through the clasped hands of those in our circle.

Twin powers—Fae and human—feeding us and feeding on us, charging us with anticipation and excitement, racing around the circle, pulsing through every body, every mind, every spirit as the song built to a relentless climax.

“Let it go!”

The energy burst free on a wave of cries and groans and sighs. Even the cast members who had performed in
Annie
looked dazed. But they had never experienced a warm-up powered by Rowan Mackenzie.

“Just breathe.”

His power retreated on a wave of love that told me more clearly than any words that our brief communion had touched him as deeply as it had me.

Maybe that’s why I jettisoned my usual speech and simply said, “Hold on to that power. Bring it to the stage. And we’ll make magic here tonight.”

The house lights began to dim as Rowan and I slid into our seats. Daddy swiveled around and flashed a grin. “Janet’s my date.”

Janet gazed heavenward before whispering, “Turn around and behave.”

Daddy winked at me and obediently faced the stage. The house lights faded to black. Rowan gave my icy hand a reassuring squeeze. A spot picked up Alex in the orchestra pit. He acknowledged the applause with a quick nod and took his place at the piano.

The rustle of a program. The creak of a nearby seat. The palpable anticipation as if the theatre itself were holding its breath. Then the brass section launched into the “Prelude.”

After three short measures of “A Bit of Earth,” the strings introduced “Come to My Garden.” My heartbeat ignored their serene strains to gallop along with the racing counterpoint of the woodwinds.

The full orchestra took up the melody. The majestic tempo grew slower. My heartbeat sped up. The brass and woodwinds dropped out, leaving only the throb of strings. I took a series of calming breaths as harp and bells shimmered up the scale in the mysterious motif of the “Opening.”

A pool of amber light picked up Natasha sitting
downstage right, studying a gilt-framed photograph. The motif sounded again and behind the scrim, a cool lavender light picked up the ghostly figure of Lily on the upstage left platform. Michaela’s voice made me shiver with pleasure as she sang the gentle lullaby about the flowers she would keep safe in her garden.

As the lights slowly faded on her, the sky behind the scrim glowed orange, revealing the Indian Fakir on the upstage center platform. Thankfully, Paul no longer resembled Bert Healy with a turban. He even managed to avoid teetering when he lifted a foot in the slow, stylized movement Mei-Yin had taught him.

Before I could wonder if she was giving him some magical help, Larry entered and bent to kiss Natasha’s hair. My fingers involuntarily tightened on Rowan’s, knowing that our first technical hurdle was looming.