Spellcrossed (36 page)

“I don’t think we’re doing that. I think—I hope—we’re giving them skills that will help them succeed on and off the stage. Same as the Mackenzies. There must be thousands of people who need this place, who could learn something about themselves by working here. I want to give them that chance. It’s not a betrayal of what you set out to do. It’s just…expanding the mission.”

Rowan frowned. “And magic? Where does that fit in?”

“The same way it always has. When you left, we all thought we had to become a normal theatre in order to survive. But it’s the magic that makes this place special. I want that. I want this to be a place that changes lives, just like it changed mine. And I know that sounds like Maggie Graham, Helping Professional, but—”

“That’s who you are.”

“Are you so different?”

“I don’t have your illusions about people. And I don’t want you to be…disappointed.”

“Are we talking about the theatre? Or Daddy?”

“Both.”

B
Y THE TIME THE MATINEE LET OUT Saturday, Daddy was in lockdown at the Bates mansion, dinner preparations were complete, and the air in Rowan’s apartment was redolent with the earthy aroma of mushroom pomponnettes.

“You look beautiful,” I told Rowan who had donned his green silk shirt and black leather pants for the occasion.

“So do you,” he replied, surveying my kicky sundress.

“Are you as calm as you look?”

“Absolutely. When Alison walks in, I’m going to call her Mom and give her a big kiss.”

“You better be wearing a brass jock strap.”

He laughed and shooed me downstairs to keep watch.

When Chris’ Accord eased down the lane, I hurried out of the lobby and ran after it like an excited puppy. Mom crawled out of the car, submitted to a brief hug, and noted, “You look appallingly blissful.”

“I am. How are
you
?”

“Tired.”

She made a brief detour to greet some of the cast members who were enjoying the usual post-matinee supper in the picnic area. As soon as she turned toward the barn, her pleasant smile vanished. She marched toward the stage door like a prisoner about to enter Stalag 17.

“This is going to be a disaster.”

“No, it won’t,” Chris assured me. But his expression was almost as grim as my mother’s.

“Is it dinner with Rowan? Or something else?”

“It was just a really long drive.”

We followed Mom up the stairs to the apartment. Rowan took one look at them and said, “You both look like you could use a drink.”

As he ushered them into the living area, Chris gave a low whistle. Mom, of course, had seen it during her less-than-cordial meeting with Rowan two summers ago. Praying our dinner would go better, I darted around like a hummingbird on crack as I set out the hors d’oeuvres.

I heard another whistle and turned to find Chris examining the bottle of wine on the sideboard.

“You really pulled out all the stops, Rowan.”

“Wait’ll you taste the mushroom pomponnettes,” I promised.

My mother’s lips pursed; clearly, she thought Rowan was trying too hard. She thawed a little after her first glass of wine, but her chilly politeness was almost worse than outright rudeness. Rowan pretended not to notice, but when he went into the kitchen to put the lamb chops on the grill, I plunked myself on the sofa next to her.

“He’s worked really hard on this dinner,” I said in a furious whisper. “Could you at least try to meet him halfway?”

Mom had the grace to look abashed. She took a deep breath, put on a happy face, and said, “I thought Maggie was exaggerating when she praised your cooking. Now I know better. If you get tired of the theatre, you can open a restaurant in town.”

Rowan glanced at me, then shook his head. “I’m already keeping a wary eye out for your spoon. I don’t want to be looking over my shoulder for Mei-Yin’s cleaver.”

“Look on the bright side,” my mother said. “A cleaver would be quick.”

“Thank you, Alison. That
is
a comfort.”

I began humming “Always Look on the Bright Side of Life.” Chris obligingly chimed in with the whistles. Rowan laughed. Even Mom smiled.

Apart from her brief interrogation about how Rowan had spent his time away—and whether he had reconciled with his mythical father—dinner went more smoothly. But both Mom and Chris seemed…off. Maybe it
was
just the long drive. I hated to think of them enduring the return trip tomorrow.

When I mentioned that, Chris said, “We’re not. We’re going to stick around and play tourist next week.”

I managed to avoid shrieking, but my face must have conveyed my panic because Mom said, “Don’t worry. We won’t be underfoot. We’ll do some sightseeing and come back Thursday after
Into the Woods
opens.”

“And since you’ll be done with rehearsals,” Chris added, “we’ll have all day Friday to visit. Maybe go on a day trip, the four of us.”

I banished the mental picture of Rowan vomiting out the back window of Chris’ car and plastered a smile on my face. “That’s great! I’m not sure if the Rose Garden Room’s available next Thursday, but—”

“It’s all taken care of,” Chris said. “Frannie booked us into a room down the hall for Thursday night.”

“Wonderful,” Rowan said. “You’ll have much more fun playing tourist than driving back and forth two weekends in a row. Where are you going? Or are you just going to wander?”

I gave a derisive snort; Mom was as likely to wander through Vermont as she was to hitchhike.

After favoring me with a quelling glance, she began describing their itinerary. Rowan astonished me by commenting on all the sites she mentioned and offering suggestions for others to consider. If I didn’t know better, I’d have believed he had actually visited them.

“It’s worth a side trip to see the Quechee Gorge,” he urged. “The Grand Canyon of Vermont, they call it. If
you don’t want to walk to the bottom, you can still get a marvelous view from the bridge. Better still, take a hot air balloon ride. I’ve always wanted to do that.” His expression grew dreamy. “Imagine floating through the sunset with the world drifting by beneath you. Like Phileas Fogg in
Around the World in Eighty Days
.”

“It probably costs an arm and a leg,” my practical mother noted.

“But for the experience of a lifetime…” Rowan sighed. Then he brightened. “You should come up for fall foliage season. The town will be crawling with leaf peepers, but there’s a place nearby with incredible views. I took Maggie there for a picnic.”

“It was our first date. Rowan packed up his entire kitchen—silver, crystal, bone china. And the food…poached salmon, grilled quail…”

“That’s some first date,” Chris said.

“It wasn’t as romantic as it sounds. More like the opening round of a boxing match. Both of us probing, trying to find out what made the other one tick.”

“But it was a beginning,” Rowan said. “The first time we really opened up to each other.”

As we shared a smile, an enormous sense of peace filled me. We’d come a long way since that afternoon.

My smile faded when I caught Mom studying me. Chris was studying Mom, his expression grave.

Was that why they seemed off? Were they having problems?

Stop borrowing trouble. The evening’s finally going okay. Slice up the blueberry pie, dish out the ice cream, and thank God for small favors.

To my relief, they seemed to enjoy
The Secret Garden
. We waited in the green room to greet the cast and Mom found a special moment in each of the principal actors’ performances to praise. But as Rowan and I walked them through the lobby, she said, “It’s not an easy show, is it? The story, I mean. There’s so much bitterness and anger and lost dreams.”

“But there’s a happy ending.”

“Musicals are nice that way. Life is rarely so accommodating.”

I shot a glance at Rowan who obligingly dragged Chris over to examine a poster. I led Mom toward the parking lot and asked, “Is everything okay?”

“Yes. No. Sue’s mother died.”

Without thinking, I blurted out, “It took long enough.” Then clapped my hands over my mouth, aghast at my insensitivity.

After staring at me in shocked disbelief, Mom threw back her head and gave a great bellow of laughter. Then she pressed her fingertips to her lips. We stood there like two “Speak No Evil” monkeys until she lowered her hand and whispered, “I said the very same thing.”

“We’re going straight to hell,” I whispered back.

“Nonsense. She was a dreadful old harridan. And she made Sue’s life a misery.”

“How is Sue?”

The last traces of amusement fled. “Sad. Angry. Bitter. Guilty. The whole experience made me feel…old.”

“You’re not old!” Unwillingly, I noticed that the unforgiving fluorescent lights in the parking lot cast shadows under her eyes and deepened the faint grooves around her mouth. “Sixty-two is practically middle-aged these days.”

“Only if you live to be a hundred and twenty,” she remarked dryly. “When the morning paper comes, you know the first section I read? The obituaries. A sure sign I’m getting old.”

“Or that you’re ghoulish.”

“Well, there
is
that.”

“I wish you’d told me all this when we talked on Sunday.”

“You sounded so happy. I didn’t want to spoil that.” She grimaced. “Instead, I spoiled dinner.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Promise you won’t say awful things about me when I’m dead.”

“I don’t say awful things about you now! I don’t think you’re a harridan.”

“And…?” she prompted.

“And you very rarely make my life a misery.”

To my relief, that wrested a smile from her.

“Hey!” Chris called. “Are you two finished whispering?”

Mom motioned the guys over and said, “I was being maudlin. Another sign of impending decrepitude.”

“You’re the least decrepit woman I know,” Rowan said.

“Your opinion doesn’t count. You’re just trying to win me over.”

“Am I succeeding?”

“I’m still deciding.”

“Told you she was tough,” Chris said. “You had
me
at the mushroom pomponnettes.”

Mom hugged me. “It was a wonderful show, Maggie. And a wonderful dinner, Rowan.”

The first time she’d ever called him that. Hard to tell whether he felt the earth teetering on its axis, too. He merely shook her hand and thanked her.

“Breakfast at the Chatterbox?” I asked.

“No. Sleep in and get some rest. You have a busy week ahead. I’ll call you Thursday when we get into town.”

“Call me sooner if you want. To talk about the trip. Or…whatever.”

“I’ll call you Thursday,” she said firmly.

As the car eased up the lane, Rowan said, “All in all, I thought it went pretty well.” When I merely nodded, he asked, “Didn’t
you
think so?”

“Yes,” I assured him.

“She called me Rowan. That was a big step.”

I hugged his arm. “Yes. It was.”

“But…?”

I told him about my conversation with Mom, adding, “I was afraid she and Chris were having problems.”
When Rowan remained silent, I asked, “They’re not, are they?”

“I don’t know,” he replied. “I sensed something during dinner. A certain…sadness. Maybe it was the specter of mortality.”

“But you don’t think so.”

“I don’t know,” he repeated. “But I’m glad they’ll be able to spend some time together. They deserve a chance to relax and enjoy each other. And so do we. So let’s have fun tonight and celebrate another successful show.”

I nodded. But I wished I could skip the cast party. All I really wanted to do was hurry after my mother and find some way to dispel the sadness that shadowed her.

I
WAS RELIEVED TO DISCOVER THAT DADDY’S EVENING had been less stressful than Mom’s. He had grilled burgers with Bernie and Mei-Yin, helped Hal string paper lanterns around the patio, and beaten everyone at Monopoly. Apart from asking why we hadn’t brought our guests to the cast party, he seemed disinterested in our “out of town friends.” I provided a hushed summary of my evening to the staff while we were setting out beer and wine and platters of food.

A rousing chorus of “The House Upon the Hill” heralded the arrival of the cast. Those who were making their first pilgrimage to the Bates mansion surveyed their surroundings with awe. The veterans made a beeline to the dining room.

The partying began in earnest after the kids departed with their parents. Most of the staff and crew left shortly afterward; they had to be back at the theatre at nine o’clock to begin loading in the set of
Into the Woods
and knew better than to incur the wrath of Reinhard and Lee by showing up late.

I wandered through the house, laughing at some of the war stories of our rehearsals and making a special effort to spend time with the cast members who would be leaving tomorrow. But the strain of dinner was telling on me and by one o’clock, I was yawning.

“Time for bed, Cinderella?” Rowan asked.

“Past it. Mind if I bunk with you tonight? The party will go on for at least another hour.”

He offered a convincing imitation of Long’s leer. “I was hoping you’d suggest that.”

“Just to sleep.”

“No hanky-panky?”

“No.”

“No makin’ whoopee?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Not even a little Graham on the half shell?” he whispered. And laughed as I frantically shushed him.

“Have you seen Daddy?”

“Not lately. Why?”

“I don’t want him up to all hours drinking.”

Rowan cocked his head and gazed thoughtfully at the chandelier in Janet’s foyer. After about ten seconds, I said, “Hello? Earth to Rowan?”

“He’s out back,” he announced with a smug smile.

“If only you were that good with lost keys. I’ll grab my stuff and roust him out.”

“Meet you on the front porch.”

I threw a change of clothes and some cosmetics into my carryall, snatched up my purse, and headed back downstairs. I breathed a sigh of relief when I stepped outside. After the stuffiness of the house, the cool air felt delicious.

Cigarette smoke drifted skyward, shrouding the patio in a haze. Cast members chatted together, some faces illuminated by the lamplight shining through the windows, others dyed pink and gold and bilious green by the paper lanterns hanging from the branches of the maple tree. Spying no sign of Daddy’s signature white hair, I slowly descended the steps, guided by the soft glow of the luminarias in their paper bags.