Dance to the Piper (23 page)

"There's no rehearsal, but everything's happening today."

"I was under the impression that everything happens tonight."

"Nothing happens tonight without today. The lights, the sets, the drops. Turn right, then right again."

Through a thick stream of traffic, he eased over and followed her directions. "I didn't think performers worried much about the technical points of a show."

"A musical would lose a lot of its punch if it wasn't trimmed properly. Try to picture
The King and I
without the throne room or
La Cage
without the nightclub. There's a space." Leaning out the window, she pointed it out to him. "Will this thing squeeze into that?"

Reed gave her a mild look, then, with a few turns of the wheel, maneuvered his BMW between two other cars parked at the curb. " Will that do?"

"That's great." She leaned over to kiss him. "You're great. I'm glad you're here, Reed. Have I mentioned that?"

"A few times." He cupped a hand around the back of her neck to keep her close. Keeping her close was becoming a priority. "I should have worked harder to talk you into staying in bed. To rest," he added when she lifted her brow. "You're ready to jump out of your skin."

"This is normal opening-night behavior. If I were relaxed, you could worry. Besides, I think you should see what you're paying for. You're not the kind of man who's only interested in the end product. Come on." She was out of the car and waiting on the sidewalk. "You should get a look at backstage."

They went through the stage door together. Maddy waved to the guard, then followed the noise. The electric sound of a saw came briefly, then was gone. For the most part there were voices, some loud, some lowered, some complaining. Men and women, dressed for work, milled around. Some gave orders, others followed them, in what looked to Reed like quiet confusion.

If he had to take bets that they would be ready for curtain in a matter of hours, he'd have called it a long shot. There was no greasepaint here, no glitter. There was dust, a little grime and a lot of sweat.

A man in a headphone stood downstage with his arms spread over his head. He spoke into the mike as he brought his hands a little closer together. A square of light on the backdrop adjusted with the movement.

"You met the lighting director, didn't you?"

"Briefly," Reed said, and watched him move a few feet to stage right.

"All the lights have to be focused, one at a time. He's doing the downstage lights, his assistant will take care of upstage."

"How many lights are there?"

"Dozens."

"The show starts at eight. Shouldn't this have been done already?"

"We made some changes in rehearsal yesterday. Don't worry." She linked an arm through his. "Whether it's done or not, the show will go on at eight."

Reed cast another look around. There were big wooden crates on wheels, some opened, some closed. Coils of cable littered the floor, ladders were set up here and there. On a Genie lift, a man fiddled with lights while another stood back, motioning down with his hands. A dark backdrop lowered slowly, then stopped on his signal.

"They've got to set the highs and lows on the drops," she told him. "They're all weighted, and the crew has to know how far to take them down, how far to bring them up. Come on, I'll show you the fly floor. That's where they make a lot of magic happen."

Maddy weaved her way backstage, around crates and boxes, carefully skirting ladders rather than walking under them. There was more rope dangling, more cable coiled. Reed saw a rubber chicken hanging by a noose next to where two men taped what looked like an electrical box to a wood panel.

"Miss O'Hurley." One of them turned to grin at her. "Looking good."

"Just make sure you make me look good tonight."

There were tall chests lined up along the back wall, most of them plastered with stickers from other shows. Maddy squeezed between the last drop and the chests.

"We have to cross underneath the stage in this theater," she explained. "Not enough room back here. It's better than having to run outside and around to make your next cue."

"Would it be more organized if—"

"This is theater." Maddy took his hand and led him through a narrow doorway. "This is as organized as it gets. Up here." She climbed up a skinny, steep stairway and through another opening.

It looked to Reed like the deck of a ship—one that had weathered a heavy storm. Ropes were everywhere, some as thick as Maddy's wrist, some thin and wiry. They hung from above and spilled out on the floor, without, it seemed to him, any rhyme or reason. A great many were grouped together, slanting up, then down over a long metal pole.

There was a small table wedged into a corner with papers tacked up around it and spread over it, with an overflowing ashtray on top of everything. A few men were tying ropes with the careless skill of veteran sailors. The place smelled of rope, cigarettes and sweat; the familiar scents that lingered in a theater.

"This is a hemp house," she began. "There aren't too many of them left in the States. It's too bad, really. You have more flexibility with rope and sandbags than you do with counterweights. All the moving pieces are handled from up here. The beaded curtain." She put a hand over a group of ropes that was bound together and labeled with a tag. "It weighs over five hundred pounds. When it's time to let it down in the third act, the stage manager cues the flyman verbally through the intercom. The lighting director backs it up with a light cue."

"Sounds simple enough."

"Sure. Unless you've got two or three cues on top of each other or a drop that's so heavy it takes three men on the ropes. This is a big show. The guys up here won't be taking many coffee breaks."

"I don't understand why you know so much."

"I've been in theater all my life." A man came through the doorway, muscled his way around them and began talking to two men who were tying off rope. "Come out on the paint bridge. It's quite a view."

She made her way around the various ropes, hunched under a steel bar and stepped out on a narrow iron platform. Below, stagehands were spread out. Though it looked no more organized from this angle, Reed began to sense a spirit of teamwork.

"If anything up here has to be painted, this is where they do it." She glanced down and shook her head. "Not my kind of job."

A stream of four-letter words rose up from below. A drop descended silently. Then a spotlight began to play on it, widening, then narrowing, then holding steady. Maddy ran her hands back and forth over the rail.

"That's my spot in act one, scene three."

"If I didn't know better, I'd say you were nervous.''

"No, I'm not nervous. I'm terrified."

"Why?" He put a hand over hers. "You know what you can do."

"I know what I have done," she corrected. "I haven't done this yet. Tonight, when the curtain goes up, it's the first time. There's your father." Looking down, Maddy let out a long breath. "It looks like he's talking to the general manager of the theater. You should be down there with them."

"No, I should be here with you." He was just beginning to realize how true that was. He hadn't driven to Philadelphia in the middle of the night because he mistrusted her. He hadn't come with her that morning because he didn't have anything better to do. He'd done both because wherever she was, he belonged. She danced to the piper. And, perhaps, so did he. It scared the hell out of him.

Thirty feet above the stage, on a narrow iron platform, he experienced the fear of falling—but not fear of falling physically onto the floor below. "Let's go down." He wanted people around, strangers, noise, anything to distract him from what was blooming inside.

"All right. Oh. It's my family. Look." Nerves were gone, and the pleasure was so deep that she slipped an arm around Reed's waist without being aware that he stiffened. "There's Pop. See the skinny little man who's kibitzing with one of the carpenters? He could run any part of this show—lights, drops, props. He could direct it or choreograph it, but that's never been for him." She beamed down, all admiration and love. "Spotlight, that's for Pop."

"And for you?"

"I'm told I take after him the most. My mother's there. See the pretty woman with the little boy? That's my youngest nephew, Chris. He decided yesterday he wanted to be a lighting man because they get to ride up in the lift. And my sister Abby. Isn't she lovely?"

Reed looked down, focusing on a slender woman with wavy blond hair. There was an air of contentment around her, though she stood in the midst of chaos. She put her hand on the shoulder of another boy and pointed to the house.

"She's showing Ben where they'll be sitting tonight, I imagine. He's really more excited about going to New York tomorrow. Dylan has meetings with his publisher."

Reed watched Dylan reach down, then heft Chris on his shoulders. The little boy's squeals of delight bounced up to them.

"They're great kids." Because she heard the wistfulness in her own voice, she shook it away. She had enough, Maddy reminded herself. "Let's go say hello."

Back down onstage, she skirted around a row of colored lights bolted to the floor. Later that night they would shine for her. Hearing the signal, she took Reed's hand and drew him aside as the beaded curtain made its glittery descent.

"Pretty terrific, isn't it?"

Reed studied the thousands of beads. "It certainly makes a statement."

"We use this during my dream sequence, when I imagine I'm a ballet dancer instead of a stripper, and of course I
pirouette
right into Jonathan's arms. The nice thing about theater—and about dreams—is you can make anything you want happen."

As they walked around another drop, she heard her father's voice ring out.

"Valentine, I'll be damned." Frank O'Hurley, why and small, grabbed the huge, husky man in a rough embrace. "My girl told me you'd sprouted wings to back this play." Delighted, Frank drew back and grinned at him. "How many years has it been?"

"Too many." Edwin pumped Frank's hand enthusiastically. "Too damn many. You don't look any older."

"That's because your eyes are."

"And Molly." Edwin bent down to kiss her cheek. "Pretty as ever."

"There's not a thing wrong with your eyes, Edwin," she assured him, and kissed him again. "It's always good to see an old friend."

"I never forgot you. And I never stopped envying you your wife, Frank."

"In that case, I can't let you kiss her again. You might have a harder time remembering my Abby."

"One of the triplets." He took Abby's hand between his meaty ones. "Incredible. Which one—"

"The middle one," she answered easily.

"Maybe it was your diaper I changed."

With a laugh, Abby turned to Dylan. "My husband, Dylan Crosby. Mr. Valentine is obviously an old, intimate friend of the family."

"Crosby. I've read some of your work. Didn't you work with my son on one of your books?"

"Yes, I did." Dylan felt Ben's hand slip into his and linked fingers with him. "You were out of town at the time, so we never met."

"And grandchildren." Edwin sent another look at Frank and Molly before he hunkered down to the boys' level. "A fine pair. How do you do?" He offered his hand formally to each boy. "Here's something else I covet, Frank."

"I've got a soft spot for the little devils," Frank admitted, winking at them. "Abby's going to give us another one next winter."

"Congratulations." It was envy; he couldn't prevent it. But he felt pleasure, as well. "If you don't have plans, I'd like for you all to join me for dinner before the show."

"We're the O'Hurleys," Frank reminded him. "We never have plans that can't be changed. How's your boy, Edwin?"

"He's fine. As a matter of fact, he… Well, here he is now. With your daughter."

When Frank turned, a light went on in his head. He saw Maddy with her hand caught in that of a tall, lean man with sculpted features. And he saw the look in her eyes, warm, glowing and a little uncertain. His baby was in love. The quick twist in his heart was part pleasure, part pain. Both feelings softened when Molly's fingers linked with his.

Introductions were made again, and Frank kept his eyes sharply on Reed. If this was the man his baby had chosen, it was up to him to make sure she'd chosen well.

"So you're in charge of Valentine Records," Frank began. He didn't believe in subtle probing. "Doing a good job of it, are you?"

"I like to think so." The man before Reed was like a bantam rooster—small but scrappy. Frank's hairline was receding and his eyes were a stunning blue, and

Reed wondered why, when he looked at Frank O'Hurley, he saw Maddy. There was little or no resemblance on the surface. If it was there—and somehow it was—it came from inside. Perhaps that was why he felt himself so drawn to the man and why he worked so hard to keep his distance.

"A lot of responsibility, a record company," Frank went on. "Takes a clever hand at a wheel. A dependable one. Not married, are you, boy?"

Despite himself, Reed felt a smile tugging. "No, I'm not."

"Never have been?"

"Pop, did I show you how we changed the timing for the finale?" Taking his hand, Maddy dragged him into the wings at stage left. "What do you think you're doing?"

"About what?" He grinned and kissed both her cheeks. "God, what a face you've got. Still look like my little turnip."

"Flattery will get you a punch in the nose." She drew him back behind the stage manager's desk as a group of stagehands wheeled out a crate. "You stop pumping Reed that way, Pop. It's so… so obvious."

"What's obvious is that you're my baby girl and I have a right to look after you—when I'm around to do it."

With her arms folded, she tilted her head. "Pop, did you do a good job of raising me?"

"I did the best job."

"Would you say I'm a sensible, responsible woman?"

"Damn right you are." Frank puffed out his chest. "I'd punch the first man who said different."

"Good." She kissed him hard. "Then butt out, O'Hurley." She gave his cheek two sharp pats, then walked out onstage again. "I know everyone has things to do this afternoon." She answered her mother's wink. "I'm going up to the rehearsal room to iron out a few kinks."