Spellcrossed (19 page)

Since there was no immediate prospect of fulfilling any sexual fantasies, maybe that was a good thing. But I felt adrift and blue. A loverless lover, a fatherless daughter, and—in spite of Alex’s pep talk—a rudderless director who needed help staging her show.

Hal was sympathetic, Janet, practical. My mother avoided any mention of Rowan during our usual Sunday morning phone chat. By contrast, Nancy called three times that week to see how things were going. On Sunday evening, I broke down and told her about my father.

She said, “Oh, my God!” about twenty times. In between, she asked how I was, how Daddy was, and then added, “How did Rowan ever find him?”

Let the lying begin.

“Daddy wrote a letter. To Rowan’s father.”

The imaginary one we made up two summers ago.

“It took awhile for the letter to reach Rowan.”

You know how unreliable the Faerie postal service is.

“By then, Daddy had moved on and it took forever to track him down.”

Since those pesky maps of the Borderlands shift as often as the landscape.

“And Rowan didn’t want to tell you he was looking
for him,” Nancy said. “And raise your hopes. Is he going to be okay? Your dad?”

“He’s getting better every day.”

“He must have been so excited to see you.”

I hesitated.

“Well, wasn’t he?”

“I haven’t told him that I’m his daughter. I want to give him time to settle in.”

“What did your mom say?” When I hesitated again, Nancy’s sigh gusted through the phone. “Oh, Maggie…”

“I’m going to tell her. When he’s more like his old self.”

“Oh, Maggie…”

“Stop saying, ‘Oh, Maggie!’”

“Look how fast she figured out something was wrong at the fund-raiser. Never mind tracking you down two summers ago. The woman’s a bloodhound!”

“I know, I know…”

By the time I hung up the phone, I’d hit the trifecta of guilt, depression, and loneliness. I slipped out of the house and wandered down to the pond. Too far from the theatre to qualify as lurking, but close enough to feel connected to the men inside.

The pale rectangles of light on the barn’s roof cheered me; at least Daddy was no longer hiding from “the eyes.” I sat on one of the benches, imagining them finishing their lamb chops and orzo, enjoying ice cream and strawberries, relaxing on the sofa.

As twilight faded into dusk, the skylights deepened to gold. As if to complement them, tiny flashes of light drifted through the meadow—the fireflies beginning their mating dance. I half-expected the staff to emerge from the trees as they always did in my dream. Instead, the breeze freshened, carrying the scent of rain, and I reluctantly rose.

As I reached the picnic area, I caught the faint notes of a piano and the answering strum of a guitar. When I recognized the melody, I sank down on a picnic bench.

I had heard “Try to Remember” dozens of times last season. Tonight, the song seemed even more poignant and bittersweet, the simple words evoking thoughts of my father’s youth when he was as green and tender as the grass, and love was just beginning to blossom.

At first, Daddy merely echoed “Follow, follow, follow” in a sweet but tentative baritone. But on the final verse, he took the melody, his voice gaining power as he sang of wounded hearts that could be healed and cold Decembers warmed by memories.

In the long silence after the song ended, I wondered if he was recalling the bright promise of his youth or his lost dreams and lost family. Could Rowan heal the wounds that had gnawed at his heart and spirit for so many years? Could I?

Still aching from their song, I was shocked by the sound of Daddy’s laughter. A moment later, Rowan launched into “You’re Getting to Be a Habit with Me.” Daddy interrupted him halfway through the first verse with “You Do Something to Me.”

The singing quickly escalated into a contest. Rowan sang “You Could Drive a Person Crazy.” Daddy broke in with “Let’s Call the Whole Thing Off.” Rowan advised Daddy to “Take It on the Chin” and Daddy demanded that he “Put On a Happy Face.” They “lahdle-ahdle-ahdled” their way through “Friendship” and “doodle-oodle-oodled” their way through “A Bushel and a Peck.” Then Rowan warbled “We Are Dainty Little Fairies” and the contest ended in exuberant laughter.

My father sounded so happy, so…normal. No longer babbling show tunes in an effort to cling to sanity, but singing and clowning for the sheer joy of it. If only I could find a way to sustain that happiness.

And then I thought of the Follies. Why not invite Rowan and Daddy to join our annual evening of staff silliness? It would ease them both into the world of the Crossroads and give them something fun to anticipate.

I was so excited that I failed to notice that Rowan had
begun playing again. When I recognized “Some Enchanted Evening,” I smiled. And when Rowan imitated my mocking delivery from auditions, I knew he was singing to me.

I should have realized he would sense my presence; maybe he had even called me from the house, knowing that sharing my father’s happiness would ease my anxieties more than any note. Now he was offering another gift: the song we had shared at our first meeting.

As he continued singing, the mockery vanished, replaced by the quiet surprise of hearing laughter across a crowded room, the unexpected joy of discovering that same laughter in his dreams, the wonder of realizing that something impossible was happening.

His voice resonated with the passion we had shared, the pain of our separation, and the love that had brought him back to me. Our whole relationship captured in a song I had chosen on the spur of the moment, a song I had once dismissed as overblown and sappy, a song that became a reaffirmation of his vow never to leave me.

The final note faded. One by one, the golden rectangles of light winked out. A rumble of thunder urged me back to the house, but still, I lingered.

I felt more than saw him on the balcony outside his bedroom. His power embraced me and offered yet another promise: that tomorrow, we would be together again.

Ignoring the raindrops spattering my face, I skipped along the walkway singing “A Wonderful Guy.” Rowan’s affection and amusement bubbled through me like champagne.

So what if it wasn’t the moon-happy night of Oscar Hammerstein’s lyrics? I still had a conventional star in my eye and a definite lump in my throat.

R
OWAN WAS WAITING OUTSIDE THE BARN the next morning, his energy zinging with the same excitement I felt. He swept me up in his arms and spun me around. We were both breathless and laughing when he set me on my feet again.

My laughter died when I saw his eyes, a dull gray-green instead of vivid emerald.

“My God, what happened?”

“I had to use more of my power than I’d anticipated. To calm him,” he quickly added, “not to brainwash him. He’s stronger than he was, but his moods are still…unpredictable.”

I cupped Rowan’s cheeks between my palms, as if I could somehow restore the power that had been drained from him, and was rewarded by a smile.

“Spending the day with you is the best possible medicine.”

“But…I have rehearsals all day.”

His smile vanished. “On a Monday?”

“The
Annie
cast has the day off, but I’m working scenes for
The Secret Garden
.”

“Well. There’s still lunch.”

“Staff meeting. But we could squeeze in a quick dinner.”

His smile returned, but I knew how disappointed he must be.

“Why don’t I print out a copy of the schedule? That way, we’ll be able to make plans for the rest of the week.”

He followed me into the barn. Every time I glanced back, his smile was firmly in place. I would have preferred if he’d bitched me out.

As we neared the production office, he said, “At least your evenings will be free.”

“Some of them. But I have the show most nights.”

“You don’t have to attend every performance.”

I stopped, frowning. “You did.”

“I had to be there. In case anything went wrong.”

“And I don’t?”

He hesitated, clearly searching for the right words.

“Look, I may not have the faery magic to avert a train wreck, but at least I can be there while my cast deals with the derailment. And laugh with them later about how Jeff turned a runaway inner tube into a moment of comic genius. And how two of the Hooverville residents pulled the newspapers out of their shirts to clean up when Fifi took a dump onstage!”

“One of your actors defecated on—?”

“The dog, Rowan! Fifi’s the dog!”

“Ah.”

“Sometimes humans need to work stuff out for themselves.”

“If I didn’t realize that, I would have told you why I cast you the first day we met.”

“I know! It’s just…I need to be there. To be part of whatever happens. The way you were part of that day with Maya and Gary.”

His expression softened at the memory of that completely human moment of magic that had occurred during a disastrous rehearsal of
The Sea-Wife
.

“I’m afraid you’re in love with a selfish pig,” he said, “instead of a wonderful guy.”

“Shut up and kiss me.”

He shut up and kissed me.

When we came up for air, I murmured, “I suppose I could skip one show.”

That was all the encouragement he needed. His long, lingering kiss sent a little shock wave of desire rippling through my body.

“Mmm…maybe two.”

Golden sparks flashed in his eyes. Was it my imagination or were they greener than they had been a few moments ago? He kissed me again and I forgot about his eyes. I forgot about pretty much everything except his teasing tongue and his hands sliding up under my T-shirt and his body molded to mine.

When he suddenly released me, I clung to him, dizzy and dazed. Then I heard Daddy calling Rowan’s name. I was still smoothing my shirt when he rounded the corner.

He’d shaved off his scraggly beard and mustache. Without them, his jaw and neck looked pale and oddly vulnerable. But for the first time, he looked like my father.

“Where were you?” he demanded. “I’ve been calling and calling.”

“I told you I was going outside to meet Maggie.”

“You were gone a long time.” He studied us for a moment, then grinned. “Someone’s been making out,” he chanted in a singsong voice.

“Someone would have made out much better if you had remained in the apartment,” Rowan replied.

“Look at Maggie blush! Her face is as red as a tomato!”

Since the floor showed no inclination to swallow me, I quickly asked, “How are you, Jack?”

Daddy’s expression grew solemn. “Well, I won’t lie to you. I went through some bad times. Drugs, alcohol, you name it. But a few years ago, I finally got my shit together. Even started acting again. I was—”

“Jack,” Rowan interrupted. “Maggie knows the truth. You don’t have to put on an act for her.”

“But it was a good act, wasn’t it?”

“Very good,” I assured him, still a little stunned by his recitation. “Very…believable.”

“I added the part about getting my shit together. It sounded more natural than what Rowan wanted me to say.”

“That was an especially nice touch.”

“And don’t I look good without the beard?”

“You look ten years younger.”

“I smell good, too.”

He stuck out his chin, and I obediently sniffed. The rush of emotion as I breathed in the familiar scent caught me unprepared.

“Don’t you like it?” Daddy asked.

“It’s my favorite,” I managed.

“See, Rowan? You should have used some.”

“I don’t shave.”

“Yeah, but still…” Daddy winked at me and crooned, “‘There’s something about an Aqua Velva man.’”

“Yes, there is,” I agreed. “I’m so glad you’re feeling better. And that you’re not worried about ‘the eyes’ or the Crow-Men or—”

“I don’t want to talk about them!”

As I recoiled at his unexpected outburst, Rowan snapped, “Jack! You don’t respond to concern with rudeness.”

Daddy flinched. “I just…I don’t like thinking about them.”

I nodded, silently cursing myself for spoiling his happy mood.

“Let’s talk about something fun,” he said. “Like our picnic. Rowan’s been cooking all morning…” He glanced uncertainly from me to Rowan. “What? Did I blow the surprise?”

No, I did.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to skip the picnic. I have a meeting at lunchtime and—”

“Just cancel it,” Daddy said with an airy wave of his hand.

“I can’t. But we could pack up Rowan’s food and take it to the picnic area for dinner.”

His crestfallen expression made it clear that was a poor substitute. As I groped for a solution, inspiration struck.

“Why don’t we have our picnic on the Fourth of July? The theatre’s dark so everyone can go to the fireworks at the high school.”

“I love fireworks!” Daddy exclaimed.

Wilmington’s display had always been the highlight of the summer, both of us in such a fever of anticipation that we hardly tasted the food my poor mother prepared. I loved the brilliant colors and screamed with excitement at every big “boom.” It took me so many hours to calm down afterward that Mom threatened each year would be the last. And each year, he wheedled her into attending again.

“Just think, Rowan. Your first time in town and we’ll have fireworks to celebrate. It’s perfect!”

His dubious expression suggested otherwise. “Are you sure you’re ready for this, Jack?”

“Yes! I’m sick of being stuck in that stuffy old apartment. I want to get out and see things. And eat some real food. Not that fancy-schmancy stuff you cook.”

“What is so ‘fancy-schmancy’ about pepper-crusted grilled tuna with basmati rice and a frisée and pear salad?”

Daddy and I exchanged glances and started laughing.

“Tell you what,” I told Daddy. “After I print out the rehearsal schedule for Rowan, we’ll set a date for lunch at the Chatterbox Café.”

“The Chatterbox is still here? Man, I’d kill for one of their chocolate shakes. And a burger. And fries!”

Smiling at his enthusiasm, I unlocked the office door. As it swung open, I glanced at Rowan to gauge his reaction
to the changes. He hadn’t said a word about the green room. Could he possibly miss those awful furnishings? Maybe if I’d lived with them for decades, I’d feel nostalgic, too.