Spellcrossed (25 page)

I had to enjoy Daddy from a distance, too. In true ur-male tradition, he parked himself by the grill with the other men. Judging from the occasional laughter, they were all having a good time and that was the important thing.

Rowan made awkward conversation with the female contingent. At first, I thought he was still troubled by our conversation, but I gradually realized that in all the years he had worked at the Crossroads, he’d never actually socialized with his staff.

I plied him with daiquiris, and by the time we settled in around the picnic tables on the lower patio, he seemed more relaxed. But although he answered pleasantly whenever anyone addressed him, he took little part in the noisy free-for-all conversation.

By contrast, Daddy chatted easily with everyone as we chowed down on burgers, hot dogs, and bratwurst. Rowan and Catherine washed their meals down with milk, drawing a grimace from Daddy who drained the last of his Long Trail Double Bag Ale in a few deep gulps.

“How many has he had?” I whispered to Reinhard.

“Only one. I was the keeper of the cooler. Now, he has a new reason to dislike me.”

“Great BURGERS,” Mei-Yin called.

“Thank Jack,” Lee said. “The man knows his way around a grill.”

Daddy beamed. “It’s all in the patties. Most people make them too thin. Three-quarters of an inch—that’s my rule. And never flatten them with a spatula. Squeezes out all the juices.”

Eager to involve Rowan in the conversation, I asked, “Are you getting all this?”

“Jack just won himself the role of head chef. For our non-fancy-schmancy meals.”

When the laughter subsided, Janet said, “We were wondering if you’d like another role, Jack. In the Follies.”

Daddy’s eyes widened. Rowan slowly lowered his fork and stared at his plate. When he finally raised his head, the blank mask was firmly in place.

Why did Janet have to spoil this by fucking with Rowan? He obviously believed we were excluding him from the invitation.

She ignored my furious look and said, “Usually, it’s just the staff that performs. But we’re doing
Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs
and the doubling is a nightmare. Which is why we could use your help.” Her eyes locked with Rowan’s. “And yours. If you’re so inclined.”

Rowan took a sip of milk, slowly lowered his glass, and patted his lips with his napkin.

“Say something!” I demanded.

“Hush, Maggie,” Janet said. “You’re spoiling the moment. Rowan’s drawing out the tension the way I just did. A fine theatrical tradition.”

“And here I thought you were just screwing with me,” Rowan remarked. “A fine Janet Mackenzie tradition.”

They regarded each other as intently as they had outside the house. Then Rowan smiled and raised his glass of milk as if toasting Janet.

“It’s nice to know some things haven’t changed.”

As I let out my breath, Rowan nudged Daddy. “So what do you think? Would you like to be in the Follies?”

“Of course! I still remember the show from my year.
Hansel and Gretel
. You were the wicked witch.”

“Rowan was the wicked witch our year, too!” Bernie exclaimed.

“I’m always the wicked witch,” Rowan remarked dryly. “And Catherine always plays the ingénue.”

“Not this year,” Catherine replied. “My big role is Sleepy. Not much of a stretch.”

“I’m GRUMPY,” Mei-Yin said. “Not much of a stretch for ME, either.”

“I am Happy,” Reinhard said, staring glumly into his ale.

“And I,” Janet announced, “am the Evil Queen.”

“So many comments spring to mind,” Rowan murmured.

“Try to restrain yourself.”

“So who
is
playing Snow White?”

I groaned and raised my hand. “I told them I didn’t have the time or the energy or the ditzy soprano voice, but—”

“Weren’t you complaining about casting when we met?” Rowan teased and laughed when I stuck out my tongue. “Do Jack and I have to guess our roles or are you going to tell us?”

“I was supposed to play the Prince and Sneezy,” Lee said.

Daddy frowned. “But then you wouldn’t have the right number of dwarfs at the end.”

“Exactly. But now that you’re onboard…”

“You want me to play the Prince!”

There was a horrifying moment of silence.

“Uh…no,” Lee said. “We’d like you to play Sneezy.”

I watched in agony as the emotions flitted across Daddy’s face: disappointment, annoyance, truculence.

Rowan nudged him again. “Come on, Jack. An inveterate scene stealer like you should be able to add five minutes to the show with those sneezes.”

A slow smile blossomed on Daddy’s face. “Damn straight!”

I clapped my hands like the delighted child I was. “Then it’s all settled!”

“No, it’s not!” Rowan retorted. “Who am I playing? Let me guess, Janet. Dopey?”

“Tempting. Alas, we need you to play the old crone.”

“But…that’s the Evil Queen.”

“The transformation is a bit daunting. We need some of that special Rowan Mackenzie magic to pull it off.”

Rowan’s face lit up, then creased in a frown of concentration. “I’ll need a flash pot,” he said, turning to Lee. “And a strobe.”

“No problem.”

“And I have to die spectacularly.”

“Knock yourself out,” Janet said.

“No, don’t!” I protested.

“The old crone has to plummet to her death from a rocky crag,” Rowan said.

“No plummeting. No crags.”

Rowan smiled sweetly. His power teased through my
body, a coaxing caress that urged me to give in. I glared at him, and it subsided, but his pleading look remained.

“Fine. But if you break your neck…”

“Don’t be silly. I’m a professional.”

And a faery. He could probably plummet from a rocky crag and stick the landing like Mary Lou Retton.

We discussed the Follies over dessert and coffee. Rowan’s baking won a lot of compliments, which seemed to surprise and please him. As the shadows deepened, Janet lit the votives on the picnic tables and Mei-Yin turned her pyromaniacal talents to the tiki torches.

The atmosphere encouraged Bernie to serenade me with “Some Enchanted Evening.” The staff soon joined in. When they got to the ending with its reminder to “never let her go,” everyone seemed to be looking at Rowan.

Maybe that’s why he cleared his throat and said, “Well. It’s getting late.”

I nodded. “But before we go, Jack, there’s one more role we wanted to discuss with you.”

He grinned, showing blueberry-stained teeth. “I’d make a cute bunny.”

“This is a role in
Into the Woods
.”

He stared at me blankly.

“You know the show, right?”

You had the cast album. You listened to it a million times. You can probably sing every song in the score.

Daddy’s fork clattered onto his plate. “You want me to be in a real show?”

“If
you
want to. One of our actors dropped out. Bernie volunteered to fill in, but…”

“It’s just too much for me.” Bernie took a trembling breath and morphed into the sad-eyed Puss in Boots. “I’m only good for two matinees a week. So I was hoping you’d play the Narrator at the evening performances.”

Daddy frowned. “The Narrator?”

“The one who opens the show,” I said. “And…narrates the action. Until they throw him to the giant.”

I glanced at Rowan who was frowning, too. Uncertain what was happening, I laughed uneasily and added, “I’m afraid you won’t get to die spectacularly. It all happens off—”

“That’s a dual role,” Daddy said.

“On Broadway, it was. But we’re going to—”

“You want me to play the crazy man.”

“No! Just the—”

“I get it! Let’s cast Jack. It’s the perfect role for him. He won’t even have to act!”

I babbled out a denial, too horrified by his reaction to put a coherent sentence together.

“I won’t do it! You can’t make me!”

“Jack!”

Daddy turned on Rowan, his lips curled in a snarl. In that instant, he
did
look crazy.

“No one’s asking you to play the Mysterious Man,” Rowan said. “Maggie is offering you the role of the Narrator. That’s it.”

The fury in Daddy’s face leached away and his uncertain gaze shifted to me.

“I didn’t want to spring it on you as soon as you arrived. But I kept thinking: why should I scrounge up some inexperienced actor when I’ve got the man who played Billy Bigelow?”

For once, those words failed to work their magic. Daddy just shook his head. “That was a long time ago.”

“But you’re still an actor.”

“I’m not sure what I am any more.”

Suddenly, he looked far older than his sixty-three years. Old and small and unbearably fragile.

“Maybe this role will help you figure it out,” Bernie said. “That happens a lot at the Crossroads.”

O
N MONDAY MORNING, DADDY ACCEPTED the role of the Narrator.

On Monday evening, he had a panic attack and shut himself in Rowan’s apartment.

On Tuesday morning, he laughed off the incident and announced that he was fine.

On Wednesday morning, he declared that he was never going to act again.

On Wednesday afternoon, he began giving helpful little suggestions to the actors. Then stormed back to the apartment when I told him he was overstepping his bounds.

On Thursday morning, he was all smiles and penitence, but the cast was eyeing him with misgiving, the staff was shooting me murderous glances, and Reinhard’s hair was standing on end. Only the fact that mine was longer prevented it from rising heavenward, too.

Although Rowan appeared as preternaturally calm as ever, he was clearly struggling to control his temper—and his power. His frustration infected everyone. The actors sniped at each other; the younger staff grew moody or snappish. Even Reinhard and Alex couldn’t always shield themselves and became increasingly short-tempered. Janet remained immune because she refused to set foot in the theatre.

Something had to change or none of us would live to see opening night. So on Friday, I suggested to Rowan that we have a little chat with Daddy over lunch.

Rowan scowled. “I am sick of chatting with Jack. I spend every waking hour with Jack. The prospect of eating lunch with Jack is about as appealing as eating cast-iron filings out of a cast-iron skillet with cast-iron utensils.”

“I’ll take that as a no.”

“Maggie Graham. Perceptive Professional.”

He stomped up the stairs to his apartment in a very unfaery-like manner. I muttered a few unflattering names under my breath, then whisked Daddy into town for lunch.

He marveled at how little Dale had changed, just as Mom had when she visited me for the first time. But where she had been suspicious of the town’s timeless quality, Daddy was delighted by it.

“It’s exactly the same,” he exclaimed as we walked into the Chatterbox.

From the waitresses in their powder blue uniforms to the soda fountain stools at the counter to the jukeboxes in the cramped booths, the Chatterbox evoked a candy-coated past where kids were never more than naughty and parents never less than loving.

We slid into a booth, the wooden seats worn smooth by generations of Dale butts. My father studied the menu. I studied him.

He had talked about me that first night. Recalled the tent we had built, the games we had played. Since then, he had never brought up his family. Did he have to be on the brink of a mental breakdown before he could think about us? Was he avoiding the pain or didn’t he feel any?

Look at me. I have the same auburn hair you had as a young man, the same smattering of freckles across my nose. You gave me your pointed chin and your blue-green eyes and your love of theatre. Can’t you see any of that?

Obviously not. He just wolfed down his burger and
fries, moaned ecstatically over his chocolate milkshake, and flirted outrageously with Dot, our waitress. I picked at my tuna salad and kept the conversation light, unwilling to risk a public meltdown by broaching the subject of his recent mood swings.

Afterward, he insisted on stopping by the Bough. I warned him that it had changed, but I was still shocked when he took one look at the lobby and demanded, “Why can’t people leave things alone? The Bough was great. It had character! Now it looks ordinary.”

My mother had deemed it perfect. I’d thought so, too. But now I recalled the quirky old furnishings and the moth-eaten draperies and the Victorian gloom and wondered if I’d stolen everything that had made the Bough unique.

“Do
you
like the changes?” Daddy demanded.

“I should. I made them. I own the Bough, remember? I told you and Rowan that your first morning back.”

Daddy mumbled, “Oh, shit.” Then he shrugged and flashed that charming gap-toothed smile. “Oops.”

I turned around and walked out.

His dismissive words had stung. That little “oops” totally pissed me off. Why was I surprised? He’d thrown the theatre into chaos this week and hadn’t apologized for that, either.

“Charming, yes. But completely self-absorbed.”

“Maggie!”

“And arrogant and superior.”

“Wait!”

“Always standing apart, judging.”

I flung open the car door.

“Please!”

I turned to find him standing on the curb, quivering with anxiety.

“It looks nice. Really. It’s just…I loved the Bough the way it was.”

“Always making excuses…”

I slumped against the car, suddenly exhausted. “I
loved it, too. But I worked really hard on redoing the lobby and it hurt my feelings when you called it ordinary.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“If you’d said that earlier, I wouldn’t have gotten mad. An apology goes a lot farther than a shrug and a smile.”

He stared at me as if I were chanting Hindi.

“Do you understand?”

“Yes. I was just…yes.”

“Come on. I need to get to rehearsal.”

Neither of us spoke on the short drive back, although Daddy kept stealing glances at me. After I parked the car at the theatre, I asked, “Do you want to tell me why you’ve been so up and down this week?”