No More Time

by Suzanne Trauth

  “That’s Sam,” John said.

  “Busy guy.” Sam flapped the sheet of paper in Maddy’s face. A tall, thin brunette in a tight wraparound skirt and stiletto heels snatched the sheet, gestured for the stage manager to step aside. “Who’s that?”

  “Mrs. Sam. Arlene Baldwin. She directs plays in Candle Beach now and then. Brings in musical groups in the summer,” he said.

  “She seems to be in charge. Should I speak with her?” I asked.

  “No. Sam’s your guy.” John approached Sam, said something in his ear, and gestured at me.

  Sam marched past and motioned for me to come along. John waved good-bye. I wished I was dealing with him. Back through the chaos onstage and into the house we trekked. Sam stopped when we reached the last row of seats.

  “We can talk here.”

  “Kind of hectic,” I said sympathetically.

  “I was nuts to take this on. These theater people are crazy. Everybody wants to get on the stage yesterday to rehearse. They don’t like the dressing rooms, the lighting’s too dark or too bright, they need more tickets, they want to warm up in the lobby.” He shrugged.

  The lobby was a small strip of space, separated from the seating by curtained barriers. Not made for the kind of warm-ups Walter Zeitzman—former artistic director of the ELT—usually undertook with his casts.

  “Grody says you’re like Candle Beach’s ‘town father.’ This sort of thing comes with the territory, I guess.”

  Sam focused on me intently. “Who are you?”

  “A friend of Grody’s. I offered to check things out for him. I’ve had experience doing theme food for a community theater. Pairing the plays with concessions or dinners or—”

  “Yeah. Yeah. Tell Grody anything he wants to do is fine.”

  “Maybe we can coordinate food choices with the shows? For example, I did an Italian night for Romeo and Juliet and—”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “Do you know what plays are being presented?” I asked.

  “Of course I do,” he said abruptly.

  I waited a beat for him to continue.

  “See Maddy. She has a list,” Sam said.

  “All right. And setting up tables?”

  “Anywhere outside is fine.” He fluttered his arm in the direction of the front door.

  “And if it rains?” I had experience with outdoor theater. The ELT’s production of Bye, Bye, Birdie last spring had to contend with bad weather.

  “We’ll cross that bridge later.” He peered at the stage. “Maddy? Get back here!” Sam shouted.

  “Producing a theater festival is nothing compared to Hurricane Sandy reconstruction,” I said lightly.

  Sam Baldwin shifted in his seat and faced me square-on.

  “Grody mentioned that you did quite a bit of it,” I added.

  “What of it?” he growled.

  I blinked. I must have pushed a button. Perhaps Sam Baldwin was so over the hurricane that even the mention of it triggered a defensive reaction and—

  “What’s up, chief?” Maddy had run to the back of the house and was standing in the aisle.

  Sam pointed at me. “Get her a list of the shows in the festival.”

  “Okay, chief.” The aggressive, intimidating stage manager had become a pussycat in her boss’s presence. She fanned through pages on her clipboard. “Here.” She shoved a page at me, her voice threatening. Talk about split personalities.

  “Thanks. Grody will get back to you after he’s finalized the menu.” I smiled graciously. No use creating tension and, anyway, the reception was Grody’s responsibility.

  A crash onstage caused all three of us to jump. A piece of glittery plywood with the letters NJCTF scrawled on it had fallen from the top of the proscenium, hit the floor, and bounced into the first row of seats.

  “What are you doing up there?” Sam shouted.

  “What are you doing up there?” Maddy repeated in an equally belligerent manner.

  Two crew guys shrugged. One shuffled into the house to recover the damaged sign; the other gawked upward as if the answer to the mishap was written on the ceiling.

  “Get it fixed. Now! I got these theaters bugging me to get in here,” Sam huffed.

  “Get it fixed. We got these theaters bugging us to get in here.” Maddy again.

  She certainly was a loyal lapdog. They reminded me of Walter and Penny…sheesh…two sets of them to deal with this week?

  Sam heaved himself out of his seat as I scanned the sheet. “There’s a group missing here,” I said. “The Etonville Little Theatre. They’re a late entry, replacing the Cranford theater.”

  Sam and Maddy stared at me as if I had two heads.

  “That’s not possible,” Maddy grunted. “I wrote that list myself.”

  “Well, maybe the change of theaters happened after the list was written up?” I suggested helpfully.

  Maddy’s expression skittered from mocking to skeptical to anxious. Her eyes darted sideways at Sam, and she tugged on a pigtail. “I…uh…give me that.” She grabbed the sheet of paper and slammed it onto her clipboard.

  “Straighten this out, Maddy. I don’t want any surprises come tomorrow night. We got to get this thing up without any hitches.” He trounced off, a real theater lover.

  “Okay chief.” Maddy shot me an if-it-wasn’t-for-you-I-wouldn’t-be-in-hot-water expression and followed him.

  That went well. I had to avoid the stage manager this week—she would be gunning for me.

  I left the old barn, glad to be out in the sunshine, away from the chaos that I had learned was a staple of community theater. I got a vision of Maddy’s sheet: Harvey, Mousetrap, Noises Off, The Sound of Music, King Lear, Cinderella, and Death of a Salesman. I knew all of the titles, mostly because I was privy to ELT season selection discussions. Also because Lola shared her thoughts on various plays. What did they have in common? What kind of theme could we create from that group? A princess and mean stepsisters, a murder mystery, backstage hijinks, the destruction of the American dream… Of course, one of them was out and the ELT was in. Sam and Maddy were touchy about changes in plans.

  My cell pinged. Lola: can’t believe we’re doing this. Arsenic again…argument with Walter…he wanted Eton Town but Arsenic only thing we could get up this quick. actors ok but couldn’t get original ingénue. am I too old to play the role?? ugh!

  I laughed out loud. Poor Lola. She had her hands full with the Etonville theater. Once she was only its reigning diva, playing starring roles in everything from comedies to musicals; after Walter was caught playing fast and loose with the box office till Lola was persuaded to assume his artistic director position. A humiliating defeat for Walter. Now he was simply an actor/producer/director/playwright. I’d seen him wear all four hats; some fit better than others.

  I passed the gazebo, surrounded by beds of hibiscus, peonies, and sunflowers. A beautiful venue. Grody could set up the food inside…my mind played with reception possibilities as I hiked the three blocks to the boardwalk. According to my watch it was beach time.

  Digging my toes back into the sand and slathering on the suntan lotion made me think about Bill covering every square inch of his torso because he was paranoid about burning. All week his upper body had been swathed in a sun-resistant white shirt, his face streaked with sunscreen that boasted 100 SPF, his spiky hair covered in a Buffalo Bills ball cap. He burned easily and required a steady application of lotion to all visible body parts. Being Etonville, New Jersey’s police chief kept him tied to a desk most days, and his ruddy complexion usually only deepened when he was freaked out…sometimes at me. After a week at the shore, his face was permanently flushed an intense shade of pink. I wondered how the deep-sea fishing was going and if he’d provide dinner as he promised.

  I rounded the corner at Cummings Street and on a whim decided to pop i
nto the Surf Shack. Bill needed more sunscreen. I was browsing through the various brands and weighing which version of 100 SPF he used when I glanced out the door. A family of four sauntered down the boardwalk, two kids in swimsuits and floaters on their upper arms skipping eagerly. I laughed. So many memories from summers down here when I was their age…

  This end of the boardwalk was empty now except for a bench facing the ocean occupied by two men who were seated side by side. I squinted. Was that…? I stepped to the entrance of the Surf Shack. Those brown curls were unmistakable. The guy twisted sideways, his profile now visible—it was Jackson. He gestured vehemently, angrily shaking his head, pulling away from the other man’s attempt to calm him down by clapping him on the shoulder. The other guy stood. It was Vinnie C. Jackson pointed a warning finger in his buddy’s face. What was going on? Instinct told me to stay put, and I eased behind a rack of postcards. This scene was so unlike my former chill boyfriend. Then, also uncharacteristically, Jackson shoved Vinnie, who repaid the favor. They might well have kept at it if an old angler coming up the dock hadn’t inserted himself between them. He put his hands on Jackson’s arms long enough for Vinnie to move away and escape down the pier. Then Jackson shrugged the man off him and followed Vinnie.

  The little hairs on the back of my neck danced. My radar system that alerted me whenever something was dodgy.

  3

  Music from the tiki bar wafted down the beach, accompanying the pounding of the surf as the tide rolled in. I flipped onto my stomach and buried my head in my arms, my skin absorbing the late-day heat. Good thing I was on my own this afternoon. Bill would have dragged me off the sand an hour ago. I idly watched the young lifeguards as they wrapped up their shift, collecting equipment, toppling the stand to prevent kids from climbing aboard. Their chiseled, athletic bodies reminded me of Jackson seven or eight years ago, before a beer belly aged him. The only remnant remaining of those long-ago summers was his brown, curly mane.

  What had Jackson and Vinnie been arguing about earlier? Never mind; it wasn’t my concern.

  I drifted off…images from back in time surfacing unbidden. Jackson and I partying on his charter boat when he should have been working. Double dating with Vinnie C and a series of girlfriends. Grody teaching Jackson the basics of surfing. Bill and Jackson were about the same age but worlds apart. Responsible Bill with a professional career and a ton of law enforcement proficiency versus Jackson, apparently jobless and broke, the irresponsible beach bum who’d crashed with an old girlfriend. His unreliability was part of the reason we split up. Bill was pretty predictable. But that was fine by me. I had had enough excitement in my life these last years, and I appreciated the fact that he was steady and reliable. Of course, breakfast this morning was a surprising change of pace for Jackson.

  Thinking of food made my stomach growl. The sun was slipping lower in the sky, and windy gusts had kicked up. I debated dropping in to the Bottom Feeder for a Creamsicle Crush and some fried shrimp balls, but then I had an image of Bill strolling in the door with a string of fish. Tired, hungry, and wanting a little TLC.

  I needed to get home.

  * * * *

  Nothing like a cool shower after a day of sunbathing. I relished the feel of the water cascading off my shoulders and back, soothing my warm skin and relaxing my muscles. I shampooed my hair, removing the stickiness of sand and suntan oil. I switched off the shower, stepped onto a fuzzy bath mat and into a fluffy towel. I could hear activity in the kitchen. Bill! No doubt beginning the preparations for tonight’s seafood dinner. My mouth was already watering…

  I ran a comb through my tangled tresses, wrapped my towel sexily around my body, and opened the bathroom door, inviting a gush of cooler air. “How’s my fisherman? Something sure smells delicious out there,” I called out and moved into the hallway posing by the doorjamb. “Honey…”

  “Thanks, babe!” Jackson poked his head out of the kitchen.

  “Arggh! What are you doing here?” I screamed. I tore back into the bathroom, retrieved my robe, and yanked it around me. “Jackson!”

  “Now don’t go all crazy on me. I’m doin’ happy hour. ’Cuz you’re a great host.”

  Also an unwilling one. I peeked out of the bathroom. Jackson was wrapped in a chef’s apron, spatula in hand.

  “What are you making?” I asked darkly.

  “Fried oysters wrapped in bacon and lobster wontons,” he said proudly. “Didn’t think I had it in me, didja?”

  Sheesh. “Jackson, you do understand you’re not living here, right? You said you’d be gone today. That you’d have your financial…situation worked out. Cash flow, remember?”

  “About that…”

  Uh-oh.

  “Fisherman’s home,” sang out Bill as he opened the screen door. “Not exactly what I intended to cook tonight, but you won’t be disappointed.”

  “Yo, my man,” said Jackson from the kitchen.

  Bill, a bag of groceries in hand, removed his Buffalo Bills ball cap, his eyes bulging. “Jackson? Dodie?” Then, “What’s that smell?”

  “Lobster wontons.” I surrendered. “Jackson’s doing happy hour.”

  * * * *

  “I have to admit, these are delicious.” Bill speared another wonton. Once he’d gotten over the shock of seeing Jackson where he’d left him this morning—in our kitchen—and fortified by a couple of strong gin and tonics, Bill was a gracious host. He amused us with anecdotes from the day’s ocean voyage, including his inability to catch anything, and joked about a trip to the fish market to supply dinner since his fishing trip proved futile. This was a very loose Bill, not upset by his failure on the boat or my failure to dislodge Jackson from our bungalow.

  “What was biting?” asked Jackson and took a swig of beer.

  “Mostly mackerel and fluke. Some bluefish. Some sea bass.” Bill shook his head. “Not my day.”

  “Whadidya use?”

  “Swedish pimples and deadly dicks. Some of the guys were using diamond jigs,” Bill answered.

  Whoa. An X-rated outing? “What are we talking about?” I asked carefully.

  Bill and Jackson grinned in unison. “Fishing lures,” they said.

  The sun had gone down half an hour ago, the air on the porch cooling pleasantly. I reached for the chardonnay bottle on the outdoor coffee table. “Time to get dinner going?” I said. Hopefully Jackson would take the “going” part of my hint.

  “I’m on it.” Bill drained his glass and headed into the house.

  “What’re you cooking?” Jackson trailed him like an eager puppy dog.

  “Flounder,” said Bill.

  “Jackson? Can I talk with you?” I asked pointedly.

  “Sure, just as soon as Bill and I have a little discussion. Flounder is one of my specialties.”

  “Specialties? You don’t have specialties.” I lowered my voice. “So you cooked a lovely breakfast. And the appetizers were delicious—”

  “Told you you’d be surprised,” he said.

  “But now it’s dinnertime.” I let the implication hang in the air.

  “And I’m going to make Bill’s day. I’ve got the best flounder recipe,” he said.

  “Jackson?” I gave up and settled into the chaise lounge. It was going to take more than implications to extricate Jackson from our lives. Their voices floated outside.

  “Usually I do a simple recipe. Parmesan cheese, lemon juice, green onions, butter. Nothing fancy,” said Bill.

  “Uh-huh. That’s okay, dude.”

  Bill took the bait. No fishing pun intended. “What do you do with it?”

  “Sometimes I bake it with panko and Parmesan…”

  “Me too.”

  “But my specialty…”

  There he went again.

  “…is dill and horseradish sauce,” Jackson said triumphantly.

  In the
kitchen both cooks were silent. Bill must have been absorbing this latest bit of culinary confidence. “Now, that would be interesting. Let’s try it.”

  OMG. The two of them cooking partners? This could be an act of daring without a safety net. I emptied the bottle into my glass.

  * * * *

  “See what I mean?” Jackson said as he scraped the last morsel of flounder off his plate.

  “Got it, bro.” Was Bill being sarcastic or had he yielded to Jackson’s worldview?

  “Since you two ‘dudes’ cooked, I’ll clean up.” I collected plates and silverware and loaded the dishwasher.

  “Awesome cooking with you, Bill. Think I’ll hit the sack. Later,” Jackson said and flashed a peace sign.

  Not yet. Not if I had anything to say about it. “Jackson, give me a hand in the kitchen first.”

  “Sure.”

  Bill yawned and stretched. “I’m going to watch the Yankees in the bedroom.” Our bungalow was well-equipped with televisions in both bedrooms as well as the living room. “Fishing takes it out of you.”

  I smiled sweetly. “I’ll be there shortly.” As soon as the bedroom door closed, I turned to Jackson. “You can’t stay here.”

  “It’s okay with Bill. I’m liking that dude—”

  “Well, it’s not okay with me.” I paused. “How do you know it’s okay with Bill?

  “I asked him. When we were cooking.”

  “When he was vulnerable. Jackson, I’m sorry things are tight for you right now, but we broke up years ago and this is…awkward.”

  “Not for me. Not for Bill.” He rocked back on his flip-flops. “You need to get over your past.”

  “Our past. And I am over it. It’s your living in my summer rental that’s the problem,” I huffed.

  “Really upset, are we?” he mocked.

  “What happened at that meeting you supposedly had? Why haven’t you solved your cash flow problem?”

  “I’m working on it. We’re negotiating a deal. Everything’s cool.”

  “It didn’t look cool today when you stuck your finger in Vinnie’s face. It looked pretty threatening.” I slammed the dishwasher shut.