by Laura Briggs
"Stage blood is just corn syrup and food coloring," said Riley to her, softly. "Broken bones are just celery being cracked, you know."
"I think that was in the old days," said Katie, taking deep breaths.
"You'd be surprised how much foley stuff is still the same," he said. "Ever watch those FX specials on TV?"
"Just like radio sound effects guys, huh?" she answered.
It was for the best that Katie didn't get sick just then, because the sound of the front door banging closed signaled the arrival of the local press — Neville Brewster, at any rate, who contributed pieces about the theater to the paper in Truro, including ones about the theater's upcoming productions.
"Evening all," he said. "I've got my notebook and my camera — is this a suitable time to talk to your cast, Ms. Rose?"
"Um, sure," I said. "We're just taking a break." After all, the literal 'break' in our set backstage probably needed some cleanup time. "Anything you need to know, I'm happy to tell you."
"I'm so glad. I spoke to Millicent first — I had no idea about her accident. What a pity," he said. "She told me that you were directing this summer's play. A very avant-garde version of the bard's great romantic tragedy." He adjusted the camera around his neck, its lanyard cord caught on his bow tie.
"That's right," I said. "I hope it'll be .. different ... for everybody." I wanted to say 'good,' but I wasn't sure I wanted to make that statement right now.
"Millie sounds delighted, so I look forward to opening night," he answered. Neville was also the local theater critic. I remembered once reading his disappointed response to the company's production of Picnic two years ago, and sensed a definite sting for Millie in those words. Now it was possibly my turn. I managed not to grimace for this idea.
"Now, I would like to have a few words with your cast," he began, opening his little notebook. "Let's see ... your Romeo is Andy ... your Juliet is Loreena ... your Tybalt is Martin ... and your Mercutio — is new, correct?"
"That would be Riley O' Connell," I said. "He's working as a carpenter's hand in the village for a little while, and luckily for us, he turned his attention to our need for sets at Lady Amanda's suggestion." Given Martin's carpentry today, I was hoping that Riley would be assigned to the hammer-and-nails chores from now on.
"And ended up in the cast as well," concluded Neville. "In the true fashion of the Society for Amateur Players."
"His read was brilliant," contributed Rosie.
"Brilliant, you say? That sounds jolly decent for a story," said Neville, scribbling away. Rosie was telling him about the script and Millie's reasons for choosing it — all secondhand knowledge for Neville, I imagined, after talking to her himself, but he made a few notes anyway.
Katie had recovered enough to bring a more comfortable chair for Martin, with Riley assisting her for no apparent reason other than to be near her.
"Oh, Neville's here," she said, as she noticed the local theater lover in the midst of his interview.
"Neville?" Riley repeated.
"Local theater columnist," she said. "He's here to take our picture, and write about how brilliant we're all going to be. Including you — I'll bet Rosie's bragging about their lucky find right now."
"Paper?" he repeated, dubiously. "I don't know. I don't want to be mentioned in some article. I mean, that seems pretty dumb to me." He set the chair behind Martin, who sat down on it with gratitude instead of the flimsy set table.
"Come on, it'll be fine," said Katie. "It's just a few comments on the play."
"Nobody here would be interested, would they?" argued Riley. "I'm nobody. I'm just some stranger. He should write about people who are theater regulars. Those are people the village cares about, so they should be the ones in the story."
"What are you talking about?" said Katie. "Of course you have to be in it. They'll love it."
"Not be in the article?" echoed Rosie, who was listening to them now. "What nonsense! You'll be the star of southern Cornwall this summer! The toast of Ceffylgwyn!"
"This isn't a village where new faces arrive very often," I said. "Exciting things happen now and then, but believe me, they're definitely starved for something new around here."
"Especially with the wireless on the blink," muttered Andy, with evident bitterness.
"I dunno ... it's just not me," said Riley. "Maybe a few questions, if they're just short ones about the role."
"Only a few quick questions," agreed Neville.
His little notebook filled up quickly with interviews involving four cast members and lots of remarks by Rosie; I contributed as little as possible, since I didn't have much to say beyond my doubts that I was doing a great job. He took photographs of the individual cast members, but when he came to Riley, the boy turned away just as the camera flashed.
"Um, no picture, thanks," said Riley. "I'm not a fan of photos. Even my selfies are bad."
"Just one little picture?"
"Thanks. But no thanks," said Riley. "I really hate photos of myself. Just skip it in the story, okay?"
"Suit yourself." Neville sighed. "I'll simply have to use the group cast photo, I suppose." He made a note in his book.
The remains of Juliet's coffin was nothing more than flimsy plywood that appeared to have been crushed by an anvil. The scaffolding Martin had been standing on while working on the set had slipped somehow, and one of the biggest boards smashed straight through the coffin's lid.
"Fortunately, the walls of the chapel were unharmed, and the paper 'stained glass' windows weren't added yet," said Lorrie. "Poor Nora would be howling if those had gotten torn."
I rested my hands on my hips. "Can you fix it?" I asked Riley. I pictured Gerard's dismay when he returned and found this shambles. We would have to buy a new top for the coffin, at least.
"Not this," said Riley. "Not unless you want it to look like Godzilla stomped on Juliet's remains." He pulled off the broken lid and tossed it aside. "Lucky none of those sharp edges did more damage to Martin than some cuts and scratches."
"I guess we'll buy a new piece of plywood," I said. "Can you cut it to fit?"
"Sure thing," he said. "I'll get right on it as soon as it's here. Gerard's got an electric saw in the back and some levels and other tools I can use to make it work."
I watched as he measured the dimension of the coffin. I hesitated before asking him the question on my mind.
"Why no photograph?" I asked him, softly. No one else could hear us at the moment, since Lorrie had gone to fetch a broom and a dustpan to clean up the broken bits.
"Just don't like them," he answered. He wrote the measurements on a piece of paper.
"I guess so," I said. "I thought maybe there was another reason. Like you don't want someone outside the village to see your picture, maybe." I thought of that night in the pub, and the coincidence involving my wallet.
Riley was quiet. "Why'd you think that?" he asked, at last.
"Like I said, it was just a funny thought," I said. "Forget about it." But I noticed that Riley had stopped measuring the coffin, and was tapping the pencil against its rim, absently.
He cleared his throat. "Maybe ... maybe there's some things about my past that I don't want people to know," he said. "There are things I don't want to share with anybody. It just makes things hard. The way they look at me after they know — it's different."
He glanced at me now, and I saw conflict in his gaze. A troubled expression dominated Riley's face, if only for a moment. At that moment, I was fairly sure it wasn't a coincidence that my wallet had gone missing after my brush with Riley.
"Everybody has things in the past that they don't like," I said. "But sometimes we have to be honest — with ourselves and with others. We can't hide forever. And we definitely can't start something new like that."
"Good thing I'm not trying to do it," said Riley. He snapped the tape measure across the coffin and made another note. "Guess I'd be in real trouble, then."
I crossed my arms. "But you're not.
Right?" I asked. "In real trouble, I mean."
I was asking in part for the sake of the players, and for Katie's sake, too. What Riley did or wanted to do wasn't any of my business, except for the fact it had crossed the lives of people I cared about. If he wasn't careful, he could end up involving the players in a problem that had nothing to do with the woes of Juliet and Romeo. And he could leave a young woman slightly crushed by the truth about his life.
Riley still said nothing. Before he could answer me, a soft, slithering sound attracted our notice. A billowing tide of bright red descended from the ropes and pulleys high above the stage, and landed with a heavy thud that rattled the stage's boards a little. With a shriek, Rosie dodged aside at the last second, narrowly missing an opportunity to be buried beneath the heavy, brand-new red stage curtains from Lady Amanda.
"What the dickens?" she declared, as she caught her breath again.
"I guess they weren't quite secure yet," said Martin, feebly. "We were working on that before the scaffolding arrived for the set ... we were so busy unloading it, we completely forgot about them."
It was a wonder they hadn't collapsed on him earlier, when he held onto them for support. Martin thought of the same thing, and his face lost more of its color.
"A limping Tybalt, a collapsing stage — what more can happen now?" asked Lorrie.
"We're cursed," groaned Rosie. "Definitely so."
***
"We can't be cursed," said Lady Amanda. "We simply can't be. It's just a bumpy start ... we'll find our stride in no time, and the play will be quite good, I'm sure. Aren't you?"
It wasn't despondency in Lady A's voice ... not quite, but it was getting close. I forced a bright smile to my lips.
"Of course," I said. "We just need time. I thought the last scene we rehearsed was pretty good. And we got Martin to channel a little more fury. Now if we can just get Louis to make his version of Paris a little less wooden, we'll practically have a show."
"At least we can rely on Rosie," said Lady Amanda. "And Loreena's quite good — much better than she was in Midsummer." She took a sip of her tea.
Michael was sitting at the table with us, albeit not for the purposes of discussing Shakespeare, but to wait for his scones to emerge from the oven. Through the window, we were watching as Katie and Gemma played with Edwin in his playhouse. 'Play' consisting mostly of Edwin dropping his favorite action figures, plastic swords, pirate hats, and other toys out the windows and onto the heads of his grown-up playmates.
"He's incorrigible," said Lady Amanda. "Whatever shall I do? He hit a little boy with a plastic spade in the play park only last week. When I asked him why, he said it was because he was fighting Martians, and they always wear green jumpers. How did he ever dream of such a story?"
"He has quite an imagination," I said, smiling. "Maybe he'll be a star in the theater someday."
"Or a criminal," said Michael. We both glanced at him.
"Come now, we are talking about my son," said Lady Amanda, sounding offended. I could see Michael's smile twitch his lips, but he managed to hide it beautifully.
"Don't worry about the play," I said to Lady Amanda. "By the time opening night arrives, everything will be ready and perfect."
Under the table, I crossed my fingers as I said these words aloud.
"At least you won't have to correct Riley's performance," said Lady Amanda. "He's positively ... what's the word ... incandescent, as the theater critics say."
In rehearsal, Riley had indeed delivered a solid performance. His Mercutio had a bitter, mischievous humor that fit the play's modern mood perfectly. I wasn't a huge fan of Shakespeare, but even I enjoyed watching those scenes. He managed to draw chuckles and, sometimes, outright laughter from the rest of the cast — when it was too disruptive, however, he took his performance down a notch or two. I could be mistaken, but I was fairly sure he enjoyed playing that part as much as he enjoyed finishing Gerard's sets.
"We definitely don't have to worry about him," Lady Amanda concluded. I wanted badly to agree with her, but I couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't quite right. There was something about Riley that worried me, even though I had no proof. Call it an instinct, maybe. But a tiny fear had settled deep into my chest that something would prevent our new friend from taking the stage.
We had our tea outside with the girls and Edwin, who had taken to Riley almost from the beginning, due to a mutual love of tools. Only Edwin wasn't allowed to play with the real thing, of course — not after he smashed two of Lord William's fingers with a hammer during an exuberant father-son repair project in the shed.
"Fix it!" declared Edwin, presenting a plastic hammer and nails to Riley on the steps of his playhouse, where the handyman pretended to nail one in place by inserting the plastic nail between the step's cracks. Edwin was astonished, since his attempts to drive plastic nails into anything solid had failed until now.
"There you go," said Riley. "Here. You try it." He pulled the plastic nail out and handed it to Edwin again. He managed not to grin until he caught Katie's eye.
"Fooling kids — that's easy to do," she scoffed. "A great actor can full adults, you know."
"A good handyman with a plastic nail and hammer — I think that's on par with a good actor," he said. "I mean, it's all the same illusion, right? Just going through the motions, pretending you're a different person, that fake things are real?"
"I wish I could act," said Gemma. "Andy has loads of fun with the society. I tried to join once, but I was so awful they would only let me help move the furniture about."
"You're a budding novelist, though," said Katie. "That's artistic. It's practically like being an actress — you just play twenty parts instead of one."
"Yeah. Practically the same," answered Gemma, sarcastically.
I let Edwin show me his tools, his little face solemn as he demonstrated how to pound a plastic nail into the ground. The only safe surface for Edwin to pound, as his mother's china had proven several times.
"I could let you become a director," I suggested to Gemma. "I'm sure writers make better directors than event planners do."
"But I'm not good at Americanisms," complained Gemma. "Remember?" Gemma's manuscript, set in New York, struggled occasionally under misconceptions regarding American culture.
"Doesn't matter," I teased. "They just want a taste of it. That's what Millie says."
"Nice try," said Lady Amanda. "But I'm afraid Gemma wouldn't have your authority, Julianne. Not after the way you handled Sy at rehearsals when his Montague got a bit silly."
I blushed. "It wasn't exactly life-changing advice," I said.
"It worked wonders, in my opinion," said Lady Amanda. "And I need wonders to be worked at this time. I'm devoting far more energy to this than I dreamed in the beginning. I only hope that Millie is satisfied that my enthusiasm hasn't waned due to a few trivial issues."
At this point, I thought Lady Amanda would be satisfied if we managed to stage the show with the curtains firmly above the stage instead of covering it. Nevertheless, I wanted it to be better than that, if only so the company didn't receive another bitter review.
"Did you only try out for the play because they made you?" Gemma asked Riley. She was trying to pull Edwin's nail from the ground before Pollock accidentally sheared it off with the push mower, as he had several others.
"Sort of," he admitted.
"You must've had sneaking theatrical leanings, then," I said, moving my hand aside quickly as Edwin resumed pounding the ground. Lady Amanda seized his hammer with a quick scolding for her son.
"I think you have a secret theatrical past," said Katie, who polished off her tea biscuit. "Come clean. What was your first role, really?"
"A knight," he answered.
"Seriously?" Katie's eyes widened.
"My mom was a Renaissance fan," he said, laughing. "She used to go to fairs all the time. When I was sixteen, she talked me into playing a part for a friend of hers in a pageant. I wore some s
uper heavy armor and clanked around for about a half hour in the sun. It pretty much cured me of Medieval romances. But I stuck it out 'til evening."
"Why?" I asked.
"A girl. Why else?" he asked. "There were college girls hanging out there. Sixteen year-old geeks have a thing for fair damsels. Heck — twentysomething year-old geeks have the same feelings sometimes, and do dumb things for attention."
His glance darted briefly in Katie's direction, before he caught himself. It was a change from the flirty smile he had a moment before, as if a little bit of the shy boy of old had returned.
It was believable that he played a part for a girl. I wondered if he was playing a part for a girl now — not that of Mercutio, but that of Riley the rambling summer traveler.
"What did you two talk about at the pub when you first met?" I asked Katie.
Only the two of us were left in the garden after a game of 'pirate' involving lots of plastic swordplay and a near-leap by Edwin from the tower window when Riley gave him a piggyback ride up the stairs. At that point, Lady Amanda declared it time for a nap, and removed her disappointed son indoors.
"Oh, you know. He asked me a little about the village, and what I was doing here," said Katie. She stretched her legs, crossing them at the ankle. "'American to American kind of stuff.' It wasn't anything really deep. He was just a nice guy. We were both a little homesick, so we connected, I guess."
"I can tell," I said. Katie blushed.
"He has a nice smile," she said. "That's about it. I mean, he's just passing through for a few weeks. And I'm going home at the end of summer, back to school."
"Where is Riley going from here?" I asked. "Devon? London? Scotland?"
"He didn't say. Just that he's traveling. Trying to clear his head, see the world." She pulled a small flower from the grass by the playhouse, and twirled it between her fingers, studying its petals.
