by R. L. Syme
Willa dropped her arm from Gillian’s waist and half-turned to Mason. “Didn’t Cordy run through the show order with you?”
Mason pursed his lips and thought back to the phone call. “I don’t believe she did.”
“Oh, God.” Gillian covered her mouth with a delicate hand. “I keep forgetting. You haven’t been prepped?”
Mason shrugged. “Apparently, I’m not Frank.”
“Mike.”
“Sorry. Mike.”
“God rest his soul.” Willa crossed herself. “He was a good man. Heart of gold.”
“I’m sure.” Mason folded his arms over his chest. “Well, if you’ll spare a moment for a guy who apparently doesn’t have a heart of gold, I would love to know how I’m supposed to communicate with my wait staff.”
Gillian’s eyebrows knit together. “I’m sorry, Mason. I thought Cordy would have done this already.” She looked around the bright, festive lobby and picked up one of the programs.
“Here.” She handed him the green sheet and took a mistletoe-festooned pencil from one of the many clipboards on the next table. “Let me show you how this works.”
Mason expelled a slow breath, trying to keep his frustration level to a minimum. He wasn’t a child. “I can read.”
“That’s not the point. Here.” She pointed to the word Introit on the program and wrote waiters in 1st costume beside it. “Your waitresses will be extra nymphs here, but we’ll have everything set on the tables before we seat guests.” A few lines down, she wrote waiter entrance. “This is where they enter for the first time. They’ll do a dance entrance with empty plates that have cloches glued to them, but you don’t have to have the food ready there.”
“What food ready?”
“The first course. The pork course.”
He shook his head. “The pork course first? That makes no sense.”
“Well, I guess it’s pork and sides. But…”
Mason held up his hand for her to stop. “We have two courses of appetizers set to be ready at 7:15. The pork won’t be ready to serve until 7:45.”
Gillian’s mouth dropped into an O and Mason fought the urge to reach over and push it closed.
“That’s not how we do this.” She flipped her eyes up toward the ceiling and muttered something under her breath that he couldn’t hear.
“Gillian. If you would stop treating me like a child, this would go a lot smoother.”
“I’m not treating you like a child.”
“You’ve been using your patronizing voice with me ever since I got here. Don’t think I’ve forgotten what that sounds like.”
“I have…” She stopped and met his eyes. Tension grew between them like a bubble, about to pop and splatter everyone with nasty.
He touched her arm gently. “Gillian.”
She wrenched away from him. “Look, I’m sorry that Cordy didn’t cover this with you. I wish more than anything that I’d been the one to call for a caterer, but I just haven’t had time to have a spare thought today.”
Mason put up his hands in defense. “Hang on, Jilly. Just tell me what you need. I’ll make it happen.”
Gillian scribbled along one side of the green paper in silence, her lips forming a tighter and tighter line as she did. She thrust the paper into his hands and waited while he read.
Through half-gritted teeth, Mason said, “Thank you. This is extremely cogent and specific.”
“Wonderful. It should be easy to follow directions, then.”
He sighed out a tight laugh. “Yes, ma’am.” He wanted to salute or something, to underline the sarcasm, but… he didn’t want to hurt her. Not really. He’d tried being helpful and being cute. Nothing was getting through to her.
She bent toward him in a whisper he was certain only he could hear, even in the quiet room. “All I want to do is make it through tonight without losing my job. Then, we can go our separate ways, and I never have to see you again.”
Mason twisted his tongue to keep from a retort that would sting her like that sentence had him. He didn’t want to hurt her. “Yes, ma’am.”
With a swish of cold air, the side door opened. A short, blonde woman in a long skirt trudged inside carrying a giant plugin coffee pot. She set the silver appliance down on one of the burgeoning tables and shook the snow from her hair.
Gillian’s face tightened.
“Hello, everyone.” The tiny woman pulled off a blue, fur-lined coat and tossed it behind the table. She spied Mason and came forward with her hand out. “Ahh, you must be Mason Herrick. I’m Bianca Wilkes I’ve heard so much about you.”
Mason glanced at Gillian in shock and saw her cheeks pinking. “You have?” he asked as he shook the woman’s hand.
“Coach Cooper up at the high school. He was the one who referred you to us.”
Mason gave her a querulous eyebrow. “We’ve never done anything for the high school.”
“He said you put in a bid and did a tasting that was quite good. He was sad they couldn’t use you.” Bianca’s wide smile seemed genuine.
Mason took the program with Gillian’s scrawled notes and pointed toward the kitchen. “I should really get back to prepping.”
“Nonsense.” Bianca skipped around the table and came to his side, grasping his arm. “You must meet my husband. He’s the owner of this little place.”
From across the room, Willa cleared her throat. She and Gillian exchanged a look.
The side door opened again and a tall, big-bellied man pushed inside carrying a similarly huge industrial coffee pot. He looked around, set his next to Bianca’s, and divested himself of his winter clothing.
“Here he is,” Bianca said, leaning in as though it were a secret. “Arthur, honey, this is that chef that Coop told you about. Remember, the one he said made that great pork dish?”
Arthur Wilkes looked like he had been a lineman in a previous life. He was big and broad and had a long beard that would not have been out of place on a Viking. Next to him, Bianca looked almost like a child, she was so petite.
His handshake, Mason found, was not that of a Viking, however. More like an accountant.
“Coop had better not have exaggerated, pet.” Arthur looked Mason up and down as he held on to his hand. “You used to be some big-time chef in California?”
Mason stretched and pressed his lips together. He never would have described himself as such, and he certainly hadn’t been a celebrity or anything like that. Gillian stared at him with glazed eyes. It wasn’t hard to read the pain she still carried around. Even when it came out as anger.
“Not quite a James Beard winner, but I can hold my own.” Mason avoided Gillian’s gaze. Since the restaurant had taken him away from Granite Peak, and by extension, Gillian, he’d not discussed it with her since he left. It seemed strange that she should hear anything about his life third-hand, while he had a conversation with other people.
He hadn’t realized how much he wanted to get Gillian alone until that moment. Even if all she did was let him talk. Let him explain. Maybe she wouldn’t hate him quite so much.
Maybe she still would.
It was a chance he’d like to take.
Gillian swallowed against the tears. It was the first time in five years that she’d heard Mason talk about California, and it didn’t hurt any less today than it had then.
She really thought it would.
There was still a burning slick of pain that burned behind everything. Behind her veneer of success, behind her pretense of power. She still had to face the one person in the world who had hurt her the most, while simultaneously having to have the best night of her life as a director and staff person at MFDA.
Bianca distracted her by taking her arm and gesturing around the lobby. “Don’t you love what I’ve done with the place?” she twittered.
It was all Gillian could do to keep from rolling her eyes.
“You certainly got the theme down.” Gillian forced a smile. They called Bianca Frenchie for two reasons. The
first was that she actually had been French at one point in her young life. But the second was that she had the annoying, nasaly, unreasonably upbeat voice of the famous character from everyone’s favorite kitschy musical.
She certainly didn’t have the tact and decorum of the French.
“I know.” She practically squeaked with delight. “Isn’t it beautiful, Artie?”
Arthur glanced up from studying Mason and looked around the room with a nonplussed glare. Gillian hated that look.
“The theater sure as hell had better not look like this.” Arthur pinned Gillian with hard eyes and she knew she was in for it. While he may not be willing to take on his idiot second wife, Arthur was no fall-down guy when it came to yelling at everyone else.
Or firing people. After the previous show, he’d fired both the musical director and the stage manager. Neither had yet been replaced and word was, he was gunning for Gillian.
“Let me show you the theater,” Willa offered.
Arthur readjusted his belt and followed her. “Somebody had better be cleaning off the sidewalks. It’s snowing cats and dogs out there.”
Willa disappeared into the theater with Arthur and Bianca half-followed them, stopping at the entrance to offer a non-plussed grunt at the door.
Gillian and Mason stood awkwardly, side by side still at the table with all the programs spread over it, dotted with plastic mistletoe. She was afraid if she spoke, she might burst into tears.
“What’s in the coffee pots?” Mason asked.
“Probably the wassail.”
Mason laughed. “This is quite a production, isn’t it?”
“Like you care.” She threw the words at him, wanting to hurt him. To get some response. But his somber face returned.
“Gillian, I know we’ve had our issues in the past.” He turned his body to face her, but she did not respond. Mason reached out and she stepped away.
A sudden burst of fear caught her off-guard. “Don’t you touch me.”
He sighed and dropped his hand. “I get that you’re still pissed at me, although for the life of me, I don’t get why. But at least for tonight, we have to be professional.”
“No, for tonight, you have to stay in the kitchen and I have to stay in the theater and we don’t have to be anything to each other.” She crossed her arms. “Remember the rules.”
“You’re being childish.”
“I’m being childish?” She turned to face him. “I’m not the one who refuses to follow the rules.”
“One time. I came out from the kitchen one time. Because you screamed, Gillian. I thought you were in trouble.”
Something burned inside at those words, but she pushed it away. “Well, it’s not your job to save me.”
His eyebrows drew together. “You think I came out here because I feel responsible for you?”
The warmth continued to swirl around in her chest and she felt him leaning toward her. “I don’t care why you came out here. And frankly, I don’t care about you at all. I just want you to go back in that kitchen and do your job.”
His mouth hung open as though he meant to respond, but he just stood there, staring at her, as though willing her to do something.
Mason put his hands out like a martyr. “I don’t know what I did to deserve this.”
Something snapped inside and she stepped into his space so her nose was almost pressed against his. Her eyes rounded. “You know exactly what you did, Mason, and don’t deny it. God, I can’t believe I ever let you walk in this building. If I could fire you right now, I would, but my boss’s stupid wife has some fascination with your cooking, so I’m stuck with you. But you hear me right now, Mason Herrick. I hate you. I have hated you for five years and I will never stop hating you. So stop trying to charm me and stop trying to save me. Just do your job and stay out of my face.”
The words had tumbled out of her, too fast to stop them, and being so close, she could almost feel their impact as his body seemed to wilt away from her. His big brown eyes glazed over and he stepped back.
She’d wanted to hurt him. She’d succeeded.
Even as she spoke them, she wanted to take them back. God knew she’d said them so many times to her best friends after Mason left, she thought she’d meant them. But as she watched her words crash into him, and saw them land, she wanted to take each one back.
“My stupid wife, eh?” Arthur stood in the doorway of the theater, his giant hands on his hips, staring her down.
Gillian suddenly felt two inches tall. Arthur came to loom over her and the guilt she’d felt about yelling at Mason compounded.
What was wrong with her today? She would never have said those things out loud on a normal day.
“I’ve had just about as much insubordination as I can take from you, young lady.” Arthur seemed to get even bigger as he put his hands back on his hips and stretched above her.
Tears stung Gillian’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Arthur. I’m having a bit of a stressful day.”
“Well, it’s about to get more stressful.”
Mason twitched beside Gillian and she willed him to stay quiet. Arthur held his arm out, as though holding back a tide. “I know I told you I wanted donor cards at each table, and you were supposed to put out the mistletoe decorations that Bianca bought for the tables instead of the candelabras. Where are the decorations Bianca bought?”
Gillian wiped at her eyes. She had a choice here. Arthur Wilkes was, indeed, her boss, and he had the power to fire her. But he did not have the power to make her feel small and worthless, and she wasn’t going to let him use his size to intimidate her.
“Look, Arthur. I’m sorry that I said what I said, and I know you’re my boss.” She raised her chin. “But I am the director of this show and I’m sorry to put this so bluntly, but Bianca has tacky taste. If you want to know the truth, I didn’t put out her centerpieces because they look like they were made by a kindergartener and I care too much about the reputation of this theater to let this,” she gestured around the room at the flashing mistletoe lights and the hand-painted mistletoe canvases and all the other tacky shit that Bianca had thrown up on the walls and on the tables, “be the standard of how things are done.”
Arthur stood back, his mouth hanging open, his eyes wide with anger. But before he could start berating her, Gillian rushed to continue.
“I know you and I don’t get along, and I’m prepared for the fact that you’re probably going to fire me later tonight, but you should know.” Tears welled in her eyes and she tried her best to shut out the fact that Mason was standing next to her, or she might lose it completely. “I love this theater. I love the kids who come here and the staff who works here. And I love your ex-wife. I care about the reputation this place has, and I won’t stand by and let you turn it into a carnival and a side show because you don’t know any better. You can fire me if you want, but I guarantee you, when Dimity comes back, things are going to change around here and there will be no more floating, flashing mistletoe lights and no more dollar store paintings thrown up on the walls. And if you’re going to fire me because I won’t put out tacky centerpieces on the most important fundraising night of the year, then fire me. But I’m not going to sacrifice my ideals because you’re too much of a coward to stand up to your wife.”
Willa and Bianca stood in the doorway to the theater, each with her hand over her respective mouth. Arthur was so red in the face, he could have been steaming. And Mason raised his eyes to hers and offered a half-smile.
As justified as she felt in finally letting loose on Arthur Wilkes, something about that half-smile warmed her more than she thought possible.
The lights flickered overhead as though Arthur’s anger was sending out waves. The side door opened and Rich stomped inside, bringing a bit of the snow with him. He held two shovels and was dressed for the tundra. His smiling face darkened when he looked around the room.
“Why are we all standing around?” Rich asked. “I need help with the sidewalks and the b
oys have started their pre-show warm-ups already.”
Willa snuck between Bianca and Arthur and took her coat from the coat rack. “I’ll help outside.”
“Arthur?” Rich held out one of the shovels. “It’s gonna take three of us to clear out the sidewalks and that parking lot, and it’s still coming down pretty hard.
Gillian breathed in quietly through tight lips as Arthur’s eyes narrowed on her. Still. No response to her tirade. She flinched when he turned back to Rich.
“I’ll get my coat.” Arthur’s voice was tight and his face still flushed, but he was either waiting for the right time or stuffing his anger in front of a crowd.
Bianca flitted over to the wassail table as though nothing had happened. But her lined lips belied her cheery humming.
“I’ll talk to you when I get back inside.” Arthur sent Gillian a pointed look, then slid his eyes over to Mason and pasted on a big, dumb smile. “Let’s get this fundraiser on the road.”
So they were all just going to ignore her outburst?
Rich, Willa, and Arthur trudged out the side door and Bianca unwrapped the power cord from a mess of cables she pulled from her purse. Gillian remained taut in her stance, trying to remember what she had been about to do before Mason ruined everything.
No. Before she ruined everything.
“What can I do to help?” Mason said in a low voice.
Bianca’s humming got suddenly louder. It wasn’t even a real song that Gillian could discern. Just nervous vocalizing.
“Go back to the kitchen.”
“You’re really alright?” He reached for her again, but before she could respond, he stopped himself. His hand hung in midair for a moment before it dropped again to his side. “You’re right. Not my job. I’ll just go back to the kitchen.”
Mason stayed put for a moment or two and Gillian closed her eyes. She took a silent breath and willed him away. One more minute of his closeness and she would cave.
“Ah. Here we are.” Bianca’s voice came from under the table, thankfully ending the humming. “Let me just…” She grunted and Gillian heard the slide of a plug going into the wall.
Gillian had just opened her eyes when the lights went out.
