by Robbi McCoy
Table of Contents
Other Bella Books by Robbi McCoy
Dedication
Acknowledgments
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
About the Author
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Two on The
Aisle
Robbi
McCoy
2011
Copyright © 2011 by Robbi McCoy
Bella Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 10543
Tallahassee, FL 32302
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper
First published 2011
Editor: Katherine V. Forrest
Cover Designer: Sandy Knowles
ISBN 13: 978-1-59493-259-5
Other Bella Books by Robbi McCoy
For Me and My Gal
Not Every River
Something to Believe
Songs Without Words
Waltzing at Midnight
Dedication
To all the stage actors and theater companies who have entertained me so often and so thoroughly over the decades. You have given much and inspired many.
Acknowledgments
First of all, this story would be meaningless without the great body of work left us by William Shakespeare. I’ve used him liberally and cheekily, as he used his literary predecessors. I hope I’ve been able to capture a little of his comedic spirit and remind readers why, after centuries, his romantic comedies remain popular and relevant with theater audiences the world over.
I am delighted with the contributions of Kaysi Peister and Sue Edmonds who won my contest and gave me character names so full of potential that they’ve engendered more than just characters, but also situations and plot twists. Before they suggested “Wren Landry” and “Eno Threlkeld,” this book was a mere glimmer in my mind. I never suspected that the two winning names would be used for a single character. Thank you, ladies, for the inspiration. It’s been great fun.
A special thank you goes to Kirsty for her brilliant cover ideas and to Lori for her cupcake expertise.
As always, much gratitude to my editor Katherine V. Forrest whose insights and instincts are remarkably precise. No, you cannot slip something by her.
Finally, to my sweetheart and collaborator, Dot, I say, I love thee; none but thee; and thou deservest it.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
Wren Landry, a critic
Sophie Ward, a goatherd
Raven Landry, an actor
Kyle Somerset, an artist
Olivia Ward, a farmer
Ellie Marcus, a shopkeeper
John Bâtarde, a villain
Katrina Olafssen, a baker
Klaus Olafssen, a baker
Cassandra Marcus, a soothsayer
Dr. Warren Connor, a physician
Dena Ward, a saucy wench
Max, a “boy”
Cleo Keggermeister, a drama queen
Tallulah, Rose, Maribelle, Twopenny, Tater, Niblets and Poppy, the goats
About the Author
Robbi McCoy is a native Californian who lives in the Central Valley between the mountains and the sea. She is an avid hiker with a particular fondness for the deserts of the American Southwest. She also enjoys gardening, culinary adventures, travel and the theater. She works full-time as a software specialist and web designer for a major West Coast distribution company.
CHAPTER ONE
If this were played upon a stage now,
I could condemn it as an improbable fiction.
—Twelfth Night, Act III, Scene 4
Other than the fact that Maia had pushed several succulent ingredients aside—capers, Sicilian olives, roasted red peppers—and had picked out as much of the fresh basil as she could manage before she’d been willing to take a bite of her panzanella, their date, their second date, was going well. Better than many second dates, in Wren’s experience. A year or so ago, picking inoffensive ingredients out of one’s food would have been an immediate and permanent deal breaker for Wren. Tonight she would let it slide. She realized with some misgivings that she was lowering her standards.
Wren sighed. She wasn’t ready to give up on Maia. She was lovely to look at. She was incredibly smart. She seemed to genuinely like Wren and that was a huge plus. The food thing—maybe she could be taught. Wren’s life, both personal and professional, revolved around food and this was Josephine, a truly exceptional restaurant, one of San Francisco’s best. Wren shuddered, imagining the chef watching Maia’s fork weed out the offensive components of the dish, her mouth curled into a look of revulsion as if she were picking out mouse turds.
“I’ve got a feeling about us,” Maia said, smiling warmly with her puckery, kissable mouth. “I really like you.”
She reached a hand across the table and Wren took it, twining their fingers together. Maia was a few years younger, twenty-seven, with long dark brown hair and widely-spaced brown eyes. Their first date had been last weekend, a hike down the west flank of Mt. Tam to Stinson Beach. It had been a good day. They’d sat on a grassy slope above the Pacific Ocean eating sourdough bread and a nutty Jarlsberg cheese and Wren had never suspected she was with a woman who could so thoroughly emasculate a perfectly beautiful panzanella as Maia had just done. Let it go! she warned herself.
Maia had an exotic look about her, as if she were some part Asian. Wren knew very little about her. They had met only a week ago, the morning of that hike. Wren hadn’t yet confessed her own secrets and she was sure Maia was holding back as well. She just hoped the as-yet unrevealed facts were bearable.
The waiter came to take their plates away, leaving a dessert menu. Wren took her hand back while she looked it over.
“Do you want to share something?” she asked.
“Okay. How about something chocolate? I’m a total chocoholic. The first time I tasted it, I thought, oh, my God, this is better than an orgasm. Actually, I couldn’t have thought that because I hadn’t had an orgasm yet, the first time I tasted chocolate.”
Wren chuckled. “No, I wouldn’t think so.”
Maia looked thoughtful, staring into space. “No. It was about two months later that I had my first orgasm. You know, it’s hard to compare those two things, isn’t it? I mean, they’re like apples and oranges. Or maybe chocolate and orgasms. Just different.”
Wren blinked, trying to catch up. “How old were you when you first tasted chocolate?”
“How old? Relative to?” Maia
looked momentarily confused. “Oh, you mean in earth years?”
Maia laughed louder than usual with an edge of hysteria. She was apparently joking. Wren tried to laugh, but it came out as a small twitter because experience had taught her to be wary. Dating had become so disappointing, not to mention terrifying, that she was nearly ready to give it up. Why was it so hard to meet a pleasant, ordinary, sane woman in this huge city full of gay women?
“Twenty, twenty-one,” Maia said.
“Twenty? You never tasted chocolate until you were twenty?”
Maia nodded. “It gave me the creeps. They don’t have it where I come from and I had this instinctive fear of it, I guess.”
“I thought you were from Denver.”
Maia was distracted by something on the menu. “Look! Twelve layer Hungarian Dobos Torte.” She read the description. “Rich layers of sponge cake sandwiched by alternating layers of chocolate buttercream and chocolate ganache, finished with a hard shell of caramel and sprinkled with walnuts and chocolate nibs.” She looked up at Wren with an eager, lustful expression, nearly salivating.
If a woman ever looks like that while thinking of me, Wren decided, I’ll ask her to marry me on the spot.
“I had it a couple weeks ago,” Wren said. “It sounds wonderful, but it was a little disappointing. The cake was too dry. I think you’ll be happier with the chocolate mousse pie. Dense mousse on an almond paste crust. It’s extraordinary.”
“Okay.” Maia snapped her menu shut. “You must come here a lot.”
“Not that often.”
Josephine was too expensive to come to often. Especially when it was pleasure and couldn’t be written off as a business expense.
“Back to where you come from,” Wren said after they ordered coffee and mousse pie. “Where they don’t have chocolate.”
Maia again laughed the slightly crazy laugh. Then she peered soberly into Wren’s eyes and spoke softly. “I feel I can trust you. I can trust you, can’t I?”
This isn’t a good sign, Wren decided, but nodded anyway and said, “Sure.”
“Yes,” Maia said decisively. “I know I can. I have unusual powers of perception and I can see what a sincere, honorable person you are. I want us to start off solid. No surprises. I believe in laying all the cards on the table up front and I hope you’ll do the same with me.”
The seriousness of Maia’s expression suggested this evening, originally so full of promise, was about to go badly south. Wren prepared herself for The Thing, the inevitable confession, the horrible reality that would dash her hopes to the ground and stomp them into dust.
“The people who raised me,” Maia said solemnly, “weren’t my biological parents.”
“Oh!” Wren breathed, hugely relieved. “You’re adopted.”
“No, not adopted. I was a changeling.”
“A changeling?”
“A changeling is a baby who gets switched with another.”
“Yeah, I know. But I haven’t heard the term outside of fairy tales. Because in literature, the changeling is a non-human child who’s left in the place of the human baby stolen by fairies, trolls or even the Devil. So, technically, you can’t be a changeling unless you’re a non-human.”
Wren added a laugh just as their dessert arrived, a disconcerting imitation of the new crazy Maia laugh she had just been introduced to. The waiter set down the coffee cups and a plate of chocolate perfection with whipped cream and chocolate curls on top and poured them both coffee.
Maia tasted the chocolate mousse. “Umm. You were right about this. So good!”
“So you were switched with another baby?” Wren was still intent on clearing up the facts of Maia’s origins. “A hospital snafu or something?”
Maia’s mouth was full of chocolate mousse, some whipped cream on her upper lip. She swallowed and said, “No. Seriously, Wren. I was a changeling. I was left with these people as an infant. They were wonderful to me. They raised me as if I were their own daughter. In fact, to this day they won’t admit what I know to be true, even though they must be heartbroken over losing their own child. Even I have no idea what happened to her.” Maia swallowed another big spoonful of mousse. “My people communicate with me telepathically, but they never mention the other baby. I guess they don’t want me to be distracted with worrying about her.”
Wren shook her head. “You showed me a picture of your parents last week. You look just like your mother.”
Maia nodded emphatically. “That was supposed to fool them, to make them think I was really theirs. It’s the way it’s done.”
“The way what’s done?”
“Aren’t you going to taste this? It’s delicious.”
“Go ahead.” Wren had lost interest in dessert.
Maia took another spoonful. “My parents, my real parents, are from Gravlax.”
“Gravlax?” Wren sputtered in disbelief. “Cured salmon?”
“No. This is a different Gravlax. This is a planet in the Rambutan system.”
Wren slammed into the back of her chair and laughed, thoroughly relieved to realize she was the butt of a joke. “Very funny! Rambutan, like the fruit. Good one!”
Maia stopped eating, looking thoroughly, deadly serious. “I’m not joking.”
“Yeah, right.” Wren picked up the second spoon and took a big scoop of mousse. “I suppose you’re going to tell me the town you were born in was Kielbasa and your father’s name is Radicchio.” She shook her head, impressed, realizing someone must have tipped Maia off about Wren’s secret identity as a food critic.
Maia still wasn’t smiling.
“Is this one of those hidden camera shows?” Wren looked around to see if she could find a TV crew disguised as waiters. “Picking the capers and olives out of the panzanella, that was supposed to drive me nuts, right?” She poked through the freesias in the vase between them, looking for a microphone.
Maia looked genuinely perplexed. Either she was a good actress or she was out of her mind. Wren stopped eating and put down her spoon, worried that she had just encountered the reason she and Maia would not be waking up tomorrow morning in one another’s arms, joyfully celebrating the beginning of their life together.
A loud disturbance from the kitchen attracted the attention of everyone in the restaurant. Sounds of banging metal, breaking glass and raised voices reached them, overwhelming the low-playing classical music and halting dinner conversation. Everyone stopped eating to listen. The only intelligible word amid a string of French-sounding curses was “dry,” uttered with a slightly rolled “r.” It came like a staccato refrain: Dry! Dry! Dry! Or the call of a scarlet macaw, emphatic and high-pitched, a chorus of exclamations followed by a round of questions: Dry? Dry? Dry?
A chef in kitchen whites came running through the swinging door, looking terrified and shrieking in Italian. Following him was a man Wren recognized as the owner of Josephine, John Bâtarde, the famous French chef. He wore a three-piece suit and carried a huge and beautiful torte on a plate above his head. He clutched a rolled up newspaper in his other hand, squeezing it so tight his knuckles were white, like he was trying to strangle it. His ginger mustache was crooked from the snarl on his mouth. His round face was red with wrath and his little eyes blazed with fury. He looked truly scary.
“He dares to call my Dobos torte dry!” Bâtarde yelled at no one in particular. “Dry! Dry! Dry!”
Suddenly realizing he was referring to her review of Josephine in today’s paper, Wren shrunk into her chair, willing herself to disappear from Bâtarde’s intense gaze. Oh, crap! she thought, trying to recall exactly what she’d said about the torte in an otherwise radiant report.
“Threlkeld’s days are numbered!” he declared. “Nobody insults my cake and gets away with it!”
With that, the great chef flung the cake blindly into the air where it smacked into a ceiling fan. He then turned and stomped back into the kitchen as twelve layers of cake and chocolate frosting were swiftly chopped and sprayed around the
room by the turning blades. Wren instinctively put her arms over her head as cake rained down on them and the plate bounced from one to the other of the fan blades before falling to the floor and breaking into shards. As the screaming in the restaurant subsided, she realized the danger had passed and peeked out to see traumatized diners with cake in their hair and frosting on their faces.
She was unscathed, but a fist-sized chunk of cake had landed next to her coffee cup.
Maia pinched off a sample and tasted it.“You’re right,” she said. “It’s a little dry. Apparently some food critic thought so too. But the chocolate frosting’s really good.” She looked thoughtful. “When my people return to take us back to Gravlax, I’m insisting we bring cacao trees back with us.”
CHAPTER TWO
I pray thee, gentle mortal, sing again:
Mine ear is much enamour’d of thy note.
So is mine eye enthralled to thy shape;
And thy fair virtue’s force perforce doth move me
On the first view to say, to swear, I love thee.
—A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act III, Scene 1
If Sophie had been paying attention to the sidewalk in front of her instead of gawking at the two intriguing lookalike women hugging one another in the plaza of the Oregon Shakespeare Festival theater complex, she would have seen the step up and would have avoided tripping over it and landing backward on her butt while her overnight bag went flying on a course as true as one of Cupid’s arrows straight toward the more appealing of the two women, landing directly at her feet.
But that wasn’t how it happened. Sophie did not see the step and she did indeed trip over it, fell, and sent her luggage hurtling toward the young woman hugging her doppelganger. That woman, startled, looked up, found the source of the special delivery and locked eyes with Sophie, a serene look of neutrality on her face as they stared at one another, both of them immobile for a full five seconds before the woman reached down for Sophie’s bag. She was about thirty years old, petite, dressed in black pants and a simple white shirt. Her hair was dark brown and short, straight with no part. Her bangs fell haphazardly over her forehead in a style that looked slightly mischievous, as though the result of deliberate disorder. She had a fresh, classically-shaped face with nearly straight-across eyebrows over wide, soulful brown eyes, a serious mouth and freckled cheeks. Such a sincere, vulnerable look.
