by Robbi McCoy
Wren leapt out of her chair. “That was her! She’s delivering her cheese. Every Friday she comes into town to deliver it.”
Kyle looked up from his easel. “I had no idea she was your Sophie. The thought never entered my mind. She seemed nice. I liked her. Sit down. I’m drawing you.”
Wren sank into the chair. “Did she tell you anything of interest?”
“Like what?”
“Like she’s getting a divorce.”
Kyle pursed his lips and gazed at her silently for several seconds, then returned to his sketch.
“Anything at all then?” Wren asked hopefully.
“The only thing she said that was even a tiny bit personal was that she liked to garden.”
“Garden? That’s it?”
He nodded without looking at her. “Is that bad?”
“No, it isn’t bad. It’s actually good, but it isn’t very useful. You had her sitting here captive for twenty minutes and didn’t find out anything more than she likes to garden?”
“Fifteen minutes,” he corrected. “Maybe if you’d given me a script or we’d had more rehearsals, I could have done a better job. Or maybe if she’d told me she was the Sophie who slept with you, I would have had an opening to ask all these personal questions you think I should have asked.” He continued drawing as he spoke. “In my defense, I’d also like to point out that you yourself talked to her for several hours and never found out she was married or even that she likes to garden.”
“Okay, okay,” Wren relented, frowning at his smug expression.
“Getting involved with a married woman is an invitation to disaster, in my opinion.”
Wren nodded. “I know. That’s why I’m staying away. If I’d known about Olivia in the beginning, I never would have batted my eyelashes at her. So, yes, I’m done with Sophie. I’m going to purge her completely from my mind.”
“And heart?” Kyle asked.
Wren didn’t answer. She watched Kyle’s rapid hand movements as he focused on his drawing.
“Let me see,” she said after a few minutes, moving around behind him and looking over his shoulder. She was startled to see a recognizable but cartoonish likeness of her head, in profile, attached to a tiny bird’s body, flying. Her nose was thrust forward like a beak. She laughed. “That’s different! I like it. I’ll leave now so you can attract some paying customers.”
“You mean you aren’t going to pay me for this?” he joked.
“I’ll cook you dinner. How’s that?”
“Fair enough. You heading home?”
“Yes. But first I need to stop by this little store I found a while ago and pick up a couple things.”
“What kind of store?”
“Toy store.”
He looked at her quizzically, but didn’t ask any more questions. She wouldn’t have answered him anyway.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Your tale, sir, would cure deafness.
—The Tempest, Act I, Scene 2
Saturday morning Wren slept in. When she finally rolled out of bed, she found herself alone in the house. Raven and Kyle had left her a note that they’d gone to the Farmers’ Market. She was sorry they hadn’t wakened her for that, as she liked to check out the Farmers’ Markets wherever she went. Maybe after some coffee, she thought, she’d run over there on her own.
She took her first cup to the den and logged into her computer to read her email. The den in this house wasn’t large. It was detailed in dark wood and finished off with intricate crown molding like the other rooms. The modern desk with Wren’s laptop open on it looked out of place amid the old-fashioned surroundings. The room occupied the southwest corner of the house, with a window facing the side yard and another facing the street, both of them covered with yellowed lace sheers and pull-down blinds, the kind that always snap up screaming in cartoons, frequently trapping some lumpy animal inside. Every time she opened these blinds, like this morning, in her mind she saw a comical blue mouse rolled up inside with his head sticking out one end.
The wall art in this room no doubt contributed to her predisposition to think of cartoons. Some of Kyle’s caricatures adorned the walls, including a framed pair depicting himself and Raven in pirate attire—big black hats, wooden legs, parrots, long black mustaches, the works. These reminded her of the drawing he’d made of her yesterday.
After opening the blinds, she unlatched the window to the side yard and opened it, letting the outside air flow in. It was already warm out. It was going to be a hot day.
She sat at the desk and logged into Eno Threlkeld’s email account. She made her way through yesterday’s, then today’s messages, eventually arriving at one with the subject, “Your Review of Sprouts.” As she clicked it open, she saw the name on the From line: Sophie Ward. For a second, she forgot she was reading Eno’s mail and thought Sophie had written to her. Her heart lurched before she saw the salutation: Dear Mr. Threlkeld.
This note wasn’t for her at all. At least not in Sophie’s mind. She prepared herself for the type of objection Eno received on a regular basis. Sophie would suggest that her mediocre cheese had not been given a fair shake, that maybe she could have a do-over. What she didn’t know was that Eno could have been even harder on her. A cheese pretentiously described as “hand-crafted” should be significantly better than what you can buy in a grocery store. Hers wasn’t. Wren read through Sophie’s very formal note, imagining that if she replied at all, it would be a more polite version of “that’s the way the cookie crumbles” than she’d given to Bâtarde. She didn’t need to make any more enemies for Eno.
Dear Mr. Threlkeld:
We are the faces behind the Tallulah Rose Creamery mentioned in your recent review of Sprouts. Although your opinion of the chêvre you were served is no doubt accurate, you should know that it was an imposter. That was not our cheese. Against the wishes and knowledge of the restaurant owner, you were served a common variety of store-bought chêvre instead.
Tallulah Rose is a tiny family farm run by just my mother and me...
Wren stopped reading. A chill ran down her spine.
“Her mother!” she said aloud. “Olivia is her mother?”
She leapt from her chair and impulsively picked up the phone receiver and yelled, “Olivia is her mother!” at the dial tone.
Wren was beside herself and so excited she couldn’t stand still. She ran to the window and stuck her head out, looking at the sky and the sparrows in the crepe myrtle trees. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Then she returned to the computer to finish reading Sophie’s note.
Tallulah Rose is a tiny family farm run by just my mother and me. We’re working hard to get this business off the ground and negative comments like yours could be devastating to our reputation. I’ve no doubt you would like our cheese if you actually tried it. I hope you’ll at least consider publishing a retraction. The owner of Sprouts will vouch for these facts.
Sincerely,
Sophie & Olivia Ward
Wren leaned back in her chair, staring at the screen, overjoyed. What incredibly wonderful news! Not the part about the cheese mix-up, though she was grateful to hear that because it meant Sophie’s cheese at least still had the potential to be excellent. No, that wasn’t the real news. The real news was something much more momentous, something that changed everything. She dashed off a reply, anxious to leave the computer and act on her new knowledge.
Dear Sophie and Olivia,
I’m sincerely sorry for the mix-up and the possible damage done to your reputation. Although I’m most willing to print a retraction, they rarely do much good. People don’t read them. But I may be able to find another way to help amend the situation and will make this a top priority.
Best Wishes,
Eno Threlkeld
She hit Send, then raced to her room to get dressed.
Just as she grabbed her keys from the kitchen counter, the doorbell rang. She peeked out the window and saw Max standing there, kicking at the wooden planks
under his feet. He wore jeans and a T-shirt with a black leather vest over it. No tie this time. His motorcycle was parked at the curb. Wren reluctantly went to the door.
Max held a small terra-cotta pot with a hardy mint plant in it. “Hi,” he said, thrusting the plant toward her. “Raven said you were complaining you haven’t seen a fresh mint leaf since you’ve been here, so I brought you this from the nursery.”
Wren took the pot. “Thank you. But I’ll have to take it home with me. If I plant it here, they’ll let it die.”
“You can have mint in your tea while you’re here, anyway.”
Wren chuckled. “Is this why you came over?”
“No. Raven said I could come by today and practice some lines.”
“He’s not back yet from the Farmers’ Market, but shouldn’t be long.”
“I’ll wait.”
Wren shut the front door, realizing she wasn’t going anywhere until Raven returned. She would have to keep Max company until then.
“It’s not your lines you’re going to practice, I’m guessing,” she said.
“No. I’ve only got two lines and one of them’s ‘Signior.’ Don’t really need to practice that.” Max grinned that wide, full-faced grin Wren was beginning to think of as his signature expression. “It’s Beatrice he’s going to help me with.”
Wren led the way back to the kitchen where she offered him a chair at the table. “How about some iced tea? We have fresh mint to put in it.”
Max nodded. “Nice house.”
Wren poured tea over two glasses of ice, bruised a couple of mint leaves for them, then sat down across from Max. He took a long drink from the glass, during which she examined his youthful features, surprised all over again that he was nearly her age. She watched his neck as he chugged the tea. No evidence of an Adam’s apple. Sitting this close in the bright light of day, she could see there wasn’t a hint of stubble on his smooth, freckled face, just some fine downy hairs like her own. Twenty-six and no facial hair?
“I don’t think Raven’s inclined to give you a chance to play Beatrice,” she confided.
Max put the glass down. “You never know. Gotta be prepared, just in case. The history of theater is full of unexpected opportunities for the understudy. When your break comes, you’d better be the best you can.”
“That’s the right attitude.”
“Raven’s phenomenal, don’t you think?” Max smiled, revealing all his upper teeth.
Wren was amused at his enthusiastic admiration of Raven. It was no wonder he had invited him over to rehearse. “Yes, he’s doing a fine job. Really great.”
She noticed Max’s hand where it lay beside the drinking glass. He had thin, delicate fingers. His hands were almost dainty. She glanced up to his chest, obscured by the vest.
“Have you been with the company long?” she asked.
“Just a couple months. I know you gotta start at the bottom, work your way up and prove yourself with bit parts. That’s okay. I’ll be patient, learn the ropes from guys like Raven. A few years from now, I’ll be playing the leads.”
“If you keep at it, I’m sure you will.” Wren held his eyes for a moment, trying to read past the eager optimism, the buoyant, good-natured conviviality, but she saw no deeper layer of meaning. “Max, what’s your background? Where do you come from?”
He shrugged, then dropped his hands to his lap. “You mean my family?”
“Your family, sure.”
“I’m from New Jersey. Small town called Verona. Not a great neighborhood. Kind of rough. There was this family from another house we didn’t get along with. Always fighting.”
“Like a gang war?”
“No. Just a couple families fighting over some old screw-over. We were supposed to steer clear of them, but my older brother fell in love with this girl from the other family. Her name was Julie. Mom and Dad would have hit the roof if they’d known. So my brother and Julie had a secret wedding.” Max leaned toward Wren as if confiding a secret himself. “Not really legal, since they were underage. She was only fourteen. They wanted to run away together, so they cooked up this whacked plan.” Max shook his head. “Man, that was a crappy plan!”
“What happened?”
“Everything went wrong. Everything! Like if it was a play, it’d be nothing but miscues. The end result was a double suicide, Julie and my brother. It was really messed up.”
Wren straightened in her chair, appalled. “Oh, my God! How horrible for you. For your whole family. How tragic!”
Max nodded sadly.
“How old were you when this happened?”
“Just five. I don’t remember much. But you couldn’t be in my family and not know this story really well.”
“No, of course not. What happened then?”
“My dad made up with the other family. Feud was over.”
“Their shared tragedy buried their strife.”
“Uh-huh.”
“What a sad story.”
“Yeah. It sucks.” Max gulped down the rest of his tea. “My dad never really got over it. His son, you know.”
Wren peered into Max’s eyes. “But you were his son too, right?”
Max looked startled. “Yeah, sure. I just meant it was like his son, a son he lost. A big deal.”
“No girls in your family?” Wren was more suspicious than ever.
Max shook his head. “Just me and my brother. Then just me.”
Wren stood and picked up the empty glass. “Teen suicide is always so tragic.” She laid a comforting hand on his shoulder, then walked to the sink and rinsed the glass. “Such a waste.”
A clamor outside drew her attention to the driveway where Raven and Kyle were unloading their bounty—bags of fruits and vegetables ripened in the sunshine of southern Oregon.
“Your Beatrice has arrived!” Wren announced.
Max bounced up from his chair and ran to greet Kyle and Raven, helping them carry in the produce. When everything was put away, Raven ran himself a glass of water from the kitchen tap while Max waited for him in the living room where they would rehearse.
“How well do you know that boy?” Wren asked.
After gulping down his drink, Raven said, “Not well. Just met him when I started this play. Why?”
“I’m suspicious.”
Raven put the glass on the counter and faced her. “About what?”
“Are you sure Max is a boy?”
Raven looked confused, then smiled. “Is this a joke?”
“No. I’m serious. How do you know he’s a male?”
“I don’t know for certain, of course, but what reason would he have, or she have, to lie about it? Besides, Cleo was adamant that both Beatrice and Benedick would be played by male actors. The fact that Max was chosen as my understudy proves he’s a he.”
“Does it? How do you know Cleo knows more about it than you do?”
Raven started to speak, then stopped, looking thoughtful.
“Would you say Beatrice is the lead role in this play?” Wren asked.
“Absolutely! I mean, she’s part of a subplot, I suppose, if you want to be technical about it, but as far as stealing the show, she’s got huge potential for being the star. Sharing the spotlight with Benedick, anyway. Their relationship is the most entertaining thing about this play.”
“So one or the other is the star and both have to be played by men.”
Raven gazed levelly at her for a moment, before saying, “I see your point. You think Max is a girl pretending to be a boy so he, I mean, she, could try out for a lead role. But he didn’t get the part, either part. So there’d be no reason now to keep up the pretense.”
“He thinks he’s still going to have the chance. He believes in miracles. In this case, the miracle would be you getting sick or dying.”
Raven looked indignant. “Of all the nerve!”
“It’s not personal. Just a kid looking for a chance to prove herself. I’m sure she doesn’t want any harm to come to you. She�
��s a worshipper at your feet.”
“So you think Max is a girl?”
“I do. I’d be willing to bet on it.”
“As tempting as that wager is, I know better than to oppose a lesbian’s intuition on this subject. So let’s pull down his pants and take a look!”
Raven stepped toward the doorway. Wren grabbed him by the arm. “Try something a little less offensive, why don’t you? Like asking. While you’re divining the mystery of Max’s gender, I’m taking off for a while.”
“Where are you going?”
“Tallulah Rose Farm.” Wren’s earlier excitement was returning now that she was free to leave. “Sophie’s not married after all.”
“They’re divorced?”
“No. Olivia is her mother.”
Raven stared, wide-eyed, then burst into a happy smile and hugged Wren tightly. “Congratulations!”
“Thank you. I’ll see you later.” She moved toward the door. “And while you’re questioning Max about her gender, ask about her family tragedy too.”
Raven looked intrigued.
“Thereby hangs a tale,” Wren quipped.
CHAPTER TWENTY
I would I were thy bird.
—Romeo and Juliet, Act II, Scene 2
Tallulah Rose Creamery was easy to find with the directions Wren had from the Internet. A sign on a narrow country road marked a long, unpaved driveway that disappeared over a rise. There was no gate across the driveway, just an opening in the fence. She turned into the drive and continued amid gently rolling hills punctuated by an occasional oak tree. The countryside was beautiful and tranquil. She’d encountered no cars after turning off the highway. In the distance, a cloud of dust signaled a piece of farm equipment at work in a field.
She crested a hill to get her first glimpse of a modest white house, single-story with wood siding, sheltered within a cluster of well-established trees. Near the house were several small outbuildings of varying sizes, all weathered gray wood. An old green tractor sat beside one of the sheds. A detached garage stood next to the house and a pickup was parked in front of that.
