Two on the Aisle

by Robbi McCoy

“So you want to have goat cheese to celebrate?”

  “Sure, why not? I hear it’s divine.” Olivia smiled complacently.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  There’s nothing in this world can make me joy:

  Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale

  Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man...

  —King John, Act III, Scene 4

  Raven wore a silky navy blue bathrobe and lay on the sofa in the sunroom. He had been there all morning. Wren came in from the backyard, disappointed to see him still there just as before, doing nothing. She pulled off her gardening gloves and stood a few feet away from him, waiting to be acknowledged. His eyes were open, but he was immobile and staring at the ceiling.

  “Are you going to stay there all day?” she finally asked.

  “Yes,” he said without looking at her.

  “What about the play? There’s a performance tonight, isn’t there?”

  “I’ve called Max. Or should I say Maxine?”

  “You mean you’re not going on?” Wren sat in the chair next to the sofa.

  “I’m too depressed.”

  “Raven, you need to buck up. This is ridiculous. You can’t throw away your big break over a fight with your boyfriend.”

  He turned his head abruptly to look at her. “To lose one’s love is to lose one’s life. What else is there after that?”

  “He’ll be back. You haven’t lost him. I know he’ll be back.”

  “You know no such thing.”

  As Wren was about to object, the doorbell rang.

  “Will you get that?” Raven asked, as if he had a broken leg. “That’ll be Max.”

  She walked through the house to the front door where she greeted Max, who seemed more timid than ever, even a little reluctant to come in. Now that she knew Max was a girl, Wren could see it even more clearly than before, the feminine mouth, the small hands. She wore the same black leather vest as the other day and a pair of killer black boots. In Wren’s mind, she’d gone from being a goofy, juvenile-looking boy to being a sexy-cute, twenty-something butch woman. A decided improvement.

  She led Max to the sunroom where Raven remained prone.

  “Your hour has come, Max,” he announced dramatically. “Tonight you will be Beatrice. I am not going on.”

  “What?” Max looked stricken. “Why not? What’s wrong with you?”

  “I am murdered by the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.”

  Wren rolled her eyes at them both as Max fell to her knees beside the sofa.

  “He had a fight with Kyle,” she explained. “He should go on tonight. Otherwise, he’ll just lie here like that being worthless and feeling sorry for himself.”

  “Yes,” Max agreed, grabbing Raven’s arm. “You must go on!”

  “I won’t,” Raven said. “I can’t. You’ll go on and you’ll be brilliant.”

  “Brilliant? No. I’m not ready. It’s only been two weeks.”

  Raven gripped Max’s hand. “You’re ready. You can do it.” His gaze was grim and stern. “‘Well, niece,’” he said in his stage voice, “‘I hope to see you one day fitted with a husband.’”

  Max gawked, then adopted a similarly unnatural voice and said, “‘Not till God make men of some other metal than earth.’”

  Raven released her hand, saying, “You see! You know all the lines. You’re ready.”

  Max fell backward, then picked herself up and was on her feet, eyes wide with terror. “I have to go rehearse,” she said, then tore out of the sunroom and out of the house.

  Next they heard the sound of the motorcycle blasting down the street.

  “Is she really ready?” Wren asked.

  “Who knows?” Raven turned over, facing the back of the couch. If he really didn’t care about the show, Wren surmised, maybe he wasn’t exaggerating his despair after all.

  “Why don’t you call Kyle and apologize?” she suggested.

  He flipped over to face her. “I’ve tried. I’ve called three times. I left messages. He hasn’t returned my calls.”

  “Do you know where he’s staying? You could go there.”

  “No. He might be staying with his friend Henry. I hope not. Henry’s had a thing for Kyle since they met. I can’t bear to think what they’re doing!” He buried his face in a pillow.

  “You should work on your jealousy issues. Isn’t that what caused him to walk out in the first place? Really, Raven, you’re your own worst enemy.”

  “You’re right. Jealousy is the one thing Kyle can’t abide.” He sat up, hugging a pillow to his chest. “That was what destroyed his family, you know. Jealousy, the green-eyed monster.”

  “Really?” She sat on the arm of a chair.

  He nodded fatalistically. “He carries a photo of his parents in his wallet. His mother Mona was very beautiful. His father so-so. They hadn’t been married long and were very much in love. Kyle was just a newborn infant when his father was tricked by a black-hearted villain into thinking his wife was unfaithful. False evidence was planted. Mona was completely blameless, but ‘trifles light as air are to the jealous confirmations strong as proofs of holy writ.’”

  “What happened?” Wren asked in a whisper.

  “Kyle’s father let suspicion drive him crazy. He confronted his wife. Of course she denied any wrongdoing. He wasn’t able to believe her. He ended up strangling her to death in a jealous rage.”

  Wren gasped.

  “Then,” Raven continued, “when he found out the truth, that she was innocent, he killed himself out of remorse.”

  “That’s horrible!”

  “Yes, it is. It’s a deep wound for Kyle. He carries the pain of it in his heart forever, poor thing. Best not to bring it up.”

  “I won’t. But thanks for telling me.” She shook her head. “Knowing that, you’d think you would think twice before accusing him of infidelity.”

  “You’d think, yeah.” Raven flung himself against the back of the couch. “If he ever comes back, I’ll never for an instant doubt him again. I miss him so much!”

  They sighed simultaneously.

  “Aren’t we a pair?” Wren observed. “Two lovesick fools.”

  Raven turned his bleary eyes to face her and gave her a sympathetic smile. “What were you doing out in the yard?”

  “Weeding the garden.”

  “Garden? You mean those tomato plants that sprung up on their own?”

  “Yep. They’re blossoming. They might give you a few tomatoes if you water them now and then.”

  He frowned. “That’s what the Farmers’ Market’s for.”

  “If I thought you’d take care of them, I’d plant some beets and carrots for the fall.”

  “No point putting down roots now,” Raven muttered, smiling weakly at his own joke. “I can’t afford the rent on this place by myself.” He sat up and hugged his knees to his chest. “I was beginning to imagine staying here. Maybe not in this house, but in Ashland. I like it here. I’m sure they’d keep me on at the theater. But without mine own true love, I can’t imagine it.”

  “He’ll be back. But even without him, I think it’s a good plan to stay here. It’s time you did put down some roots. Since it’s just the two of us tonight, how about we get a pizza delivered and watch some old movie on TV? Something silly in black and white.”

  “As cozy as that sounds, you aren’t free tonight.”

  “I’m not?”

  “No. You have to go to the theater and watch Max perform.”

  “What?” Wren objected. “Why don’t you go?”

  “Because Cleo thinks I’m sick. Besides, I can’t bear it. Please, dear sister, be mine eyes, mine ears tonight.”

  Wren frowned in exasperation as Raven trained his puppy dog eyes on her.

  “It’s not like you have anything better to do,” he pointed out.

  She stuck her tongue out at him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Eye of newt, and toe of frog,

  Wool of bat,
and tongue of dog,

  Adder’s fork, and blind-worm’s sting.

  Lizard’s leg, and howlet’s wing,

  For a charm of powerful trouble,

  Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.

  —Macbeth, Act IV, Scene 1

  “Thanks for meeting me,” Wren said, fingering the stem of her wineglass.

  She sat across from Kyle at a round café table on the sidewalk outside an Italian restaurant.

  “Sure,” he said. “I’m glad you called. I miss our escapades.”

  He had a sketchpad open on the table and was rapidly drawing. His hair, as usual, was perfect. He wore a short-sleeved mesh shirt over relaxed tan pants, his feet in Teva sandals. He seemed calm and collected. Such a contrast to Raven.

  She tasted her wine, a full-bodied old vine zinfandel. “What are you working on?” she asked.

  “A label for a local winery. They hired me to come up with a design to announce their newest shiraz. But I can talk while I’m doing this. I’m using a different part of my brain.”

  “What winery is it?”

  “Newt’s Eye.”

  Wren balked. “Newt’s Eye? Never heard of it.”

  “That’s what I’m drinking here.” Kyle tapped his glass with the end of his pencil. “You want to taste this one? It’s pinot noir.”

  She took a sip from his glass, letting the wine splay itself across the surface of her tongue before swallowing. She shook her head. “It’s one of those doctored up pinots.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s a new trend, to let the grapes get overripe so the wine is sweeter with a higher alcohol content, to appeal to a wider audience. Then they mix in some syrah or some other beefier red to make it darker and more full-bodied. Not a true pinot at all. Pinot should be light, delicate with spices, herbs and flowers, not just sweet fruit.”

  Kyle took another sip, looking thoughtful. “Well, I like it.”

  “Then you should drink it and enjoy it. I’ll stick to my zin.”

  Kyle looked amused. “That’s sort of a drawback to your business, isn’t it?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Not being able to just enjoy a tasty glass of wine or a plate of pasta. It’s got to be measured against everything you know, to meet such high standards. Not just a simple pleasure.”

  “You’re right. It’s not just a simple pleasure. On the other hand, when it’s really good, when it meets or exceeds the standards, it’s a truly satisfying pleasure. That’s the upside. When I taste a really good pinot noir or plate of pasta, I’m going to know it and I’m going to appreciate it more than you ever will.”

  “So which is better, do you think? Simple pleasures enjoyed on a regular basis or mind-blowing pleasure enjoyed once in a blue moon?”

  She smiled, her mind wandering to things other than wine and food. “Hard to answer.”

  “Did you want to order something to eat?” he asked. “I’m not hungry, but go ahead if you want.”

  “No, thanks. I had a big lunch.”

  “Don’t want to review this place? Seems kind of nice.”

  “I’m taking a break. No more reviews here. This town is so small it’s hard to go unnoticed and stay off the grid.” Wren was thinking of the intruder who had left powdered sugar on her keyboard. “San Francisco has more restaurants per capita than any other city in the country. At least thirty-five hundred total. I’m guessing this town has less than a hundred. I’m going to lie low for the rest of my visit.”

  “Do you really think anyone could figure it out just by knowing you’re in Ashland?”

  “I think someone may already be a lot closer than I gave him credit for.”

  “Oh? Who’s that?”

  “A certain bulky Frenchman.”

  Kyle lifted his pencil from his drawing and bolted to attention. “Did you say ‘bulky’?”

  She nodded. “I’m almost certain I know who broke into the house.”

  “Who? He’s not my lover, right?”

  She laughed. “Kyle, you would know that better than I do.”

  “No, I mean, you can prove he isn’t.”

  “Enough to satisfy Raven, yes. I believe it’s my nemesis, John Bâtarde.”

  “You have a nemesis?” he asked with interest. “I’ve always wanted a nemesis. How do you get one?”

  “It’s easy if you’re a critic. Nobody’s really okay with criticism, despite what they say. Tell me what you think, they say. Tell me the truth. I want the truth. But they don’t! They never do. Most of them sulk. But some of them take it further and want revenge. I’m in the business of doling out an honest opinion. That makes me a target.”

  “So this Bâtarde, he broke into the house because of you?”

  She nodded. “Looking for proof, I’m guessing. He must have me on his short list.”

  “If that’s true,” Kyle said, “if he’s close to identifying you, what’s with the ginormous spread on Tallulah Rose Creamery in today’s paper?”

  Wren shrugged. “I had to do that. The mediocre goat cheese we had at Sprouts was an imposter. I had to make it right.”

  “So it was just professional integrity? Not a lesbian foodie seduction thing?”

  “Right, just professional. She doesn’t want to see me again.”

  “I’m sorry.” Kyle looked sympathetically distressed before returning to his drawing.

  Wren didn’t know if Sophie had seen the article. She hoped so. She knew Sophie would be happy with it. Who wouldn’t? She also knew she had revealed her identity to Sophie. She thought she could trust her. She just had a feeling she could. And maybe it would help, somehow, although Wren still didn’t know why Sophie wanted nothing to do with her, wouldn’t even talk to her. Maybe she’d done something wrong, though she didn’t know what. Now she’d done something right, so maybe it would even out. Even if it didn’t, the article was good and it was true. No harm done to anyone with that except, as Kyle pointed out, it offered one more set of footprints for someone to follow.

  He put his pencil down, observing his drawing before turning it around to show her. “What do you think?”

  The label he’d drawn was impressionistic, some swirls and curls suggesting a wineglass shape, an artistic style that reminded Wren vaguely of psychedelic patterns of the sixties. In the center of the design was a round eye with a dark band running across it horizontally. In whimsical letters above and below were the words “Newt’s Eye Shiraz, Rogue Valley, Oregon.”

  “Do you want an honest opinion?” she asked.

  He looked puzzled, glanced at his drawing, then laughed. “Oh, I see! You’re joking. Yes, I do want an honest opinion, but only if it’s positive.”

  “I like it! I really do. It’s eye-catching.”

  He nodded appreciatively at her wordplay and closed his sketchpad. They sat silently then, watching passersby and drinking wine until the time seemed right to bring up the main reason for this meeting.

  “How have you been since you stormed out of the house?” she asked.

  He waggled his head and frowned. “I miss him. How is he?”

  “There’s no doubt he misses you. He’s been moping around ever since you left, not bothering to get dressed, lying on the couch all day. He’s not even going to the theater tonight.”

  Kyle looked surprised. “That’s serious.”

  “That’s what I thought. You can’t always tell with Raven, you know, what’s put on and what’s real feeling, but in this case, I’d go with real feeling. You’re so special to him, so critically important.”

  Kyle looked skeptical. “So he says.”

  Wren shook her head. “No. He didn’t say. I just know. I know his heart. I guarantee you, he loves you madly. I want you two to reconcile. What would it take?”

  “I don’t know. It hurts that he thinks I would do that, right under his nose. Why does he have to assume I have a lover? Why is that the explanation he latches onto?”

  “Sweet Kyle,” Wren said, laying
her hand on his arm, “‘you are wronged, you are slandered, you are undone!’”

  “Oh, please!” Kyle rolled his eyes. “I don’t want to hear any more lines from that play. You do realize I had to rehearse with him for weeks before you arrived on the scene. Do you have any idea what that’s like?”

  “I do, actually. Who do you think rehearsed with him in high school? He does get very caught up in his roles.”

  “I’m sick to death of Hero and Claudio and Beatrice and Benedick and all their non-problems. I’m especially fed up with Beatrice.”

  “You have to admit he does her well. He’s wonderful in that role.”

  Kyle chuckled. “It’s hard not to admire a man who can pull off sixteenth-century drag.”

  “If he apologizes, will you come back?”

  “In a flash. If it’s a sincere apology, not some soliloquy from Hamlet or something.”

  “I’m sure he’s prepared to apologize. Just make an appearance and he’ll prostrate himself.”

  Kyle raised his eyebrows. “Oh, now you’re talking.”

  Wren laughed. “What if I arrange a little meeting for you two?”

  “I’m game.”

  “Preferably before Saturday night,” Wren said, remembering the Gala.

  “Yes. I was looking forward to going with him to the annual fairy fête.”

  “Fairy fête? I like that.”

  “Thank you.” Kyle looked pleased with himself, then turned thoughtful. “I really love that jerk.” He shook his head and took another sip of wine.

  Just then, Wren caught sight of Cassandra walking along the sidewalk in their direction, pulling an antique red Radio Flyer wagon. Her dog Spot sat in it, his tongue hanging out one side of his mouth. Wren gasped and grabbed hold of Kyle’s arm, causing him to slosh his wine. A single drop of purple splashed onto the table. He spun around.

  “Oh, God!” she cried, ducking. “Hide me.”

  “Hide you?” He turned back to her, his face a helpless question.

  But it was too late. Cassandra had spotted her. She plodded toward them, pulling her wagon behind her. Resigned to her fate, Wren swallowed and steeled herself.

  Cassandra stopped within three feet of their table, then narrowed her eyes at Wren and spat out her warning. “Fie! coward woman and soft-hearted wretch! Hast thou not spirit to curse thine enemy?”