by Robbi McCoy
“Yes. Happily married eight years.” He pulled Tammy close and she laid her donkey head against him affectionately.
“What’s going on here?” Bâtarde demanded.
Sophie realized they’d all forgotten about him.
“This is the real Eno Threlkeld,” Wren announced.
“Yes, of course I’m the real Eno Threlkeld,” Eno said. “Is there another?”
“Not anymore,” Wren said with finality.
Sophie wondered what she meant by that.
Bâtarde stepped closer to Eno, looking angrily up at him. “So you’re the jerk who insulted my Dobos torte?”
“Who is this guy?” Eno asked Raven.
“Eno,” Raven answered, “do you remember how you used to protect me from all the bullies in high school?”
“Sure.”
“For old time’s sake, maybe you can do it one more time. This guy has been causing me and my sister so much grief. He’s a true-blue bully and he needs to be taught a lesson.”
Eno nodded slowly, then looked steadily and menacingly into Bâtarde’s face while the Frenchman became visibly agitated. Eno reached for him and he ducked, then turned and darted away. Eno went after him.
“Don’t kill him!” hollered Sophie. “We still need to find Poppy.”
The four of them followed at a safe distance as Eno lumbered across the grass after Bâtarde, who ran faster than might have been expected, given his bulky physique. He used the crowd to his advantage, weaving through, popping in and out of view. But Eno caught up with him, trapping him in front of the Cakes by Klaus display as it began to rain in earnest. With his back to the giant hibiscus, Bâtarde faced Eno, hemmed in on either side by the crowd, which was now popping open umbrellas.
Eno made right for Bâtarde and didn’t stop. Bâtarde screamed and closed his eyes as Eno grabbed him and lifted him off the ground, then flung him into the display with a mighty heave. He landed astride the erect golden stamen, and just for a split second he rode it before it snapped off and dropped him into the sea of pastel-colored frosting.
After a shrill round of gasps and cries of surprise, the crowd and the musicians went silent. It was then that Sophie heard the familiar sound of a young goat bleating.
“Poppy!” she called, moving toward the sound, closer to the cupcake display where Bâtarde was thrashing amid the cakes, trying to get to his feet.
As soon as he was standing, his knees and hands smeared with frosting and bright red paint, the structure gave way under his weight and he went crashing through the red wooden petals and into the wheeled cart beneath. The cries of a goat were louder and more frantic now.
As Sophie dashed toward the cart where Bâtarde was banging around inside and hollering, Poppy climbed up through the new opening, apparently using him as a ladder, and jumped into the smashed cake and frosting, sliding through the mess trying to get a footing, smearing her belly through the wet paint. She seemed unusually clumsy and disoriented, but she finally made it to the edge of a long petal and jumped off to the grass below just as Sophie lunged for her and missed, crashing into the display. She pushed herself off the plywood petals, her hands and shirt dyed red from running paint. She looked around to see Poppy only a few feet away, clearly spooked. Her eyes flashed wildly at the crowd.
“Poppy!” Sophie called.
The little goat looked her way and fell into a barrage of panicked bleating. Sophie thought she heard bleating coming from the perimeter of the clearing and wondered if the trees were echoing Poppy’s cries, but as both she and Poppy looked toward the sound, a small herd of goats came crashing through the bushes, running full-tilt toward Poppy, bleating emphatically and causing a chorus of surprised screams from the party guests. Rose was in the lead, heading right at Poppy, and when they met, they were both obviously overjoyed. They touched foreheads and Poppy started hopping about as if on four taut springs.
Sophie bounded toward them, but Rose took off across the open grass with Poppy and all the others in close pursuit. Sophie ran after them as they all crashed through the bushes on the far side of the clearing, vanishing from view, but still bleating furiously, leaving an audible trail for her to follow. She heard Wren call her name as she reached the edge of the clearing. She kept running, but waved a hand high over her head in acknowledgment, hoping Wren would wait for her, hoping they would somehow rescue a romantic night together from this crazy evening.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Why, this is very midsummer madness.
—Twelfth Night, Act III, Scene 4
“Sophie!” called Wren, preparing to run after her into the woods in pursuit of the goats. But she was brought up short by the alarming appearance of Bâtarde walking toward her like a zombie from The Night of the Living Dead, his arms outstretched, his face and clothes besmirched with bold smears of lavender, yellow and pink frosting interspersed with red paint stains. His mouth was open, his eyes wild, his gait slow but directed. On his head, one of the little pink fairies from Klaus’s display bobbed absurdly on its spring.
“You!” he accused, pointing an index finger as he neared her. “It was you all along!”
“Don’t let him touch you,” Raven warned, confusing Wren, who briefly assumed he was caught up in the whole zombie idea.
She cast him a questioning look.
“My clothes!” he cried, waving his fairy wand insistently. “That’s my best jacket.”
Understanding, she hopped back and prepared herself for a chase. But Bâtarde was intercepted by Eno, who lifted him up and slung him over his shoulder. As he carried him away, Bâtarde hung over Eno’s back, shaking his fist at Wren.
“You’ll never work in my town again!” he declared. “You’re washed up! Your name is mud! You’ll have nowhere to go but up!”
Bâtarde was still making threats as Eno carried him out of the clearing and down one of the paths toward the park entrance.
Wren heaved a sigh of relief, then looked around at what was left of the party. Most of the guests had left or were leaving. The cupcake display was still standing, but looking a mess with its busted stamen, smeared paint and layers of smashed cake and frosting. Sophie’s sister Dena stood beside it, shaking her head. Cleo sat on the ground in front of it, her goblet still providing sustenance, though she had clearly had enough wine. She looked glum and dimwitted. Tammy had put her donkey head back on, an effective cover against the rain. She sat on a nearby tree stump, a fuzzy brown hand holding up her sad-looking head. Cassandra was nearby, clearly in her own world, standing off from the rest of them, looking up at the sky, her face lit by the moon, as her dog lapped up frosting. A light rain fell, making the flickering lights in the bushes glow and dance. The entire scene had gone eerily quiet.
“Where’s Klaus?” Wren asked, realizing she hadn’t seen him for a while.
“He and his mother went to get more aebleskiver,” Kyle offered. “I hate to imagine his face when he sees this.”
Eno appeared at the edge of the clearing, walking purposefully toward them.
“What’d you do with him?” Raven asked.
“Left him with a couple policemen on the street. They’re taking him in on a cruelty to animals charge.”
Dena suddenly came running over to Eno and threw her arms around his neck. “Oh, you poor thing!” she declared. Then she kissed him on the mouth, a lingering, fervent kiss. When she released him, he looked stunned.
“Oh, God!” Wren muttered. “She thinks he’s Klaus.”
Tammy jumped off her tree stump and grabbed hold of Dena’s arm, spinning her around. Dena came face to face with the donkey head and screamed.
“What the hell are you doing kissing my husband?” Tammy demanded, throwing off her donkey head.
Dena backed away from Tammy, who lunged for her. Dena, who wore three-inch heels, tripped and fell backwards into the pile of soaked red plywood, picking up a good coat of paint on her skin and clothes. Tammy fell in on top of her, and the two of them began to wrest
le, rolling over one another in the mess. Eno stopped the tussle by lifting his wife off Dena and setting her down behind him. Kyle reached in to help Dena to her feet. Dena was almost completely covered with red paint, her hair caked with frosting.
“That isn’t Klaus,” Kyle told her.
“It isn’t?”
“No. It’s a guy named Eno.”
Tammy stood hugging her man possessively while Dena stumbled bewildered to a chair. Just then Cassandra took off running as best she could in her heavy garments, like a madwoman, pulling her wagon along behind her. It rattled noisily across the grass, Spot running after it and barking, as they headed straight toward Cleo where she sat in front of the ruined Cakes by Klaus display.
“What’s she doing?” Raven gasped.
Wren understood the panic in his voice. Cleo, drunk and uncomprehending, was a sitting duck for the woman she had destroyed, who was rapidly closing the space between them.
Wren was about to go to Cleo’s aid when the sound of a motorcycle engine drew her attention to the east. Simultaneously, the sound of bleating drew her attention to the west. Into the clearing ran the seven goats, moving at a good clip along a paved walkway. They were led by Maribelle with Rose and Poppy, her white parts stained pink, bringing up the rear. Sophie burst into view behind them, jogging, just as a motorcycle emerged on the other side of the clearing, traveling on the same paved path and heading for a head-on collision with the goats. It was Max, who looked their way and waved. Ellie rode on the back of the bike, her arms locked around Max’s waist.
It was hard to know where to look, as there seemed to be impending disasters in every direction. Out of the corner of her eye, Wren saw Cassandra heave Cleo up from the ground and dump her in the Red Flyer wagon, then pull it away laboriously, its wheels straining under the load. Cleo clung to her goblet with both hands, trying unsuccessfully to prevent wine spillage.
“Max!” hollered Raven, pointing furiously toward the goats, “look out!”
Max looked ahead to see the animals only feet from her bike. She swerved abruptly off the path, barely avoiding a collision and sped directly at the cupcake display. Too late to effect another correction or stop the bike, Max collided with the display, flattening the plywood structure in a riotous crash that left the bike on its side and both Max and Ellie lying nearby on the ground. A few feet off to the side, Cleo lay limply in Cassandra’s wagon, her legs hanging over the sides, a look of astonishment on her face as she must have realized how close she had come to being part of the disastrous heap in front of her.
Everyone ran to the wreck. Both Max and Ellie appeared uninjured. They leapt to their feet and reassured their friends. Sophie came up beside Wren, asking, “Are they okay?”
Wren nodded, noting Sophie’s paint-stained shirt and sopping wet clothes. “What happened to you?”
“Maribelle. She butted me into the duck pond. They’re all spooked. They just keep running away.”
Though the goats were still circling around the perimeter of the clearing, they were now walking rather than galloping and seemed to be calmer. Niblets, who had broken away from the herd, trotted among the shell-shocked survivors of the night. She stopped in front of Cleo, lying sprawled in the little red wagon, and suddenly sprayed her with water from a hidden reserve in her mouth, then went running, laughing, back to join her mates. Cleo looked momentarily stunned, wiped her face with the back of her hand, then took another drink from her goblet.
“Poor Klaus,” Sophie muttered, gazing at the pile of debris in front of them.
As if on cue, Klaus appeared at the edge of the clearing, heading rapidly toward his devastated creation, his mother scurrying behind him.
“Oh!” he cried. “Oh! What happened?”
Klaus looked from the calamity to the faces of those still at hand, such a sad and helpless expression on his boyish face. But his mother wasn’t looking at the pile of red wood. She was staring in awe at Eno. She approached him, still staring like she was looking at the eighth wonder of the world.
“What’s your name?” she asked, her voice shaky.
“Eno Threlkeld,” he answered.
“Eno?” Katrina repeated. “That’s a strange name.”
“Yes, it is. My father said it was stitched on my clothes when he found me on the beach. I was just a baby, washed up to shore.”
“Oh Gud!” Katrina gasped and put her hand to her chest. “He found you on the beach? Where? What beach?”
“Washington. Near North Bay. My father was a fisherman.”
Katrina uttered a string of Danish words that Wren assumed were expletives.
Klaus was also staring at Eno, his mouth open in astonishment. Eno then saw Klaus and stared at him in a similar fashion. There was no doubt now, seeing them so close together, that these two were identical.
“My son!” cried Katrina, flinging herself into Eno’s arms. “My long lost son Eric!”
“Eric?” Wren glanced at her brother, who shrugged.
“Eric?” Eno asked.
“Eric Niels Olafssen!” Katrina proclaimed. “My son! I sewed your initials on your clothes so I could tell you apart from your brother Klaus. E-N-O. Those were your initials, not your name!”
“My brother!” Klaus declared, joining the embrace with his mother.
The two big sandy-haired Danes completely hid Katrina between them, raining tears of joy down on her head.
“That’s incredible,” Wren observed, “that they should find each other like this.”
Sophie turned to Wren and smiled. Wren reached for her.
“Don’t touch her!” Raven commanded, pointing at Sophie’s frosting and paint-covered clothes. Wren narrowed her eyes at him. He sighed. “Oh, what the hell!”
Sophie and Wren kissed one another, lost to the world until Wren felt something butting against her leg. She looked down to see pink and black Poppy. Sophie picked her up, clipping a leash on her collar. The rest of the goats were eating cupcakes from the ground, climbing over the collapsed planks of the centerpiece in a game resembling King of the Hill. They all seemed jubilant. Poppy licked Sophie’s chin and bleated softly.
“Come home with me,” Wren whispered. “The sooner we get you out of those wet clothes, the better.”
Sophie nodded. “Gladly. But I have to get these animals home. I should also call my mother and tell her what’s happened. She’s worried sick.”
“That won’t be necessary,” a woman’s voice said behind them.
They turned to see Olivia and Dr. Connor approaching.
“Mom!” Sophie exclaimed.
“We’ve been tracking these critters for hours. Some folks in town told us they were here in the park. Looks like your celebration’s run into some bad luck.”
“You might say that,” Wren said. “But I’d have to disagree.”
Kyle and Raven stood nearby, leaning against one another fondly, watching the Olafssen reunion with contented smiles on their faces. Dena and Tammy stood apart, waiting for their men to return to them. Max and Ellie sat on a tree stump side by side, kissing one another tenderly. Cassandra pulled her wagon with Cleo still sprawled in it, and Cleo waved as she passed by like a queen in a fine coach, her tiara askew but still on her head. When the wagon came to a stop, Cassandra helped Cleo to her feet.
“You saved my life,” Cleo declared, then wrapped her arms around Cassandra in a close, emphatic hug of gratitude. For the first time since Wren had first seen her three weeks ago, Cassandra smiled a genuine smile of undiluted happiness.
The rain stopped and the clouds parted to reveal the full moon above them, casting substantial light on the scene. Looking at the few who were left in the park, Wren saw a bedraggled group, most of them smeared with scarlet paint to some degree, like the last scene in a Shakespearean tragedy. But this was no tragedy. Just the opposite, in fact.
Olivia took Poppy from Sophie, cradling her in her arms and cooing at her. “You two go on. Warren and I can round up this lot. We’ve g
ot the truck on the street right outside.”
Olivia winked at Wren, then she and Dr. Connor went to round up the goats, clipping leads on all their collars while they continued their sugary feast.
Out of the corner of her eye, Wren saw the Duke of Athens striding toward the pile of rubble. He leapt atop the plywood, raising one arm above his head. In a deep, authoritative voice, he shouted, “Friends, lend me your ears!”
Everyone turned their attention to this commanding figure, his white robe glowing brilliantly in the moonlight.
“What remarkable events have here unfolded this midsummer night!” he declared. “And yet, the wonders of this occasion are not yet concluded.”
No one spoke. Wren felt a shiver go up her spine. She instinctively took hold of Sophie’s hand and gripped it tightly.
“Cassandra and Ellie,” the duke continued, holding a hand out toward them both as he said their names.
Wren heard Ellie, who stood beside her, catch her breath.
“Your father, Anthony Marcus, took his leave from this place many years ago and wandered the globe like Odysseus. He was plagued by grief and love in equal measures, grief over the loss of his beautiful wife and the respect of his children. Love of those self-same children and love for a woman whose face was emblazoned in his mind like a firebrand.” He held his hand out, palm up, toward Cleo, who stared up at him with her mouth open, transfixed. “A man cannot escape his fate.” His voice had softened.
“My God,” Ellie whispered.
The man standing before them removed his helmet, revealing a classically handsome, middle-aged face, a wide brow, deep-set, somber eyes, and a thick gray mustache. Wren was sure she glimpsed a resemblance between this Athenian and the young Anthony Marcus in the Macbeth poster at the theatre.
“I have returned,” he announced, “to reclaim my family, my true love, and my place on the Ashland stage.” He leapt off the platform and Cleo ran to him, flinging herself at him. He embraced her, kissed her, then held his free arm out for his daughters. “Will you forgive me, Ellie?” he asked.
Ellie and Cassandra both ran to him, and the four of them formed a huddle of tearful embraces.
