The Former Miss Cheddarworths Grandson – Ellena Espejo
THE FORMER MISS CHEDDARWORTH'S GRANDSON
ELLENA ESPEJO
In Xander Somerset’s eyes, his wildest dream was not cliché.
It was classic. Like Clark Gable, he moved to Los Angeles to become an actor.
The first step was settling in and fixing up his aunt’s attic to be his bedroom.
His mother’s sister, Cathy, recently retired from her job as an executive assistant at a production house.
She was thrilled her nephew would live there, to keep her company and watch the place while she went on her annual cruise and occasional weekends to Las Vegas.
The second step was to complete the struggling actor persona by getting a job waiting tables.
Done and done. The easy parts of his plan had been accomplished.
After six weeks, he had a small but steady part-time income to keep him afloat while he worked out the more difficult third and fourth steps: acquire an agent, then get a SAG-AFTRA card.
He longed for a full resume of guest star roles, casual friendships with legends, having ‘one of those faces’ strangers stare at while trying to place him, and a scintillating, motivating, honest living.
Being an A-list star was not uninteresting to him, however, Xander almost preferred the grit and community in character and background work.
The key to finding an agent was networking, connections, and a referral—something Aunt Cathy was a great help in brokering. Once his residence was fully established, he felt ready to tackle vocational drama. That’s when she sent him to ‘do lunch’ with a friend of hers.
On arrival, the young prospective protégé called out to the backyard.
The answer instantly informed Xander that Finn York would become one of his favorite people.
“Welcome, my gracious lord! Welcome, dread queen!” A sandy-throated baritone rang out from the approaching hippie in silver earrings with a braid down his back to match.
Though Xander stood over six feet tall, he had to lean his head back slightly to look in the eyes of the man, who continued to bellow. “Welcome, ye warlike Goths!”
One might judge Finn’s chameleon-like type to stretch between the brash executive, the biker with an against-the-grain heart of gold, and the doormat suburban dad. And then, the relentless Roman general sticks out his hand. “Welcome, Lucius!”
The hearty shake proved a ruse; what Xander assumed would be a snack was but the first course, spiraling into a hug, then swats on the back, then shoulders gripped for a once-over that ended with a nod.
“Good! Good! Cath’s description was accurate.
We will make a warrior thespian of this one!
But first, lunch! Although the cheer be poor, 'Twill fill your stomachs; please you eat of it...Here.”
From a pile of ceramic pots, Finn picked up a plastic planter resembling a half-barrel and placed it in Xander’s arms. “Batter’s ready for the iron. Been churning all morning! Now all we need is to harvest some fruit!”
The backyard was better described as a venue fit to rent out for weddings.
Finn summarized his career and life history while Xander listened, dreamily gazing at the spacious gardens surrounding a stylish courtyard.
Lunch consisted of legendary buttermilk waffles topped with softball sized scoops of vanilla ice cream, and colorful fruit straight from a Renaissance painting, sliced and cooked into a compote.
As if they were New York playwrights collaborating on a deadline, they washed the feast down with Irish coffee and got to business.
Xander presented three powerful scenes. Finn observed from his overstuffed chair, fingers steepled. He nodded, granting one strong clap to each piece, then a hearty shake of his locked hands as praise. On completion, Finn twisted to reach a script in a bookshelf behind the chair.
“How familiar are you with The Crucible?” He asked.
“I’ve seen it,” Xander said. “Never performed it, though.”
Finn handed him the script. “I’m Mary Warren. You’re Proctor. Page seventy-nine from the exit of Giles Corey. Do you need a minute?”
“The climax of act two?” Eyebrows rose above the script. Finn’s hungry smile unfurled in response. Xander shrugged and shook his head. Time could offer little toward preparing for this endeavor; it required an exploding crescendo of anger, and either you were a fireball of fury, or you weren’t.
The production he watched a few years back had been brutal to witness.
Script direction stated that Abigail would draw the sobbing Mary into her arms; however, consoling the wailing actress distracted from arguments center stage.
She’d fallen over the emotional edge, her hysterical tears no longer a performance.
As Proctor, Xander paced around anticipating fate, unwilling to sacrifice his innocent wife.
With the terror of a parent who lost track of their child in a burning building, Finn squeaked the timid servant’s lines.
He had no need of a script as the play was etched into his bones.
In the end, he sobbed on the floor repeating ad nauseam, “I cannot! I cannot! I cannot!”
Xander hoped the neighbors considered it unremarkable to hear declarations of nakedness in God’s icy wind from Finn’s house.
The men took their seats, caught their breaths, and refilled their glasses.
It was settled. Finn’s agent no longer took on new clients, but another at his agency could be a potential fit.
“Her name’s Olga Sprat, and she’s a busy lass—but she granted me a boon.” Finn tugged a note from his black leather diary and handed it over. “Cancel your plans and call in sick to work. You’re having lunch with her next Wednesday.”
Xander read the note. “I mostly work evenings, anyway. But…what if I hadn’t met your expectations?”
“Oh, but you did; and you share blood with Cath. I would trust that woman with protecting eggs on a trampoline, and she speaks of you with the pride of a lioness.”
Xander left the home of his new friend immersed in the abundance of storytelling and inspired to scar minds and souls from the stage.
Still in a burst-wide state, open to absorb the Earth’s every molecular detail, Xander stopped at the library to pick up some books Aunt Cathy had ordered.
On walking in, fierce colors roared off the walls, transfixing him.
A quiet, euphoric laugh slipped out for discovery of the encompassing miracle.
The ceiling, clad in geometric greens, edged crowded portrayals of California history balancing brightness and matted earthiness in single hues.
At floor level, modern footwear, tattoos, and timeless dress sprang from bigger-than-life portraits against a striking background of patterned gold over a dried blood red.
Entering the main wing of the library, he drank in the collective solitude before him.
So many people together in one space, yet amongst their fellow humanity almost all filed themselves separately.
Noting the contradiction affected him as profoundly as the art on his arrival.
He planned to apply for a library card and brought his credit card bill with the new address for that purpose.
The cache of available wonders inspired, and he almost wished he’d brought a cart instead of a single cloth bag.
Borrowed were memoirs by Michael Caine, Judi Dench, and Uta Hagen, works on improvisation, an analysis of Shakespeare’s plays, and a small text on growing herbs in bay windows after he happened upon the seed library.
Though tempted to wander random aisles where any subject might strike his fancy, he decided to pick up his aunt’s holds and leave further adventure for another day.
On his way out, he passed metal bookshelf carts replete with books donated to sell for a dollar each to benefit the library. He paused to glance at the titles. A box marked “FREE” caught his eye.
He knelt and lifted a book with a turquoise spine from its tattered dark alley of cardboard. It had the look of a self-published novel bound with the budget of a scammer’s press. A dried-up rubber band kept it from falling apart.
In a slap-dash cover illustration assembled from free clipart, two figures faced each other before an open door on the narrow wooden porch of a tent cabin. Angled mid-body, they stood close enough to imply a kiss out of view.
The title read: “The Former Miss Cheddarworth’s Grandson ”.
It was the name “Cheddarworth” that drew him in, for the intriguing coincidence.
He read the blurb on the back: Flighty outsiders, dominating eccentrics, horny tourists, and unshowered but smoking-hot mountain climbers surround her.
When her parents label her a parasite, Jennifer Ibánez takes charge of her life for the first time ever.
An entry- level food service position at a national park in the Sierras leads to loneliness, wolves in her path, dangerous lessons, and unforgettable moments the sheltered teenager did not expect from her ‘dream job’.
The second coincidence rapidly approached unsettling.
Ten years earlier, when he was eighteen, Xander also worked at “a national park in the Sierras”.
He checked the author. Whipped across the lower region of the image in a barely legible font more suited for use on wedding invitations was the obvious pen name, Verity Azul del Cuervo.
“Never heard of her,” he mumbled to himself.
Stones of literature strained the seams of the cotton tote, nagging and pulling his shoulder toward the ground.
His aunt’s paperbacks barely fit inside; titles glorifying dukes, rogues, and scoundrels peeked out like curious bricks, their corners stabbing his upper arm.
Dusk light through the building’s high windows advised him the bus could arrive at any minute. Wounded binding in hand, Xander claimed the book and set off for home.