Chapter 3 #2
“I don’t do speeches,” Rupert says, which is met with jeering.
“Fine. Fine. I came here a few months ago to study your archives, and I want you to know that this town has the best-kept records of any community I’ve ever worked in, which is one hundred percent because of Bert over here.
” Bert waves this off with visible delight.
“I also want to say — within the first few weeks I was here, two women I had just met accused me of grand larceny.”
“Not quite,” Pru says.
“Then they bought my coffee, showed me their evidence, and let me help. That’s the whole town, in one anecdote.
Suspicious, then generous, in that order.
” He lifts the glass. “To Duskboro. I’ll send everyone a copy when the manuscript finally gets published.
I promise you it will be exceedingly boring. Thank you.”
He sits down to enthusiastic applause, and Gabe leans toward me under the noise.
“Suspicious, then generous,” he says. “He’s got you dead to rights, Wardwell.”
“I wouldn’t say I’m suspicious. Just… cautious.”
“You put me on a suspect list once.”
“I never put you on a suspect list.”
“No? Huh. I assumed everyone made the list.”
“You weren’t a suspect,” I say. “You were a distraction. Whole different list.”
There’s a full second after the words leave my mouth where I consider the logistics of climbing under the table. Gabe opens his mouth, closes it, and grins.
I’ll never know what he was going to say, because that’s when Tiffany’s phone chimes.
It’s not just her phone. There’s three phones, then four, going off within seconds of each other around the room. The only thing that could mean is that the town Facebook group has found something to devour.
“Oh my God,” Tiffany says, to everyone and no one at the same time.
I pull out my phone to see what could possibly be making such a fuss.
Someone shared a link to a website called ‘The Daytime Dish’ with a flashing banner and a barrage of pop-up ads. The headline of the article in question says:
EXCLUSIVE:
Soap Legend Damien Carter’s Secret Small-Town Romance —With His MARRIED Director!
Below it, there’s a photo. I recognize the window box of Black Eyed Susan’s, and Vivian’s silver bob, and Damien across the table from her, leaning in, mid-gesture, his hand over hers.
“‘Sources close to the production,’” Tiffany reads aloud, clearly savoring this, “‘say Carter and the glamorous gallery owner have been carrying on behind the scenes of a rustic Vermont theater production, meeting for late-night private rehearsals and cozy dinners while her wife—’”
“It’s not true,” Vivian says, already on her feet.
“That dinner — that’s Susan’s, we were discussing blocking.
Dana, you were supposed to be there, you had the Rotary thing—” She looks around the room.
“This is insane. Who — this is a celebrity gossip website. Why would a gossip website know Duskboro exists?”
Every head in the room turns to Damien. Presumably this is the first time all night he hasn’t wanted them to.
“I have no comment,” he says.
This is, of course, the wrong thing to say. He realizes it too, one beat too late. “No — that’s not — I mean there’s nothing to comment on, obviously, Vivian and I are old friends, we had dinner and discussed the show—”
“There’s nothing to comment on,” Vivian concurs.
Dana, who was in the middle of a pool match against Moonbeam at the time of the interruption, looks around the room and, after a moment, says “I think I’ll head home now.”
“I’ll join you,” Vivian says. Dana doesn’t protest.
Nobody wants to be the first to talk after they leave. Of course, it’s Englebert who breaks the ice.
He rises from his place among the garnishes, steps over a basket of rolls, and proceeds down the center of the bar like it was a catwalk built specifically for him, which it might as well be as far as he’s concerned.
“I have been associated with the theatre,” he announces, “for a very long time. Longer than any you have been alive, and I include Bert in these calculations. In all those years, I have learned that every production — every single production worth mounting — is visited, in its final weeks, by catastrophe. A lead loses his voice. A set burns. Someone’s husband runs off with the costume mistress.
In 1974, I personally witnessed a Peter Pan in Montpelier proceed as planned, even after the entire flying apparatus was repossessed by a creditor during intermission.
” He pauses. “Wendy simply held the boy up. The audience wept. It was among the finest art upon which I have ever laid eyes.”
“Is this supposed to be comforting?” Jackie asks.
“It is supposed to be instructive. You must understand the catastrophe is not an omen. The catastrophe is a toll. The theatre collects it from every company, and the companies that pay it and continue are the ones history remembers.”
“Well said,” Damien says, rising to his feet. “Working through—”
“You. Sit down,” Englebert says. “You are not the lead in this room tonight, and it will do you a great deal of good to practice existing as such.”
Damien sits, with a bow. It again gets a laugh.
“Tonight,” Englebert continues, “belongs to the scholar. He came to this town a stranger and, in a matter of months, was accused of a crime, exonerated, befriended, and made indispensable, which we have all come to understand is standard process in Duskboro.” He inclines his head toward Rupert, whose ears have gone pink again.
“Mr. Buchanan. You wrote our history down. Do you know what that is worth, to a town like this one? Everyone else who passes through remembers the foliage. You will remember the people, and for better or for worse, you will cite them.” He lifts his chin.
“Someone raise a glass for me. I lack the thumbs, but not the inclination.”
All of our glasses go up. Moonbeam shouts something, and the pool balls crack, and just like that the party remembers it’s a party. Englebert walks back down the bar to his saucer of cream with his tail at full mast, deeply satisfied with himself.
“He’s going to be insufferable about this for a month,” Pru says beside me.
“He was going to be insufferable anyway. At least now it’s earned.”
* * *
I’m coming back from the ladies’ room when I hear Tiffany’s voice from the alcove by the coat pegs, whispered, clearly trying to be discreet.
“I’m not saying it’s true, sweetie. God, no. I would never say that.”
“Right,” Skye says. “No, right. I know it’s not.”
“I’m just saying what everyone knows, which is that Vivian handpicked him. Out of everybody. There are actors in Burlington. There are actors in this cast. But she made one phone call to New York and he dropped everything and came running, and you have to ask yourself why a man does that.”
“They’re old friends,” Skye says, and it comes out with a little upward bend at the end, halfway to a question.
“Such old friends. From that whole crowd down there. You know how those theater people are. I mean, you’ve heard the stories.
And honestly — and I say this with love, because I think you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him — you’d know better than any of us how many nights a week he’s at ‘production meetings.’ You’re the one sitting home.
And that’s not even considering that whole puppy dog act he does with Prudence. ”
Silence from Skye.
“You’re so brave,” Tiffany says. “I couldn’t do it. Date someone with a past, I mean. If you ever want to talk, you have my number. And you should come by the salon. On the house. You look tired, honey, and you’re too young to look tired.”
I walk on before either of them comes around the corner.
The party dwindles. Ms. Pelham leaves first, then Mayor Blackwood and his wife, then Dorcas, who presses three rolls on Rupert ‘for the drive, they keep.’ Moonbeam attempts a group grounding exercise and is politely declined.
Bert shakes Rupert’s hand for a long time at the door, and neither of them says anything I can hear, and both of them nod, and that’s that.
Rupert finds me on his way out. “The folder’s with Bert,” he says. “And Mari. Thank you. To you, and to Pru. For everything.”
“Of course,” I say. “Publish your boring book, Rupert. I can’t wait to read it.”
“You’ll be the first to know,” he promises.
Then it’s down to the stragglers and the staff stacking chairs, and Gabe and I are somehow the last two at a table.
“So,” Gabe says. “Two different lists?”
Before I can answer, Englebert launches himself onto the table and sits directly on top of Gabe’s napkin.
“Marigold,” he says. “It is past eleven. I have notes to prepare, a company in crisis, and a call at nine in the morning tomorrow. We are leaving.”
“You have a call?”
“With Vivian. She just doesn’t know it yet. Gabriel.” He gives Gabe a long look and one slow blink. “Always a pleasure. Do give my regards to the child.”
Gabe hands me my bag, and our hands are briefly in the same place at the same time. Neither of us hurries.
Outside, the night is warm underneath and cold at the edges, the first hint that the year has started making other plans.
“That poor woman,” Englebert says, settling into the passenger seat.
“Which one?”
“Dana.” He tucks his paws under his chest. “The article is a fabrication, obviously. It has the smell of malice about it. Local malice.”
“I know.”
“Of course you know.” He closes his eyes.