Christmas Revels Read online

  "Saint Michael's and All Angels," Jenny said as they drove by a beautifully proportioned church that appeared to have been standing there since the beginning of time. A quarter of a mile beyond, she turned into a narrow driveway. "Home, sweet home. Frightfully twee, isn't it?"

  Greg caught his breath. Framed by trees and with the square church tower in the middle distance, the cottage belonged in a calendar of England. Despite the season, pansies and other hardy flowers bloomed lavishly, defying the overcast sky. Warm-toned local stone was roofed with immaculately groomed thatch, and a thatch goose raced whimsically along the ridgepole, just out of reach of a pursuing thatch fox. "If twee means so lovely it's unreal, this is twee. An American's dream of a perfect cottage."

  Her voice softened. "Church Cottage is so candy box pretty that some of my over sophisticated friends tease me about it, but I love the place anyhow. The cottage was practically falling down when I bought it. Years of work were needed to fix everything the way I wanted."

  "Beauty should never be sneered at merely because it's obvious. How many spectacular sunsets has the world known? They're still beautiful." Greg draped Plato over his shoulder while he undid the seat belt with one hand and climbed from the car. "Is the inside equal to the outside?"

  "Better—the plumbing and heating actually work. It's the chief advantage of having to do major renovations." Jenny swung from the car and collected Plato so Greg could take his bags from the trunk. "I imagine you'll want to attend this afternoon's rehearsal, but do you want to rest for a couple of hours first?"

  He smothered a yawn. "Good idea. Maybe then I'll be awake enough to figure out what I have to work with."

  The front door opened into a large living area with a stone fireplace, a dining table at one end, and a kitchen beyond. Exposed beams and worn, lovingly polished floors gave a sense of great age, while country antiques, mellow oriental rugs, and overstuffed furniture provided a comfort that reflected Jenny's own hospitable nature.

  Plato came alive and scrambled down from his mistress's arms to head for his food dish. After Jenny fed the cat, she led Greg up the narrow staircase and along the short upstairs hall to a bedroom decorated in soothing shades of blue and white.

  "Here's the guest room. I managed to tuck a small private bathroom under the eaves, but mind your head when you use it—the ceiling isn't very high. Let me know if you need anything. I'll wake you in time for a bite to eat before the rehearsal." She hesitated, then added, "And Greg— thanks for coming."

  After she left, Greg studied the church tower that rose above the trees. He felt as if he'd fallen into an English movie. Miss Marple would amble by any minute now.

  Yawning again, he pulled off his boots, jacket, and sweater, then crawled under the blue duvet, glad he'd agreed to come. The perfect woman, a perfect cottage, and a project that was purely for fun. The only shortcoming was that he was in the guest room. But it was a nice guest room.

  "GREG?" Jenny tapped on the door, then called his name again. Still no answer. Cautiously she opened the door and peered into the bedroom. Her guest was sprawled across the bed on his stomach, his dark hair tousled and his chin bristling with whiskers.

  She studied him thoughtfully, unprepared for the rush of affection she felt. He was everything she remembered, and more. When they had worked together all those years ago, his appearance had been pleasant but undistinguished. Maturity had carved lines of humor and authority in his face. Even asleep, he looked like a man who was good at what he did, and comfortable with that fact. ,

  The duvet had slid to his waist, revealing his T-shirt-clad torso. He had filled out nicely over the last dozen years. In his early twenties he'd been gangly, but years of handling heavy equipment had added muscle. Altogether, he was quite delectable, and very dear.

  Get a grip, Jenny! She raised her voice. "Greg, it's time to get up. Unless you'd rather sleep all day and stay awake all night, of course."

  His eyes opened—really, it wasn't fair to waste those long dark lashes on a man—and gave her a rueful smile. "Frankly I'd rather sleep, but I'd better try to adjust to local time." He swung his jeans-clad legs from the bed, looking appealingly disheveled. "I'll wash up and be right down."

  She retreated, a little unnerved by how attractive she found him. Though she had known there was a chance they might fall into bed together for old times' sake, this felt—different. And she really didn't need a dented heart for Christmas.

  FOUR

  GREG took advantage of the compact but admirably modern bathroom to have a quick shower and shave. Then he unearthed his professional-grade digital video camera and went downstairs, where Jenny efficiently produced a platter of sliced meats and cheeses along with a salad, warm bread, and a tasty rice pilaf.

  Greg was finishing his meal when Plato strolled by with a black rod topped with fluffy red feathers clutched in his mouth. Greg blinked. "Did I imagine that?"

  Jenny grinned. "That's his buggy whip toy. It turns up all over the house. The red feathers go rather nicely with his gray fur, don't you think?"

  "Absolutely. And I think I've fallen through the rabbit hole into Wonderland." He swallowed the last of his coffee with a sigh of pleasure. "With a great cottage and food like this, I don't see how you ever get guests to leave."

  "I turn off the heat. That sends them packing." Jenny rose to her feet. "Sorry to rush you, but we need to get moving."

  Greg stood and put his plate and coffee mug on the counter. "What's a tithe barn? I figure I should know if I'm working to save this one."

  "The tithe system goes back to the Middle Ages. Ten percent of all grain and livestock had to be given to the local rector to support him, the church, and the poor of the parish. A tithe barn was used to store the produce collected." They headed out to the car, leaving Plato to guard the cottage.

  As she drove toward the village, Jenny continued her history lesson. "After Henry VIII dissolved the monasteries, a lot of the tithe rights went into private hands. Just after the war, the owner of the ninety-nine-year lease on the barn bequeathed the lease to the local council with the requirement that it be turned into a community center."

  "You said you grew up here. Was the tithe barn part of your childhood?"

  "It was my favorite place in the world. The family homestead is only a five-minute walk away, so I was always at the barn. It's where I learned that I wanted to act. I was five years old and playing an angel in a Christmas pageant. As soon as I set foot on the stage, I knew. At first my parents laughed and said I'd grow out of it." Jenny grinned. "Soon they started praying that I would. But I acted every chance I could, and after my A levels I won a place at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art."

  Though her comment was offhand, Greg knew that RADA was probably the world's best-known theater school, and entrance was fiercely competitive. Jenny was as talented as she was beautiful.

  She turned down a side street, then into a driveway. "And here we are."

  The barn was larger than Greg expected, with stone walls and a slate roof sloping down from a ridgepole that was rather less than straight. Double doors were set in the middle, and a handful of small windows marched along the side. "A nice building, but it's seen better days."

  "If you'd started life in the fourteenth century, you'd be a little shabby, too."

  Greg examined it with increased interest. "It's seven centuries old?"

  "The oldest bit is." She parked the Jaguar among trees where scattered gravel produced solid parking without the ugliness of a regular lot. "It has been enlarged several times. There's an addition on the back that holds a pottery studio and a small shop where local craftsmen can sell their work."

  As Jenny climbed from the car, a shaft of afternoon sunlight broke through the clouds and turned the stone walls of the tithe barn into shades of glowing honey. The sight of Jenny silhouetted against the structure went directly into Greg's permanent file.

  She leaned into the backseat and removed the dragon head and the rest of the
costume. Beauty and the beast, another image to remember. He wanted to engrave every one of her movements, every expression, on his brain forever.

  He took the dragon costume from her and carried it toward the barn. "It mustl)e pretty dark inside with those small windows."

  "Wait and see." She opened one of the double doors and ushered Greg through.

  He paused, surprised. Wide skylights on the opposite side of the roof filled the interior with soft light even on a gray day, while massive wooden pillars and beams arched overhead like trees. "This is terrific. It reeks of authenticity."

  To the right was a sizable stage, while the other end of the barn had been subdivided into smaller rooms. The central area was open, suitable for dancing, games, or folding chairs for stage performances. Despite the clamp chill, he could feel how this place was used and loved. He set the dragon costume in a safe corner, then laid a hand on the nearest rough-hewn pillar, feeling the silky texture of the ancient wood. "No wonder Upper Basset t is determined to save the place."

  "The National Trust, which has custody of most historic sites, isn't impressed by our barn because so many modifications have been made." Jenny's gaze went to the skylights. "They prefer structures that are completely original. But our tithe barn is alive, still part of the world. I'd hate to see it turned into a weekend home for some rich Londoner, which is probably what will happen if it's sold."

  The stage contained a rugged, evocatively designed set with several levels. He walked to the edge and squinted up at the rafters. "The lights look pretty primitive."

  "They are. That's why we need a lighting genius like you."

  He snorted. "Even genius can't get great results with bad equipment. We need to get something that doesn't date back to the reign of Victoria."

  "Be grateful we don't make you use torches." She ran lightly up the steps onto the stage. "The Ad Hoc Upper Bassett Players have been rehearsing for weeks. We'll have performances starting this weekend, up through Christmas Eve. We'll do whatever you need for your filming. I hope you'll have enough time."

  "Sounds fine." With radiant Jenny in front of him, he'd agree to anything. "I'll bet you were a cute little angel."

  "All five-year-old angels are cute, just as all brides are beautiful. It's a law of nature. Did you get a chance to read the script I sent?"

  "I skimmed it." He followed her onto the stage, evaluating the space and making mental notes about lighting and camera placement. "Dragons, knights, and resurrection."

  "Plus a choir of adorable little children underfoot. With them in the production, naturally all their parents, grandparents, uncles, and aunts will come."

  She dropped into a fencing posture, Errol Flynn style. A crisp lunge with an imaginary sword showed her lithe figure to advantage. "Traditionally a mummers' play had a resurrection plot, a wooing, a sword dance, or some combination of the above. Saint George slaying the dragon is popular, too. Our version has a romantic young knight, Sir George, before he became a saint, plus the dragon, a courtship, and a resurrection, interspersed with lots of music and dancing."

  "Are you playing Sir George? You look qualified." "No, I'm Lady Molly, the romantic object. I don't do much but look decorative." She laughed and thrust again with her imaginary sword. "Being in the tithe barn takes me back to the days when the only thing on my mind was acting. No worries about career or finances or where the next role is coming from. I once played D'Artagnan in an all-girl production of The Three Musketeers, and never had a qualm about the miscasting."

  "Turning an obsession into a career is a mixed blessing. I love working the camera, but now that I've reached the exalted heights of director of photography, I'm supposed to let my camera operator have all the fun." He studied her face with professional thoroughness, thinking she looked hardly older than when they had first met. But now she was secure, comfortable in her own skin. Lovelier than ever.

  He felt a curious duality. On the one hand, they'd been lovers, and very compatible ones, too. When they were in bed together, she wasn't crying over her treacherous boyfriend.

  Yet they were near strangers as well. Though they worked within the same sprawling industry, their lives had touched only once for a handful of days. There was no reason for him to feel that they belonged together. . . . "Do you ever think about the time we spent together making that movie?"

  Her imaginary sword stilled. "Often. You were so kind, and I was so ... needy."

  "Maybe. But that's not all I remember." He moved toward her, driven by an impulse stronger than common sense. Her chin was silky soft against his hand when he raised it so he could look into her eyes. She regarded him steadily, neither inviting nor retreating. Blue eyes so deep a man could drown . . .

  Children's voices piped into the room, accompanied by the banging of small feet. Jenny jumped away from Greg like a scalded cat. Belatedly, he remembered that she had a boyfriend. He was in England for a little creative R &c R and to help a good cause, not revive an old affair. No matter how much he might want to do just that.

  "Miss Jenny's here!"

  Swiftly composing her expression, Jenny turned toward the entrance and waved a greeting. "Hello!"

  A gaggle of prepubescent children were skipping into the barn, cheeks rosy from the cold air. A dark-haired young woman followed the children at a more sedate pace. Her interested gaze went to Greg as she approached. "Is this Mr. Marino, Jenny?"

  "It is indeed. Greg, meet my sister, Patricia Holmes, teacher and director of our children's choir. Patricia, here's our miracle worker." Jenny managed to introduce Greg without looking at him, confirming his suspicion that he'd embarrassed her.

  Telling his libido to cool it, Greg studied Jenny's sister. He hadn't seen any teachers like Patricia Holmes when he was in grade school. Since she looked very like Jenny, she was a knockout. He guessed that she was two or three years older, and surely one of the little girl singers was hers— good looks ran in the family.

  After they exchanged greetings, Greg gestured at the children ricocheting around the barn. "Your kids are photogenic, but will they stand still long enough to be filmed?"

  Patricia put two fingers into her mouth and gave an ear-shattering whistle. The children instantly converged in lines in front of her, as demure as the angels they would be playing. "Sing your first song for Mr. Marino." She hummed a starting note.

  "Oh, come, oh, come, Emaaa-a-an-uel ..."

  The children's pure, joyous voices carried Greg back to his boyhood. Children often sang, adults seldom. At what age did the singing stop? Except for the national anthem at sports events, Greg couldn't remember the last time he'd sung. Quietly he began humming along with the choir as his gaze drifted from face to face. He'd have to get plenty of close-ups— these kids were real crowd pleasers.

  Patricia gave an order, and the children turned and marched up the steps onto the stage two by two, their voices ringing through the barn like a choir of bells. He turned on his video camera and shadowed them, thinking how he would handle this on film.

  More people began to arrive, some carrying what looked like moose antlers, assuming that the things moose wore on their heads were called antlers. Most of the performers were local, Greg guessed, but he blinked | at the sight of several famous faces. Jenny had obviously used her powers | of persuasion on some of her London friends.

  He returned to his camera, and mentally calculated the best way to light moose.

  THE rehearsal was chaotic in the grand tradition. Since Jenny was performing as well as directing, she was run ragged putting the pieces together. Still, she was pleased with the results. The Ad Hoc Upper Bassett Players would not disgrace themselves.

  Dusk was approaching and the dinner hour with it, so Jenny dismissed her troops and went in search of Greg. Though he had a talent for being unobtrusive, she'd been very aware of him moving quietly among the players, zooming in on faces, pulling back to catch a group of dancers. Very, very aware. A pity the children had arrived when they did. She had been quit
e in the mood for a kiss.

  She found her quarry up among the catwalks, where he was examining the lights. "What do you think of our show, Greg?"

  "You've done some interesting things with the material—the songs and dancing are really integral to the story. The filmed version will look great."

  "You think so? I'm a little worried."

  "No need. You have good performers, the barn and set have loads of atmosphere, and the costumes I spotted backstage will add plenty of color and excitement. Tomorrow I'll call a London camera house to borrow a camera package and some lights. We should be able to start shooting the next day."

  One of the advantages of having an Oscar-winning cinematographer was that Greg could borrow any equipment he needed in exchange for a film credit. Persuading him to come was the cleverest thing she'd done on this project.

  After they descended the narrow staircase to the stage, she checked to see that they were the only ones left, then locked the barn behind them. As they got into her car, she said, "My father was supposed to drop a Christmas tree and some greens by the cottage this afternoon. Would you like to help me do some decorating? Since I've been in London for the last fortnight, I have a lot of catching up to do."

  "I'd love to help. It's been . . . Lord, at least a dozen years since I've so much as hung an ornament." Greg's voice was wistful. "Usually I rush home to Ohio at the last minute and the preparations have already been made."

  They drove the short distance back to the cottage in silence. Jenny was looking forward to a companionable evening decorating the tree when Greg said abruptly, "Maybe I should move to a hotel."

  Startled, she asked, "Why would you want to do that? There aren't any hotels that are convenient."

  "Because if I stay in your guest room, I'm not sure I can keep my hands off you."

  She found herself blushing. Good God, at her age! "There's no particular need to keep your hands to yourself," she stammered. "As I said when we first spoke, the fair white body part was negotiable."