Christmas Revels Page 6

  "Liar. But we'll take good care of you."

  And his holiday fling would end in a Christmas celebration he would never forget.

  EIGHT

  JENNY groaned as she set the phone back into its cradle. "Since the first three performances went smoothly, I actually dared hope that the show would finish its run tonight without real problems. I should have known better."

  Greg glanced up from the coffeepot he was washing. Domesticity looked good on him. "What's happened?"

  "Our dragon, Will Davies, has become violently ill and can't perform. His wife says it's food poisoning or some ghastly stomach virus—the phrase 'projectile vomiting' was mentioned." She bit her lip. "The part is a simple one, with no real dialogue, and the costume is designed so almost anyone can wear it. Patricia can do it, though she'll make a rather short dragon." Inspiration struck. "Greg, will you take over? You're impressively tall, and you've seen the performance often enough to know the part."

  "Me? Appear onstage? No way!" he said, horrified. "My job is behind the camera. Even as a kid I was always a technogeek, never an actor. I'll make a hash of your whole show."

  "No, you won't." She found his alarm rather endearing. He'd been as reliable as the Rock of Gibraltar ever since he'd arrived, and now he looked as if she had proposed to hang him by his thumbs. "You'll be completely covered up by the dragon costume. You don't even have to roar—the bellowing is prerecorded. All you have to do is flail about and kill Sir George."

  "After all the work I put into filming the last few days, I was looking forward to loafing tonight."

  "Think of George as the smug lad who was always captain of the football team," she said coaxingly. "Wouldn't you like to slay someone like that? This being England, most of the audience is on the side of the poor hunted dragon."

  "Since you put it like that..." Greg's mouth quirked up. "The costume is pretty much the part, so I suppose I can manage. But are you sure? There must be others who could handle the role better."

  "On one hour's notice? Not likely." She reached for her coat, glad they'd had an early supper. "Come along, my lad. You're about to make your stage debut!"

  GREG stood rigid in the wings, thinking that tonight was karmic justice for all the times he'd silently scoffed at actors who were suffering from nerves. Will Davies didn't have stomach flu, he'd become sick because he couldn't stand to go onstage again. If Greg weren't swathed in dragon, he might lose his supper himself.

  All the performances had been sellouts, but tonight's closing show was packed to the rafters, with every inch of standing room taken. The good news was that the community center would make more from ticket sales than anticipated; the bad news was that Greg would have to step out in front of all those staring eyes. Compared to the rest of the cast, he was a pathetic, terrified amateur. He would accidentally damage Sir George. He'd trip over his tail and George would accidentally kill him. He'd . . .

  A hand came to rest on his scaly forearm. "You'll do fine, Greg," Jenny said soothingly. "Just go out with the dragon walk I showed you. Once you're onstage, you'll have fun. Pretend you're an egotistical actor."

  In her flowing medieval gown, Jenny was hypnotically lovely. He would have kissed her if he wasn't wearing a dragon head. He settled for patting her shoulder clumsily with one rubber-clawed paw.

  Sir George and five admiring village girls finished a dance. The owner of the local dance studio, a retired prima ballerina, had done a splendid job with the choreography. The ancient music group was equally impressive. Jenny and her neighbors were far more than "community theater."

  The village dancers spun off the stage. Fortified by their admiration, the knight set out on his dragon quest, singing magnificently. All too soon the song was over, which was Greg's cue to enter.

  He froze, unable to move until Jenny placed a hand on his spine and pushed him forward none too gently. Under the blazing lights, Greg was agonizingly aware of a packed audience of undifferentiated heads, all of them staring at him.

  Sir George fell back, aghast. "The dragon comes!"

  Pulling himself together, Greg swung into the dragon walk, a wide-legged stride that made him look massive and dangerous. A menacing growl rumbled through the theater. Barely in time he remembered to open his jaws as if he was the one roaring.

  The knight drew his blunt sword and flourished it menacingly. They had done a quick practice fight earlier, so Greg had a general idea of how to proceed. He lunged forward, jaws open and tail lashing. The costume was complicated, and keeping its pieces straight required all his concentration. The knight darted in and out, unable to plant a killing blow on the scaly dragon hide. Luckily, the tenor who played George was well trained in stage fighting, so Greg didn't have to do much but take fierce swipes at his paltry opponent. Pretend you're an egotistical actor. Beginning to enjoy himself, he lunged forward, lip-synching the roars as he moved in for the kill.

  One last great bellow, a vicious slashing of rubber claws, and Sir George fell to the stage, mortally wounded. As a trained tenor, he could die and sing at the same time.

  Greg swayed over his prey, slavering, before a hiss from the wings told him it was time to leave. He was tempted to raise both arms in a victory dance, but restrained himself. The dragon was supposed to be a metaphor for brute violence and the lower nature, not a comedian.

  As he exited, Jenny blew him a kiss from the opposite wing, then darted onstage with a terrible cry. The crowd caught its breath, struck by her palpable grief as she began to sing an elegy.

  Greg pulled off the dragon head so he could see and hear better. Though he had filmed her elegy twice, then he had been concentrating on his equipment. This time he was free to focus on her, and her haunting voice pierced him to the heart. Yes, she was a superb actress, but no one could sing with such a sense of loss unless she had a deeply loving spirit. What would it be like to be the beneficiary of such love?

  The recognition that he was in love with Jenny struck like a sword through his gut. Though he had done his best to deny the knowledge, that was no longer possible. He had fallen head over heels for her when he was a gawky assistant cameraman, and never recovered.

  For the first time ever, he wished that he were a handsome, successful actor. Or maybe a tycoon. The kind of man who could win the heart and hand of a great beauty.

  A minor-key Middle Eastern theme announced the Turkish physician, and the character joined Jenny onstage to resurrect the fallen knight. Greg tucked his tail aside so no one would trip over it and kept his vantage point, his gaze on Jenny.

  Patricia glided by and murmured, "You make a fine dragon," before she vanished to marshal her children's choir. After the knight was resurrected and had embraced Jenny—did old George have to hug her so hard?—ethereal children's voices heralded the shift from resurrection to Nativity. The show was almost over. Greg watched raptly, already nostalgic for these magical days when he was part of this group of people doing their best for a common goal.

  The stage lights went off. There were several long beats before a pinpoint of light began to shine above center stage. It grew brighter and brighter until it became a blazing star that illuminated the stage. At the same time, performers began to move onstage singing, "Go, tell it on the mountain, Over the hills and far away." Softly at first, then louder and louder until the whole cast was singing the jubilant spiritual.

  Jenny emerged from the group under the star and gestured for the audience to sing along. They were tentative at first, but more and more joined in until the massed voices reverberated through the walls and beams of the ancient building. People began to rise to their feet, compelled to show their exhilaration in one of the transcendent moments that occurred only at live performances. Jenny was right, the barn was a living structure that deserved to continue as a place of gathering and creativity.

  The song ended, the curtains fell, and the show was over. Pounding waves of applause began, and the curtains obligingly opened again. Traditionally the least important pl
ayers came on first, so Greg hastily donned the dragon head. He trotted out, getting laughter and applause when he bowed goofily before withdrawing to the back of the stage to make way for more important performers.

  The dancers high-kicked their way onstage, men from the right wing, women from the left. After a swift set of turns, they stepped aside for the children's choir. The musicians were highlighted, then the Turkish physician, and last of all Sir George and Jenny. The ovation she received threatened to rip off the slate roof. She bowed again and again, her face flushed with excitement.

  Finally she raised her arms for silence. "I want to thank all of you for coming. As many of you know, the Revels were conceived as our attempt to raise money to save the tithe barn as Upper Bassett's community center. I don't know yet if we'll be successful because time is running out, but win or lose, we've created something special here, something we're all proud of. And it has all been done with volunteers. I want to thank everyone who didn't appear onstage, starting with Alice Lyme, who as president of the community center council has been a tower of strength and wisdom."

  She blew a kiss to her mother, then swiftly listed others who had been essential for producing the show. "Lastly, I want to give special thanks to Greg Marino, the only American involved in this show, one of the world's great cinematographers, and the man who filmed our production so those of you who wish to watch again at home will be able to. Not only is he an Academy Award winner but a good sport, willing to step in when our original dragon was laid low. Greg, stop hiding in back and come out to be thanked."

  Aiee! He wanted to dive to the floor and disappear, but eager hands pulled him forward. Blue eyes glowing, Jenny kissed him on his dragon snout and whispered, "Take this off so people can see you!"

  No way. Preferring to play the Beast to her Beauty, he dropped to his knees and laid his head against her waist, animal nature tamed by the lady. The crowd loved it.

  The curtains closed for the final time. Jenny patted Greg's neck as if he were a large dog. "Will you come out from under there, my darling dragon?"

  He stood and removed the head piece. "You did well, Jenny. Everyone did."

  She grinned. "Even you looked as if you were having fun. Watch out, you may be hit by the acting bug."

  "Once was enough." He suppressed the desire to give her a real kiss, since what he wanted was not something that could be done in public. Originally he had intended to fly back to the States the morning after this last performance. Changing his plans had given him three more days of Jenny's company.

  Only three more days.

  JENNY laughed and joked with people who came up to congratulate her, but the show's triumph was bittersweet. She hated to think this might be the last time she would ever perform in the tithe barn. They had yet to hear from any of the television networks, and time was rapidly running out. Next Christmas the barn might be hosting a fashionable cocktail party for a wealthy new owner who would hang angular modern paintings on the ancient walls.

  The dragon was a popular character; Greg stood beside her, signing autographs for the under-twelve set. She hoped that the postshow party didn't run too late. She wanted to take Greg home and find out what it was like to bed a dragon.

  A familiar figure emerged from the thinning crowd. "This is even better in person than on video, Jenny." It was her BBC friend, Simon Oxnard, and his wife.

  "Simon, how lovely to see you," Jenny said, hoping his presence was a good sign. "Cassie, I'm glad you could come, too."

  Cassie smiled. "So am I. It was a marvelous performance."

  "If I'd known you were interested, I would have found tickets for you."

  Simon waved off Jenny's regrets. "No matter. Standing in the rear took me back to our student days. We had a splendid time, and now I can tell you in person that we have an offer that might help you out."

  She caught her breath, afraid to hope. "You want to broadcast the show?"

  "Yes, and if you'll sign a contract for two more Christmas shows over the next two years, each with a different theme, we can offer you three times the money."

  "What kind of themes would interest you?"

  "Since this was a medieval-style mummers' play, perhaps next year you could do Victorian. Something different the year after that."

  Her imagination caught fire. Glittering costumes, formal dancing, passionate creativity. "Elizabethan. They did spectacle so well."

  "Excellent." Simon grinned. "We also want to broadcast the video sample you showed me next week, as well as the film version next year."

  Greg, who had been listening with interest, exclaimed, "You're kidding! It's just a seat-of-the-pants video."

  "The seat of some very professional pants," Simon replied. "We have a late-night BBC2 slot that isn't well filled, so I convinced the programming head that your Revels would be a refreshing change."

  In other words, even more money. Jenny felt like turning cartwheels. "Wonderful! Let me introduce you to my mother—she's president of the community center board and in charge of all negotiations. I warn you, though, she drives a hard bargain." She signaled her mother, made the introductions, and then withdrew to circulate through the cast party.

  Maybe the barn wouldn't be condemned to stockbroker hell after all.

  NINE

  KNOWING they might achieve their goal made the cast party riotous, but even so, Greg and Jenny left early. He had plans for the rest of the night.

  At the cottage, he climbed from the car, then halted in amazement when he saw that the sky was starting to pulse with sheets and bands of colored light. "Good God, it's the northern lights, isn't it? I've never seen them before."

  "Even though England is so far north, I've only seen them a time or two myself." Jenny came to his side. "How splendid. A perfect end for a magical night."

  Greg opened his jacket and drew her inside, wrapping his arms around her waist so that she was snuggled cozily against his chest as they watched shimmering greenish rays that rippled like scarlet-edged draperies. "When I was a kid, I used to have dreams like this, where I saw moving pictures on the night sky. I think I was crossing drive-in movies with what I'd read about the aurora."

  "So you saw movies in your dreams even when you were a child."

  "I'm afraid so. I never dreamed of being a star. Just of filming them." In silence they watched one of nature's greatest shows. He supposed the aurora borealis was a good metaphor for their affair—lovely and evanescent, gone almost before it was identified.

  The night was getting colder, but Greg wasn't. As the veils of light faded, he kissed the edge of her right ear. She turned toward him and lifted her face. The warmth where their bodies touched was a deeply sensual counterpoint to the winter night.

  "You're just a little bit of a thing," he murmured affectionately. Catching her around the waist, he lifted her onto the rear end of the Jaguar, her long skirt falling over the dark finish in soft folds. He leaned forward to kiss her throat. "Perched here, you look like an advertisement for the good life. Buy a Jaguar and beautiful women will flock to you." Warm breath exhaled softly against her cleavage. "Except that this is the twenty-first century, and the beautiful woman bought her own luxury car."

  She laughed, wondering why intimacy brought out the Tarzan/Jane instinct even in strong-minded females like herself. She adored knowing that he was bigger and stronger than she, capable of fighting off saber-toothed tigers while being tender with her. She drew him tightly against her. "You make a wonderfully sexy dragon, Greg. Shall we play Beauty and the Beast?"

  Her words were sparks on tinder. Intoxicated by the performance and the exhilaration of success, he took advantage of the night's privacy to make swift, urgent love to her. Soft fabric, warm, intimate flesh, rapturous response. No wonder women used to wear long skirts in the past, because the sensual possibilities were entrancing.

  She responded with feverish intensity, as hungry as he. With Greg, she felt young again, willing to open up and take risks and lose her heart.
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  "Jenny," he whispered, "Jenny, love ..." Words failed, only touch and scent and passion were real. How could he let this intimacy end? They fit together too well, understood and enjoyed each other too much. . . .

  Even when they were both panting with sated exhaustion, he didn't want to let her go. When had he ever known a woman who made him feel so alive, yet so at peace?

  She stirred in his arms, murmuring, "I'm never going to think of this car quite the same way again."

  "A vehicle fit for dragons." He lifted her from the car, dropping one last weightless kiss on her hair. As they headed indoors, arms around each other, he realized that he couldn't leave without at least trying to see if they had a future.

  As they entered the cottage, Plato looked up from his seat on the sofa, gave a bored yawn, then tucked his nose under his tail again. As she peeled off her long coat, Jenny said, "Tomorrow will be time for cooking and shopping and wrapping presents, but first, ten hours' sleep. Agreed?" Before he could reply, the phone began to ring. "I wonder who that could be at this hour? Perhaps Simon is calling to offer still more money." Jenny sank onto the sofa, avoiding Plato with the skill of long practice. "Upper Bassett 7533. Yes, this is Jenny Lyme. Yes? Oh! No, it's not too late, I just came in, actually."

  Greg hung their coats and poured two glasses of merlot. Jenny was still on the phone, her posture vibrant but her end of the conversation unenlightening. "Yes, that's possible. No need to apologize—you obviously have no time to waste." She accepted her glass of wine with a nod of thanks, but took only a sip. "Yes, of course."

  What the devil was going on? Greg sat in a chair at a right angle to Jenny, feeling a prickle of unease. The intimacy that had bound them dissipated now that normal life had intruded. He was no longer sure he had the courage to ask if she would visit him in Argentina. She had mentioned that she was between projects, and he'd been hoping she could come for a long stay. Maybe forever.