Spellcrossed Read Online Free PDF Page A

around and hastily lowered my voice. “In four days? How the hell did you do it?”
    I scanned the papers he thrust at me. A full-page ad—lavishly adorned with stars—screamed, “Some families are dripping with diamonds. Some families are dripping with pearls. Lucky us! Lucky us! Look at what we’re dripping with! A fabulous little girl!” Another proclaimed “To a little orphan with a big heart and the talentto match! We love you!!” And yet another: “Our FILL IN YOUR CHILD’S ROLE shines like the top of the Chrysler Building!” “Break a leg!” and “We’re so proud!” messages adorned other—significantly smaller—ads.
    “It’s brilliant, Bernie.”
    Tacky, but definitely brilliant.
    “It was Sarah’s idea. That granddaughter of mine is gonna be a millionaire someday.”
    “If this keeps up…” I glanced around, frantically seeking wood to knock on, and settled for his sheaf of papers; they’d been trees once, after all.
    “From your lips to God’s ears.” Bernie executed a jig—quite a feat for a little old man with a walker. “Better up the credit limit on your MasterCard, girlie. I’m gonna order the most expensive dinner at the Bough!”
    “I can’t think of anyone I’d rather dine with.”
    Bernie cocked his head in the characteristic gesture that always brought to mind a bright-eyed—if balding—sparrow.
    “You sure about that?”
    I found myself remembering a gourmet meal, a bottle of wine older than I was, and Rowan sitting across the table, angular features soft in the flickering candlelight. And as usual, everything I was thinking and feeling must have shown on my face because Bernie sighed and patted my hand.
    “Time to exchange ‘Some Enchanted Evening’ for ‘I’m Gonna Wash that Man Right Out-a My Hair,’” he scolded gently.
    I managed a smile. “From your lips to God’s ears.”

    My crazy schedule left me little time to moon over Rowan Mackenzie or wash my hair. I was lucky to squeeze in a weekly call to my mother and to my Crossroads roommate Nancy. I kept those conversations upbeat, but sometimes found myself venting to Frannie.She possessed Helen’s boundless optimism and handled every crisis with a firm hand and a cheerful smile. My eyes and ears at the Golden Bough, she alerted me to the rift developing among the cast.
    “They’re clumping,” she confided. “Mackenzies huddled in one corner of the lounge. Professionals in another.”
    So much for the “getting to know you” barbecue. And my strategy of giving each Mackenzie a pro for a roommate to encourage mingling.
    “What about the locals?” I asked.
    “Mostly, they head home after rehearsal. The ones who stop by hang out with the pros.” Frannie clucked. “Not like the old days, is it, hon?”
    No. Our cast had been a family. An occasionally fractious, somewhat dysfunctional family, but a family nonetheless. Of course, we were all in the same boat: separated from our families, desperately trying to cope with the murderous schedule, and—except for me—woefully inexperienced.
    “Let’s see if movie night helps.”
    Hal shattered that hope when he stormed into the production office and declared, “Only half the cast showed up! And most of them just came for the pizza. There’s something wrong when theatre people can’t bond over Judy Garland films.”
    “I can’t require them to attend, Hal. Most of the locals are holding down day jobs. Monday’s the one night they can spend with their families.”
    Working around their schedules made rehearsals incredibly frustrating. Every evening, we had to get the strays up to speed. They felt clumsy, the pros got impatient, and the Mackenzies shot anxious looks at both groups and clumped together even more fiercely. Mei-Yin and I began reserving the first hour of the evening rehearsal to work through the big numbers with the locals and the Mackenzies, so they could perform confidently—and competently—when the pros arrived.
    Naturally,