I will say that Dinky Holloway was doing her bit for the arts community in showcasing William Shakespeare's immortal story in a 'context designed to challenge the sensibilities of the audience.' That's also a quote from the playbill. It seemed to me that Romeo and Juliet had enough problems to begin with without adding race relations into the already explosive mix, but then maybe that's just the father in me talking.
During intermission, in an effort to pick up my end of the evening's flagging conversation, I unwisely asked Alex how Dinky would, in these politically correct times, stage something like Othello, for instance? The question provoked an immediate firefight between Alex and me, much to the amusement of people seated around us. Our neighbors may have enjoyed the fireworks, but I was more than happy when action resumed onstage. I spent the next act worried that we'd still be at each other's throats once the play was over.
I shouldn't have. Alex isn't one to pack grudges. Our intermission flare-up served to relieve the tension. By the final curtain, all was forgiven.
We left the theater in a throng of people. Juliet finished earlier than Henry. Outside, the noisy clang of staged swordplay told us the Elizabethan's production was still in full swing.
'What now?' I asked, shivering in the surprising cold. 'Head home, or crash the party?'
'Are you kidding?' Alexis demanded. 'I wouldn't miss it for the world. I want to know exactly what that woman is up to. The party won't start until after Henry. If you want to, we can go over to the Members' Lounge and warm up. Dinky gave us a pass.'
Dinky again, but given the chill outdoor temperature, the option of waiting inside made sense. We dodged across the street through a flock of waiting tour buses and hotel shuttles. Alex led the way to the side, basement entrance of what looked like an old house. Inside, a vestibule opened into a furnished sitting room where a somewhat weary hostess presided over a small bar. She offered us our choice of beer, wine, coffee, or soft drinks. I took a soda. Alex chose wine.
'What time does Henry get out?' Alex asked.
She, too, had slipped into Ashland's contagious one-word-title syndrome. From reading the playbill, I knew the full title was actually King Henry VI, Part Two, but then, who's counting?
Glancing at her watch, the hostess shrugged. 'Ten minutes or so,' she said.
Alex and I retreated to a bench seat that occupied one whole wall beneath a row of old-fashioned double- hung windows. Setting aside her wine, she fixed her lipstick and dabbed powder on her nose. She reminded me of a soldier gearing up for battle.
'How did it go with Kelly?' Alex asked, snapping shut the lid of her compact.
That was one topic I didn't want to touch. 'Can't we discuss something else?'
Alex retrieved her wine and eyed me shrewdly over the rim of it. 'That well, huh?'
'Worse. I'd much rather make predictions about the party.'
'In other words, focus on my problems instead of yours?'
'Right.'
Alex gave me a quick smile that was more a reprieve than a pardon. She'd humor me and let me off the hook temporarily, but eventually I would owe her a full blow-by-blow account. I went for the deferment, thinking that later I'd be better able to talk about Kelly Beaumont and Jeremy Todd Cartwright III.
Leaning back against the window casing, Alex sipped her wine, studying faces as people began to filter into the Members' Lounge. 'What do you want to know?' she asked.
'Who all is coming to the party besides Guy Lewis? Who's this mysterious ‘she'? Whenever you mention her, sparks fly.'
'Monica Davenport,' Alex answered, lowering her voice. 'She was my immediate predecessor as director of development at the Rep. Monica's down here now, working for the Festival in the same capacity. She and the T.W. were good pals back home in Seattle. In fact, I think Guy Lewis met Daphne at one of Monica's fundraisers.'
'T. W?' I asked, not quite comprehending and thinking I must have missed something. 'What's a T. W?'
Exasperated by my stupidity, Alex rolled her eyes. 'Surely, you know about trophy wives,' she answered. 'I thought every middle-aged man in America wanted one.'
'I don't speak initials,' I returned. 'Too subtle. Men are usually a little more explicit. Further more, I have it on good authority that T.W. s, as you call them, can be quite troublesome.'
'Really.' Alex grinned. 'Well, Daphne Lewis fits the T.W. profile-twenty years younger than Guy if she's a day. According to my sources, she's a fast worker. The previous Mrs. Lewis moved out of the house one day, and Daphne moved in the next.'
It felt weird. Hours earlier I had heard Guy Lewis' slightly different version of this same story. Unlike Alex, I knew life with the second Mrs. Lewis wasn't all sweetness and light.
'I never met Maggie Lewis,' Alex continued. 'I've heard she was tough as nails and put together like a Mack truck. You may have noticed, Daphne is definitely made of finer stuff.'
'I noticed,' I agreed, remembering how Daphne Lewis had looked the night of the charity auction. With her blond-bombshell hairdo and a beaded, split-up-the-side white satin dress, she had easily qualified as one of the most glamorous women in a roomful of top-drawer competition.
'I guess that's okay,' Alex said. 'Someone like Guy Lewis is rich enough to pay his money and take his choice. And he did pay. Through the nose. From what I heard, the divorce lawyers made out like bandits.'
And would again, I thought, remembering Guy's comments at the meeting. Still, given the choice between a woman built like an eighteen-wheeler and someone like Daphne, most men would choose the latter. If they had the chance.
'You don't like Guy Lewis very much, do you?' I said.
Alex shrugged. 'I don't have to like him,' she replied, 'but I have to get along with him, and with Daphne, too.'
A new group of people came into the room. One of them, a well-dressed woman about Alex's age, breezed through, nodding and greeting people along the way. 'Hi, Monica,' someone said.
Like an interceptor missile breaking away from its host plane, Alexis Downey rose from where she sat and glided toward the newcomer with her hand outstretched and an amazingly cordial smile pasted on her lips. 'Why, Monica Davenport,' Alex gushed. 'I was hoping I'd get a chance to see you while I'm here.'
Monica smiled back, but I doubt she was thrilled. Outwardly, Monica and Alex looked like long-lost chums, but I noted a razor-sharp undercurrent in their exchange of barbed pleasantries. Observing them at work was enough to convince me I'd never cut it in the theater-development game. I'm not that tough.
The next time the door opened, Romeo and Juliet strolled inside. Without makeup and out of costume, they were laughing and joking about something that had gone awry during the performance. I kept hoping Daddy Capulet would show up so he and I could exchange pointers on child-rearing practices. But while old man Capulet failed to put in an appearance, Juliet helped herself to a glass of sparkling cider and meandered over toward me, stopping in front of the seat Alex had just vacated.
Tanya Dunseth was wearing a purple loose-knit cardigan sweater over an electric-blue leotard. On her feet were a pair of bright pink Keds. At first glance, I would have thought she had come straight from a high school cheerleading session.
'Is this seat taken?' she asked.
'No, be my guest.'
She smiled back, then joined me on the window seat, easing herself down and folding both legs gracefully under her, settling into one of those unnatural and highly suspect lotus positions. Just looking at her made my knees hurt.
For a moment, I was unsure what to do. Kelly had been most insistent about wanting to introduce the two of us, but that was before we had our little spat, before Kelly burst into tears. Still, though, Tanya was sitting there next to me. They were friends. My daughter cared for her daughter. It was dumb to sit side by side there and pretend ignorance.
'Miss Dunseth?' I said tentatively, unsure of her reaction.
Smiling and still wisecracking with Romeo across the roomful of people, she turned from him to me. 'Yes?'
'You don't know me, but I'm J.P. Beaumont, Kelly's father.'
Looking directly into her face, I could see that she was older than I'd thought. Somewhere in her mid- twenties, she had striking green eyes, high cheekbones, and a sprinkling of freckles that hadn't shown up under her
