"I always thought booze was what made the first marriage go bad. Now I'm afraid I'm going to lose this one, too, that my wife will walk out on me. And I haven't had a drink in damn near ten years. I ask you, what kind of deal is that?"
Good question.
The meeting finished up promptly at eight because the people running it were well aware that most of the out-of-towners would be rushing off to an eight-thirty curtain in one of the town's live theaters, and theater is Ashland's bread and butter.
As I hiked back up the main drag toward the Festival, I came to an out-of-order stoplight where a shorts-clad uniformed police officer was directing traffic. I found myself caught in a crowd of theatergoers waiting to cross the street.
"Mr. Beaumont," a voice called from behind me.
Surprised to hear my name, I turned around. Red-faced and puffing with exertion, the man from the meeting came trotting after me, smiling and holding out his hand. Despite the early-evening heat, he was carrying a red down-filled jacket.
"Aren't you J.P. Beaumont from Seattle?" he rasped. "Guy Lewis, remember me?" Running to catch up had left him winded, so much so that I worried he'd die of a heart attack on the spot. "I'm the one who bought your Bentley at the auction, remember?"
Primed, I did remember. Guy Lewis looked familiar because he was, although four hundred miles from home my brain hadn't quite managed the critical connections.
Months earlier, under the helpful auspices of Ralph Ames, I had first met Alexis Downey, the director of development for the Seattle Rep. The two of them prevailed on me to convince the Belltown Terrace Syndicate to donate (read "unload") the building's cranky and mostly nonrunning Bentley to the theater's first-ever charity auction.
At the black-tie affair, Guy Lewis turned out to be the poor stupid jerk who had paid top dollar to cart away the Bentley, which I regarded as an incredibly expensive piece of junk. For all I knew, he had to have the damn thing towed. I remembered watching him and his much younger and very blond wife be congratulated by the enthusiastic auctioneer. At the time, I had suffered a sharp pang of conscience to which Alex had applied the soothing balm of reassurance. She swore the money had gone to a good cause, and that Guy Lewis, sole heir to his father's portable-chemical-toilet empire, wouldn't even miss it.
Encountering Guy Lewis on the street in Ashland, I wondered if that was true. Would he shake my hand or punch me out? Remembering the Bentley, I would have bet on the latter.
"I didn't know you were in the program," he said.
"I don't exactly go around advertising it."
He nodded. "Me, either. It helps to have a place to unload things." He sighed and shook his head as if warding off an errant thought. "Down here to see some plays, are you?"
I wasn't prepared to say the real reason behind my visit to Ashland, certainly not to him. "Yes," I answered.
"Henry?" he asked.
I had been in Ashland less than a day and had not yet adjusted to the way locals and visitors alike tend to shorten play titles to one-word monikers.
"Excuse me?"
Guy Lewis laughed. "Daphne and I are seeing one of the Henrys in the Elizabethan tonight. I forget which one. The Festival always seems to be doing at least one of those. They all tend to run together after a while. By the way, have you seen Alexis lately?"
My ears reddened. "Actually, Alex and I are here together."
Guy Lewis grinned and slapped me on the back. "Good for you," he said heartily. "Alex is quite a woman. Are you seeing Henry, too?"
I shook my head. "We're scheduled for Romeo and Juliet."
Guy Lewis nodded. "Oh yes," he said. "We saw that two days ago. It's excellent. Wait until you see the girl who plays Juliet," he added after a pause. "She's something else. By the way, there's a little backstage get-together at the Bowmer right after the play tonight. Just a few people mingling with the actors. I'm sure Alexis would enjoy it. Why don't you join us?"
"I'll check with Alex," I said.
By then we had crossed the street and walked far enough that we were approaching the brick courtyard located between the two theaters. The space between the outdoor Elizabethan and the indoor Bowmer was jammed with a happy, show-going crowd that was congregated around some central but as-yet-unseen point of interest. As we came closer, I heard the sound of music and laughter.
"That'll be the Green Show," Guy Lewis informed me. "Have you ever seen it before?"
I shook my head. "Looks like now's the time," I said.
I didn't tell him that I had any kind of personal interest in seeing this hitherto-unexperienced spectacle. Together we worked our way over to the edge of the packed throng until we could see the action.
On a small raised platform, a group of dancers costumed in Elizabethan attire was performing what was probably a distant precursor of today's square dancing. Behind them stood another costumed group of individuals, all of them playing strange-looking, mostly unfamiliar instruments. And in the middle of that group of musicians, tall and ramrod straight, stood Jeremy Todd Cartwright, honking away on a long, thin horn that might have been an old-time, fourth-grade Tonette after it overdosed on steroids. From the way his cheeks puffed, Jeremy was blowing his lungs out, but the resulting sound reminded me more than anything of a quacking duck. A tunefully quacking duck.
That's a krummhorn? I thought. He's going to support Kelly and a baby playing that thing? Give me a break!
The number ended. To a round of enthusiastic applause, the Green Show troupe gathered its instruments and started toward the entrance to the Elizabethan Theatre with most of the crowd moving along behind them. "Well," Guy Lewis was saying, "there's the wife. I'd best get cracking. Hope to see both you and Alex at the party after the show."
"By the way," I said, before he moved out of earshot. "How's that Bentley of yours running?"
"Great," he said. "Daphne found this terrific mechanic. He has it purring like a kitten."
With a casual wave, he blended into the crowd. A moment later, Alexis Downey appeared at my elbow. "Wasn't that Guy Lewis?" she demanded.
"As a matter of fact, it was."
"What's he doing down here?"
"Seeing some plays, I guess. By the way, Guy said there's a backstage get-together at the Bowmer after the plays tonight. We're invited to come along. If you're up to it, that is."
"Damn!" I was surprised by the sudden angry vehemence in Alexis Downey's voice.
"Alex, what's the matter?"
"Dinky told me about that party," Alexis returned darkly. "It's a very intimate little affair designed to pull in some very major donors. I don't know who the hell they think they are, poaching on my fund-raising territory. All I can say is, it's a damn good thing we're here."
She flounced away from me toward the entrance to the Bowmer.
"What do you mean?" I asked, trailing along after her.
"I have a verbal pledge from Guy Lewis that the Seattle Rep is a major beneficiary of his estate. If that bitch down here tries to change his mind, she has another thing coming!"
My mother died years before I met Alex Downey, but right then the two of them sounded like soul mates. As a child, I spent years waiting for that "another thing," expecting it to beam down from the sky like a righteous bolt of avenging lightning. Alex may have been upset, but it pleased me to hear that echo of my mother.
Also like Mom, Alex is slow to anger. Once riled, though, look out. As we took our seats, I counseled myself to hold my tongue.
Actually, keeping a low profile is good advice when it comes to dealing with any irate woman. It merits special mention in a chapter dealing with "Hell hath no fury…" and all that jazz.
I don't know that exact quote. I'm not literary enough to recall who said it, but avoiding scorned women is also sage advice.