Chapter 9: Feelin' Groovy

I should go. So much is riding on this first exchange and I am tragically ill-prepared. But how could anyone even begin to prepare themselves for such an occasion? When she left the farmhouse with Giselle, I dreaded facing her again. If only I could trade that conversation for this one. For standing in front of my beloved, my wife as some forgotten stranger.

"You are the one responsible for the poodle skirt fiasco," I say, feigning composure. Meanwhile, my heart is caving in on itself.

"That was my doing, yes," those soft green eyes move over me. For one fleeting instant, Marigold seems almost as apprehensive as I. That is, until a playful smile warms her face and melts the ice between us. "I take it my little marketing ploy worked! How splendid! But you really shouldn't be back here."

"Why not? I wish to speak to you."

"I am not to be spoken to," she smirks, then wrinkles her nose and laughs like a child. "Not unless a player requires me to sew a button back into place after it has popped off of their costume! So...?" I play coy, if only to hold her attention longer. "The only way that you can have a button pop off of your costume is to be a player! And the only way that you can be a player is to... oh, didn't you see the signs?!"

Her sweet, enthusiastic demeanor puts me at ease, just as it always has. I should have known that she would be easy to talk to, even now. I change the subject, only slightly, if only to prolong our conversation. "Your accent. You-"

"-hail from the colonies, yes. I am helping a friend save this marvelous little venue. It's been circling the drain for a few seasons now and do you know why?" Her boisterous voice drops nearly to a whisper. Still, I wouldn't be surprised if she could be heard from across the street. "Shite seamstresses! A certain actress whose name I dare not say had her... business... pop out of her corset during curtain call last month. Apparently, this was done on purpose. By the last costumer, not I. It was horribly scandalous! Oh, but none of that matters! What is your name, Sir?" Her eyes remain unchanged, unaffected as I state my first and last name, then asking for hers with some disappointment in my voice. "I thought you already knew that! Marigold Casey, seamstress extraordinaire, at your service, Sir!" Our hands touch and I place the lightest kiss on her dainty knuckles. The feeling of her unmoved engagement and wedding ring against my lips rips my already deteriorating heart to shreds. She continues to watch me. Almost as if she can faintly hear the screaming within my soul and is trying to make sense of it. "I can take you to the main stage if you would like. There's usually a lull at this hour and the director will be able to see you sooner rather than later!"

"That is very kind of you, Miss Casey, but that is not what I am here for."

"You don't wish to audition?"

As I shake my head, the cheerful illumination is sucked out of those emerald eyes of hers. "Would it please you if I did?"

"I mean... you seem to have the "it" factor," she stammers, "and honestly? You wish to know my opinion?"

"I do."

She looks to her immediate right, then left before signaling me to come closer. "Arthur would kill me for saying this. He finds my vernacular to be vulgar and appalling and not at all suitable for a fine enterprise such as this. So, between you, me and the hatrack, Mr. Tavington, I think you're groovy!"

I step even closer, laughing louder than I intended. She is adorable! I find it impossible to suppress my more flirtatious side much longer. "Groovy, you say? Well, that is high praise! Say, will you be auditioning for the play as well, Miss Casey?"

"Seamstress so, no. I'm spoken for." Blushing, she turns away and heads towards a large door. Her intentions are clearer and purer than my own. As she opens it, I see the empty rows of seats that make up the house. "Art, I've got a live one!"

"Excellent," a clear voice echoes from within that brilliant, carpeted cave, "send him in."

I start to follow her, but she points to another, larger door at the end of the hall. "The stage is right over there. I hope you don't mind if I watch. I've been cooped up all day and I just love watching auditions!"

I nod and smile. Oddly enough, my nerves don't come in for the kill right away. At least not until my hand turns the doorknob and an empty stage materializes through the darkness. Very little time has passed since I last stepped foot onstage. At our wedding, to be more precise. There are many differences between this theatre and the one where Marigold and I exchanged our vows, but also many undeniable similarities. The creaking of cheap lumber beneath my boots, the pungent odor of sawdust and paint, the warmth and coolness of light and shadow all stood their ground against the unrelenting march of time. I can see her at the back of the house, soft and golden within the halo of a nearby candle. I see him, too. His wardrobe has changed, but not by much. A black coat, white shirt and a black necktie seem to be customary attire for Arther Tarleton. He takes a quick drag from the cigarette between his fingers, grinning like a Cheshire Cat.

"State your name, please," he says, watching me with a sort of jovial intensity, a madness that I can neither recognize nor diagnose. "Your name and what you have prepared for me today."

My chest numbs. My fingers, too. "Prepared?"

"Well, yes! A monologue, a song, a dance! All of the above, perhaps?"

I cough out an exasperated sigh, masquerading as a laugh. Marigold moves forward in her seat, watching, waiting. Her attention hardly seems deserved, that tender, encouraging smile on her lips is anything but earned. "A song," I parrot, absentmindedly.

"A mysterious, unnamed song by an equally mysterious unnamed singer!" Arthur scribbles something obviously illegible into the notebook on his lip. "When you are ready."

I keep my eyes on her and she in turn, holds my gaze with her own. My heart is still banging in my ears, but the initial stage fright has evolved into its most useful form. Urgency takes over, fight or flight. This may be my one chance to remind her of who I am. The words come to me as I sing them to her, softly like a lullaby. I can recall how piercing they were to us both my first night in Waterford.

True love can be whispered from heart to heart

When lovers are parted, they say.

But I must depend on a wish and a star

As long as my heart doesn't know who you are.

Sweet dreams be yours dear if dreams there be.

Sweet dreams to carry you close to me.

I wish they may and I wish they might,

Now goodnight, my someone goodnight.

Marigold repositions her eyes to the floor, to her shoes. I can see the faintest blushing hue all across her cheeks. Arthur follows my sight line to her and chuckles to himself.

"Very nice. The ladies will love you. I'd ask her to take your measurements right now, but you should wait until the cast list is posted, just for formalities. You were here for a part, yes? Not to woo my wardrobe department?"

I shrug my shoulder as she looks up at me. We are both redder than beets. "Believe me, Sir. My intentions are only of the purest variety."

"Excellent. Check the bulletin at our stage door tomorrow afternoon. Rehearsals begins in the evening. If you are an understudy, we ask that you join us then as well. I'm an all hands on deck sort of director."

I thank him for his time and make my leave. Although I am not bold enough to say such a thing out loud, it only matters to me if the beautiful young intern from the costume shop is there.

...

I lie awake in the cottage's loft. In my mind, I try to untangle the mess of moments that I have shared with this new Marigold. She reminds me more of Annabelle than my wife. Manic as ever, but also free from what haunted her in Waterford. Her body shakes less, her words and whims are dauntless. What's more, she looks at me with wonder in her eyes and not a single trace of apology. I married her on shifting sands, knowing that change is the way of all life. I knew that after a decade or two together, our respective interests and demeanors would undergo gradual evolution like shades and shapes in a kaleidoscope. We would change, but not like this. No, we would change together, side by side, heart by heart. The disconnect between us troubles me. I need to reach her. I need to reach her soon, before her sickness does.

My thoughts stray from those rising stakes and to Mabel. Only one person can confirm her existence for me. I fear this conversation, I dread it. But it must be done. I decide, against my will and perhaps better judgement, to arrive early for what is now our third rehearsal. I tap on Arthurs office door, checking over my shoulder periodically to ensure that I am the only person in the hall. It opens on its own, by nothing more than the force of my own tentative knock. He is crouched beneath an open window, hypnotized by the smoke rising from the end of his cigarette as it dances across the city's silhouette. I wait, giving him time alone with his fixation. He looks like her in a way, watching the curling smoke just as she does with her incense.

"I wondered when you might stop by," Arthur says to my reflection. "You must have so many questions for me."

"You are a perceptive man."

He changes his position to face me, leaning nonchalantly against the windowpane. "Let's begin."

I look at the floor, then the ceiling, trying to prioritize all that I must ask. "Why doesn't she remember me?"

Arthur points to the door, asking me to lock and shut it. He then closes the window for good measure. "I have a theory regarding that unfortunate event. But you aren't going to like it."

"Go on."

"In last conversation that we had before she crossed over, she told me that there is a part of her that wishes you two had never met. My guess is that desire was stronger than Marigold knew or wanted it to be. Strong enough to change things. Again, that is only a theory."

I clench my fists, inadvertently. "What about our child? Did Marigold just wish her away, too?"

"I dare not ask her such a thing! That is for you to learn on your own."

My limbs begin to shake as I contemplate what must be asked next. "If there is no Mabel, does that mean that there is hope for her now? If she stays here for the rest of her life and never returns to Waterford, will her fate be rewritten?"

He gives his head the slowest, most sorrowful shake. "Carrying Mabel to term has very little to do with what ends her, William. Her death is part of her design. She is a giver. Even as a child, she would give and give and expect nothing in return. Demons found her, as they always do, and took from her as well. Then you did your part, snatching beats away from her heart, stealing from the hourglass one tiny grain at a time."

"You're telling me that I am to blame?"

"No one is to blame," he says, simply. Too simply.

"What am I supposed to do?"

He turns to his book shelf, removes a thin, unsuspecting title and ruffles its pages until a bit of paper falls out into his hand. "You already know the answer to that. Trust the words on this page, the ones that you have written."

I take the note. It is the exact letter that I left for Marigold on my last morning in Waterford. "You took this from her. This promise belongs to us, not you."

"I am not the villain in this story, William. Nor am I your foil."

"What else are you withholding from us, hm? What else are you hiding up here?" The leather briefcase that I first saw him with catches my eye from across the room. "How about that damned thing? What other secrets does it hold?"

He sees what I am looking at and without missing a beat, moves it from the shelf and into my outstretched arms. "Have a look for yourself." We watch one another as the latch is turned and the case is opened. Just as I expected, the white and dormant tapestry lies inside of it, neatly folded into a tight little rectangle. "Take it out. Go on." As it unravels, a single image stretches across the fabric. A vast, green field appears with flowers nodding in the evening breeze. "That's strange."

"What is strange?"

"Until now, it has only shown a collection of broken pictures, a mosaic of sorts. Never one." We shake the creases out and lay it across the flat surface of the floor. "Do you recognize this field?"

"I do. It is a small section of our property in South Carolina. Is it... is it asking me to go there?"

Arthur tosses the remnants of his cigarette into the ashtray on his desk and kneels. This is the first instance in our entire acquaintanceship that I have seen the man look genuinely confused. "I'm not sure."

"How can you not be sure? It's your toy!"

He lifts his head, just long enough to scowl at me before retreating back into his meditation. A bit of paper appears, weaving through the maze of wildflowers. It drifts freely for a while and then becomes lodged in the brambles, several inches from Arthur's hand. "There is a sewing kit on my music stand, just there," he points to my immediate right. I locate what he requires and pass the tiny box to him without delay. "Thank you."

"What do you need a sewing kit for?"

"I'll show you! Little trick of the trade!" With a wink, Arthur draws the longest, sharpest needle he can find and drives it into the image, right where the paper has been trapped. I can hear a faint crunch as the point hits its mark. He pulls it towards us and as he does, it doubles, then triples in size. "Look closely, William. There is writing on it."

I move in. The penmanship my own. "It's a page from my field book! What does it say?"

"Sit tight and I'll tell you!" Right as it is about to cross the barrier between this world and the next, a mighty gust of wind blows the paper away. "Oh, no you don't!" He pursues it with painstaking focus. Chasing it here and there and then finally lancing it atop a soft patch of dirt. "Gotcha!" This time, Arthur's efforts were successful. He reels in his catch, studying it closely.

"What does it say?" I ask again, peeking eagerly over his shoulder.

"The ink is disappearing. Draining from the page." Within seconds, every sentence, every letter vanishes, leaving behind an empty scrap of torn parchment. He places it over the tapestry again, dunking it into the scene like a garment in a wash bucket. No change occurs. He pulls it back in, lines of frustration are painted across his face in broad strokes. "You said that page was from your field book? What kind of writing do you keep inside it? If you don't mind my asking."

"Diary entries. Simple diary entries. I started keeping them a month ago in hopes of making sense of my-" I stop, reaching deep into my pocket and fishing out the book in question. "I wonder..." Slowly and tactfully, I hunt through the pages for even the faintest outline of a tear along the seams. "Do you recall seeing a number, Arthur? It would have been in the upper right hand corner."

"104." He sighs as I begin counting each passing page, one by one. "William, you are going to drive yourself mad. For all we know, it could have been a grocery list!"

His comment means nothing to me. I lean over and with my hands gripped tightly to the front and back cover, I submerge my field book into the strange portal before me. The wind moves its pages, flipping through them rapidly and marking each one with words that have not yet been written. Every answer I sought, every struggle and resolution now resides within my trembling hands. "This is remarkable!"

"If by remarkable you mean dangerous and terrifying, surely. I shall have no part in this."

"What are you talking about? Do you have any rope lying around this pigsty of an office? You could fasten it to my waist and I could drop down into this field, do a little light reading and-"

"-You seem entirely too excited about this." He reaches into his breast pocket, drawing a lighter and yet, another cigarette. "Tell me why before I help you."

"If I know what is going to happen beforehand, I can go in and make changes when the time comes."

"By cheating fate?"

"Exactly."

He takes a small drag and chuckles lightly through the exhale. "And how has that been working for you so far?" With his one free hand, Arthur grabs the corner of the tapestry and sweeps it out from under my journal and I. "Do you know the price one must pay for possessing this kind of knowledge? Do you have any idea how painful it is to see the sheer brutality of irony and destiny approaching in slow motion? I'm a betting man and I am willing to wager that you have an inkling."

"But some things can be altered and even undone."

"Some things, yes. But not all things. And not without a price. Enjoy her. Woo her. Love her. You were destined to find one another and this will continue until the end of time. I ask you now, William, is that fate really so cruel?"

I skim through the book. The only words that exist in it now are those that I have written in the recent weeks. Everything else has been lost. "I need to clear my head."

"I understand. This is a lot to digest. I wonder... is it alright with you if I keep this?" He holds up the severed page. "For further examination?" Unintentional though it may be, I know that he can recognize the wave of deep distrust that is moving over me. "Should there be any change in it, you shall be the first to know. You have my word."

"Change?" I ask. "You mean to tell me there is a possibility that the text might reappear? If that is the case, I would rather take it. It is mine, after all."

"Very well. But I would advise you to not watch it too closely," Arthur says, passing the parchment to me with remarkable ease.

"And why is that?"

"You would waste precious time in doing so and time waits for no one."

...

The distance between us grows shorter as Marigold wraps the measuring tape around my waist. I can feel her warmth radiating from beneath her plain cotton dress and apron. It is a special warmth, unique only to her. No burning furnace, no ray of light on a hot Carolina afternoon could ever dare to duplicate it. I long to pull her in, to satisfy this hunger that goes so much deeper than my flesh. She is so close now. My soul craves her, I can feel it dying as I restrain myself from pulling her in, closer and closer still.

"Lavender?" I ask, reveling in the haunting fragrance on her clothes and hair. "Lavender and don't tell me, rose?"

"I've taken to milling my own soaps in the back room here. I do apologize if the smell is overbearing."

"How much do you charge for a bar?"

She fiddles with a loose strand of her soft, yellow hair, then kneels. At least on the floor, she can no longer see the darkening blush on my face. "Oh, I never considered selling it. It's just that I've been struggling to find soap to my liking here in town. That and I have quite a bit of downtime here. It keeps my hands busy. You'll find that I have more creative energy than I know what to do with!"

I look out the window as she measures my inseam, trying in vain to regulate my breathing. "You do alright for yourself, Miss Casey."

"Arthur told me that you enlisted. Do you truly think it is wise to be wasting your time here in this old theatre?"

"On the contrary, there is no where else on earth I would rather be."

She stands upright, letting out one of her famous, charmingly musical laughs. "I admire your commitment to the arts!"

"What can I say? I have more creative energy than I know what to do with!"

"Using my own nonsense against me, I see. I like you." Those words and that dear, playful grin are enough to anesthetize the sting of her drifting away from me. "Hey, are you feeling brave?"

"Exceptionally!"

Marigold laughs again, louder than before. Whether it was at my boldness or bashfulness or both, I cannot say. She begins to rummage through a row of cupboards in the back of the room, pulling out a large bottle of green glass and two gaudy goblets that clearly used to live in the prop closet across the hall. "Cool! I'm working on a little experiment! Or I was until I got hollered at for stealing lemons and honey from the kitchen. Why are you standing all the way over there? Come, come! Sit, sit!"

Still blushing, I follow her command. We pull up our seats alongside a sewing table and she begins to pour an opaque, fragrant liquid into each goblet. "Cheers," I say with a smile and a nod.

"Clinky, clinky, drinky, drinky!" She takes a tiny sip and watches me closely, waiting for my approval of the beverage. I must look reflective, if not morose. It tastes exactly as I remember, our last drink from our last dinner together before we parted ways.

"Lavender lemonade! Did you make this, too?"

"I did! I've had a bit of a craving for it recently. Well, it's strange. Is it possible to crave something you've never had before?"

"Perhaps you have had it before. Just in another lifetime."

She sips again, slower and deeper this time around. "That wouldn't surprise me at all. William? I can call you that, right? Some actors prefer certain... nom de plumes. Did you know that Lolly Rose's birth name is Ophelia Butt? Ophelia. Butt. And she refuses to go by her first name because Hamlet is her dream role! Which I actually find rather spiffy, I'm all for trouser roles! But not naming one's child... imagine it initialed! O. Butt. Poor dear!"

"Yes. You may call me William," I reply, beaming. I have missed her silly, animated rants. Missed them with all of my heart.

"Have we met before? You seem very familiar to me, but I am having trouble placing you."

I race to collect my thoughts, my composure. Just as I am about to speak, a knock echoes from the doorframe and Edgar, a portly cast mate of mine steps in. "You have appointments, don't you, Miss Casey? I should go."

"Please, call me Marigold."

"Until next time, dearest Marigold."

A/N: The lyric in this chapter is from the musical, The Music Man. I do not own it. Also, I'm sorry for uploading this a day late. My husband and I got snowed in during our Christmas travels and that made writing/editing a little bit tricky. Oh! Last but certainly not least, I'd like to extend a special thank you to the wonderful person who reviewed my last chapter. You actually really inspired me to make this chapter a little bit lighter than the previous one and it ended up being my favorite part of the story so far! Thank you for your kind words and thank you to all who have taken time to read this story! More soon! :-)