that?”
“I can’t—yet. But Raf and I are working on it.”
Livvy elbows me gently, grinning. “Working on it, eh? Sounds serious.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet there’s really a lot of work going on there,” says Becca, who turns and heads for a table before I have a chance to respond.
The rest of us join her a few seconds later, and thenthe serious evaluation begins. The coffee, we decide, is too strong for our taste, and the pastries are huge but otherwise nothing special. The hot chocolate, however (and it practically kills me to admit this), is delicious. Spectacular, even.
As our discussion continues, the manager stops by our table. “Good morning, girls. You’re up bright and early on a Saturday morning. How is everything? Can I get you a free refill on those coffees?”
“No thank you,” Leigh Ann replies. “I’m okay. Everything is great. The hot chocolate is fantastic.”
He beams. “Wonderful. Well, if you need anything, let me know.”
The whole time he’s there in front of me, I’m scowling at him and watching his pockets for signs of small furry critters.
“We usually go to Perkatory,” I say. “We’ve been going there for years. I can’t wait until they reopen.”
My friends’ jaws all hit the table as I’m talking, but the manager—Jeff, according to his name tag—doesn’t bat an eye.
“Yes, well, I heard they had some problems. I’m sure they’ll take care of everything. But I hope to see you back here.” He reaches into his vest pocket and takes out four coupons for free small coffees—and that’s when I see a tiny pink nose and whiskers. Raf is right! I pretend to be interested in the coupons he’s handing Margaret, but I watch secretly as his hand immediatelyreturns to his pocket and gently pushes his four-legged friend back where he belongs.
Even when he’s gone, I keep my little secret. I smell a rat, all right, and his name is Jeff.
Rehearsal for
The Merry Gentlemen
—or, as it is known to us,
The Merry, but Constantly Changing and Evolving Gentlemen
—ends at noon. Mr. Eliot has finally agreed to stop making changes, which is a good thing, because we have exactly six days to pull the darn thing together.
We wait until everybody else is gone to approach him about a plan that Margaret and I cooked up in a post-Heidelberg flurry of deep thinking. German food can do that to you.
I dig into the very depths of my being, searching for a level of charm that I’ve never accessed before. I take a deep breath and throw out my first pitch, slow and right over the middle of the plate. “So, Mr. Eliot, how’s it going? I think this play is really coming together, don’t you?”
He’s closing the curtain and turning off lights, and when I note the dumbstruck look on his face, I keep going.
“You know, I’ve always wanted to try writing a play, but I just don’t think I have what it takes. But the way you took those characters from the Dickens story and turned them into something—”
“Stop!” He holds up his hands as if I’m mugging him. “What do you want, St. Pierre? Money? My wallet?”
“Why, whatever are you talking about, Mr. Eliot? I was merely hoping that you might consider sharing some of your vast knowledge.”
Behind me, Becca and Leigh Ann snicker. Perhaps I
have
laid it on a bit thick.
“Oh, puh-leeeez!” he exclaims. “Seriously, my own mother doesn’t pour it on like that. So, what do you girls want? You want me to talk to Sister Bernadette about a cast party after the show?”
Margaret steps up to bat. (Sorry, I’m not sure what is going on with all these baseball metaphors.) “Welllll, since you’re asking, there is one little favor you could do for us. What are you doing right now—the next hour or so? We wouldn’t want you to change your plans with Mrs. Eliot or anything like that.”
He checks his watch. “I have a little time; what’s the favor? Nothing illegal, I trust.”
“Absolutely not,” says Margaret. “Cross
“I can’t—yet. But Raf and I are working on it.”
Livvy elbows me gently, grinning. “Working on it, eh? Sounds serious.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet there’s really a lot of work going on there,” says Becca, who turns and heads for a table before I have a chance to respond.
The rest of us join her a few seconds later, and thenthe serious evaluation begins. The coffee, we decide, is too strong for our taste, and the pastries are huge but otherwise nothing special. The hot chocolate, however (and it practically kills me to admit this), is delicious. Spectacular, even.
As our discussion continues, the manager stops by our table. “Good morning, girls. You’re up bright and early on a Saturday morning. How is everything? Can I get you a free refill on those coffees?”
“No thank you,” Leigh Ann replies. “I’m okay. Everything is great. The hot chocolate is fantastic.”
He beams. “Wonderful. Well, if you need anything, let me know.”
The whole time he’s there in front of me, I’m scowling at him and watching his pockets for signs of small furry critters.
“We usually go to Perkatory,” I say. “We’ve been going there for years. I can’t wait until they reopen.”
My friends’ jaws all hit the table as I’m talking, but the manager—Jeff, according to his name tag—doesn’t bat an eye.
“Yes, well, I heard they had some problems. I’m sure they’ll take care of everything. But I hope to see you back here.” He reaches into his vest pocket and takes out four coupons for free small coffees—and that’s when I see a tiny pink nose and whiskers. Raf is right! I pretend to be interested in the coupons he’s handing Margaret, but I watch secretly as his hand immediatelyreturns to his pocket and gently pushes his four-legged friend back where he belongs.
Even when he’s gone, I keep my little secret. I smell a rat, all right, and his name is Jeff.
Rehearsal for
The Merry Gentlemen
—or, as it is known to us,
The Merry, but Constantly Changing and Evolving Gentlemen
—ends at noon. Mr. Eliot has finally agreed to stop making changes, which is a good thing, because we have exactly six days to pull the darn thing together.
We wait until everybody else is gone to approach him about a plan that Margaret and I cooked up in a post-Heidelberg flurry of deep thinking. German food can do that to you.
I dig into the very depths of my being, searching for a level of charm that I’ve never accessed before. I take a deep breath and throw out my first pitch, slow and right over the middle of the plate. “So, Mr. Eliot, how’s it going? I think this play is really coming together, don’t you?”
He’s closing the curtain and turning off lights, and when I note the dumbstruck look on his face, I keep going.
“You know, I’ve always wanted to try writing a play, but I just don’t think I have what it takes. But the way you took those characters from the Dickens story and turned them into something—”
“Stop!” He holds up his hands as if I’m mugging him. “What do you want, St. Pierre? Money? My wallet?”
“Why, whatever are you talking about, Mr. Eliot? I was merely hoping that you might consider sharing some of your vast knowledge.”
Behind me, Becca and Leigh Ann snicker. Perhaps I
have
laid it on a bit thick.
“Oh, puh-leeeez!” he exclaims. “Seriously, my own mother doesn’t pour it on like that. So, what do you girls want? You want me to talk to Sister Bernadette about a cast party after the show?”
Margaret steps up to bat. (Sorry, I’m not sure what is going on with all these baseball metaphors.) “Welllll, since you’re asking, there is one little favor you could do for us. What are you doing right now—the next hour or so? We wouldn’t want you to change your plans with Mrs. Eliot or anything like that.”
He checks his watch. “I have a little time; what’s the favor? Nothing illegal, I trust.”
“Absolutely not,” says Margaret. “Cross
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