This Enemy Town by Marcia Talley Page A

smile.
    â€œYou sure?”
    â€œI’m sure. Thanks.”
    Midshipman Small made way. I laid a light hand on his arm, then fled up the stairs, past Alice swimming up the wall, past the Dormouse, bursting out onto a stage filled with midshipmen.
    Was everybody there? The whole blessed cast? Had everyone heard my argument with Lieutenant Goodall as it drifted upward from the Jabberwocky room?
    I didn’t give a damn.
    Because Paul had been faithful!
    I felt light-headed, my feet barely touching the ground as I found my coat where I had dumped it on a chair, waved good-night to the startled cast, and stepped out into the snowy night. I felt like shouting from the cupola on top of the chapel dome, loud enough for everyone in Anne Arundel County to hear. No, to the whole United States of America: Paul had been faithful.
    And I ran the last block home, into his surprised but waiting arms.
    Â 
    The sun was pushing against the shutters, striping the duvet with light, when I came to the next morning. Paul laybeside me, already awake, his head propped up on the palm of his hand, smiling at me, his fingers playing idly with my hair.
    â€œYou roared,” I said.
    â€œHmmmm,” he replied, brushing his lips softly against mine.
    â€œThat was spectacular,” I whispered, referring to the sex, not the roar.
    Paul drew back, touched my cheek. “Only for you, sweetheart.” He kissed my shoulder, my neck, my mouth.
    Only later did I think to wonder: Who had Jennifer been waiting for?

CHAPTER 9
    Two days before opening night, and panic set in. The cast had been banished to a rehearsal room in Alumni Hall so that the tech crew—working dangerously close to the deadline as usual—could finally hang the backdrop and wait for a last minute coat of paint to dry.
    Opening night, minus one. Dorothy and I scrutinized the set and pronounced it as good as it gets. My fingers itched to touch up the red on the antique barber pole, but it was too late even for that; the cast was already straggling in. A few midshipmen at first, followed by a violinist, two flutes, and a drummer, then the Pair-o-Docs strolling side by side, conferring, shooing everyone along like mother hens.
    Not much to do but find a seat and enjoy the show. We’d seen it, of course, but in pieces and bits, fits and starts, but this was dress rehearsal, the first complete run-through. We prayed it would come together—the costumes, the music, the dialogue, the sound effects, and the sets—like a jigsaw puzzle, complete at last.
    Act One was a triumph. Sweeney’s dark “Epiphany” and Mrs. Lovett’s brilliant take on “A Little Priest” would bring the opening night audience to their feet.
    Around six everyone broke for dinner, served buffet style on long tables set up in the lobby. Dorothy and I parked ourselves on a marble step, balanced our plates onour knees and worked our way through a passable beef stew served over egg noodles. Between the noodles and the carrot cake, I brought Dorothy up to date on my daughter and her family, fishing recent photos out of my bag of Chloe, now five, on her first day of kindergarten, and Jake, age two, posing with his stuffed chick, their top-knots standing in identical (and adorable!) spikes.
    â€œI’m crazy about my daughter,” I told my friend as she handed the photos back to me, “but my grandchildren? I’m certifiably nuts over them. ” I shrugged. “How do you explain that?”
    Dorothy thought for a moment. “Maybe because you can play with them for a while, then give them back. Let the parents deal with the dirty diapers, the runny noses, the bad report cards.”
    I had to laugh. “I guess it’s a grandparent’s prerogative to spoil them. It’s part of the job description.” Dorothy hadn’t told me much about her home life, so I was curious. “Is Kevin your only child?”
    She nodded. “I would have