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
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
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