Page 5 of Love and History
I frowned in the general direction of the kitchen. “I cannot willingly sign on to live with that oaf for another year.”
Tommy snickered. “Ezra’s not that bad.”
“He’s not that good either,” I huffed, glancing at my watch. “Let’s revisit this later. I have to get to my meeting.”
“All right. I just don’t want to leave anyone in limbo.”
I sighed. “I understand. But I also don’t think it’s a big deal. Ezra and Cole aren’t going to want to sign on for another year with us.”
“Maybe not, but they both seem pretty comfortable. Especially Ezra,” he commented. “I’ll tell the landlord we’ll have a definitive answer by the end of July or sooner. Sound good?”
“Yes.”
Tommy gestured at my robe. “Renaissance in the Park?”
I nodded. “Seven weeks and counting. Care to join the behind-the-scenes action? We have room for a wandering townsperson or a barkeep or—”
“No, thanks,” he intercepted. “I prefer being a spectator. Besides, those costumes look cumbersome and hot.”
“They are. But the rental pricing for Elizabethan finery is favorable in summertime and we need to save money wherever possible. We lost a major donor last year. There’s a whisper of unease among the ranks. If we don’t attract a large audience, this might be the last hoorah for Renaissance in the Park.”
Tommy frowned. “That would be terrible.”
“I know. I wish I had a few thousand dollars to spare. Sadly, I do not.”
“Me either.” He patted my shoulder and stepped aside. “Good luck and don’t worry about the lease. It’ll work out.”
I gave a dorky double thumbs-up before heading upstairs to finish getting ready. It seemed easier to go along with breezy sentiments than face the cold truth that this halcyon phase of life was coming to a close.
We’d officially neared the end of our tenure at this lovely old house. Everyone had grown up and moved on. It was time to think about what came next for me too.
And I would.
After taking a brief sojourn in Tudor times.
* * *
“Hark!Hither yonder! Thine king doth cometh!”
Winston blasted his trumpet with enough force to blow out the eardrums of everyone in the front row, then raced across the stage. No one looked up.
Jordan and I studied our respective notes while Val, our volunteer director, scrolled on her cell. We were in the midst of running through one of the short plays we staged at the History Reenactment Society’s annual extravaganza, Renaissance in the Park. We adhered to flimsy scripts with minimal direction, so no one batted an eyelash when the king didn’t immediately appear. Our audiences didn’t come for the flawless choreography or top-notch acting. They came for an experience.
“What exactly does ‘hither yonder’ mean?” Jordan asked, twisting her braid with her gaze still locked on the paper on her knee.
“It’s supposed to be ‘yon,’ which roughly translates to ‘toward here,’” I whisper-sighed. “Just be grateful Winston remembered the trumpet.”
Jordan giggled, flouncing her skirts and using her notes to fan herself. “Where’s Jerry? It’s too hot for diva delays.”
Val must have overheard.
“Jerry! You’re on,” she called, face still buried in her phone.
Nothing.
“Jerry?”
“I’ll check on him.” I left my notebook on the metal chair in the elementary school auditorium before trudging the short set of stairs leading to the stage to look for Henry VIII. I mean…Jerry.