Well Met Read online

  I tried to think of something comforting to say, but the truth was she was right. April wasn’t a joiner. She hadn’t needed me to take over anything extracurricular for her while she was laid up, and she wasn’t terribly involved with Caitlin’s school. Just as she didn’t want people knowing her business, she didn’t really care to know anyone else’s. My sister seemed to live a pretty lonely life. But she also seemed happy with it for the most part, so who was I to judge?

  I took Cait’s hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “Well, I’m here now, and apparently I do volunteer. So I hope you’re ready for this.” I looked back at her when I reached her bedroom door. “Come help me set the table about five thirty?”

  “Yep.” But she was already frowning over her geometry textbook, and I hurried out of there before she could ask for help again.

  * * *

  • • •

  Saturday was, in a lot of ways, a repeat of that tryout morning. We pulled into the parking lot five minutes late. Caitlin zipped ahead to find her friends who had also made it into the cast. I hung out toward the back of the auditorium, because I had no friends to find. Yeah. This wasn’t awkward at all.

  But to my surprise, the awkwardness didn’t last.

  “Hey, there you are!” The chipper voice made me look up from my phone, and I smiled at Stacey, the volunteer who’d gotten me into this mess in the first place. “Why are you all the way back here?” She hooked a hand around my arm and gave a tug. “Come on, you need to join the rest of the group.”

  I wasn’t used to this kind of aggressive friendliness, but I let her drag me down toward the front of the auditorium to mingle with the rest of the cast.

  “I’m in charge of the wenches, by the way,” Stacey said. “And since you’re the only other one who signed up, that’ll be an easy job for me this year.”

  “Only two of us?” I remembered my days of tending bar, the panic when coworkers called off on their shifts, leaving me to do the work of two or three people at once. My feet started to hurt from the memory. “Can we do that?”

  She waved off my concern. “Oh, easily. We’re not really tavern wenches. I mean, yeah, we’ll be serving drinks and flirting with patrons and speaking with an accent. But there will be plainclothes volunteers doing most of the actual work. We’re there for color. You know, to look pretty.”

  I wasn’t entirely convinced, but I let Stacey lead me toward a seat in the third row, introducing me to people along the way. I didn’t have a prayer of remembering any names, but I did my best. We’d barely settled in the third row before we were all told to stand up again and sit in a giant circle on the floor of the stage.

  Oh, boy. My anxiety shot up again. I’d taken a few theatre classes in college, but stage fright had driven me away from performance and back to the books and my English major. I wasn’t worried about role-playing the part of a tavern wench on a one-on-one basis, but the second I was asked to get in the center of the circle and say or do something with lots of people staring at me, things were going to get ugly. Projectile-vomiting kind of ugly.

  My anxiety wasn’t alleviated by a woman stepping into the middle of the circle almost immediately. She was definitely one of the older adults of the group. Her hair could have been light brown, dark blond, faded gray, or a combination of all three. She wore it in a long braid down her back and was dressed in well-worn jeans and a faded T-shirt but carried herself with an authoritative air. She had the look of someone who could be anywhere from twenty-seven to fifty-five.

  “Good morrow, everyone! And well met!” Her voice had a cheerful lilt to it, and when she spoke, a smile lit up her face like sunshine. A chorus of good morrows answered her back, my voice included. “Great, everyone knows that first phrase, that’s not a surprise. But the other greeting we’ll be using a lot at Faire is ‘well met,’ which can be a simple ‘nice to meet you,’ but it can also mean you’re particularly pleased to see that particular person at that particular time. This is a good meeting, so we are well met. Got it?” Her smile stayed in place throughout the entire speech, which was an impressive feat unto itself.

  “I’m so glad to see everyone here,” she continued. “Welcome to the tenth season of the Willow Creek Renaissance Faire. Ten years! Can you believe it?” This sparked a small round of applause, and I clapped too because I wasn’t an asshole. “I know I say this every year, but I’m excited about this year’s Faire. For those of you who are new or might not know me . . .” She looked right at me as she said this last bit, and good God, was I the only stranger in this town? “I’m Christine Donovan. Most people call me Chris, or Miss Chris, or Your Majesty.” She shrugged through the friendly laughter. “Which is my subtle way of letting you know that yes, I will be your Queen again this year. The year is 1601, and Elizabeth is still on the throne.”

  I did some quick math in my head and then leaned over to Stacey while Her Majesty continued her welcome speech. “Elizabeth was pretty old by then, right? Chris looks good for someone pushing seventy.”

  She shushed me through a grin. “We take a little dramatic license around here.”

  I got the message and settled down, crisscross applesaucing my legs in front of me as Chris finished outlining the rehearsal schedule, stressing how important it was we not miss too many of them. We’d be learning about the history of the period—apparently the more purist of the patrons made a day out of quizzing the cast as to their religious preferences and hygiene habits. We would also spend time working on costuming and in our various groups. Singers had songs to rehearse, dancers had dances to learn. And the fighting cast had to, well, learn how to fight.

  Next up was . . . I groaned, but covered the sound by taking another pull off my iced coffee. Simon. Form-police guy. The one dull spot in this whole experience. As he took his place in the center of the circle I noticed he looked as put-together as he had the last time I’d seen him. How early did he wake up to get ready? I was only marginally sure I was wearing clean clothes, while it looked like both his jeans and his light blue button-down shirt were freshly ironed. He handed a stack of papers to someone in the circle to pass around, and I stifled a sigh. Great. Homework. That did absolutely nothing for my opinion of him.

  “Chris already welcomed all of you, so I won’t do that again.” He gave a small smile, and some people chuckled. “For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Simon Graham, and I’ve been with this Faire since . . . well, since the beginning, like Chris. She and my older brother, Sean, started the Faire ten years ago.” He smiled again, but this time it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “And yes, I’m back again this year too, doing my best to fill Sean’s shoes.” His smile fell fast, and he ran a hand over his close-cropped brown hair. “If you have any questions about how things are run, or what you need to be doing, you can always come to me. I’ll be glad to help you out.”

  Ha. Fat chance. He’d be glad to tell me what I was doing wrong, more likely.

  “This morning I’m going to talk about names.”

  Names? I tilted my head like a cocker spaniel.

  “One of the first things you’ll do as a cast member is decide on your Faire name. This is a very important decision for each and every one of you.” He turned in a slow circle as he spoke, never standing still, making fleeting eye contact with everyone in the group. This guy wouldn’t projectile-vomit in front of a crowd. He was used to talking in front of people. “You already know what part you’re playing: nobleman, merchant, dancer. But your name is your identity. Names are important. Names have power. Names are one of the things that tells you who you are.” He tapped the knuckles of his closed fist against his chest.

  I still didn’t like this guy, but that made an odd kind of sense. I didn’t realize I’d leaned forward to listen, my elbows on my crossed knees, until Stacey nudged me and handed me the diminished stack of papers. I took one and passed the rest to the teenager on my left.

&nbs
p; “Now, Shakespeare disagrees,” Simon continued. “In Romeo and Juliet, he said ‘a rose by any other name would smell as sweet,’ implying the essence of a thing doesn’t change just because it’s called something else.” He shrugged. “He makes a good point. But we humans are easily persuaded. We see commercials all the time. We buy the brand name of something instead of a generic, thinking it’ll be better quality, right?”

  Something about the cadence of his voice was both familiar and comforting. He had a voice I wanted to keep listening to. That, combined with his obvious comfort in talking in front of a crowd of both teens and adults, not to mention the bit of Elizabethan literary criticism thrown in on a Saturday morning, made a lightbulb click on in my head.

  I nudged Stacey again and nodded in Simon’s direction. “English teacher?” I kept my voice a low murmur; I didn’t want to distract him while he was on a roll.

  She gave me a lopsided smile back and a confirming nod. “How’d you guess? The Shakespeare?”

  “Kinda gave it away.”

  “Did you have a question? Emily, right?”

  Oh, shit. I turned innocent eyes at Simon, who faced me now, arms crossed over his chest. “Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “No, please.” Yep, he was definitely a teacher. He had a full-on why don’t you share with the rest of the class attitude, as though I were one of his students he’d caught passing a note. “What was your question?”

  “Oh.” I thought fast. “I was wondering who’s playing Shakespeare. You?”

  A couple people in the group tittered, but Simon looked like he was about to scowl. “No. We don’t have a Shakespeare in the cast.”

  “But we could,” I argued. I don’t know why I let this guy get under my skin. Thirty seconds ago, I didn’t give a damn if we had a Bard of Avon wandering around or not, but the idea of it seemed to annoy Simon, so now I was all for it. “You said 1601, right? He was giving command performances of his plays for Queen Elizabeth around that time. She was a big fan, so it would stand to reason—”

  “We don’t have a Shakespeare in the cast.” And the subject was closed. I was impressed; he had a grade-A Teacher Voice. But instead of giving me detention, he went back to addressing the rest of the group as though our conversation had never happened. “Most of us who are repeat offenders here have our names and identities pretty well established. But for those of you joining us for the first time this season, or if you thought your name last year didn’t fit, you’ve all got a list of names that fit the time period. Take a look, see if anything looks right. Feels right.”

  Jeez. This whole thing took a quick left turn into culty. I’d been planning to coast through this: wear a cute costume and hang out in a bar so Caitlin could participate. I hadn’t intended to spend the next few months in some kind of live-action method-acting exercise. I stifled a sigh and looked down at the paper in my hands.

  Thankfully, Simon didn’t make anyone stand in the middle. Instead, we went around the circle, where we each introduced ourselves by our real name as well as our chosen Faire name. The point of the exercise was probably for everyone to start to get to know each other. Instead, my blood pressure rose with every new voice that spoke, as my turn to talk inched closer and closer and I had no idea who my character was besides someone who served beer. The paper crumpled in my hand as I focused on Caitlin across the circle from me. She giggled at something one of her friends said, and seeing her that relaxed made something inside me relax too. I could do this.

  Next to me on my right, Stacey spoke up. “Hey, everyone! I’m Stacey Lindholm, and this is my . . . oh, God, eighth year doing the Faire. Is that right? Can that be right?” She moaned dramatically. “Anyway, I started when I was in high school, as a singer, but now that I’m an adult—” A snort came from a few people down to my left, and Stacey tsked in that direction. “Shut up, Mitch. Now that I’m an adult, or once I hit twenty-one anyway, I moved over to being a wench. There are two of us this year.” She nudged me with her shoulder, and oh, shit, it was my turn.

  But she wasn’t done yet. Simon cleared his throat. “I assume you’re keeping the same name?”

  “Oh! Yes. Of course.” Suddenly Stacey slipped into a pretty good English accent and she drew herself up into a straighter posture. Before my eyes, she became a completely different person. “If you want to find me in the tavern, ask for Beatrice. That’ll be me.”

  Would I need to have an English accent too? But I didn’t have time to worry about that, because it was my turn to speak.

  “Hi!” I tried to smile, look friendly, and wave all at the same time. My smile came out as a kind of nervous exhale, probably showing too many teeth, and my wave looked like a dorky muscle spasm. “I’m Emily. Emily Parker. I’m new in town, so I’ve never done this before.”

  “Don’t worry, Park. We’ll be gentle.” Mitch laughed at his own joke, and I snickered a little too, but my laugh was shut down by a forbidding-looking Simon.

  “As Beatrice said, you’re a wench this year as well, right?” His question prodded me along, and I got the message. Stay on topic. I’d already pissed him off with the Shakespeare thing; I needed to behave.

  “Right. Sorry. Yes. Yes, I am a wench with Stacey.”

  “Beatrice.” He repeated the name, as though I were slow in understanding, and good Lord, I had no idea plain brown eyes could look like lasers. But Simon’s stare was about to burn a hole in my forehead.

  “Yes,” I said. “Beatrice. Sorry. Again.” What was with this guy?

  “And your name?”

  “Emily.”

  He sighed. “Yes. But your Faire name.”

  “Oh . . . It’s . . .” I smoothed out the wrinkled paper in my hands, stalling for time. “I guess Shakespeare’s out, huh?” I chanced a look up at him, but the thunder in his expression told me that my jokes weren’t welcome here. “Fine, okay. I’ll be . . . ummm . . .” My eyes landed on a name. Easy. “Emma.”

  “Emma.” His voice was flat.

  “It’s period.” I pointed at the paper. “See, right there on the list. And I’ll remember to answer to it.”

  Another short sigh. “Glad to see you’re putting a lot of thought into this.”

  I opened my mouth to retort, but Simon turned to the teenager immediately to my left and made clear I had ceased to exist to him.

  I leaned back on my hands and sighed. Dick.

  Stacey nudged me. “Don’t worry about him,” she whispered. “Your name is fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She nodded. “Don’t let him bother you.”

  I blew out a breath. “I’ll try.” I turned my attention back to the circle, where Mitch was up next.

  “Mitch Malone.” His voice exuded confidence, and why not? Look at the guy. Someone like that could be conceited about himself, and for all I knew he was. But the way he smiled, not only at me but at the kids in the circle, told me there was more to him than how much he could deadlift. “And I’ve been doing Faire for, what, about as long as you, Simon, right?”

  Simon nodded. “You started the year after me. So the second year of Faire.”

  “Yeah, that sounds right. Your big brother bugged me for, like, half of senior year in high school to join up. Said he needed more big strong guys, and not scrawny little guys like you.”

  “I was not scrawny.” Simon huffed, but a smile played around his mouth too. This was obviously an old, toothless argument.

  Mitch waved a dismissive hand. “Whatever. ‘Scrawny’ is a relative term, right?” I wasn’t sure if he consciously flexed his pecs at that point or what, but there was definite movement under his tight gray T-shirt, and it was a beautiful thing to watch.

  Simon sighed again, but unlike when he expressed his disapproval of me, this sigh came out as more of a laugh. “Okay, whatever. I assume you’re bringing the kilt again this yea
r, right?”

  “Oh, aye, lad. Marcus MacGregor rides again!” Mitch’s slip into a Scottish brogue made my eyebrows shoot up. I’d dismissed him as a meathead, with the tight T-shirt and high-maintenance physique. But the meathead had hidden depths. He was friends with an uptight intellectual like Simon and could affect an accent on command.

  As we kept going around the circle, I found my attention wandering back to Mitch and that tight T-shirt. To my horror, Mitch caught me looking at one point and sent a wink my way, along with finger-guns. Ah, well, he was still kind of a meathead after all. I snorted, which I tried to cover with a cough, but Mitch laughed anyway. Simon cleared his throat, shooting a dirty look to the both of us, and I looked away, my cheeks burning.

  “I’m Caitlin Parker.” My niece’s voice was like a cool, deep breath to my soul, and I looked to where she sat across the circle from me with a gaggle of her friends. “I’m new this year—hi!” Her dorky wave was so much like mine I couldn’t help the smile that broke across my face. The Parker DNA was strong in that one. But how would her natural dorkiness play in this room? I bit my lip and glanced around, but everyone looked welcoming and accepting. My heart softened. Maybe there was something to it all, cultiness aside.

  “I’m a lady-in-waiting to the Queen,” Caitlin continued, pride in her voice, and was it weird that I felt kind of proud too? Like she’d landed a really good job or something? You go, kiddo. “And . . . um.” She looked down at the paper, then back up at Simon. “I want something fancy, Mr. G. Since I’m a noble, right? What about Guenevere?”

  I narrowed my eyes at Simon while he considered. If he threw a barb at her like he had at me, I was going to come at him, right in the middle of that circle. But to my surprise, he nodded.

  “I don’t see why not.” He talked to her in a gentler version of his Teacher Voice. Not condescending, but still authoritative. “Now, you’re young, though, remember. So the other ladies-in-waiting will most likely call you a diminutive.”