Read Online A Holiday Fling by Mary Jo Putney - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mary Jo Putney
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stage fighting, so Greg didn’t have to do much but take fierce swipes at his paltry opponent. Pretend he’s an egotistical actor . Beginning to enjoy himself, he lunged forward, lip-synching the roars as he moved in for the kill.
One last great bellow, a vicious slashing of rubber claws, and Sir George fell to the stage, mortally wounded. As a trained tenor, he could die and sing at the same time.
Greg swayed over his prey, slavering, before a hiss from the wings told him it was time to leave. He was tempted to raise both arms in a victory dance, but restrained himself. The dragon was supposed to be a metaphor for brute violence and the lower nature, not a comedian.
As he exited, Jenny blew him a kiss from the opposite wing, then darted onstage with a terrible cry. The crowd caught its breath, struck by her palpable grief as she began to sing an elegy.
Greg pulled off the dragon head so he could see and hear better. Though he had filmed her elegy twice, then he had been concentrating on his equipment. This time he was free to focus on her, and her haunting voice pierced him to the heart. Yes, she was a superb actress, but no one could sing with such a sense of loss unless she had a deeply loving spirit. What would it be like to be the beneficiary of such love?
The recognition that he was in love with Jenny struck like a sword through his gut. Though he had done his best to deny the knowledge, that was no longer possible. He had fallen head over heels for her when he was a gawky assistant cameraman, and never recovered.
For the first time ever, he wished that he were a handsome, successful actor. Or maybe a tycoon. The kind of man who could win the heart and hand of a great beauty.
A minor-key Middle Eastern theme announced the Turkish physician, and the character joined Jenny onstage to resurrect the fallen knight. Greg tucked his tail aside so no one would trip over it and kept his vantage point, his gaze on Jenny.
Patricia glided by and murmured, "You make a fine dragon," before she vanished to marshal her children’s choir. After the knight was resurrected and had embraced Jenny—did old George have to hug her so hard?—ethereal children’s voices heralded the shift from resurrection to Nativity. The show was almost over. Greg watched raptly, already nostalgic for these magical days when he was part of this group of people doing their best for a common goal.
The stage lights went off. There were several long beats before a pinpoint of light began to shine above center stage. It grew brighter and brighter until it became a blazing star that illuminated the stage.
At the same time, performers began to move onstage singing, "Go, tell it on the mountain, Over the hills and far away." Softly at first, then louder and louder until the whole cast was singing the jubilant spiritual.
Jenny emerged from the group under the star and gestured for the audience to sing along. They were tentative at first, but more and more joined in until the massed voices reverberated through the walls and beams of the ancient building. People began to rise to their feet, compelled to show their exhilaration in one of the transcendent moments that occurred only at live performances. Jenny was right, the barn was a living structure that deserved to continue as a place of gathering and creativity.
The song ended, the curtains fell, and the show was over. Pounding waves of applause began, and the curtains obligingly opened again.
Traditionally the least important players came on first, so Greg hastily donned the dragon head. He trotted out, getting laughter and applause when he bowed goofily before withdrawing to the back of the stage to make way for more important performers.
The dancers high-kicked their way onstage, men from the right wing, women from the left. After a swift set of turns, they stepped aside for the children’s choir. The musicians were highlighted, then the Turkish physician, and last of all Sir George and Jenny.
One last great bellow, a vicious slashing of rubber claws, and Sir George fell to the stage, mortally wounded. As a trained tenor, he could die and sing at the same time.
Greg swayed over his prey, slavering, before a hiss from the wings told him it was time to leave. He was tempted to raise both arms in a victory dance, but restrained himself. The dragon was supposed to be a metaphor for brute violence and the lower nature, not a comedian.
As he exited, Jenny blew him a kiss from the opposite wing, then darted onstage with a terrible cry. The crowd caught its breath, struck by her palpable grief as she began to sing an elegy.
Greg pulled off the dragon head so he could see and hear better. Though he had filmed her elegy twice, then he had been concentrating on his equipment. This time he was free to focus on her, and her haunting voice pierced him to the heart. Yes, she was a superb actress, but no one could sing with such a sense of loss unless she had a deeply loving spirit. What would it be like to be the beneficiary of such love?
The recognition that he was in love with Jenny struck like a sword through his gut. Though he had done his best to deny the knowledge, that was no longer possible. He had fallen head over heels for her when he was a gawky assistant cameraman, and never recovered.
For the first time ever, he wished that he were a handsome, successful actor. Or maybe a tycoon. The kind of man who could win the heart and hand of a great beauty.
A minor-key Middle Eastern theme announced the Turkish physician, and the character joined Jenny onstage to resurrect the fallen knight. Greg tucked his tail aside so no one would trip over it and kept his vantage point, his gaze on Jenny.
Patricia glided by and murmured, "You make a fine dragon," before she vanished to marshal her children’s choir. After the knight was resurrected and had embraced Jenny—did old George have to hug her so hard?—ethereal children’s voices heralded the shift from resurrection to Nativity. The show was almost over. Greg watched raptly, already nostalgic for these magical days when he was part of this group of people doing their best for a common goal.
The stage lights went off. There were several long beats before a pinpoint of light began to shine above center stage. It grew brighter and brighter until it became a blazing star that illuminated the stage.
At the same time, performers began to move onstage singing, "Go, tell it on the mountain, Over the hills and far away." Softly at first, then louder and louder until the whole cast was singing the jubilant spiritual.
Jenny emerged from the group under the star and gestured for the audience to sing along. They were tentative at first, but more and more joined in until the massed voices reverberated through the walls and beams of the ancient building. People began to rise to their feet, compelled to show their exhilaration in one of the transcendent moments that occurred only at live performances. Jenny was right, the barn was a living structure that deserved to continue as a place of gathering and creativity.
The song ended, the curtains fell, and the show was over. Pounding waves of applause began, and the curtains obligingly opened again.
Traditionally the least important players came on first, so Greg hastily donned the dragon head. He trotted out, getting laughter and applause when he bowed goofily before withdrawing to the back of the stage to make way for more important performers.
The dancers high-kicked their way onstage, men from the right wing, women from the left. After a swift set of turns, they stepped aside for the children’s choir. The musicians were highlighted, then the Turkish physician, and last of all Sir George and Jenny.
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