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Authors: Carolyn G. Hart
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Sheridan’s eyes. “Is that all?” she drawled. “What’s so bad about that?”
Carla clenched her big hands. “It’s supposed to cause lousy luck if anyone even mentions that play in a theater,” she said gruffly.
Sheridan’s full lips curved in an amused smile. “Oh, that’s really funny.”
“Funny!” Sam’s voice rose sharply, and he hunched his shoulders as if cowering against a blow.
Tonelda yanked at his arm. “Flip her off, Sam. Tell her to go get screwed.”
“Sweetie—” His tone was strangled.
Max hastily intervened. “It’s a deep-seated taboo,” he informed Sheridan, moving between her and Tonelda. “Some people think it started in Shakespeare’s time and had to do with the supernatural elements of the play, that when you invoked the witches it summoned evil spirits who would then injure the players. But some experts believe it was simply because a lot of people took sick playing in
Macbeth
during the Restoration period, and the feeling got out that if you quoted from the play, you could be struck down, that it was very, very bad luck.”
Vince moved closer to Sam. “You know, maybe it’s time to do a story on all this in the
Gazette.”
Galvanized by this new threat, Sam reached out and grabbed Vince’s arm. “Oh, no, buddy, you don’t want to do that. You’re an island booster, right? You want everything to go swell—and that kind of story could scare people away. You want us to have a good season, don’t you?”
“That’s what everybody wants,” a deep voice boomed. “Right, Sheridan?”
Harley Jenkins III, all 295 pounds of him, resplendent in red dinner jacket and green-and-red-checked trousers, clapped a meaty hand on Sheridan’s bare back. The head of Halcyon Development’s thick lips spread in a loose imitation of a smile that wasn’t reflected in his eyes. “Sounds like a bunch of nuts to me. I don’t believe in bad luck. A man makes his own luck.” He pulled Sheridan’s sinuous body close to his, gave her a hug. “Now, here’s the kind of luck any man can enjoy—and I don’t mind telling you it would take a woman like Sheridan to bring me out for this bash.”
Sheridan gave him an enigmatic smile, then gracefully slipped free of his embrace. “It always helps for opposing camps to talk.” She looked earnestly at Sam, who was watching Harley like a rat who’s just spotted a cobra. Annie thought the mantle of civic helpfulness rode uneasily on Sheridan’s smooth, naked shoulders. “I asked everyone to come tonight, hoping we could all work together for the artistic community. It seems such a shame for creative people to be at cross-purposes.”
“Cross-purposes?” Carla’s violet eyes raked Jenkins’sbroad figure. “It’s the same old story, a bully wanting his way.”
Jenkins’s bonhomie evaporated faster than a stack of quarters in Las Vegas. The veins in his mottled face bulged. “And I always get my way, you better remember that.” He turned his back on Carla, once again reaching out to clasp Sheridan’s arm.
Carla started forward and stumbled. Her hand went up and a cup full of purple punch splashed on Jenkins’s back. “Oh, Lord, so sorry. Turned my ankle.”
Annie gasped, Tonelda clapped her hands in pleasure, Max gestured for a waiter to come, and Jenkins whirled toward Carla, his face apopletic.
6
They made their escape during the mop-up and took refuge near the terrace windows on the lee side of an alabaster statue of Pan that should have been in the Getty Museum. As they looked out on the swirling currents of the party, Max tried to restrain his glee, but found it hard going. “Not that I would wish our friend Jenkins ill,” he said virtuously, “but his spirits did seem dampened.”
“That punch is damn sticky,” Annie observed, wiggling her silver pump, which matched the smoky shade of her silk dress. “I stepped in it.” Across the room, a waiter offered a second wet towel to Jenkins, who shrugged it away,
Carla clenched her big hands. “It’s supposed to cause lousy luck if anyone even mentions that play in a theater,” she said gruffly.
Sheridan’s full lips curved in an amused smile. “Oh, that’s really funny.”
“Funny!” Sam’s voice rose sharply, and he hunched his shoulders as if cowering against a blow.
Tonelda yanked at his arm. “Flip her off, Sam. Tell her to go get screwed.”
“Sweetie—” His tone was strangled.
Max hastily intervened. “It’s a deep-seated taboo,” he informed Sheridan, moving between her and Tonelda. “Some people think it started in Shakespeare’s time and had to do with the supernatural elements of the play, that when you invoked the witches it summoned evil spirits who would then injure the players. But some experts believe it was simply because a lot of people took sick playing in
Macbeth
during the Restoration period, and the feeling got out that if you quoted from the play, you could be struck down, that it was very, very bad luck.”
Vince moved closer to Sam. “You know, maybe it’s time to do a story on all this in the
Gazette.”
Galvanized by this new threat, Sam reached out and grabbed Vince’s arm. “Oh, no, buddy, you don’t want to do that. You’re an island booster, right? You want everything to go swell—and that kind of story could scare people away. You want us to have a good season, don’t you?”
“That’s what everybody wants,” a deep voice boomed. “Right, Sheridan?”
Harley Jenkins III, all 295 pounds of him, resplendent in red dinner jacket and green-and-red-checked trousers, clapped a meaty hand on Sheridan’s bare back. The head of Halcyon Development’s thick lips spread in a loose imitation of a smile that wasn’t reflected in his eyes. “Sounds like a bunch of nuts to me. I don’t believe in bad luck. A man makes his own luck.” He pulled Sheridan’s sinuous body close to his, gave her a hug. “Now, here’s the kind of luck any man can enjoy—and I don’t mind telling you it would take a woman like Sheridan to bring me out for this bash.”
Sheridan gave him an enigmatic smile, then gracefully slipped free of his embrace. “It always helps for opposing camps to talk.” She looked earnestly at Sam, who was watching Harley like a rat who’s just spotted a cobra. Annie thought the mantle of civic helpfulness rode uneasily on Sheridan’s smooth, naked shoulders. “I asked everyone to come tonight, hoping we could all work together for the artistic community. It seems such a shame for creative people to be at cross-purposes.”
“Cross-purposes?” Carla’s violet eyes raked Jenkins’sbroad figure. “It’s the same old story, a bully wanting his way.”
Jenkins’s bonhomie evaporated faster than a stack of quarters in Las Vegas. The veins in his mottled face bulged. “And I always get my way, you better remember that.” He turned his back on Carla, once again reaching out to clasp Sheridan’s arm.
Carla started forward and stumbled. Her hand went up and a cup full of purple punch splashed on Jenkins’s back. “Oh, Lord, so sorry. Turned my ankle.”
Annie gasped, Tonelda clapped her hands in pleasure, Max gestured for a waiter to come, and Jenkins whirled toward Carla, his face apopletic.
6
They made their escape during the mop-up and took refuge near the terrace windows on the lee side of an alabaster statue of Pan that should have been in the Getty Museum. As they looked out on the swirling currents of the party, Max tried to restrain his glee, but found it hard going. “Not that I would wish our friend Jenkins ill,” he said virtuously, “but his spirits did seem dampened.”
“That punch is damn sticky,” Annie observed, wiggling her silver pump, which matched the smoky shade of her silk dress. “I stepped in it.” Across the room, a waiter offered a second wet towel to Jenkins, who shrugged it away,
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