Antiques Fate Read Online Free Page B

Fair?”
    â€œWhen you were living in Chicago, dear. Now, then, Millie—”
    â€œNow wait,” I said. “What play were you in?”
    â€œIt wasn’t exactly a play, child. A play is only one kind of theatrical exhibition.”
    â€œWell, what was this one?”
    Her hand fluttered like a butterfly. “I read poems submitted by school children. They had a shared subject.”
    Millie was nodding, smiling admiringly. “Oh, yes. ‘Ode to a Butter Cow.’ ”
    â€œNow,” Mother said, “about my dressing room—”
    â€œYou mean,” I said, “you gave dramatic readings by schoolchildren standing next to the cow carved from butter?”
    â€œThat’s one way to put it,” Mother sniffed.
    That was the only way to put it.
    Millie was radiant. “It was a transcendent performance. You’d have been proud of your mother.”
    My mouth was dry, but I couldn’t transcend it, so I asked, “Is there a vending machine around?”
    Millie pointed a slightly twisted finger toward the box office area. “You’ll find several down that hallway, dear.”
    I nodded. “You two go ahead with the tour—I’ll catch up.”
    Mother looped arms with the woman, as if they had been friends forever, and as they moved toward the auditorium doors, I went in search of caffeine, figuring our afternoon here might stretch into early evening, Mother most likely wanting to do a run-through. When you’re in charge of hats, you have to stay on top of things.
    I had just gotten a strong-tasting coffee when a young man in his twenties exited the box office. His shoulder-length hair was as black as the rest of his outfit—T-shirt, jeans, high-top tennies—but his complexion was so white it was startling, especially the skin around his multiple tattoos. His face was angular, nose thin and long, mouth wide, and each earlobe had been stretched with a circular earring making a hole you could see through.
    â€œI’m Chad,” he said blandly, “Millicent’s grandson and the New Vic’s artistic director.” He showed no particular interest in me, his grandmother, or the position he’d just mentioned, for that matter.
    â€œI’m Brandy Borne—Vivian’s daughter and assistant.”
    Sushi, transferred to one hand while I held the coffee with the other, took an immediate dislike to Chad by way of a low growl.
    Filling an awkward pause, I said, “Mother is grateful for the booking.”
    He shrugged again. “We had no choice.”
    I nodded. “Because that New York company cancelled.”
    He closed his eyes and opened them again, bored with me, and life. “There wasn’t any New York company.”
    I frowned. “I don’t understand. . . .”
    He sighed, burdened as he was with having the weight of the world—or this theater, anyway—on his shoulders. “You will understand, Ms. Borne, after you have a look around. Everything is so outdated and antiquated that I can’t get anyone of any importance at all to appear here.”
    I didn’t appreciate the obvious insult to my mother. Like all children, only I have the right to make snide remarks about my parents.
    So there was a little edge when I said, “So update the theater. Or is it a matter of money?”
    His laugh could not have sounded more hollow if he’d done it down a well. “Money in part. Grandmother once had quite a pile, but over the years it got sunk into this monstrosity. Not that it did much good.”
    â€œNo?”
    He shrugged. “We’ve been running in place for years. Strictly Shakespeare. Other theaters in tourist-trap towns do musicals and murder mysteries and other crowd-pleasing stuff. But Grandmother is on the board of—”
    â€œDon’t tell me—the good ol’ board of trustees. Keepers of the status quo, circa a couple hundred years