Free Season of Storms by Susanna Kearsley Page B

food. “I wonder if they’d let me get away with just having one course, instead of all three. Any one of these pasta dishes would do me for a meal.” I didn’t think I’d be able to keep with Italian tradition and follow my pasta with a plate of meat and vegetables.
    Rupert assured me he’d eat what I didn’t. “Anyway, you could do with a good solid meal for once.”
    Den glanced up. “Don’t you eat well at home?”
    “She does not,” Rupert said. “She eats things out of tins, with a spoon.”
    “Not always, I don’t. I take some of my meals at the restaurant, when I’m working. I waitress part-time,” I explained, for Den’s benefit.
    “So this must be kind of a treat, having someone serve you for a change.”
    He was very perceptive. I smiled. “Yes, it is. I’ve decided if I ever win the lottery I’m going to hire somebody to serve all my meals, and bring me breakfast in bed.”
    “Perhaps I’ll apply for the job,” Den said, with a wink and a smile. He was, I thought, an irrepressible flirt. It seemed as much a part of his nature as his fidgeting—even sitting here it seemed some part of him was always moving, poised for action. His restless hands twisted the thin paper wrapper from a breadstick into a little baton that he tapped on the table.
    “So, Dennis,” said Rupert, “I expect you’ve got the whole play memorized by now, have you?”
    Den grinned. “Almost. I’ve been over it backwards and forwards and broken it down into sections of scenes that might do for rehearsals—you’ll have to look those over later, tell me what you think. It wasn’t easy, I can tell you. Three acts to the play, and every act essentially one scene . . . except for the first act, I guess you could see that as two separate scenes, couldn’t you? Still,” he said, shaking his head, “it’s a bastard to break down.”
    I’d assumed that the play, having only three actors, a handful of props, and one standing set, would be something of a stage manager’s dream, but recalling it now I could understand why it might pose a bit of a problem for Den. The SM eventually had to run all the play’s performances from his prompt book—a ring binder holding the master copy of the script, on which he’d written all the technical cues and directions that came out of rehearsal—and to make up his prompt book he needed to break the play down into scenes.
    The problem was that, except for the intervals between acts, D’Ascanio’s Il Prezzo didn’t really break anywhere, it simply went on in continuous motion.
    So would I, come to that—my character appeared on the stage before anyone else and remained there until final curtain. The first and last speeches were mine.
    I’d been trying not to think about that, trying not to dwell on the responsibility, but Den, as though reading my mind, asked me now, “Are you nervous at all, taking on the lead role?”
    “I’ll have Rupert to direct me.” Not that that answered his question, but it certainly pleased Rupert, who smiled the first real smile I’d seen all afternoon, and said to Den, “She’ll do just fine. She’s very talented, you know.”
    “I’m sure.” Den’s voice was a little too carefully pitched to be convincing.
    Determined not to let that shake my already wobbly confidence, I managed a fair imitation of my mother’s casual sophistication. “And it really is such a wonderful part. The whole play is so beautifully written.”
    He agreed. “A little too beautifully written, for some people.”
    Leaning back so the waiter could set down my starter, I asked, “What do you mean?”
    “Well, there’s some question as to whether Galeazzo D’Ascanio actually wrote it, it’s so unlike his other work.”
    I considered the plot of Il Prezzo : A World War I soldier purposely sacrifices himself going over the top in the trenches because he’s been told by a spiritual medium that the first side to lose a man will win the battle, and his young