Free Spellcrossed by Barbara Ashford

what the Crossroads is all about,” Lee said. “What it has to be about. For everyone who comes here—not just the Mackenzies.”
    I nodded. We might be in the business of theatre, but there had to be more than just putting on good shows. The board would never understand, but the staff did. We had all been changed by our seasons at the Crossroads.

    The reception broke up quickly, the adult performers eager to get to some real drinking and the parents vainly hoping to bring their kids down from the combined highs of opening night and sugary cake.
    The board volunteered to handle cleanup. Instead of pitching in, Long motioned the staff to the far end of the breezeway. Acknowledging us with a pontifical nod, he said, “We can be proud—very proud. An excellent start to our season.”
    “Thanks, Long. I’m glad you were pleased.”
    “Weren’t you?”
    I shrugged. “You know how it is with the director. She sees every little mistake.”
    “Well, I thought most of the actors did quite well tonight. Even that Otis fellow. But next season, we really must get some higher caliber performers.”
    “Then we need to start paying higher caliber salaries,” Janet noted dryly.
    “Rowan Mackenzie used nonprofessionals and look what he accomplished.”
    Well, duh. He’s a faery!
    “Naturally, I wouldn’t dream of comparing your efforts to his, Maggie. You’re still a novice.”
    I bit back my retort. He was right, after all. But I really didn’t need to hear this tonight.
    A sudden gust of cold air made me shiver. Long used that as an excuse to wrap his arm around my bare shoulders.
    “I don’t want you to be discouraged if the production fell a bit short.”
    From “an excellent start” to falling short in fifteen seconds or less.
    As I eased free of Long’s arm, another blast of cold air swirled around us. Long glanced skyward, frowning. Bernie was examining the skies as well, but the rest of the staff regarded Long with stony expressions.
    I had felt the chilly blast of Rowan’s anger often enough to recognize what was happening. The staff was pissed—and some of them were unable to rein in their power.
    “Do you suppose a storm’s blowing in?” Long asked, oblivious to the one that was brewing on the breezeway. “Ah, well. It’s like Twain said: ‘If you don’t like the weather in New England, just wait a few minutes.’” He chuckled. “Don’t worry about the show, Maggie. You’ll reach Mr. Mackenzie’s level of excellence one day. You’re like a fine wine that only grows more—”
    “That’s enough!” Alex thundered.
    “You’re damn right!” Lee exclaimed.
    I had expected Lee’s outburst. But I had never seen Alex lose his temper.
    “Do you really think we need to hear remarks like that on our opening night?” Catherine was literally shaking with anger. Like her father, still waters clearly ran deep.
    “Maggie worked her ass off for this show,” Javier said, his expression nearly as threatening as Lee’s.
    “We ALL did,” Mei-Yin added.
    “And for you to say such things is so…so…” Hal’s face got redder and redder as he struggled to find the words. “It’s just wrong!”
    My throat tightened. How many times had they warned me to curb my temper around our not-so-beloved board president? Now they were ignoring their own advice to leap to my defense.
    God, I love these people.
    “The members of this staff are fully aware of how talented Rowan was,” Reinhard said with icy deliberation. “But Maggie is our director now. And she deserves your support.”
    “But I
do
support her.”
    “You got a funny way of showing it,” Bernie said.
    Long’s gaze darted from face to face before coming to rest on mine. “I didn’t mean…you seemed dissatisfied with the show and I thought…why, you’ve worked wonders this past year. I’ve told you so a hundred—oh, no, please…”
    As he fumbled in his breast pocket for a hanky, I swiped at my cheeks, furious at my unprofessional