Trust Me

It’s a little fringe playhouse located underneath the viaduct. Know it?”
    “No. I rarely go to the theater.”
    Desdemona had learned early in life that the world was divided into two groups, those who loved the theater and barbarians. She seldom socialized with the latter, but today for some reason she was inspired to make an exception.
    “The Limelight is very small,” Desdemona said. “It does a lot of experimental contemporary stuff. My cousin Juliet has a part in the current production.”
    Stark looked dubious. “Is it going to be one of those weird plays here there’s no plot or scenery and the actors come on stage naked and throw things at the audience?”
    Desdemona smiled blandly. “I see you’re familiar with experimental theater.”
    “I’ve heard about stuff like that. I don’t think it’s the kind of thing I’d enjoy.”
    “Look at the positive side. To a man who is going to spend his wedding night alone, I would think that a live actress running around in the buff on stage would be a lot more interesting than an inflatable, anatomically correct doll.”
    Stark gave her a thoughtful look. “Point taken.”

2

    “It stunk. The audience hated it.” Juliet Wainwright, clad in a skintight black leotard and a pair of jeans, collapsed into the booth next to Stark. “We’re doomed.”
    Stark wrapped one hand around his small espresso cup and moved it out of range of Juliet’s flying hair. Warily, he surveyed the newest Wainwright arrival. She looked a lot like the other members of Desdemona’s seemingly endless family whom Stark had met this evening.
    There was a distinctly feline quality to most of the Wainwrights. Tall, sleek, and graceful, they had sharp, striking faces, amber eyes, and tawny brown hair. As a group they were a handsome lot. Every move was poised, dramatic, or over-the-top.
    Desdemona appeared to be the sole exception, so far as Stark could discern. Technically speaking, he had to admit that she was not as physically arresting as the rest of the family. She was a good deal shorter than the others, for starters. And she moved with energy and enthusiasm rather than languid, world-weary grace.
    There was also something softer about her, he thought. Softer and infinitely more appealing. She had a full, gentle mouth, huge turquoise eyes, and a wild, frothy halo of unabashedly red curls. Surrounded by her more dramatic relatives, she stood out like a marmalade-colored tabby cat that had mistakenly been reared in a family of leopards.
    It was late, and the cozy coffee house, aptly named Emote Espresso, was filled with Wainwrights and other theater people. Most of them were refugees from the shabby little Limelight, which was a block away. Members of the cast and crew mingled with the handful of stalwart theatergoers who had bravely endured the evening’s performance all the way through the final act.
    “They didn’t hate it, Juliet,” Desdemona said soothingly. “They just didn’t get it.”
    “They despised it.” Juliet closed her eyes in evident anguish. “You’d have thought the audience was sitting in a morgue watching an autopsy. The reviews will be lousy, and the show is going to close in a week. I can feel it.”
    Stark privately agreed with her, so he sipped his espresso and offered no comment. None was needed in any event. The Wainwrights were perfectly capable of carrying on a conversation without any help from him. In fact, it would have been hard to get a word in edgewise.
    “Who cares about reviews?” Kirsten Wainwright demanded from the other side of the table. “This is fringe theater. Experimental stuff. Mainstream reviewers never get it. If they did get it, it wouldn’t be fringe theater.”
    At least he wasn’t the only one who hadn’t understood Fly on a Wall, Stark thought. He looked at Kirsten. She was not a Wainwright by blood, but with her striking features, golden brown hair, and brown eyes, she fit right in with the rest of the pack. She had been introduced as the wife of Desdemona’s cousin, Henry, who was also at the table.
    The booth was crowded, but no one seemed to mind. With the exception of Desdemona, the Wainwrights lolled about in various arty poses, vying for space and attention. Desdemona sat in the center opposite Stark, squashed between Henry and Kirsten, who towered over her.
    “Bad reviews mean people don’t buy tickets and the show closes,” Juliet wailed. “I’ll be out of work again.” She cradled her head