Felicity's transparent excuse hadn't held up for one minute. Why she had even bothered was a mystery to her. How could anyone in his or her right mind condemn her for an adulterous transgression, when her spouse was parading around in public, dressed as a woman? Gavin was the one in trouble here, she thought, not me.

The bizarre thing was, that his hissy fit over finding her at Peter's, resonated almost identically to that of a real woman—gestures and all.  And the fact that he delivered it while still in drag compounded the image. Their argument had raged on through the night, with Gavin rapidly losing ground and eventually, sinking to the bed, weeping.

Felicity's involvement with Peter exploded in bits and pieces as she saw him weakening, and her desperate explanations turned to arrogant disclosures. In the end, Gavin had been gutted.

Threatened with the humiliation of exposure in drag, albeit reluctant, and a cuckold, Felicity's terms had been adamant; he would continue in the role of Galleria for as long as necessary, and he would drop any objections to her affair with Peter. As a sop to his shattered manhood, she stated that she would continue to protect his secret, and assist him in maintaining the most believable charade possible, which Gavin was to understand, meant full time.

Ecstatic with her new position of power, Felicity immediately began consolidating. Gavin's company was informed that he would be in Europe for at least a month seeking new business contacts, and would be in touch as often as possible by phone. Next, she gathered all his clothing, credit cards and cash, and locked them away in her cupboard; Gavin would not be sneaking out on her watch.

A quick phone call to Peter at his office to explain what had happened, and that he could drop by any time he wanted, and finally, as promised, a serious deliberation over Galleria's outfit for the Jubilee.

*****

Melaine left the car in Milo's parking spot and walked the length of town to Antonio's. The viewing lounge set aside for changing and makeup, was packed with people vying for the costumes Susan had resurrected from the theatre's prop room. Henry, Darlene, Serge, and Antonio dashed about like a triage team, waving hair spray, wigs and cosmetic cases, treating their 'patients' in order of those most needing their services.

Melaine recognized Virginia Adair and her partner, Howard Cornwall, the Toronto critics, immediately; both dressed in black and looking like Natasha and Igor. Virginia was sporting her trademark cigarette holder, waving it about like a baton while Serge tried desperately to do something with her Keely Smith hair.

In another part of the room, she caught a glimpse of Ivan Bader limping toward his wife, his cheeks flushed with an expression of apologetic guilt. Squeezing past a pair of squabbling, retired actors, she made her way to the corner of the room where Susan was issuing instructions to the committee members.

"Sorry I'm late. I had to leave the car for Milo."

"It's okay," Susan said, "all that's left to do really, is get this mob into the right wagons at eight, then hurry up to the theatre ahead of them."

"You mean I walked all this way for nothing?"

"Not for nothing, dear," Tiffany grinned, "we're all awaiting the arrival of Galleria."

"I don't see why that's so important." Susan complained; nearly the only one left that didn't know about Gavin.

"Neither do we, until we see her." Denise remarked, pointedly.

Patty tugged at Tiffany's arm and whispered something in her ear. The two waited until the group broke up, and then slipped outside, stepping behind a planter box filled with a cedar hedge.

"They're not going to make fun of him are they?"

"Are you kidding? Why would anyone here spoil the potential for a great show? And speaking of shows, what's with the Boy's Town get up?" Tiffany eyed the tie-dyed bell-bottom jeans and vest, and the peaked cap, hiding Patty's hair. Suddenly her eyes lit up and her mouth formed a large round, oh. "You sly devil you, you're going after Gavin with his own game, aren't you?" Patty just blushed and stared back. "Well good for you. I told you a walk on the wild side could be exciting."

"I- it's just that I thought..." She blushed again. "It's just that, if Peter is- is... well why shouldn't I?"

"No reason in the world, darling. Welcome to the club."

******

Arthur Paisley sat beside Victoria, kitty corner from an annoyed Milo, who was flinching with mortification as each comment Everet made, meant a slap on his thigh. Susan clopped past in her platforms calling for the first wagon to exit the lot, and Arthur placed a steadying hand on Victoria's as the wagon jerked in a right-angled turn. Milo turned the medallion on his Nehru jacket right side up, smoothed back his hair, and pinched his knees together, as far from Everet as possible.

"Here we go," Arthur said, cheerfully.

The wagons followed in order, each bearing their party of flamboyantly attired passengers, out onto the end of Main Street and immediately a roar went up from the congregation lining the sidewalks. A scratchy recording of, 'There's No Business Like Show Business' blared at increased volume from the department store speakers, announcing the convoy rattling slowly up the main drag.

Red and yellow streamers arched over the procession as it made its way past the happy onlookers, alighting on heads, horses, and some of Ashton Hills' finest, without discrimination. The committeewomen scurried along the edge of the park behind the crowd, on their way to the playhouse, pausing every few feet to glimpse Galleria and the besotted Allen. As the last wagon passed, the crowd poured out onto the road behind, hurling their streamers and cheering loudly.

Carlos and Arlene propped open the theatre doors and rolled the red carpet out to the edge of the sidewalk. With the standards down either side, holding the felt ropes in place, they hurried back to the projection room to man the controls that would spotlight the arrivals.

Ross was on the phone backstage, trying to reach Daryl to get him to turn down the volume on his speakers so that it didn't conflict with the more sedate selection emanating from the playhouse. Jean was busy testing the curtain controls one last time, and checking her outfit in a dusty prop mirror.

"That guy's a total idiot sometimes." Ross grumped, coming up behind her.

"No argument there."

"No arguments here either," he said, cupping her nude bottom through the flimsy skirt, with both hands.

Jean turned to face him, displaying her most beguiling smile. "That's not the only passive area," she said, directing his eyes to her blouse, "but all in good time."

He panted a weary assent and returned to his testing of the stage lights.