THE COMINGS AND GOINGS

Monday morning Ashton Hills awoke to a blank, grey sky and pouring rain. The brick road of The Pathway shone wet and slick as the file of BMWs, Mercedes and a variety of equally prestigious automobiles, wound their way over the wooden bridge and out to the main street. Cal Amarca shifted down and sped past two of his neighbours with a friendly wave and a short toot of his horn. He pulled to a rolling stop at the intersection, and then swung left up the main street to the Ashton Hills Bank, repeating the toot of his horn at other early bird merchants as he passed. Esmerelda Diggs smiled and raised her flowered umbrella as she fumbled with the lock on the pharmacy door. Everet Polasky was too busy poking at the water filled bulge in the awning over his vegetable stand to acknowledge, and the Baker's Best driver raised a finger after narrowly avoiding the spray Cal's Porche threw up from a large puddle in the center of the road.

He ground to an abrupt halt in his spot behind the bank, and dashed to the rear door, jacket folded protectively in front, and keys at the ready.

"Morning Mr. Amarca, not a pretty day, eh?"

"Hi Tilly, no it's not. I probably should have pulled into the garage." He slipped his jacket on, smiling at the elderly bank teller, and strode quickly to his office to begin his day's work.

*****

Milo jogged up the stairs to his second floor office, pleased with the ease of the endeavor. Checking his pulse, he smugly complimented himself, and marched briskly into his offices. At fifty-five, you've still got it Milo. The lights were already on, and Amanda rose to greet him as he entered.

"Good morning, Milo." She set down the file she was holding and leaned on the edge of her desk, smiling coyly.

"And to you, Amanda, dear." With a fast scan of the door and windows, he dropped his umbrella and briefcase and took her in his arms in a squirmy embrace. "Aah, you taste delicious my dear."

"Better than last week?" She teased, checking her lipstick in the tiny mirror on her desk.

"Naughty, naughty." Milo smirked and walked into his private office. "Did we get a fax from Downey yet?"

"It's in your tray, I think you may have to speak with Cal at the bank, Bill Croft is opposing the settlement."

"Oh yes, the bright young Mr. Croft. I'm not worried about his opposition; Downey has all the arguments on his side. We'll be in and out of the courthouse before he can adjust his tie. And speaking of Captain America. He treated us to one of his idiotic driving displays this morning, that damned Porche of his splattered muck all over the front of my car."

Amanda giggled, turning from the doorway and returning to her desk. "I think he's cute."

"Cute!" Milo sneered, watching the sensual rise of her skirt as she sat down. When she crossed her legs, he sagged into his own chair, trembling fingers feeling once again, for his pulse.

*****

Tiffany stretched and yawned, watching her husband follow the other cars down the street over the bridge and into the trees. The ornate, Swiss cuckoo clock on the hall wall began its quarter hour melody, and she automatically followed her ritual of pulling the weights back to their starting point. Eight-thirty, what an ungodly hour to be out of bed on a miserable day like this. She padded in fluffy slippers, out to the kitchen and poured a huge, steaming mug of coffee, retracing her steps, down the hall to the master bedroom. The covers on the king-sized bed looked like a bomb had hit them, so she chose the chaise lounge by the corner window instead. Lying comfortably, with her coffee nearby, Tiffany let her gaze wander across the garden to Allen's house next door. Their carefully arranged tryst had not gone entirely as planned. The red wine had left an impenetrable stain on his pants and on the beige broadloom. After fussing with a variety of solvents from his store, there was little time left for their intended purpose. As a result, her lingerie surprise, had resulted in the passionate nip she had been treating. She raised one knee, allowing the lace robe to fall away, and poked tenderly at the fading red marks. Maybe she could accomplish something at Richardson's party, she sighed, lowering her leg and absently hoisting her pendulous breasts.

*****

"These are all the samples of designer shirts in the size you requested, Mr. Osborne." The young man wheeled the rack to the center of the office and stood awaiting instructions.

"Good. Thanks. Just leave them there, and close the door on your way out."

"Yessir."

Daryl came around his desk and began sorting through the dozen or so shirts. Selecting two, he crossed to his closet and opened the door, holding them up one at a time in the mirror. "Hmmm," he said to his reflection, "maybe something slightly brighter." He walked back and rummaged through the rest, finally selecting a shiny silk, longs-sleeved dress shirt, in lemon yellow. "Perfect!" He chimed, folding it carefully and stuffing it into his briefcase. "That, with my blue blazer and charcoal slacks ... you dog, you." He went back to his desk, whistling tunelessly, and conjuring up an image of Grace Winston falling over herself when she saw his outfit. Daryl's fantasies about his next door neighbour were beginning to edge out the reality in his daily life. He'd even gone so far as to memorize her morning and evening schedule, contriving to be at specific windows to catch even the most fleeting glimpse as she moved about her house. An ardent fan, or maybe even an addict, of the television show ER, his fetish over women in hospital scrubs screamed for the day when he might see Grace Winston in such attire.

The open house was a gift from his prurient gods; Daryl was gearing up for a big night.

THE PLAY

Nigel sat straddling the lounge on the deck. The rain had stopped finally, leaving pools of clear water on the cedar stained planks, and the strong scent of wet grass permeated the garden. The product of his and Victoria's frantic weekend sat, neatly printed, in front of him. The idea was rather intriguing, a play about putting on a play, with all the backstage bickering and ego bruising over parts and lines. While the outline was very basic, they had set a direction for some dramatic situations, supported by a framework of discretely broad comedy. He had told Victoria everything about the evening's events, including Susan's astonishing behaviour, expressing grave concerns about meeting her again alone. Victoria was surprised as well, having known the young woman for some time, and her apparent devotion to Victor. She agreed that Nigel would have to be more circumspect; they couldn't afford to stir up something that would spoil their chances with the play.

Susan remedied their problem when she telephoned at breakfast time to say she had arranged a meeting with the search committee for eleven o'clock at Hardware Heaven. "Well now at least you know you won't be alone with her." Victoria bit into a toasted crumpet and chewed contentedly.

"As long as it stays that way." He said, doubtfully.

"Just concentrate on your mission, Nigel. Don't give them too much; just a tease, but remember to make the subtle suggestion that the local residents should consider playing the parts themselves... the soft push."

Why, he wondered, was that so important. Surely, any play they came up with would do better in the hands of experienced performers. He flapped the pages a few times on the lounge then stood up and went over to the breakfast cart.

"Can I pour you some more coffee?"

"No, I'm fine thanks, dear. There're more crumpets in the kitchen if you'd like."

"No thanks, coffee's plenty." He wandered back and sat down, occupying his attention with a red squirrel swaying on the tip of an unbelievably slender limb of the majestic silver birch tree in the garden. "Victoria? This girl I met at the theatre, Darlene, she suggested, without saying anything really, that she was being shunned somewhat, for being black. Is there a prejudice in this town toward black people?"

"African Americans, Nigel. We don't say black anymore, or Negro, or coloured. And to answer your question, yes, I think that some people are inclined that way."

"African Americans! How would I know if some black person were from Africa or not? That presumes that all dark skinned people originated there, which flies in the face of some very extensive research into the origins of people. How would you like it if you were Scandinavian and everyone called you American?"

"It's simply a politically correct designation, dear."

"Oh pooh! I can't stand the hypocrisy of that term. To me, their black... or brown, or whatever. I call a spade a spade."

"Well I wouldn't address your Darlene with that term, if I were you." Victoria finished her crumpet and brushed her fingers alongside the lounge. "I've always found it best to look past the skin of people when dealing with them, and look into their hearts instead. We all bleed red, Nigel." She watched him, watching the squirrel, wondering if she'd had a son, would he be like the young man sitting next to her. "I think, if you're planning on walking, you should think about going to your meeting." She glanced at the sky, intuitively reading the signs. "Might be a good idea to take the umbrella."

He sighed deeply and stood up, taking the sheaf of printed pages with him. "Right. So... wish me luck Victoria." He leaned down and kissed the soft skin of her temple.

"Kick ass, my boy." She barked, waving him out through the side gate, play tucked under his arm, swinging the umbrella morosely.