THE COMINGS AND GOINGS

The Woogen Creek began as a tributary somewhere deep in the heavily treed forest surrounding Ashton Hills. Following a zigzag course through the low, rolling terrain, it relaxed as it passed through the center of town, spreading its banks to a four hundred and fifty foot width until it reached the city limits, then shrank back to a moderate size as it wound away to the south. The wide portion, just south and east of the town center, christened Ashton Pond, was surrounded by manicured grounds, replete with picnic benches and swing sets all set in a blaze of flowering shrubs and gardens called Paisley Taft Park. The erratic path of the creek prompted the need for a series of bridges, single lane, and all constructed of wooden planks. One such bridge led to the entrance of the town's most prestigious neighborhood, Paisley Gardens. On a winding cul-de-sac, named Paisley Pathway, ten monster homes, numbered consecutively and constructed in the Georgian style, stood on equally monstrous lots facing one another, imperiously, around a large circle of brick at the end of the road. The owners and occupants of the homes represented Ashton Hills most wealthy and influential residents; one banker, two lawyers, a dentist, a medical surgeon, whose practice was at a hospital seventy miles to the south, a new car dealer, the head of the local utilities commission, and three presidents of local businesses. As one would expect, this formidable collection was also the bulk of representation on the town's council.

On this warm, spring Tuesday in mid May, the council was in session to debate the coming tourist season. Chairing the meeting was Milo Braithwaite, one of town's lawyers, residing at number three Paisley Pathway.

"Could we please have some order while we deal with this budget matter" He rapped a tiny, brass tipped gavel on the long table indicating his annoyance, "I would like to move on to the real meat of this session." Setting down the gavel, he clasped his fingers together as if about to cheer.

"I don't see why Osborne should get five hundred dollars from our budget to decorate the front of his store." Jeffrey Richardson, the town's dentist, number seven Paisley Pathway, stuck out a pouting chin.

Shelia Croft, wife of William Croft, lawyer, tried once again in her soft, pleading voice. "Jeffrey, we've already explained. Daryl's store is a center piece on the main street; it's one of our main tourist attractions,".

"Exactly my point. He does more business than any of us during the season, why can't he pay for his own decorations instead of extracting it from the budget?"

"Extract this, Richardson." Daryl sneered rudely.

"Hey! I don't have to take–"

Bang! Bang! Bang! Milo's gavel crashed loudly on the tabletop. "Alright! Enough! We are going to vote on this now. All in favour," he held his hand high, glaring about the table, "Opposed? Passed. Now please, may we proceed to matters that are more important. Amanda?"

Amanda Wells, secretary to both Milo and the council, consulted her notes, and re-crossing her long legs with a silky swish, read aloud in her butter smooth voice. "We have a question posed to council regarding the program plans for the playhouse," she paused to curl a strand of chestnut hair behind her ear, "it comes from Mrs. Tiffany Osborne."

Tiffany Osborne was a flaming redhead; tall, shapely, and fighting off her middle forties. She went about that war with a diligent program of exercise and diet, but erred on the side of cosmetic excessiveness. Heavily made-up eyes, brightly rouged cheeks and flaming lips, shaped to a sensual pout, still projected an undeniable attractiveness, however noticeably artificial.

"And your question, Tiffany?" Milo sniffed, assuming attentiveness.

"Well, as chair of the Ashton Hills Playhouse, I want to know what our program will be for the summer."

"I believe, as chair of the playhouse, that would be your decision, would it not?" Antonio issued his query with the restrained disapproval he held for Tiffany Osborne.

"The council has always done the approving and booking of our performances, my decisions are directed at the successful production of those choices, Tony." She fluffed her shoulder length hair and draped a languid arm over the back of her chair.

"Antonio, if you please." Annoyed.

"Oh right, how could I forget that lavish marquee in front of your funeral parlor- Antonio, Funerary."

"Funeral Lounge." He muttered through clenched teeth.

"Oops!"

Bang! Bang! "Settle down, please. Tiffany is quite correct, we need something- ah, light, I should think. something with sophisticated appeal- a Noel Coward type of thing. Any thoughts, people?"

"Jean and I saw The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas, last fall. It was pretty funny." Allen Gregorio offered, slumping in his chair while scanning the faces about the table.

"I hardly think your Best Little Whorehouse in Texas equates even remotely with Noel Coward." Milo frowned with emphasis at Ashton Hill's, Hardware Heaven owner.

"From what I've read about Noel Coward, maybe it should." Allen replied, stiffly.

"Actually, the style of that play," the interruption preempted Milo's rebuttal, "would be a very good format. Lots of action, laughs, and a zgood sized cast." Susan Ho was a delicately pretty Chinese, engaged to Victor Wang, owner and chef, at Forbidden City, the largest and most popular restaurant in town.

Milo's gavel thundered through the room again, breaking up the babble of voices tossing out names of plays that purported to match the suggested form.

"This behaviour is most unproductive. I suggest we form a small committee to look into the type of play I- that has been recommended, and report back at the next meeting. Our time is running out."

"That'd be a good slogan for you Tony." Tiffany snorted. His intense glare burned the smirk from her face.

"Excuse me, Mr. Chairman." Susan Ho raised a dainty hand.

"Miss Ho has the floor." Milo shouted, diverting the attention of the two silent combatants.

"I understand that Victoria Moss has her nephew staying with her."

"Is that pertinent, Miss Ho?" Milo pinched his nose.

"He's a playwright, from England. I was wondering if maybe we could impose upon him for- for some help of some kind..." Her voice trailed away uncertainly.

Wishing desperately to end the meeting and get on with his plans, Milo lauded her idea and suggested she chair the special search committee, choosing whomever she wished to assist. With a quick call for a vote, he slammed the gavel for the final time on its approval, and closed the meeting.

*****

"Are we going back to the office again?"

"Well at this time of the morning, in the middle of the week, I can't see an alternative." Milo smiled patronizingly behind his aviator sunglasses.

Amanda sighed unhappily, trailing a limp arm over the doorsill of the BMW convertible. "Just once, I'd like us to be together in a proper bed instead of that sticky leather couch."

"Amanda, we have to be discrete, everyone's eyebrows are high enough without you and I waltzing into a local hotel or driving out of town together." He slid a glance up her reclining body, feeling his hands grow damp against the leather of the steering wheel.

"But Milo," her voiced hummed seductively, and her hand crept over the console onto his lap, "even here, in the car, would be a nice change."

Milo jerked the wheel violently at her foraying fingers. "Amanda, darling, the top's down." He looked worriedly about as they sped through town toward his office.

"But look who's up!" She rolled her head on the seat back and grinned deliciously at him.

"Amanda! For god's sake. I'll crash the car."

She withdrew her hand and placed it in her own lap, stroking the inside of her thigh. "Please baby, maybe down in the park? We could say we just went down for lunch." The phrase brought bubbles of sweat to Milo's forehead, and he squeezed the wheel until the leather left its design on the palms of his hands.

*****

Susan decided that Tiffany should definitely be on the search committee, and she accepted Tiffany's nomination of Allen Gregorio as the third member.

"First thing, I guess," Susan declared, "is to go and see Victoria. See if she'll agree to getting her nephew to help us."

"What about Victoria herself? She's an old actress isn't she?"

"I hope you can be more diplomatic than that if we ask her." Tiffany chided him, softening the reprimand with a teasing poke in the ribs.

"Yeah, well... I hear her place is full of old theatre stuff. Jean says she's got memorabilia up the ying yang."

Susan gave him an unfriendly glance, Tiffany's comment about diplomacy invading her own assessment of Allen's contribution to their group.

"So, dear," Tiffany asked, smiling, "when do we do this?"

Susan nodded as she answered. "I'll give her a call tonight and see if we can't set something up for tomorrow noon."

"I uh, I'm doing inventory tomorrow." Allen avoided Tiffany's eyes.

"That's okay," Susan said brightly. "We can handle it... or I can do it myself, if necessary."

"Call me tonight when you find out." Tiffany patted her arm. "Meanwhile I'll check my calendar."

******