A Rose By Any Other Name
by Elizabeth Anne Kessick

Chapter 1:

"What’s in a name? That which we call a Rose by any other name would smell as sweet..."

Penelope: Your name is the one that lingers in my mind above all others. You are sweeter than a thousand bouquets of Shakespeare’s roses.

Signed, your secret Romeo

" Where’s my Pepto-Bismol? I think I’m going to be sick." Penny Alexander flopped down in her office chair with a huge sigh. "Either this--" she waved a red-ribbon wrapped note in the air-- "is exciting me a bit too much, or I’m getting the flu."

From across the room Steph DiMarco flashed a knowing smile at her friend’s exasperated expression."Let me feel your forehead," said Steph. She wandered over to Penny and placed one scarlet-fingernailed hand on her friend’s clammy brow. "Hmmmm...feverish symptoms. Apparently someone isn’t used to receiving love notes very often."

"Try never. This is my first secret love note in 28 long years," stammered Penny. "Look at me! My hands are clammy and my heart’s going a mile a minute. What’s more, it feels like there’s a guerilla gang of butterflies terrorizing my guts. I can hardly believe what a mess I’ve become." She grinned sheepishly. "I feel so teenage."

Steph cocked an eyebrow and fixed Penny with a clinical gaze. "Uh-huh. And you look like a giddy 13 year old too. Let’s see -- sweaty and flushed. That note must be hot stuff!"

"Hot stuff? More like a cold, calculated joke," responded Penny. "Remember, we work in the theatre-- home of professional liars. Don’t you remember last year, when one of the male leads thought that hoisting a corset up on a flagpole was funny?"

Steph wrinkled her brow in recollection. "Ah, yes. My best whalebone stomacher. As I recall, I got back at that guy by dumping itching powder down his tunic." She shot Penny a sly look. "But don’t distract me. How about that note?"

Penny sat back and waved her hand carelessly at Steph to show how inconsequential she considered the note. If only she could brush it away that easily. Unfortunately, it seemed that whoever was playing the joke really knew how to get to her. As too many people knew, Penny Alexander was cursed with a soft spot for l’amour.

When was she going to quit being a hopeless romantic, anyway? Why hadn’t her disasterous ten-year run of bad boyfriends and lousy dates finally killed the romantic spark still barely burning in her heart? When would she get it? Life just wasn’t a romance novel!

But as much as she hated to admit it, the note made her heart skip was because she wanted it to be real. As if.

With a little sigh, Penny began carefully folding the note back into its original form.

"Wait! You’ve got to let me read it, Pen", Steph said. That way I can tell whether it’s a joke or not. Remember, the mistress knows all."

"Ah, yes. The mistress," replied Penny. "Steph, you’re about as far away from my definition of "mistress" as possible. Unless, of course, you try the dominatrix type."

Steph let loose a throaty laugh. "Remember, it’s my official title. Wardrobe Mistress. But I can be the Wardrobe Mistress of Doom if you like. Anyway, where’s that note again?"

"Oh, here you go." Penny lobbed the note in Steph’s direction. "It’s probably from some joker in the cast-- the first line’s from Romeo and Juliet."

Steph smiled. "Just because we’re doing the play doesn’t mean that the cast members have read the script yet!"

"Oh, just read it."

While Steph read the note, Penny scanned her office in search of the elusive Pepto-Bismol bottle. What a mess, she thought, staring with dismay at the piles of sketches strewn on the floor and her hopelessly cluttered metal desk covered with costuming books as well as pens, pencils, pastel crayons and a battered fishing tackle box brimming with watercolour paints.

Penny had a little problem with organization. Her creative temperament dictated that if you wanted to work on something, your supplies should be right there, on the floor in front of you.

She often covered her office floors with paper, paints and pencils and indulged in twelve hour long sketching sessions, fuelled by an endless supply of strong black coffee. Penny’s marathons would only end when her friend Jake invariably phoned in the wee hours of the morning and convinced her to get back to her apartment and feed her cat. Recently Penny had been leaving her feline companion, Miss Marple, at Jake’s place when she planned to work late, and she was beginning to suspect that the tabby purred as loudly for him as she did for her.

Today Penny’s office reflected the results of two recent sketching jags. A single path of carpet wound from the doorway to the desk-- every other square foot of the room was tiled with elaborate costume sketches for Romeo and Juliet. My poor workspace, she lamented. I bet I’d do this even if I had a warehouse to myself.

Penny raised her line of sight to the office walls, where her eyes examined two huge Warhol prints-- a silkscreened floral arrangement and a blue and yellow cow-- along with an elaborate full length mirror framed by gem-studded papier-mache. "I really must clean this up someday," she moaned.

Steph poked her head up from rereading the note. "Famous last words, Penny. Where did you manage to find this note anyway? If your admirer had just dumped it on your desk you’d be finding it ten years from now. Or perhaps an archaeological dig..."

"Very funny." Penny picked up a ceramic coffee mug patterned with bright flowers. "Actually, whoever left the note must have some idea what I’m about. He or she left it balanced on top of my coffee cup."

"Just about the only thing you keep track of all day, This is interesting. He must really know you well."

A little frisson of excitement tingled up Penny’s spine. I’m just wired, she reminded herself. Too many cups of coffee made her easily agitated. "Well enough to mock me," she replied warily.

"Oh, come on Penny, Give your admirer a chance."

"I don’t know if I’m capable of that,"

With a weary sigh, Penny grabbed an Evian bottle from the catacombs of her desk and eagerly took a swig, attempting to compose herself and quell the final spine tingles and guerilla attacks from the stomach butterflies.

Steph cocked her head in question. "What did you say?"

"Oh nothing", said Penny, casually waving her hand and accidentally letting the damp water bottle slide out of her grip. Before she could think, a wave of premium alpine water escaped from the bottle and cascaded onto the mosaic of sketches the cluttered the floor.

"Blast it!" Penny immediately crouched down and began blotting the sketches with the hem of her printed skirt. Before she could say anything, Steph knelt down with her, "Oh Penny, you silly klutz. Let me help you. We can’t have these beautiful costumes turning into Roscharch tests." She withdrew a package of tissues from her patent leather purse and began expertly blotting a watercolour of Juliet’s nightgown.

Penny gave her co-worker an appreciative smile. Steph knew Penny didn’t like asking for help, but after three years of working together at the Toronto Theatre Company the two friends had figured each other out. Penny often thought that between both of them they could come up with one, well-rounded brain-- Penny of course being the artistic, visual right side, and Steph making up the rest with her analytical, determined left brained personality.

Penny frequently wondered what she would do without Steph. As costume designer, she was the one allowed to sit around sketching, or dreaming up ideas. It was Steph who was stuck translating Penny’s visions into reality-- and reality on a budget.

A smudged sketch fell from Penny’s hand and she sighed. "I think I had better donate some of these to the psychiatric institute. I can see the silhouette of my mother holding a snake in this one."

Steph daintily picked up the sketch between two lengthy fingernails. "Hmmmm...no, I think it’s a burning tower and some flesh-eating rabbits. I wonder what’s in my subconscious mind?"

"I don’t think I want to know," Penny bent over to grasp at another damp sketch, unwittingly letting her eyes meet her reflection in the gem-studded full-length mirror. She groaned. It was not a pretty picture.

Penny was sprawled all over the floor with her arms and legs splayed out like a four-legged spider. Her reddish gold mop of chin- length hair insisted on falling straight into her eyes, and her face had taken on an embarrassed flush. One of her paint-stained hands clutched a soggy sketch, and the other held her unruly curls out of her line of vision. Two smudgy pools of brown eyeliner sat beneath her moss green eyes, and, she noticed with dismay, a pantyhose run of epic proportions was snaking its way up her thigh.

Steph caught her friend looking in the mirror. "Oh, come on Penny. The run’s very stylish. I’ve seen a lot of punk girls with them." She narrowed her eyes. "I’m still wondering who sent that note. It can’t be any of the cast members. They’re too busy being in love with themselves."

"Are you sure? One of them might have taken some time out from narcissism in order to play a joke on a crew person."

Steph shook her head of glossy black hair. "Nah. They’re not smart enough for that."

Penny smudged another sketch and sighed. "Then who? A techie?"

"Yeah", laughed Steph. "I know who it must be from. Art, of course."

Penny groaned at the mention of her least favourite stagehand. Art was well know for his grumpy temperament and his penchant for wearing jeans that displayed his ample butt cleavage to best effect. "Say it isn’t so, Steph!"

Steph’s huge blue eyes sparkled. "Imagine-- ‘what light beyond yonder window breaks? Tis Art’s shining moon of loveliness!" She snickered. "But seriously, Art probably hasn’t ever read Shakespeare anyway-- outside of the stage directions." Steph gave Penny a shrewd look. "Who could it be in the cast? Perhaps that guy who plays Juliet’s suitor, Paris...um...Rob with the gorgeous butt. I’ve seen him giving you those moony eyes."

Penny threw a wadded up napkin at her friend. "Steph, we’re putting on Shakespeare’s greatest love story. I think he’s supposed to be practising those romantic looks."

"But who else?" Steph wrinkled her brow in concentration. "By the way, you’re forgiven for distracting me from my work. This is much more interesting."

"What are you doing today anyway? Reorganizing the codpiece collection?" Penny gave her friend a quick glance. Unlike herself, Steph’s hands were smudge-free, and her makeup looked perfect-- black eyeliner with blue shadow, poppy red lips, and scarlet nails. Today Steph wore a tight black and white vinyl suit with a gold zipper leading down the jacket. In Steph’s case, the zipper was only in partial use, as the two-toned vinyl parted to give the public a particularly good view of the DiMarco decolletage. "If you’ve got it, flaunt it", Steph always said.

Steph looked up. " Codpieces? I think not. My task for the day is belt buckles. Mind you, codpieces would be more interesting." She grinned mischievously.

After blotting another sketch Steph picked up the love note once more. "You know, this may not be a joke. It’s so calculated." She swung her stilleto-heeled feet up onto the messy desk.

"Hey, careful of what’s left of those!" Penny jumped up and grabbed Steph’s ankles in an attempt to remove her friend’s stylish footwear from her work. " But anyway, what do you mean by calculated?"

"The printing is simple", said Steph, returning her feet to the desk in one fluid movement. "The presentation is plain, even classy. This guy actually wants to impress you."

"Oh, I don’t think so." Penny rescued a sheaf of sketches from the offending feet and gathered them in her arms. "Hey look what I’ve got here! Sketches. I had better get going on them, right? And oh, wardrobe mistress of doom, don’t you have some buckles waiting for you?"

"I guess so. But this is more interesting. And..." With a bold flourish Steph raised her hands to her temples and started making a low humming noise. "I’m having a brainwave! I’m getting a feeling of who the writer is!"

"Oh, do tell."

Steph closed her eyes in concentration, humming louder. Within a minute, her eyes snapped open and froze Penny with a determined gaze.

"By my amazing, superkinetic powers of deduction, I have discovered the answer." Her arms cut the air in a dramatic wave.

Penny rolled her eyes. "Who? The janitor? The night doorman? The guy who wakes me up with his recycling truck at 6 am?"

"No no, my dearest, someone much closer than home. Indeed, someone very close!"

"Then who?"

"Madame Stephanie says....Mr. Jake McIntyre!"

Penny’s heart rate involuntarily picked up at the sound of her best friend’s name. Ridiculous. "No way," she forced out of her suddenly dry mouth. "Jake’s my best friend, not my love interest!"

Steph shot Penny a knowing look. "Think about it, Pen. He’s single, he’s beautiful, and he obviously cares about you."

"Sure. He cares about me because I listen to his tirades about art. He cares about me because I go listen to him play that piano every week at the cafe. He cares about me because I care about him.."

Not because he has feelings for me, added Penny to herself. Besides, whenever we hang out together, we always seem to talk about how awful romance is, and how we never want to be involved with anyone ever again.

Steph wagged a scarlet tipped finger at Penny. "Oh, I’ve seen him giving you lovelorn looks when he thinks you can’t see him," she taunted. "Jake’s a secret dreamer under that cynical, jazz-playing exterior."

Penny gave Steph a look of mock anger. "I don’t think so, Steph. He’s about as romantic as coffee grounds-- I know for a fact that he gave one of his ex-girlfriends a carburetor for her birthday. And that’s when they were going out!" She shook her head. "Somehow I doubt Jake McIntyre could cough up lines from Romeo and Juliet. Even your brain can be off base sometimes."

At his name escaped her lips, Penny’s mind instinctively conjured up a mental picture of her best friend. Her heart gave a sound thump as she envisioned him sitting behind a piano with his stormy grey eyes shining, his dark hair falling in his face, and on his lips the usual cryptic smirk he reserved just for her. And, she mused, if he knew what we’re talking about right now, he’d probably be making fun of me.

Steph’s right stiletto heel sounded a staccato rap as she waved her hand at Penny. "Oh, I don’t know, Miss Alexander. The powers of the DiMarco brainwaves are well known. My grandmama was a psychic back in Napoli, remember? The night she saw my dead grandpapa howling at the moon was the night of the fire in my village. Don’t write off my supernatural powers so soon." Steph smiled and stood up. "Don’t you have some sketching to do?"

Penny waved a hand at her friend. "Get out of here before you give me any more strange ideas. The next thing you know you’ll be having me dress the cast in underwear and nothing else! Or perhaps we can fiddle the director to put in some stage directions for Romeo to howl at the moon."

Steph laughed. "Well, it would certainly make the production more interesting, wouldn’t it?". She stepped out of the office and poked her head back in. "Remember, Jake McIntyre. Think about it! See you later."

Jake McIntyre. It couldn’t possibly be him, thought Penny. Sure, it would be flattering if Jake had sent the note-- he was rather good looking after all-- but for one he was too jaded for love notes, and, secondly, there was no way he was interested in little old her. He probably thinks of me as a pesky little sister, she reminded herself. He’ll make fun of me when I tell him about the note, too.

But still, she couldn’t deny that there was something fishy about the note. Steph was right-- if someone from the cast or crew had sent it as a joke, she would’ve been able to tell. Theatrical types did like to have fun, but they never meant to deceive or hurt.

Yeah, she thought. If it is a joke, that’s one heck of a dedicated prankster. But, of course the other prospect was unfathomable. She couldn’t possibly have a secret admirer, could she? What in the world was going on?

"No", she said aloud, shaking her curly mane. It was typical of the cast to play jokes on their poor, innocent crew. Oh well. And to think that she, Penny Alexander, Miss-Grown-Up-And-Mature-Costume- Designer had almost fallen for it, if only for a moment.

With a sigh and a deep breath, Penny’s "fever" subsided, and the butterflies vacated her stomach. She grabbed the Evian bottle with her paint-stained hands and took a deep swig. I’m going to have to get the bottom of this, she promised herself. And one thing was for sure. Whoever wrote the note was going to pay for it.

*********

"Alert! Alert! Artistic director in peon wing! I repeat-- artistic director in peon wing!"

Penny poked her head out her office. "Rex, did you say what I think I thought I heard you say?"

Rex Gustavson’s sneakers squeaked as he pivoted to face Penny. The young set designer was obviously agitated. He raked one hand through his spiky hair and clasped his paint-spattered jean jacket with the other. "Oh dear, Penny, you heard me. Mitchell’s on the warpath. And, as you know, the two of us have to look really good."

"Mitchell? Here? Now?" Penny cringed at the mention of Winston Mitchell, the artistic director well known as Toronto’s main proponent of the new corporate way of dealing with the arts. Mitchell believed in shows that rented their costumes and sets from other theatre companies, rather than having new costumes and sets custom made for each production. And of course he had just been hired on by the Toronto Theatre Company.

This is possibly the most horrible day for Mitchell to come barging into our rabbit warren, despaired Penny. All the design offices are filled with sketches, fabrics, and ideas--and mine’s the worst of them. "Rex, what are we going to do?"

"What’s the damage like, Penny? Can I take a look?" Rex shoved his spiky head into Penny’s space. A slow sigh of despair escaped from his lips. "Haven’t you ever heard of filing things?"

Penny cringed. "Yes, but this way I know where everything is, all the time. If I were to file things, I’d forget all about them."

"It makes sense to me," voiced Rex warily. "But I don’t know if Mitchell will understand. Rumour has it we have T-20 minutes till everything explodes in our faces. My office is pristine compared to yours, and..."

"Thanks a lot", she snapped.

Rex made a face. "I’m trying to help here. Anyway, let me help you with some cleaning. Between the two of us, I think we can fool him."

Fifteen minutes later, her office was miraculously transformed. Rex and Penny had neatly stacked a few sketches on the desk and shoved everything else-- paints, tackle box, fabric scraps, books, sketchpads-- into the closet.

Penny wiped her damp brow. "That was a lot of work. Many thanks, Rex."

"My pleasure, Penny. It gave me an excuse to snoop through your latest costume ideas anyway." Rex smiled.

She smiled back. Rex was sweet, helping her out like this. He was always so fun and mellow, and a brilliant set designer to boot. Unfortunately, the rumour mill had it that his job would be first on the chopping block for the TTC’s next production, if Winston Mitchell had anything to do with it. And the costume department would undoubtedly be next in line...but who wanted to think about that?

"Get ready, Pen. I hear footsteps." Rex gave Penny a sympathetic grin.

Penny balled her hands into fists and assumed the stance of a boxer. "I’m as ready as I’ll ever be."

For a moment, they stared at each other with a mixture of anxiety and hopelessness, until a knock broke the silence.

"Come in", sang Penny in her best pleasant-and-unworried voice.

Walter, "Call me W" Mitchell strode into the office with what Penny thought of as "arrogant grace". A tall, robust man, dressed in an impeccable grey Italian suit, with a white silk scarf thrown rakishly around his neck, he reminded Penny of a cut-rate version of Douglas Fairbanks Jr. Before greeting Penny and Rex, Mitchell’s beady brown eyes surveyed the room. Walter Mitchell did not waste even a movement. Everything in his life was an assessment of some sort.

Mitchell furrowed his brow and attempted to form the semblance of a smile with his thin lips. "If it isn’t the creative contingent. How lucky I am to have my two favourite designers in one place."

Favourite designers, my foot, thought Penny.. He’s probably sacked all the other ones he’s worked with. "Good afternoon Mr. Mitchell." Penny forced a smile.

"Always a pleasure, Miss Alexander, and Mr. Gustafson. How is the production shaping up so far?"

Penny shuffled nervously. The treacherous butterflies had returned to her stomach. "Very well so far. I’m just working on the final sketches for the supporting roles, and Rex and his crew started building the balcony set last week."

Mitchell waved a ruddy hand. "Ah yes. The balcony. Romeo and Juliet. What’s the famous line again? A rose by any other name...?"

What?! The butterflies in Penny’s gut took off like concorde jets, and she backed into her desk, quickly averting her eyes from Mitchell’s gaze. He had quoted the line from the note!

Penny’s mind raced to find possible explanations. Was the note part of an elaborate scheme to get rid of design people by distracting them? Could Mitchell be so devious? She lowered her eyes and stared intently at the carpet, lost in concentration.

He’s probably that sneaky, she conceded, but I still doubt he wrote it. If he wants to get rid of me and Rex, he’ll find some other way-- writing notes would take too much of his precious time. Still there could be something suspicious here. But what? A little shudder shimmied up from Penny’s feet to the top of her head.

"Penny!" Rex waved a paint-spattered hand in front of her distracted eyes. "Mr. Mitchell wants to see today’s sketches." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "He’s asked twice. What planet are you on today?"

With a start, Penny snapped back to reality. Mitchell looked at her like she was insane. "Oh, right. Pardon me. I was just thinking about, uh, Juliet’s wedding dress. The artistic temperament, you know. The muse strikes at odd times." She forced out an embarrassed smile.

Mitchell cleared his throat. "I know all too well. This business would be so much more profitable without the so-called artistic temperament." He paused. "The sketches, Miss Alexander?"

Penny shuffled on her desk and produced a few watercolours of Paris’s costume. She passed them to Mitchell, who withdrew a pair of horn-rimmed glasses from his inside suit pocket in order to peruse.

Penny gave Rex a worried look as Mitchell examined the sketch. Now I’ve done it, she thought. He must really think designers are loopy now. If only he had chosen a different line from the play to quote-- then I would be just fine. Besides, it’s not my fault, she rationalized. Whoever wrote the note is going to be in even bigger trouble now.

Mitchell looked up. "Very impressive, Alexander. Have you any more offhand?"

Penny nodded. "I’ll have to take a look in the closet." She walked over to the corner.

Rex beat her to it. "Are you sure your sketches are in the closet, Penny?" He looked concerned.

"Yes Rex, I know where they are."

Rex furrowed his brow. "Are you certain?"

"Yes," exclaimed Penny, as she opened the closet door-- a movement which loosened a deluge of papers that escaped the confines of the closet in order to cascade onto Walter Mitchell’s expensive English loafers.

Rex gave Penny an "I told you so" look.

Penny jumped down onto the floor and began gathering papers in her skirt, while apologizing to Mitchell. "So sorry, Mr. Mitchell. I think one of my file folders got loose in the closet. This doesn’t normally happen."

Mitchell leaned over, freezing Penny with an icy stare. "I believe you, Miss Alexander. Others might not, but I do."

He crouched and handed Penny a pile of errant drawings. "Perhaps I will wait and examine your sketches another day." He sniffed. "I haven’t the time for this at present."

Penny forced herself to smile. "Yes, I know. I’m very sorry about this mess. Please come back soon."

"Indeed." Mitchell smiled gravely and pivoted on his heel. "Farewell Miss Alexander and Mr. Gustavson. I assure you that our paths will cross again soon."

Penny and Rex voiced goodbyes in unison, and waited in silence until the sound of Mitchell’s last footstep faded. Penny quietly took Rex’s hand and stroked it.

"I’m sorry Rex. I let both of us down, and I’ve learned a lesson. I know I need to change in order to save our design wing. But it’s going to take time."

Rex smiled sadly. "I know too. We’re really going to have to work at this corporate thing."

"Uh-huh." Penny patted Rex’s hand and released it. "But we can show him that creativity doesn’t cost too much. We’re just going to have to be even more creative than usual."

**************

"Penny, are you awake? Rise and shine, girl! It’s the best part of the day!"

Penny opened one eye. She was staring at a tube of cadmium green watercolour paint and an old paintbrush. "Steph? Did I fall asleep again?"

"Yeah, Pen." Steph held up three painted costume sketches of Tybalt. "These are great, but don’t you think you should be going home? It is nine o’ clock!"

Penny opened the other eye and sat up, letting loose a groan. "Then why are you still here, Miss DiMarco? Inquiring minds want to know!"

Steph flipped her hair back. "Oh, I just have to meet someone after he gets off work here. It’s no big deal."

"Do tell!"

"Not yet. I’ll let you know in time." Steph tapped her foot in an agitated manner. "But as for you, you had better get out of here before the management gets more free overtime."

"Uh-huh", agreed Penny, whose joints cracked audibly as she stood up. She quickly grabbed her overstuffed purse and black leather jacket and tossed a smart green beret on top of her curls. Angling for the door, she immediately bumped into Steph’s impressive frame. Her friend stood with her feet planted firmly on the floor and her hands at her waist.

"Aren’t you forgetting something, Penny?"

"What? Is my mascara running again? I don’t have twigs in my hair, do I?"

"No", laughed Steph, picking up a piece of paper from the desk and depositing it in the side compartment of Penny’s purse. "This. Your love note. Remember? The note from Jake McIntyre-"

"Jake McIntyre?" Penny’s face lit up with terror. "I’m supposed to meet him in half an hour! How could I forget again?"

Steph gave Penny a gentle push out the office door. "Run, my dear! And remember, ask him about the note!"