Canterbury Tails: Enchantress
At the end of her performance, Esther Redman walked off the stage of the theater and headed toward her dressing room. She opened the door to a space that was barely larger than the bathroom in her hotel room. The fifty-year-old actress sat down at the vanity and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Memories of her days as an ingénue came flooding back. Although she lacked the beautiful face and shapely form that had catapulted many women in her profession to stardom, she had what was referred to as je ne sais quoi, that certain something that made casting directors choose her for supporting roles.
"And then I got old," she said through clenched teeth. "Now, no one in Hollywood wants to hire me. I'm reduced to playing Auntie Mame—and in Hartford, Connecticut, no less! I can't even land a role in a Broadway show."
A knock on her door brought Esther out of her reflective mood.
"Come in," she called.
"Miss Redman, my name is Sahara Maybrick. I'm a theater student at Wesleyan University. I was wondering if you would allow me to interview you."
One look at the student's girlish features brought forth a surge of resentment in the older woman.
"Of course," she replied, hoping her feigned welcome would mask her dislike of all females who were younger and prettier than she was. "Come in and have a seat."
Other than the stool in front of the vanity, there was a single metal folding chair in the room. Even for a thin, petite girl like Sahara Maybrick, it was a squeeze to fit two people into the crowded space.
"I loved your show," the student began.
"Thank you."
"I've been a fan of yours since I was a child."
Great! Nothing like reminding me how old I am! the actress thought bitterly.
Sahara clicked on the voice recorder on her cell phone and proceeded to ask the usual questions. She wanted to know what had prompted Esther to become an actress. What were her favorite roles and who were her favorite costars? Then came the inevitable query. Why had she left Hollywood to star in a production in Hartford? There was no way the aging actress was willing to bear her soul with the truth.
"From time to time, most screen actors want to appear before a live audience. I began my career in television and then went into movies. Since I've never actually appeared in a live production, much less in a musical, I chose not to make my first attempt in a Broadway production."
"And now that you've gotten some experience and your show is closing, will Broadway be the next stop for you?"
"Not yet, I'm afraid. I'm considering joining the touring cast of Mama Mia!"
"Does that mean you have no concrete plans for the immediate future?" Sahara asked.
Damn this kid! Now she's rubbing salt into my wounds.
The fact of the matter is that she had auditioned for the role of Donna and was shortlisted with three other actresses, all of which had better singing voices than she did. That seemed to be the story of Esther's life. There was always someone prettier, more talented and, now, younger. That was why she never became an A-list celebrity. She was always cast in supporting roles. That was the only good thing about her gig in Scranton: she was playing the lead.
"I'm going to take some time off before I make any definite decisions. I have friends and relatives in New England that I haven't seen in years. I thought I'd visit them while I'm here."
Finally, the interview came to an end.
"Can I get a picture of you?" Sahara asked after turning off the recorder.
"But I'm in the middle of removing my makeup ...."
"Don't worry. You look fine!"
The hell I do!
Still, it was not as though the photo would appear on the cover of Vogue. It was only meant for some kid's college paper.
"All right," Esther replied and forced a smile.
* * *
Esther had not lied about having relatives in New England. Her sister lived in a town in New Hampshire. Even though the two were not close, Phyllis would no doubt welcome a visit from her famous sibling. At least, that was what Esther hoped. After all, it had been ten years since the last visit. During that time, Esther used the excuse that given her busy schedule, a cross-country trip was not possible. However, the real reason she stayed away was because she could barely tolerate the joyful atmosphere that existed in her sister's home. It didn't seem fair to her that Phyllis was happily married with three children when she had gone through three disastrous divorces.
The day after Mame closed she loaded her luggage into her Ford and set off for New Hampshire. Since she hated driving, especially on highways, she planned on sticking to back roads and taking frequent breaks. Her first stop was for a late breakfast; the second was for an early lunch. There were also several coffee and bathroom breaks during the day. Given her late start and frequent stops, she was still in Massachusetts when the sun began to set. When she looked down at her gas gauge, she realized she would need to refuel soon.
I might as well stop for the night, eat, fill up the tank and then continue on to my sister's house in the morning, she thought, giving in to her fear of driving at night. I wonder where the nearest motel is.
She put on her turn signal and took the next exit. Sadly, there was no Holiday Inn, Marriott or Comfort Suites in the area. The Canterbury Inn was all the small town had to offer. At least, it had a dining room, and there was a gas station a block away, next to the white-steepled church and across from the town common.
This place will have to do.
Agnes Stowell, who could easily be cast as the lovable grandmother in a Hallmark Christmas movie, welcomed her. The actress was put off by the friendly woman who despite her age had a smooth, youthful complexion while she herself was losing her ongoing battle with wrinkles notwithstanding two facelifts.
"Aren't you Esther Redman?" the elderly woman asked, immediately recognizing the famous guest.
"Yes, I am."
"What a pleasure it is to have you stay with us!"
"Thank you. Is the restaurant open?"
"Yes. It's open until nine."
"Great! I'm getting hungry."
After hanging her coat in her room closet, she returned to the lobby and then entered the dining room. Still conscious about her weight, she ordered a salad and a diet soda. As she waited for her meal, she gazed out the bay window. Across the street from the inn was a bookstore entitled Canterbury Tails. Like nearly everyone who saw the sign above the shop, she assumed it was a misspelling.
Maybe I ought to get something to read after I finish eating. God knows I'll be bored out of my mind at Phyllis's house.
Esther paid the bill, left a tip for the waitress, retrieved her coat from her room and walked across the street. The bell above the door jingled when she entered the bookstore.
What kind of place is this? she wondered when she saw the former Victorian home was still divided into several rooms, all of which held piles of books.
A Siamese cat sat on the checkout counter, but there was no sign of a human being.
"Hello," she called out. "Is anyone here?"
A young woman with black hair and blue streaks stepped out of one of the rooms, carrying a stack of books.
"Hi. I'm Jerusha Bromwell, the owner of Canterbury Tails. May I help you find something?"
Esther took one look at the shopkeeper's slender body and took an instant dislike to the woman. "I'm looking for something light to read. Can you point me toward your fiction section?"
"It's to the room on your right."
To enter the room, Esther had to pass by two cats, a Russian blue and a calico, and step out of the way of a third, an Oriental shorthair.
"Oh, my! You certainly have a lot of cats. Don't you worry that some of your customers might be allergic to them?"
"Honestly?" Jerusha laughed. "No. I have books here that people can't find elsewhere, so they take a Claritin or a Zyrtec and come inside."
The room dedicated to fiction, the actress soon discovered, held thousands of books, displayed in no particular order. While most bookstores arranged novels alphabetically by the author's surname, no such system was employed by the cat-loving Ms. Bromwell. New and used paperbacks and hardcovers alike were either stuck haphazardly on the shelves or left in piles on the floor, windowsills and furniture.
How can that woman find anything in all this mess?
The Siamese cat that had been sitting on the counter when she entered the store, walked past her, rubbing against her leg.
"Get away! Scat!"
The animal narrowed its blue eyes and jumped up upon a stack of books lying on what had once been a dining room table. One of the soft-cover volumes fell to the floor at the actress's feet.
"Now, look what you've done."
Esther's first instinct was to leave the book on the floor for the shopkeeper to pick up, but then something about the cover intrigued her.
"What's this? Sister Bernadette's Dilemma," she read the title aloud.
"Good choice," Jerusha said as she entered the room with more new stock. "That's an excellent book. And a timely topic, too."
"What's it about?" the actress asked, not bothering to read the synopsis on the back cover.
"A young girl, raped by her father, discovers she is pregnant and goes to the title character for help in ending her pregnancy. I don't want to spoil the ending for you, so I won't tell you the rest of what happens."
"Abortion is a touchy subject right now. I would think most publishers would shy away from putting out such a controversial book."
"That's why the author printed it herself. I tell you, if it had been published by Random House or Simon & Schuster, it would have been a bestseller. However, self-published books don't get much of a readership."
Having placed the shop's latest acquisitions on top of a pile of James Patterson's books, Jerusha returned to the counter to print out packing lists for online orders. Enchantress, the annoying Siamese, followed her. However, two other cats entered the room: a white Persian and an orange tabby cat.
How many creatures are there in this shop? Esther wondered. I'd better get out of her now before I'm covered in cat hair.
* * *
Esther was sitting in a wing chair in front of the fireplace, sipping coffee and reading the book she'd purchased at the Canterbury Tails. She was halfway through the novel when it occurred to her that it would make an excellent movie. Furthermore, she saw herself cast in the role of Sister Bernadette. But it was a pipedream. No one wanted to see movies about nuns these days. Everything was superheroes and horror movies. Today's films seem to be nothing but remakes and sequels.
By the time she finished the last chapter and closed the book, however, she was determined to make her pipedream a reality. If none of the major studios were interested in adapting the book for the big screen, she would approach the streaming services. Netflix especially seemed willing to think outside the box when it came to programming. Squid Game, House of Cards, The Crown and Orange is the New Black were all award-winning series that, in her opinion, surpassed the movies and television programs the major networks offered.
"Netflix it is," she decided. "But first, I'll need a screenplay to show them."
Since she knew nothing about writing scripts, she would have to find someone to take on that task. Thankfully, Hollywood was overflowing with out-of-work writers who had either never gotten a break or were no longer in demand. The name Marlon Grotius soon came to Esther's mind. His was a popular name in the '90s, having won an Oscar for a historical screenplay set during the Civil War. Had he not become a fall-down drunk, he might have been one of the great screenwriters of his generation. Sadly, even though he had beaten his substance abuse problem, no producer was willing to risk hiring him again.
"This book could give both Marlon and me a second chance!"
Although it was past midnight in Canterbury, it was only after nine in L.A. So, she got the writer's number from his agent and phoned him.
"Who wrote the book?" he asked after the actress told him about her plans for pitching a movie to Netflix.
"A woman named Sabine Goudreau," she replied after searching the front cover for the author's name.
"I assume she owns the rights then."
Esther scanned the first few pages of the book but could not find any copyright information.
"It's a self-published book," she explained. "Could that mean she never applied for a copyright?"
"Yes. That's a bit tricky. If we write a script based on her book, she could come after us for infringement of her intellectual property rights. However, without registering her copyright, she might have a difficult time proving her ownership in a court of law."
"I once heard that you can't copyright an idea, just the expression of that idea."
"That's true."
"Then what if we take the idea of a nun helping an abused pregnant girl get an abortion but change the names of the characters and the setting of the story?"
Marlon considered Esther's suggestion.
"I suppose I could change the novel sufficiently to avoid an accusation of copyright infringement. I can take out some minor characters and add others. Tell you what. I'll order a copy of the book from Amazon and read it before I make my decision."
"I don't know if Amazon carries this book. I got it here because it was written by a local author. I'll FedEx my copy to you."
The following morning, immediately after breakfast, she arranged to have the book sent priority overnight to Marlon Grotius. Afterward, she returned to the Canterbury Tails.
"Good morning," Jerusha Bromwell called, looking up from her computer screen. "Can I help you with anything or would you prefer to browse?"
"I'm interested in the book Sister Bernadette's Dilemma." "Didn't you just buy a copy last night?"
"Yes. I was up very late finishing it. I enjoyed it so much I want to send copies to all my friends."
Enchantress, the Siamese cat who was once again sitting on the checkout counter, narrowed its blue eyes as though it suspected Esther of lying.
Don't be silly, the aging actress told herself. It's just a cat. It's not a living, breathing lie detector.
Jerusha walked into the fiction room and returned several minutes later, carrying a dozen copies of the book.
"Will this be enough?" she asked.
"I'm not sure. Do you have any more?"
"No. I might be able to get some more though. The author lives here in Canterbury."
The last thing Esther wanted was to alert the writer to her interest in the novel.
"That won't be necessary. I'll just take however many you have here in the store."
As Jerusha processed the credit card payment, six other cats came from various rooms in the old Victorian house and encircled the checkout counter. The shopkeeper placed the books and a printed receipt into a paper bag with handles while Enchantress led the other felines in a chorus of meows.
"Is this normal behavior for them?" the actress asked.
"They just want to eat. I haven't fed them yet today," Jerusha explained, handing over the bag to the customer and thanking her for her purchase.
While closing the door behind her as she exited the bookstore, Esther turned to see the shopkeeper's attention had returned to her computer screen. However, seven pairs of narrowed cat eyes glared at her.
I'll be glad to get out of this town. It gives me the creeps, she thought as she crossed the street and headed back to the Canterbury Inn to check out.
* * *
Three months after receiving a copy of Sister Bernadette's Dilemma, Marlon Grotius completed his screenplay. Not once during that time did he fall off the wagon and take a drink. He hoped to prove to the studios that he had conquered his demons and could be relied upon to handle any project they might send his way.
"Reviving his career ought to be easy," Esther grumbled after ending the call. "All he has to do is stop drinking. I, on the other hand, would have to turn back the hands of time. Not much chance of that happening!"
When Marlon arrived at Logan Airport, the actress was there to greet him. She did not ask about his flight. All she was concerned about was seeing the screenplay he wrote. They left the airport and drove to a quiet restaurant in Boston's Little Italy.
"I'm starving. All they gave me to eat on the plane was a small bag of pretzels," the writer complained.
"Never mind food. I want to see the script."
"After I order," he insisted.
Once the server took their order: veal parmigiana and fettucine alfredo for him and a salad with lite dressing for her. (She bristled at the fact that he, like most men, could eat what he wanted while she was forced to be on a constant diet.) Finally, he took a bound stack of papers out of his briefcase and handed it over.
"God Forgive Me," Esther said, reading the name on the title page.
"If you don't like that one, we can rename it."
"I guess this one will work. What other changes did you make?"
"I changed the nun's name to Sister Agnes, and the story now takes place in New Orleans, not Boston, like in the book. I made the girl sixteen instead of thirteen. I took out the boyfriend and younger brother characters, and I added an alcoholic mother who refuses to believe her husband is sexually assaulting their daughter."
"Do you think you made enough changes so that we can't be accused of stealing the author's work?"
"I think so. Oh, I also included a scene where Sister Agnes is having an affair with a priest," Marlon said.
"That would give her another reason to ask for God's forgiveness," Esther laughed.
After reading the screenplay, the actress invited the writer out to dinner at one of Boston's most exclusive restaurants.
"Well? What do you think?" he asked as soon as the hostess seated them. "Did you like it?"
"No," she replied. "I loved it!"
"Good! Because I had my agent arrange a meeting with Netflix. I expect you to come with me."
"Naturally. The whole thing was my idea."
As the two collaborators had hoped, the executives from Netflix agreed to produce God Forgive Me. They also agreed to cast Esther Redman in the starring role.
The part of the young pregnant girl who seeks help from the nun was given to seventeen-year-old novice actress Kayla Lanford. Esther made no attempt to befriend the pretty redhead who looked younger than she actually was. Her antipathy toward the teenager grew when she learned that her costar was born into an affluent family and was sent to the best schools on the East Coast.
She's a little princess! the aging actress thought bitterly. She obviously had every advantage while I had none. And now I've got to have her appear in my movie. I know I needed someone to play the part, but why her? Why not some skinny kid with braces and pimples who came from a broken home and was raised by a single mom on welfare?
Why did everyone she met have something she lacked?
* * *
God Forgive Me became one of the most successful films ever produced by Netflix. It launched a career for Kayla Lanford who became a media darling after the movie was released. It also sent producers knocking on Marlon Grotius's doors with lucrative offers to write screenplays. Both had won Golden Globes and received Oscar nominations in recognition of their work. Much to her consternation, Esther was not only overlooked by the Hollywood Foreign Press and the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences but also ignored by the press. Whereas Kayla was hounded by the paparazzi and Marlon was invited to appear on all major talk shows, no one sought an interview with the star of the film. As if that was not a hard enough pill to swallow, no roles were offered to her in the wake of her success as Sister Agnes. The movie had not revived her career, but it did earn her enough money to purchase a condominium in New Hampshire, two miles from her sister’s house.
"No doubt that little brat will be able to live in Beverly Hills now. But the movie was all my idea!" she whined, tossing an issue of People magazine into the fireplace.
As she watched the flames consume Kayla Lanford's face on the cover, her rage grew. She was the one who found the novel in that awful, cat-infested bookstore in Canterbury. She was the one who decided it would make a great movie. She was the one who contacted Marlon Grotius to write the screenplay. Most importantly, she was the one who had the starring role.
"And look who reaps the benefits of my brainchild: a washed-up, alcoholic screenwriter and a teenager with no prior acting experience except for a YouTube video!"
To add insult to injury, Esther was not even invited to attend the Oscars. She had to watch the presentation ceremony on television. It was just as well. She doubted she could have put on a false smile and congratulated her young costar on her win.
"That Oscar should have gone to me!" she screamed.
The irate actress's initial reaction was to turn off the television after Kayla received her award. However, she wanted to see if Marlon's screenplay would also be a winner. Thus, she kept the TV on and poured herself a drink. Twenty minutes later, the writer won the second Oscar of his career.
"Shit!" Esther swore, pressing the power button on her remote control. "He didn't even thank me in his acceptance speech! The ungrateful bastard! I could understand Kayla not mentioning my name, but Marlon! I was the one who sent him the book in the first place."
She was about to pour herself another drink when there was a knock on her door.
I wonder who that can be.
To her surprise, there was a young priest on her doorstep.
"Look, if you've got any problems with the subject matter of my film, don't blame me," she said without giving the man the opportunity to state the purpose of his visit. "I'm just an actress. I wasn't out to make a statement about abortion. Frankly, I don't care one way or another about the matter."
"That's not why I'm here," the priest, who looked as though he had just graduated from seminary school, said in a soothing, soft-spoken voice that would surely calm even his most emotionally upset parishioners.
"What do you want then?"
"May I come in?"
"I suppose so," she replied and held open the front door so he could enter.
"Did you watch the Academy Awards?" the priest asked, sitting down on her softa despite not having been invited to take a seat.
"Yeah. So?"
"Marlon Grotius won the award for Best Original Screenplay. As I understand it, this award is given to a writer for a screenplay not based on previously published material."
"Ah! That's why you're here, Father ...?"
"Father Cillian McHugh."
"Has Sabine Goudreau sent you? If so, there's the door."
"There is no Sabine Goudreau."
"What are you talking about?"
"Sabine Goudreau is a pseudonym. I wrote Sister Bernadette's Dilemma. As a Catholic priest, I couldn't very well put my own name on a book about a nun who arranges for a young girl to get an abortion."
"What's your point?"
"Your movie was based on my book. There's no point in denying it or claiming ignorance. Jerusha Bromwell from the Canterbury Tails told me you purchased every copy she had in the bookstore."
That damned woman and her infernal cats!
"Without a formal copyright registration, enforcing intellectual property rights against infringement may be difficult. And, in your case, you won't be able to maintain your anonymity as the writer."
"Oh, don't worry. I don't intend to sue anyone."
"Then why the are you here?" Esther demanded to know, losing her patience.
"To enforce God's laws. Specifically, the tenth commandment: thou shalt not covet anything that is thy neighbor's."
Oh, great! I invited a religious nut into my home!
"Okay. You got me. I did it. I'll say ten Hail Marys and perform an action of contrition. Now, get the hell out of here!"
Suddenly, there was an odd scratching sound on the door. A radiant smile appeared on the priest's youthful, handsome face when he heard it.
"What's that noise?" Esther wondered.
When she opened the door, a Siamese cat ran into her apartment. Was it the one from the bookstore? No. It couldn't be. Besides, it was nearly impossible for her to tell one cat from another. After rubbing against the actress's leg, the animal ran into the living room and jumped onto Father Cillian's lap.
"Does that creature belong to you?"
"No. This is Enchantress. She must have followed me from the bookstore."
"All the way to New Hampshire? What kind of a fool do you take me for?"
"A covetous one," the priest answered, the smile disappearing from his face. "One who envies everyone she meets."
The cat jumped off Father Cillian's lap and slowly walked toward the frightened woman.
"Scat! Get away from me!"
Enchantress's blue eyes narrowed and she drew nearer. The cat raised a paw as though to strike. Its claws looked like little daggers that could easily draw blood. Fearing that those claws were about to be raked across her skin, Esther closed her eyes and screamed. When she opened them again, both the priest and the Siamese cat were gone.
* * *
Jerusha Bromwell sat down to eat lunch in the kitchen of her apartment above the bookstore. Six of her seven cats were devouring the cut-up chicken breast she had put down for them. Meanwhile, Enchantress was sitting on the windowsill, cleaning her face with her paw. Jerusha took a bite of her egg salad sandwich and opened the newspaper beside her plate. With little interest in world events, she read only the local news as she ate.
"Oh, no!" she cried when she saw a full-page article announcing the death of Father Cillian McHugh and recapping many of the good deeds the cleric had done during his life.
She had known the priest since she was a small child. Although she was not a Catholic—in fact, she was an agnostic—she always considered him a godly man of faith and a true friend. No doubt, she would miss him.
"But then, he had a good, long life. We should all be so lucky to live well into our nineties."
Jerusha took another bite of her sandwich and turned the page. An article announcing a second death caught her attention. Just one day after Father Cillian breathed his last, actress Esther Redman suffered a fatal heart attack in her New Hampshire home. The article was a brief one, a little more than a paragraph in length.
"Funny," the bookstore owner mused. "There's no mention of her having appeared in that Netflix movie. You know, I have a feeling that somewhere the spirit of Esther Redman is turning green with envy because Father Cillian received a much better obituary than she did."
Jerusha folded the paper and finished her sandwich. She then looked into Enchantress's slightly crossed blue eyes as though the two shared a secret. The cat began to purr, and its owner smiled.
Salem had a crush on a Siamese cat. It ended because he could not gaze lovingly into her crossed eyes.
