Once Upon a Rose

by Judith O'Brien

get another chance. Her duet with Bucky Lee

  Denton is hot, and--"

  "She will perform when she is ready," Dr.

  Howler replied frostily. "We cannot rush the

  process. Grief is a very personal thing.

  Everyone has their own schedule."

  Lorna nodded.

  "I will prescribe a mild sedative for when

  she needs to sleep. Part of her problem is

  sleep deprivation. I will return tomorrow. Good

  day, Mrs. Bailey."

  With that, the doctor gave a brittle smile,

  collected her bag, and walked out the front

  door. Lorna fell into a leather chair and

  looked at the mantel, the music awards

  twinkling in the afternoon light. With a defiant glance

  in the direction of the ashtray, she lit a

  cigarette.

  It tasted damn good.

  Chapter 21

  For the first time in her entire career, Deanie

  Bailey was paralyzed with stage fright. The sounds

  of the audience filtered backstage, a deafening,

  distorted neon nightmare. Thousands of voices

  roared across the arena, calling to her as one giant

  beast.

  "Dean-ie! Dean-ie!"

  Their voices grew louder. The stomping and

  clapping seemed to march up her spine.

  As a show-business veteran with years of

  hard-won experience, Deanie did the logical

  thing when faced with such a reception: She decided

  to flee.

  "Now, now," shouted Nathan Burns,

  gripping the arm of her sequined gown. "They are

  all calling you because they like you, Deanie.

  Not because they wish to harm you. In fact ..."

  Deanie tuned him out. After his lengthy stay at

  the Betty Ford Clinic and extensive

  psychotherapy, she was now witnessing the dawn of a

  kinder, gentler Nathan Burns, full of

  New-Age wisdom and homilies.

  He no longer wore an Erich von

  Stroheim costume, instead opting for more of a

  love-beads and tie-dyed look. He was

  universally acknowledged to be more than a little

  unstable. But since her decision to return to the

  stage, he was the only one who seemed to understand

  her. He had been drunk and crazy, she had

  only been crazy, and together they had reached an

  unspoken agreement: They were allowed to wig out, but

  only in each other's company.

  "Do I look all right?" She tugged at the

  midnight-blue gown, sleek as if the silk had

  been poured on. It was over a year since she'd

  faced an audience, and her heart was pounding in

  unison with the audience's chants.

  "You look incredible, Deanie. And as your new

  manager, I must say this was a brilliant move

  on your part to open your world tour at Wembley.

  You're a star now, ever since that Bucky Lee

  duet. Those last four hits of yours have left

  poor old Bucky Lee green with envy."

  The crowd stomped even louder, vibrating the

  backstage area with terrifying thunder.

  "They've forgiven you for your nervous breakdown,

  my dear." Nathan continued as if the crowd had

  been a faint murmur. "I believe you knocked

  Princess Diana off the front page of the

  Mirror."

  "Poor thing." Deanie grinned. The lights

  dimmed, and the audience hushed as one, as if a soft

  blanket had silenced them, row by row.

  Her name was announced, strange-sounding as if it

  belonged to someone else, echoing in the vastness of the

  arena. The spotlights darted as her band took the

  stage, and for a moment she thought of other darting blue

  lights, pulsating in a prism.

  Not now. She couldn't think of him now.

  Nathan gave her a gentle shove. She

  walked across the stage.

  Was this real? The stadium vibrated with shouts,

  her name reverberating to the rafters with inarticulate

  and furious cheers. The white-hot lights blinded

  her, and she stopped, shaken.

  What was wrong? She had played

  hundreds of gigs, thousands of them.

  But that was before. Before the thought of an empty

  hotel room at the end of a performance could cause

  her knees to buckle. Before she realized the

  adoration of an audience was a mechanical,

  hollow parody of real love. Before Kit.

  The bass player handed her the guitar, and she

  looped the strap over her shoulder. Then all was

  silent. Thousands of people, on the edge of their seats,

  peered at every move she made. She could hear the

  vague whir of the cameras.

  "Hey," she said, mentally kicking herself for

  sounding so frightened. "Um, it's great to be back

  here in England."

  Wild applause, more hoots.

  "Um, some of my best friends are English," she

  added. The audience went nuts, leaping to their feet

  and cheering.

  In her mind, she thought: My best friend is

  English.

  Then, without waiting, she nodded to the band. With the

  resounding hum of her guitar, they began the

  performance.

  And it was extraordinary. It was as if she had

  always played to a house of forty thousand. The songs

  felt right, her voice had never sounded better.

  The band played brilliantly, not just hitting the

  notes but putting character into every phrase, subtle

  nuances that could never be taught but must be felt.

  They seemed incapable of blundering, and every note was

  unadulterated magic.

  Then something strange happened.

  She paused between songs, reaching for a glass of

  water on a stool. As she sipped, her eyes

  wandered to the audience, where a beam of light traced

  back and forth with frenzied precision. She saw the

  usual sights from the stage: the eyeglasses

  reflecting their piercing glare, stray glitters of

  jewelry, rolled-up programs being used as

  fans, random flashes of movement.

  And off to the side she saw Kit.

  Choking on the water, she gasped. The bass

  player reached over and slapped her on the back,

  but still she coughed.

  "Don't drink the water here!" someone in the

  audience shouted. "It's not safe!"

  Oh dear God, she thought. She was going to wig

  out right on stage.

  She looked back to where she saw the man

  earlier, and he was gone. No one was there.

  She had imagined it all, just as Dr. Howler had

  said she imagined Kit.

  "My next song," she said, leaning into the

  microphone, "seems appropriate. Hope you

  all agree."

  She then performed the most perfect rendition of

  Patsy Cline's "Crazy" that anyone had ever

  heard.

  The show lasted another two hours, passing in a

  complete white-hot blur. Time seemed meaningless

  as the songs and audience became one. Three

  encores later, when she finally left the stage, the

  audience and Deanie and her band were exhausted,


  limp with relief and deliriously happy.

  Nathan presented her with a sloppy, alarmingly

  friendly kiss. The record company executives

  declared this would be her next album; the performance had

  been recorded for the purpose.

  Anonymous hands clapped her back, sending the

  remaining sequins on her costume scattering to the

  floor. She signed every bit of paper shoved

  into her face by autograph hounds. The flashing

  lights made her dizzy, spots dancing before her

  eyes. Nathan fielded questions, requests,

  demands. Everyone was ecstatic.

  A panic began to rise in her throat at the

  frenzy. And she had to be alone.

  Her dressing room backstage was thick with

  flowers, some still boxed, others in massive

  arrangements. The sounds of the audience leaving the

  arena were mercifully muffled; distant laughs and

  shouts and the grating scrape of garbage cans as the

  crew cleaned up.

  Nathan followed her into the room, beaming,

  holding a bottle of champagne and a single

  flute.

  "Here, Deanie," he said, popping the cork.

  "This is for you."

  Sighing with exhaustion, she accepted the glass

  and watched the bubbles float to the top. Some

  seemed to swirl like propellers, twisting their way

  through the pale froth. Propellers reminded her of

  Kit, his love of flying, the way he ...

  Stop! She was not to think of him. Dr. Howler

  explained how the mind could do astounding things, such as

  allow people to walk over hot coals without being

  burned, or cure an incurable illness. In her

  case, she was cured ever so briefly of

  loneliness.

  Then what about her knowledge of Tudor

  England, and the very real duke of Hamilton, and the

  photograph of the RAF pilot that sat at that very

  moment on her dressing-room table?

  Dr. Howler had an explanation for that as

  well. Somehow, during Deanie's trip

  to England, she had come in contact with the information. It

  was completely logical: She was at Hampton

  Court filming a video, she had taken a tour

  of the palace and even purchased a guide

  booklet. She had met a man named Neville

  Williamson who provided a charming, magical

  tale of pure love.

  Under the stress of the filming and her first big

  chance, combined with the very real career threat posed

  by Bucky Lee Denton, she had retreated into a

  world of her own, a time and place where she would feel

  more in control.

  Then she had invented Kit, her dashingly handsome

  duke. He became her fantasy hero, rescuing

  her from danger as no flesh-and-blood man ever

  had. Deanie's imagination had endowed the

  fictitious Kit with all the qualities she had

  desired in a man, and even a few irritating

  ones just to add a theatrical dash of realism.

  And then she saw the photograph of the equally

  handsome--and dead--RAF pilot, and somehow she

  combined the two fantasies. A brief glimpse

  of a forgotten pilot, and her mind took off.

  Deanie grasped the champagne flute with

  firm hands and took a swig, downing half the

  contents in a single swallow.

  But Dr. Howler's fine logic had not been

  able to explain the clothing she was wearing when they cut

  her from the maze, or how her hair could have grown

  by inches in a single afternoon.

  Or how she could recall every detail of her

  imaginary Kit, from his strong arms that could suddenly

  turn gentle to his crooked bottom tooth.

  She could still feel the texture of his hair, the

  few gray strands only visible in the sun.

  Could anyone imagine the wondrous man who was

  Kit?

  There was a sharp knock on the door, and she

  jumped, the straggling blue sequins on her gown

  rattling with the movement.

  "Come in," she said, not really meaning it.

  A polite guard poked his head into her

  dressing room, sniffing at the overpowering scent of

  flowers.

  "Excuse me, Miss Bailey, but

  there is someone here to see you. Says he is a very

  old friend of yours."

  Deanie sighed and took another sip of

  champagne. The last thing she needed was to make

  small talk with someone she knew from her past,

  probably high school.

  Nathan glanced at her, then shook his head

  toward the guard. "No, sorry. It's out of the

  question. Tell them she's too exhausted, but if they

  leave their name and address we'll make sure

  to send a personally autographed picture."

  "All right," said the guard. "Oh, wait a

  minute. He wanted me to give this to her. Said

  she would know what it meant."

  Nathan shook his head even as Deanie shrugged

  weakly and reached for the envelope.

  "Thank you." She smiled to the guard.

  Something in her stomach lurched as she touched the

  envelope. Her name was written in a strong,

  bold hand across the top.

  "Mistress Deanie."

  Nathan was beginning to chatter about the flowers, but

  all she could hear was the blood whooshing through her

  ears. Her fingers trembling, she eased open the

  paper.

  Inside was a small square of whitish cloth.

  She knew what it was before she turned it over. It

  was a clumsy attempt at needlepoint,

  speckled with brown spots that resembled blood.

  To most people it was just an amateurish depiction of a

  blob with wings, a bug or a bird.

  Or an airplane.

  She gasped and rose to her feet, sending the

  crystal flute crashing to the floor.

  "Christ, Deanie! That's Dom you've just

  spilled, not Andre. A few months ago I would

  have licked it off the floor, glass and all."

  Nathan then looked at her, her pale face and

  white lips. "What's wrong?"

  Her mouth worked, but no sound escaped. Then she

  croaked, "Guard." Softly at first, then

  louder. "Guard!"

  The guard returned. "Yes, Miss

  Bailey?"

  "Please, please send him in," she rasped,

  her voice dry. The guard nodded and left,

  closing the door.

  Deanie's knees gave way, and she felt

  behind her, blindly grabbing a chair.

  This was impossible, she said to herself,

  sinking into the hard folding chair. Kit never

  existed. She imagined it all.

  There was a single knock on the door, and

  Deanie turned. Her heart literally stopped;

  she felt her entire being pause, as if waiting

  to decide whether or not to continue existing.

  Slowly the door opened.

  And there he stood.

  A small sound came from her throat as she

  saw him, her heart now pounding so loudly she thought

  it would shatter her soul.

  "Kit," she breathed.

  He stepped thr
ough the door, his very presence

  resounding in every corner of the room, filling the

  empty spaces with his vitality. He was her

  Kit, his shoulders broad, his stance solid and

  proud.

  Instead of a plain black doublet he wore a

  tweed sports jacket with khaki slacks and a

  slightly rumpled button-down shirt. She

  saw him take a deep breath as he stared at

  her, the incandescent depths of his eyes searing through

  her.

  "I thought you were dead," she said, her voice

  cracking into a sob.

  "So did I," he whispered, his throat working,

  his jaw tight with emotion.

  Nathan Burns emerged from the foliage of a

  horseshoe-shaped arrangement. "Goddamn, they

  must have thought this was a horse race," he muttered

  to himself. Then he looked up at Deanie. "Should

  this stuff be divided between a children's hospital and

  nursing home? The usual?"

  Deanie did not respond; her eyes were

  locked on the tall dark-haired man in the

  doorway. Nathan looked between the two, and an

  uncomfortable feeling prickled his thick skin.

  "What happened?" She spoke as if in a

  trance, and only to the stranger. Nathan frowned.

  It was as if he didn't exist.

  "We were separated in the maze, Deanie, but

  we did travel together. It worked." Kit's words

  were terse, his teeth clenched.

  "Why ... where ..." She closed her eyes,

  unable to think clearly with him so near. His shirt was

  open at the throat, and she saw his sun-darkened

  skin, the sprinkling of dark hair she knew was just

  under the cloth. How well she knew the feel and

  scent of him, the muscles on his chest.

  She folded her arms and opened her

  eyes. "Where have you been? Why didn't you let

  me know? Oh Kit, I thought ..."

  "Shh." His voice was deep, resonant.

  He reached toward her, his long, strong fingers

  open, then pulled back. The gesture was so

  swift she thought she had imagined it.

  "I tried, Deanie." His accent was still bent

  by archaic vowels, intonations that had been lost for

  centuries. "I tried to reach you at your hotel,

  before you left England. But they would not let me. I

  cannot say that I blame them."

  Then he smiled, and she felt as if the wind

  had been knocked from her chest. His smile, the

  crooked bottom tooth, the cheeks kissed with his

  glorious dimples, elongated, strong. His

  eyes crinkled at the corners.

  "They did not truly think me mad until I

  expressed a rather firm desire to see you."

  Distractedly, he pushed a wayward thatch of

  hair from his forehead. "You see, the mere utterance

  of your name transformed me from a rather pathetic

  out-of-work actor into a dangerous stalker."

  Her mouth dropped open, and he continued. "I

  tried to find you, but London had changed so--more in

  the last fifty years than in the previous five

  centuries."

  Nathan Burns snorted, but they ignored

  him.

  "Oh, Kit. No one told me. Then what

  happened?"

  "Well, when I tried to find you, I must have

  seemed a bit disoriented. So they put me into a

  very nice suite. I believe they called it a

  ward." He gave a small chuckle, but it was

  painful, bitter. "I shared the ward with a

  fascinating young man who firmly believed he was

  Bette Davis."

  "Bette Davis?"

  "He was quite good, actually. But the poor chap

  tended to refer to her later films, always reminding

  me to "fasten your seat belts, it's going to be

  a bumpy night," whatever the bloody hell that

  was supposed to mean. Then he'd puff on

  imaginary cigarettes, proclaiming the place a

  dump."

  "Oh," she said, stunned.

  "Yes, well. They gave me some marvelous

  medication and took copious notes whenever I

  babbled, which was often. They interrogated me, asked

  me questions I couldn't possibly know the

  answer to, like the first moon walk, for Christ's

  sake, or Jodie Foster."

  "Kit."

  He straightened. "You were wonderful tonight,

  Deanie. When I met you before, I had no idea

  ... well. I didn't understand. You tried

  to tell me about all this." His hand opened and quickly

  closed. "I didn't understand."

  She said nothing. A thousand thoughts tumbled through

  her mind, but she said nothing.

  "Well, once again I seem to be babbling,"

  he said, as a strange, hooded expression

  crossed his features. "I'll not keep you any

  longer, Deanie. You have all of this--you don't

  need me puttering about as a reminder of a time when you

  almost met with disaster. I shall let you go to be

  embraced by, well, your fans."

  He gave her a curt nod and turned, reaching

  for the doorknob.

  "Kit!"

  He paused, his back toward her.

  The finely tailored sports coat seemed

  to expand as he drew in a deep breath. "Yes?"

  He still did not face her.

  "Where are you going? Where are you staying?"

  The dark head, a mass of glossy, unruly

  waves, dropped forward, as if he had suddenly

  become very tired.

  "I am going to my sister's." His voice was