by Gigi Blume
“Aha!” Stella stopped in her tracks. “I know where to look.”
She reached into the deep pockets of her baggy sailing pants and pulled out something plastic wrapped in a slender chain.
“I almost forgot to give this to you,” she said as she placed it in my hand. It was a hard, plastic card with gilded lettering that spelled out my name under a bold VIP stamp. A lanyard. For me. I officially belonged.
“This will give you access to the house if you need it and other backstage areas,” she explained. “And if you’re hungry, there’s seventy-five dollars loaded on the card. Just swipe at any food booth. Not alcohol—just food.”
I stared at the lanyard in my hands, marveling at it like it was a glowing key to the TARDIS.
“Thank you,” I marveled at the wonder bestowed on me. Such a dork.
Stella narrowed her eyes over me with an amused grin.
“You don’t mind if I leave you for a time,” she stated rather than asked. “Try the artichoke hearts. I hear they’re heavenly.”
Then she happily bounded off, leaving me in the midst of laughing families, balloon-bearing children, and clouds of cotton candy in every direction. The glorious aroma of popcorn and funnel cake drifted in the breeze, and I followed the wafting trail to a line of food booths and linen-covered tables shaded by navy umbrellas. It was a carnival but with a snazzy makeover. Even the game booths were covered in stark-white draperies. Live New Orleans jazz reached my ears from a nearby stage. There were stages like that all over the property. We’d passed a mariachi trio in our rush to find Emma.
I draped the lanyard around my neck. No flimsy plastic or cheap ribbon here. This lanyard was practically jewelry. I held onto the thick plastic of the VIP card. Just scan it, she said. She didn’t have to tell me twice. Mayonnaise-smothered corn on the cob called my name. But I really had to pee. After a brief argument with myself whether I should risk the port-a-potty or test the validity of the VIP pass, I decided to venture towards the house. If it didn’t work, no harm no foul. There were plenty of bushes if I couldn’t make it back in time to use the port-a-potty. The robust jazz and sounds of screaming passengers on rides faded as I reached the main entrance of the house. Two imposing men in dark shades flanked the doorway. Their black polo shirts had the word security printed over the pocket. I flashed my lanyard as I approached them, feeling much like my uncle at the U2 concert. I was ready for them to kick me to the curb. But they smiled and opened the double doors. The taller of the two (which was really saying something because they were both giants), regarded the gold print on my VIP card and gave me a warm greeting. “Good afternoon, Miss Bennet.”
“Uh, good afternoon.” It was all I could manage. The two men watched as I fumbled into the house, peeking at me as the doors closed them outside. I actually made it in. But whoa! This house. If it was impressive from the outside, it was absolutely heart stopping from the inside. The entryway alone was bigger than my whole apartment. The ceiling reached the height of three stories. The floor was a rich, dark-brown wood, and a beautifully adorned Christmas tree that had to be at least twenty-five feet tall stood proudly in the center of the foyer. The scent of pine needles reached my senses and found my happy place. Fresh garland swags were draped on the banisters all around. I was glad he still had his decorations up. It made me feel warm all over, like everything was right in the world just because I stepped into a Christmas wonderland.
I tiptoed around the tree and into what I assumed was the main room by the looks of it. Tall cocktail tables were scattered throughout, draped in floor-length, black linens. A few workers scurried about making final preparations for the evening festivities, placing centerpieces on the tables, large flower arrangements at every entryway, and candelabras on every available surface. Notably on and around a glorious, shiny, pink grand piano. Pink. I hadn’t pegged Will as a pink kind of guy. It was light—just a dusting of color, but undeniably pink. Maybe Mary Kay gave out pianos instead of Cadillacs.
Everything looked so elegant. This was no barbecue. I looked around at all the possible passageways. Where the Nigel was the bathroom? My badder protested with urgency. Ugh! I tried a few doors. No luck. There had to be a bathroom or ten somewhere in this castle. It was getting harder and harder to keep it in with every passing second. Finally, I found a corridor that looked like it led somewhere, but it was more like a labyrinth that went deeper and deeper into the house. Where the heck was I? There were some doors, but the ones not locked opened up to closets or weird rooms like one that looked like a microbrewery. At last, I reached a narrow stairwell. There had to be a bathroom upstairs. Did my VIP pass allow me access up there? It darn well should if they didn’t want a puddle on the floor. My eyeballs were about to bulge out of my head with the pressure. I had to relieve myself and soon. The stairwell was kind of dank for such an opulent mansion. It was just a simple flight of stairs like one would find in a regular house, perhaps leading up from a basement. Framed black and white photos lined the walls, but I didn’t have any time to look. I was on borrowed time here. A single door stood at the top. I prayed for it not to be locked. To my intense joy, it opened, and I found myself in a living area. Possibly bedrooms. Thank the Lord. Bedrooms meant bathrooms.
I made it just in time. I ran in there so fast, I didn’t have time to notice anything about my surroundings except where to find the toilet. It was while I was washing my hands that I was able to take in the gorgeous fixtures, the perfectly organized soaps and lotions and a neatly stacked tower of washcloths rolled up like egg rolls on a tray. A simple vase adorned the counter with fragrant gardenias perched on the rim and a photo frame sat right next to it, just far enough away from the sink to not get wet. It held a candid photo of Will, maybe five years younger with his hair caught in the wind. It looked like it was taken at the beach, and he smiled irreverently and carefree with a teenaged girl at his side. Georgia, if I could guess. The family resemblance was uncanny.
Panic struck in my chest. This was no guest bathroom. Family used this. I spun around to take in the rest of the space. A bath towel on the floor. Flip flops in the corner. A discarded shampoo box in the wastebasket. I needed to get out of there before I was caught. They’d probably think I was snooping around. Then I’d really be on his Burnt List. But as I snuck out into the hallway, I heard a sad, high-pitched whine. It was a constant and persistent yelping and as I followed the sound, I heard the accompanying scratch, scratch, scratch on wood. The dog was just beyond the double doors of what was probably the master suite. Or a library, judging by the doors which were heavy and imposing. I told myself to go. Just find the way back and sneak away. But I couldn’t stand the cry of an animal. Especially a sweet, brown and gold Cocker Spaniel with eyes like shiny buttons. Besides, who could know how long her human would be too busy to take her out. Maybe she had to do her business. I could totally relate to that. My heart just broke in two for the poor dear.
Maybe I’d leave a note. Took Lady for a walk. BRB. In all probability, I’d have her back before he even noticed. When I opened the doors, she jumped repeatedly with sheer excitement.
“Who’s a good girl?” I crooned, getting on my hands and knees to scratch her ears. “Who’s a good girl?”
She rolled onto her back for a belly rub, and her little tongue hung out of the side of her mouth. The skin on the corners of her snout sagged with gravity, and it appeared like she was smiling. Maybe she was smiling. I believed dogs could do that. Especially a smart, lovely dog like Lady.
24
The Woman Who Stole My Heart and My Dog
Will
“No. Absolutely not.”
I sliced my hand through the air between Stella and me, drawing the line on her crazy idea. Her sweet, soft face scrunched into a fierce, wrinkled scowl.
“Why on earth not?”
“Because…” I began but turned my head and decided to draw her away from the line of patrons waiting to be served. My sister and I had been pouring libations at the
beer garden. Georgia thought it would be fun to get our hands sticky with volunteer hours. The press went wild for it, but that’s not why I did it. The smile it put on my sister’s face to work together for a good cause was all the reason I needed. We had a rhythm going until Stella sprang her news on me. I crouched to meet her ear in the corner of the booth, away from listening ears.
“Because,” I continued with a whisper, “one, we haven’t rehearsed this. Two, Beth would never agree to it, and three…” I counted on my fingers, the third digit hanging there waiting for an excellent excuse to spring forth from my earnest and level-headed brain. But said brain was inundated with thoughts of Beth. She was somewhere close—on my property. Probably only a few hundred feet away. She’d seen my home in the wild state it was in. I wondered what she thought of it—how much of it reflected me. And I ached for her to see it on a quiet evening when it was just me and Lady by the pool or on the balcony overlooking the hills.
My thoughts also turned to her every time I looked at that blasted keg. I made a point to serve mostly boutique beers for the event, but Stella’s board of directors insisted on a couple of mainstream brands for those who might want it. And so they added a keg of Bud Lite, and I laughed inwardly whenever it caught my eye. Oh, Beth.
And now, Stella tried to convince me to sing a duet with Beth for the banquet. Like it was no big deal to pick up Bing’s role at a moment’s notice. She stared at me and my third finger. Waiting. I had nothin’.
“Well?” she said, raising a brow. “Is that all?”
“How do you know Beth knows Mabel’s part?” I sputtered. There. My third excuse. Sort of.
She laughed, waving a hand like she was swatting flies. “My dear boy,” she exclaimed. “Every girl in the cast knows Mabel’s part. Besides, I happen to know Beth played Mabel in college. She’s got the chops for it.”
Oh, I knew she had the chops for it. That’s what I was afraid of. There was something extremely attractive in a woman who could sing, and to perform a love song with her would be the end of me.
“I think you should do it,” Georgia piped in, smiling ear to ear. She winked at Stella, sharing a conspiring look. What were these women up to?
I turned around to face her eye to eye. “Georgia, what if I were to ask you to perform Franz Liszt’s La Campanella with little to no practice time?”
She crossed her arms and peeked at me under her lashes. “I would give it a try. For love,” she said that last bit under her breath.
“For what?” I asked. We weren’t having this conversation again. Not here.
“For love of the theatre,” she said with a smile. “Sheesh!”
Grrr. These women in my life. I needed to do some guy stuff—like watching football and maybe some masculine grunting while blowing things up.
“William Martin Darcy.”
Uh oh. Stella meant business when she used my middle name.
“I’ve been looking forward to this gala for months, and I will be quite put out if I don’t get to perform tonight.” Her hands were on her hips. “I need you to sing Frederic’s part in Oh, False One. I know you can do it.”
“I can do that, Stella,” I conceded, cowering under her glare. How could anyone say no to this lady? She was knighted. It would be like sticking it to The Queen herself.
“And while you’re at it…” She grinned. “You can do the duet with Beth.”
She had it all figured out, didn’t she? Duet with Stella followed by a duet with Beth. A duet in which Frederic and Mabel kiss.
Stella rolled her shoulders back and pulled at the hem of her shirt. “Well,” she said, “I’m off to tell her the news.”
“Where is she?” I didn’t want to sound too anxious, but it was killing me to no end.
“How in heaven should I know?”
“So, you’re just going to search aimlessly for her in the crowd?” I said. “There must be a few thousand people here.”
She waved her hand around in a circle like she was conjuring something out of the air. Expecto Elizabethum.
“Find her on the tweet box.”
“I don’t have a tweet box.” I sighed. Did she think cell phones were some sort of magical tracking device? “Can’t you call her?”
She smiled wryly and wagged her brows. “That’s exactly what Beth would say. Fancy that.”
Uh uh. Fancy that. It’s only common sense.
“Oh, Stella,” said Georgia. “You left your phone on my bedroom dresser. It was charging when I came down. Do you want me to run up and get it?”
“Oh, would you, love?” Stella reached out and touched her arm with gratitude. “Too much walking back and forth for these old bones.”
“I’ll go,” I said. Some breathing room away from these women would do me good. Stella threw me a sweeter-than-honey grin and as I walked away, I could hear her say to my sister, “Pour me a Guinness, poppet.”
I stormed through the crowd. Sing a duet with Beth! Really! We’d have to spend the afternoon rehearsing, and we all know how that went between Beth and me. Why did I ever agree to this debacle? A flock of screaming children blew past me. A warmth bubbled in my chest at the sound of their flittering giggles. I sighed. That was my answer. It was all for them. Ugh! I was starting to sound like a Whitney Houston song.
Twelve hours. I just had to last twelve more hours. I could do this. I steeled myself and strode inside the house. I gave a nod to the security detail we’d hired and was about to run up the grand staircase when something disturbing caught my eye.
“What the…? Who put this here?” Candles and flower arrangements littered the surface of my sister’s brand-new piano. I ran to the instrument and threw off the offending objects, cursing without restraint. I was so angry my words were more like a fierce growl. Maybe my sister was right. I wasn’t the clock. I was the Beast.
“I’m so, so sorry, sir.” An attendant was at my side in a moment, gingerly removing the items from the piano. “We’ll take care of it right away.”
I rounded on him, poor guy. He was the closest person in my vicinity and therefore received the brunt of all my rage.
“This is a two-hundred-thousand-dollar Fazioli Concert Grand,” I spat.
The man cowered as I pointed menacingly with my index finger.
“Fix this.” My finger now jabbed at his chest. “There better not be the slightest scratch or water ring.”
I left him to do his work and stormed up the stairs. My head burned like the Heatmiser from that old animated Christmas movie. I needed to get a grip. Over the course of a week, I’d slept a total of ten or twelve hours. I was delirious and grumpy, the women in my life were driving me over the edge, and now, I was yelling at the vendors. I’m sure the piano was fine. They’d taken the precaution to use felt to protect the surface, but anyone with a brain knows not to put anything on a piano. How would you open the lid to play if it was covered in crap? Music-hating idiots.
Fury embedded itself in my bones. What had gotten into me? As I ascended to my sister’s room, I marveled at how my life had taken such a wild turn. I wouldn’t say I was happy. Happy was an illusion sold to the masses on a thirty-second time slot between pharmaceutical commercials and the Progressive ad. But it was fine. I didn’t need happy. I was content. I made bucket loads of money on the royalties of my movies alone, and a nice sum for each new project. I was set for life if I wanted to call it quits. The house was paid off. My sister was finally in a secure place. What more could I want? Then Beth came along and kicked sand around, messing up my perfectly formed sandcastles. She was the tide eroding at my comfort zone. But what was the shore without water crashing on land? A desert. Ah crap. I could have been fine with a desert. Deserts are awesome. The Space Shuttle used to land in the desert. Vegas is in the desert. Palm Springs!
Maybe once the run was over, I’d get a room at the Bellagio and sleep away my days by the pool and throw money at the blackjack table at night. I could do the desert fine.
Stella’s ph
one was exactly where Georgia said it was, and I was just resolving to mend the head of that vendor I’d bit off downstairs—I’d find that poor guy and give him a nice tip. Maybe even apologize. It could be the new me. A contrite, penitent Will Darcy. I could try it on for size. For Beth.
But irritability rose anew at the sight of my bedroom doors ajar. A fresh bout of anger boiled through my veins as I pounded my feet on the floor to cross over and lock the door. I shouldn’t have to lock a bedroom door in my own house. The workers were explicitly instructed that access to the upper floors was strictly prohibited. I hoped the intruder was still in there, so I could make a proper complaint. But no event staff worker was to be found. That would have been infinitely more desirable. Unless my eyes deceived me. Which admittedly wasn’t a far-flung possibility because they took in the sight of Beth in my bedroom, on the floor, with my dog in her arms. I had to be dreaming. She was a vision of artless beauty—blithe and joyful under the onslaught of doggie kisses. Her hair cascaded in a tousled wave on the rug and her dress, a flouncy white number with a flowered print, gathered adrift along her thigh, revealing just a pittance more leg than was appropriate. It was a hallucination. Definitely a mirage brought on by immense stress and lack of sleep.
I blinked three times. One. Two. Three. Nope. Still there. Moments ticked by, suspended in a bubble. I was either in a demented manifestation of purgatory or the heavens had opened up and bestowed my deepest desires upon me. I looked back on my life. Had I done anything good to deserve this? Nada. Zip. Zilch. This was definitely purgatory.
I cleared my throat—not to startle her or anything—but because a solid lump was lodged in it. She shot up to her feet, adjusting her dress, and ran a hand over her hair.
