by Liz Talley
“Let’s not talk about it,” Nick said, refastening his eyes on the television as the Pelicans fell behind in the last few seconds of the first half. He hated talking about Susan, about being left behind while she went after what she wanted. One sliver of himself admired the way she hadn’t let anything stand in her way. The other 99.5 percent of him hated her selfishness, hurt for their daughter, and resented the hell out of her tossing love out for a career. Susan chose fame, money, and admiration over family. Love hadn’t mattered to her.
So yeah, he had a hard time trusting a woman. Silly but true. He was afraid to date and fall in love with someone who might turn out to be like Susan. He knew not all women were like his ex. But how could he be sure they wanted him and not the money and social position he could give them? What were the indicators? He didn’t want a woman he had to rescue or coddle. Having a disabled daughter made him appreciate women who could stand on their own two feet. Yet he didn’t want a relationship with someone who didn’t need him at all.
He needed a woman to need him . . . at least a little.
“Fine. We won’t talk about your evil ex-wife or my horny soon-to-be ex-husband. Or how good I am in bed. Or the fact you haven’t gotten laid in ages. Should we talk about Hitler or the devil?” Caro grinned at him.
“Hitler?”
“An expression. He’s really not that great of a topic.”
Nick gave a bark of laugher. “You’re a handful. Poor ol’ Steve just didn’t know what to do with you.”
Caro snorted. “Now I’m free to find a virile pool boy to figure out what to do with me. But first I’ll need to build a pool.”
“That’s an expensive way to get a guy, Caro.”
“You can’t give advice. You’re celibate . . . and obviously okay with it.”
He went back to the pretzels. “I’m not happy with it. But I don’t want to jump into a lifestyle I can’t keep up. I don’t want a pool boy.”
“You don’t have a pool either.”
“Good point.” Maybe Caro wasn’t far off the path. He’d been avoiding—what had his sister called it last week?—oh yes, diddling. He’d decided a year ago he’d look for a lasting relationship but had never gotten around to it. Perhaps he needed to stop worrying about finding the perfect woman to wake up beside for the rest of his life and have some fun. Like when people stopped trying to have a baby and then, whammo, they get pregnant. Relax, enjoy, don’t create expectations. After all, he was only thirty-five years old. He still had game.
But then he thought about Sophie.
Then, oddly enough, Eden.
His nanny wasn’t the kind of girl a guy took for a test drive. Not that slipping her into his car was an option. Something about her was wholesome, almost innocent. She was the kind of girl who deserved to be cherished. The kind of girl to kiss, cuddle, lick wine off her stomach. Eden was the kind a man married, and that’s the kind of woman he should be investing his time in. Yes, he needed a woman who—
Wait. What in the hell was he doing? Just because he had a small thing for his daughter’s nanny didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy being a red-blooded man. Nothing wrong with wanting some hot, sweaty sex. And if he got laid, maybe he’d stop thinking about licking cabernet off the nanny’s stomach.
As the Pelicans stormed off the court and the halftime talking heads started analyzing the game, Nick Zeringue decided he was going to climb out of his suburban single-dad world and enjoy himself a bit more. Caro’s chatty coworker might not have been his cup of tea, easy as she was, but surely there was a woman out there who would tickle his fancy.
’Cause he was a man who obviously needed his fancy tickled.
And he was going to get him some.
The next night Eden chewed her bottom lip and watched Frenchie jab a finger at Butch. Something bad was going down.
When she’d scooted in with the second hand on the :58 mark, she got an uneasy feeling. Frenchie was aggravated. Very aggravated. The stage manager paced up and down the dressing room floor, muttering words under her breath that would make a whore blush and pecking on her cell phone, lifting it to her ear and growling when the result was not what she wanted.
Eden tried to concentrate on her makeup. Tonight was her first night in the ensemble. She’d stayed up extra late last night practicing the steps. The downstairs neighbor had knocked on her door at about ten forty-five to ask her to stop dancing. Eden felt terrible. She’d never given a thought to the rat-a-tat-tatting keeping the older man awake. But she was determined to be flawless. So she put on heavy socks and softened her footfalls as she practiced over and over the three numbers they’d do that night.
All day she’d fought against the butterflies—a feeling she both despised and cherished. Luckily the day had been easy. No spontaneous conferences with principals, no snoball dates with Nick, no balking when she helped Sophie with the exercises the physical therapist required the child to do each day. Nick got home on time and spent a few minutes chatting with her in a most companionable way. And even though the butterflies still flitted in her stomach when he was near, she didn’t spend too much time staring as he leaned against the sink and told her about the new dessert his pastry chef had debuted at Voo Carre, the French Quarter bistro that had opened a few years ago. Not that Eden could afford to go and try it. And not that she hadn’t wanted to drool a little at the way his shoulders seemed even broader when he crossed his arms. Or simper when he gave her that pretty, hot dad smile he’d first given her the day he’d hired her. The man was fine with a capital F. And, yeah, she had a crush on him.
Big deal.
“Sadie’s not coming,” Frenchie Pi roared, slamming her phone on the table. “That mother fu—”
“No time to bitch,” Butch interrupted, storming into the dressing room, making half-dressed girls squeal and scatter. “You’re going to have to get your ass out there.”
“And do what?”
“Fix it. Sing the damn song,” Butch growled.
“I don’t know the effin’ song. I know my song. Not hers,” Frenchie hissed and then scowled at her phone, her eyes searching as consecutive dings sounded. “Stupid girl. I knew I should have fired her last month. Now she’s running off, leaving us high and dry.”
“I don’t care who you have to blow, you better do something. I have investors here tonight,” Butch said, turning abruptly and stomping out. The Great Oz had spoken.
Frenchie muttered more foul obscenities. After a few seconds, she looked up at the ladies surrounding her. Eden eased off the chair where she’d been trying to line her lips. The stage manager swept them with a broad glance. “Who knows the words to ‘Anything You Can Do’?”
No one said anything.
Eden had played Annie Oakley in the Morning Glory High School’s production of Annie Get Your Gun. She knew the words, but—
“Someone step up. You heard Butch. Investors,” Frenchie ordered.
“I can,” Eden said, frogs jumping in her belly. Frogs were way more demanding than butterflies. Sort of slimy too.
“New girl?” Frenchie said, narrowing her eyes. “You haven’t even gone on the stage before. How can I trust you?”
Eden lifted her chin. “You asked if someone knew the words. I know the words. I can’t speak for who you trust or don’t trust.”
Frenchie turned a stormy face to the racks of costumes lining the wall. Wire hangers hung drunkenly, sequined swaths dangling much like the upcoming number. “I can’t believe this shit. I really can’t believe this shit.”
The other girls cast suspicious glances toward Eden. She could feel the questions, the censure, and the incredulity that an untried ensemble member who’d shown up mere days ago might be the one to get the break they’d been hoping for. Eden didn’t return their regard. Instead she watched Frenchie. “I’ve been on the stage plenty of times. You saw my audition.”
Eden didn’t add that her onstage experience as Annie Oakley had come when she was a junior in high school. Hey,
they’d sold out all three nights, and she’d gotten a nice write-up in the Morning Glory Herald. Not exactly chopped liver.
After long, countable seconds, Frenchie closed her eyes, opened them, and then snapped her fingers. “Get her the costume. Lisa, see if we have a wig. Make it red. Let’s get her as close as possible to Lola.”
“She’s almost a foot shorter than Sadie. No one is going to think she’s Lola LaRue. That’s ridiculous,” one of the ensemble girls said.
“Fine. She’ll be Lulu. Lola’s sister,” Frenchie said with a shrug of one thin shoulder. It seemed obvious the woman had made her decision. “Let’s make this happen. We don’t have time to think too hard. Someone give Fred the intro for Lulu. We’ll need to take a good six inches off the skirt, and someone find a padded bra. If I’m not mistaken, she’s a thirty-two with an A cup.”
Just before Frenchie left the room, she jabbed a finger at Eden and said, “Don’t fuck this up.”
“I’m a B cup,” Eden yelled, knowing full well the bra she was currently wearing was a 32 A.
But Frenchie was gone.
A woman with frizzy brown hair jerked her toward a stool and the lighted table all the other girls had avoided earlier. “I’m Lisa. We need to be quick. Your makeup’s not bad, but it’s too light. Derrick, toss me your ‘do me’ red lipstick,” she commanded, rummaging through a junky drawer. The chorus line dancers unfroze from stunned positions. In the mirror, Eden could see them straightening the line in their fishnet stockings and teasing their hair. A few sideways glances came her way, but Eden ignored them. She hadn’t tried to step on anyone’s toes. Fact was she knew the words. She’d answered Frenchie’s question. That’s all.
And hadn’t Jess told her she’d have to be bold? Had to stop being so complacent. Find her path and all that crap. So she wasn’t apologizing for stepping up and making her own break.
“Here,” Lisa said, wagging a glitter eyelash in front of her face. “Close your eyes soft.”
Eden shut her eyes, but she couldn’t stop the flip-flopping of her stomach. Lulu LaRue. How should she play her? Spunky and game? Or sultry and sleek? Who was Lulu? The long-suffering sister of the temptress Lola? Maybe Lulu had been waiting far too long in the wings for her chance to shine. Eden already knew Lulu.
She was Lulu.
Beneath the forgotten little sister breathed a brash, bold, hungry woman who tired of hiding her lamp under a bushel. Lulu didn’t want to be polite or subtle because she couldn’t risk being overlooked yet again. Which meant Lulu had to leave it all on the stage. Go big or go home.
“There,” Lisa said, setting the second glitter lash into place. “Open your eyes.”
Eden did.
“Yowser. You got peepers, babe,” Lisa said with a grin. “We’ll pretty up those lips, but first let’s pin your hair back and try this.” She grabbed the foam head holding a wavy red wig that would just brush Eden’s shoulders from Derrick. The drag queen grinned like a jack-o’-lantern at Eden’s reflection in the mirror.
“Well, look at you, Miss Thang,” Derrick drawled. He had all his makeup on but still wore his street clothes. Air Jordans and ragged cargo pants looked plain weird when paired with sparkly long fingernails and lacquered lip gloss.
Eden rolled her glitter-lined eyes up at him. “What?”
“I knew you’d be something special. You just had that look, you know?”
Shaking her head, Eden asked, “What look?”
“Like you hungry, baby. Like you real hungry. And now you about to eat. Just don’t—”
“I know,” Eden said, wincing as Lisa jabbed her with a bobby pin, “don’t fuck it up.”
Derrick laughed all the way out of the dressing room. The next time she saw him, he was Sista Shayla.
And she was Lulu LaRue.
Eden sucked in a deep breath and took her place. The ensemble wasn’t exactly shooting daggers at her with their eyes, but there was definitely some heat.
Good.
She could handle it. Because heat meant emotion. And in the theatre, emotion was good. A performer could feed off emotion, internalize it, use it as the coals to feed her own energy. If only Eden didn’t feel like she was going to barf.
It had been a while since she’d stood on an X in the center of a stage awaiting the curtain swishing open. She loved the feeling, hated the feeling, and prayed she wouldn’t, indeed, toss her cookies. And it would literally be cookies. She and Sophie had made snickerdoodles earlier that day, and Eden hadn’t had anything else to eat.
While she’d been transforming herself into Lulu, she’d quelled her nerves by reviewing all the words of the song. Luckily, she’d noted no changes in the song when they’d practiced it with Sadie the day before. She couldn’t forget the words. She couldn’t screw this up. Like Lacy had written in the letter she’d left Eden—you have to overcome, which means you have to play a little dirtier than Rosemary and Jess. Of course, she’d done nothing dirty. But she knew what Lacy meant. When you’d been born with nothing much, you had to be a little less ladylike to get something more.
Lulu LaRue would be no lady.
Frenchie clapped her hands, gliding onto the stage. “Places.”
The chorus girls slid the covers off their tap shoes, tossing the covers toward the wings. Eden did the same, only faintly smiling when she snagged the zebra-print covers on one shoe. Rosemary had given her the covers for her fifteenth birthday, making sure, as Rosemary always did, that they were monogrammed. Her funny friend. Always doing the Southern thing. So very ladylike.
Frenchie appeared in front of Eden, eyes sweeping her from the heeled tap shoes to the teased ginger wig. Her sharp eyes snagged on Eden’s glossy lips and plumped-up breasts very much on display in the tight cowhide vest. “You don’t look like you’re from Mississippi.”
“Good, ’cause Annie was from Ohio,” Eden said.
Frenchie narrowed her eyes. “You’ve surprised me from the beginning. Don’t stop now.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Eden smirked.
Frenchie nodded. “Break a leg, Lulu.”
Eden didn’t say anything more. It was time to take a step on the path she’d started down only a week ago. Time to get hers.
On the stage. In the spotlight. Being someone she was meant to be.
The music started, a quick up-tempo. Over the speaker Eden heard Fred Whoever-He-Was say, “Ladies and gents, tonight you’re in for a rare treat. Lola’s baby sister Lulu LaRue will make her debut here on the stage at Gatsby’s. She’s a real sharpshooter, so ladies, hold on to your fellas. Now for your pleasure, the fabulous, luscious little sister . . . Lulu LaRue.”
The smattering of applause fell away as the curtain swooshed open and the spotlight hit her. Eden slowly sucked in a deep breath and then closed her eyes briefly.
When she opened them, she wasn’t a dirt-poor Voorhees from the wrong side of Morning Glory.
She was the fabulous, luscious Lulu LaRue wearing a too-short cowgirl skirt, a Western vest that showed off her padded breasts, and a sequined holster.
The ensemble started first, the tap, tap, click, click of their shoes building the anticipation. Eden snapped her head toward the audience and waggled her eyebrows. She felt certain after being jabbed with a billion hairpins that the damn wig wasn’t coming off.
She fashioned her lips into a sly smile before she glanced over at the chorus. “Oh, is that how it is, girls?”
The girls in a straight line stopped, tilted their heads in unison, their eyes going comically big as their lips formed perfect Os.
“Anything you can do, I can do better . . .” Eden started the tap she’d practiced until her toes felt bruised.
And the chorus line countered with the same tap number. Each went back and forth, bragging about what they could do better and challenging each other with more and more complicated tap sequences.
Eden fell easily into character, strutting, preening, and boasting of her skills. The number was light, silly, and comi
cal, and though it was not milquetoast, it felt a bit plain ol’ grilled cheese. Nothing spectacular. And Eden needed spectacular.
Go big or go home.
So halfway through the production, Eden leaped off the stage onto the parquet dance floor. The landing jarred her teeth, but she kept strutting. The experienced band followed her lead as she prowled toward the audience, her longer, slower strides setting the tempo. Suddenly the number wasn’t silly. It was sexy, and though the whole thing was off-script and potentially disastrous, Eden didn’t dare second-guess her intuition.
Own it, little sister.
An older man sat at a table with his wife and another couple. Eden plopped into his lap, and as she sang the next lyric, she twisted a strand of his silver hair. With a swish of her head, she glanced back at the chorus. They countered her claim.
Eden dropped a kiss on the man’s forehead, leaving a perfect red imprint before whirling from his lap and slinking toward the next table where she undulated around a younger gentleman who had a flattop and a military bearing, briefly snuggling her padded assets right under his nose as she crooned, “I can fill it better” to the chorus’s claim that they could “knit a sweater.” The audience laughed and clapped as Eden hammed it up, flirting, smiling, seducing her audience. She knew she’d captivated them because the air felt static with electricity. So she sucked the energy dry right down to the last “yes, I can” when she stomped back up on the stage and did her best Bette Midler impression, arms wide, voice full, note really, really, reeeeeally long.
When the curtain closed, the applause was deafening.
“Holy shit,” Frenchie screamed from the wings.
Eden dropped her arms and spun around. The girls in the ensemble looked stunned . . . and then they broke into laughter.
