Upstairs, feet shuffled. Water ran. Muffled voices spoke. He turned again to the painting of Nona as a young woman. The soft hued, oil painting captured a moment from a movie. A look of longing haunted from those pale-green eyes—a mirror of Misty’s.
Funny, now that he thought about it. The sweet Mrs. D. was the same sassy, spunky starlet his mother had always wanted him to watch in those old comedies, or the romances. But what kid would sit still for a black and white, or grainy color comedy when he could be blasted away at his X-box? Or watch something more exciting, with dinosaurs or aliens?
Thoughts of those irate refusals to his poor mom erupted in a ricocheting laugh, echoing across the empty room. Better stem that with something, quick. Misty might think he was laughing at her. She was sensitive, sweet, and secretive in a way that intrigued him far more than it should.
So, he’d paint their house that funky cornbread yellow for her until his arms ached. He’d kiss her on her porch swing whenever she’d let him. And though he’d love to do much more than leave her at the door, all instincts had him reining himself in. She had to want him just as much as he wanted her or it just wouldn’t matter.
His thoughts angled to tonight’s show as he ambled to the bar. The thrill of Misty in the audience, taking it all in, and the added bonus that he’d seen the jealous flare of her temper. Jealous! Of Desiree! He couldn’t wait to work that one into his favor.
The crystal decanter beckoned. He tipped its amber contents into two brandy snifters, then swirled the liquid, inhaled the honey-hazelnut flavors. Why not? Being in this museum-quality house made him think of those old flicks. Men in white ties and cummerbunds sniffing from narrow mouthed, wide bowled goblets. Of ladies in shimmery silk dresses, who looked longingly into the distance as their rich lips begged for dramatic kisses. Speaking of…
Misty floated down the flight of steps, an angel in blue jeans. Her focus settled upon him. “You stayed.” She joined him at the bar, her expression, unreadable.
“No pressing engagements.” He offered her a glass. “Grandma’s orders.”
Misty hooked her fingers around the stem, then turned and strode into the kitchen.
He followed at a quick pace, her annoyance palpable. It was classic, the way she tried to dance around him. He had to settle her down like a skittish pony each time they met.
She pulled back a chair, sat, and rested her elbows on the table. “Why not go home? You’re bound to be tired.” Her glass played between lithe fingers.
“We didn’t get a chance to talk.” He joined her, caddy-corner, and took a long slug of the warming liquid. “I loved having you watch tonight.”
“Thanks again, by the way.” Misty tilted her glass. “Grandma had such a great time.”
He watched as she drank, rubbed her full lips together, and tasted the wine. He freed her fingers from the stem of her glass. “My pleasure.” He drew her open palm in his, and pressed a light kiss in its center.
Her breath caught, ragged and sexy. Cain closed his eyes briefly at the sound. Control.
She continued with a flood of small talk. She went on about the Raineers. About Grandma’s friends. About how lovely the orchard looked. Even about his sister. She cornered him with questions, babbling with nerves.
“Everyone’s talking about the film festival.” He offered a word in edgewise.
“They’re showing her award winners all week long, and then ending with the banquet, and the showing of His and Hers next Saturday night.” Her eyes clouded, her brows knit together. “I’m supposed to coordinate her—”
“Like handbag with shoes?”
“No. With the event people.” His blank stare had her shaking her head. “These things don’t just come off without a hitch by accident, you know. We have to talk seating, schedule, our arrival time. There’s quite a bit to be done, actually.”
“Who’s taking you?” His question interrupted. “You never did say.”
Misty’s gaze darted down, and then flashed up to hold his, shy no longer. “I’d thought I’d go stag. You know. See if there’re any hot guys to pick up on.”
“Oh?” Glass forgotten, he folded his fingers on hers. “Anyone special in mind?”
She cocked her head, her heated gaze had his heart kick up tempo. “There’s this musician I’ve had my eye on.”
“You like guitarists, do you?” He drew her fingertips to his lips, inhaled her orange-blossom scent.
“And, there’s the olive oil salesman. But, this handyman who’s been helping me lately? He’s super sexy.” Her lovely mouth twitched. “I can’t decide which one to ask.”
“You’re going with me.” It wasn’t a request.
She raised her brows, tilting her head. “Why do you want me, Cain?”
The sound of his name from her lips super-heated his blood. He took a final slug of brandy and dragged her to her feet. One more long look, and he laced his fingers through hers and dragged her into the hall. The parlor and front door stood on one side, the stairs leading to her bedroom on the other. He swallowed, turning to view her again. He could see the pulse throbbing at her throat. He longed to let his mouth explore the space under her jaw, just below her ear, and linger there.
Truth? No matter what he wanted, it wasn’t time to go there yet.
Her lips curled to smile as his hand explored the back of her neck. She was clay, ready to mold as he dictated. Restraint brought him to shaking as he drew her in for a butterfly-light kiss.
“You’re trembling…” Her liquid voice didn’t help. Neither did her hands, tangling in his hair.
He glanced toward the door, but his feet stayed planted where they were. “I’ve gotta go.”
She stopped him with the barest touch to his shoulder. “Cain—”
He leveled his gaze on those bits of jade that held him prisoner. At her angel’s face. The rosy flush that dusted her cheeks beneath a spray of freckles, and continued down to the curve of her throat. The way her hair fell in a tousled mess at her shoulders. Taking her chin lightly, he kissed her again, then allowed it to deepen. She had to know how much he needed her.
Her body answered, leaning her body into his. They fit, two puzzle pieces, in the low light, until it took every bit of resolve to edge her back.
“Holy cow,” she finally mustered, leaning heavily against the banister rail.
“Yeah.” A glance back upstairs, his mind clouded in what-if wonder. Then, he blinked back to reality. “That’s why I’m leaving.”
She nodded, but heaven help him, she pressed into him. This time, her hands found his hair, the curves and valleys of her melded to his side. She arched her neck, allowing his fingers, his lips free reign to explore the hollow of her throat.
He wanted to memorize every inch. Become intimately involved in every freckle that dusted her skin. Discover every secret she hid behind those veiled, green eyes. Finally, he returned to drink of her lips one last time.
Breath to breath, she held his gaze. “Be my date for the film festival.” Her rich voice, a siren song.
“Yes.” He traced the line of her jaw with his thumb. Her head gave a slight tilt back revealing that throat. His lips brushed her neck one achingly last time. Orange blossoms filled his senses. If he didn’t leave right now, he might never go.
“I’d love to go with you.”
Hands framing her face, he spoke his heart. “I want to sit in the dark next to you. I want to eat popcorn with you. To go grocery shopping with you, or sit and watch while you paint your toenails. I don’t just want you, Misty Darling. I want all of you.”
Her mouth dropped open.
He kissed it shut. “Believe it.”
He left her, standing in the open doorway, speechless, and forced himself to walk away from her.
Down the porch stairs, the driveway, and the long, curling back road into the olive groves. No chance he’d look back, or any resolve might just dissipate into the ether.
Just the memory of her smile to light the d
arkness before him, a lantern within he burned the whole walk home.
Chapter Sixteen
Misty entered the flower shop. The standard, rehearsed Flower Field greeting quenched as soon as it began, replaced with a spattering of “Hey, Misty.”
Just a week since her first visit, and now they considered her a regular. She stifled a smile and walked back to the prep tables.
Sofie stood, hair tied up in a ponytail, sleeves rolled up to her elbows. In two swift, repetitive motions, she stripped thorns off the long-stemmed roses.
“You’re good at that.” She walked over, giving a kick at the discarded stems from between her tennis shoes.
“Only done about a hundred today.” Sofie blew her dark curling bangs and reached for another flower. “Only a hundred more to go.”
“These are for the college?”
“Mm-hm. For the banquet and film festival. This event’s really going to push us over the top.” She hauled a bucketful of rosebuds back to the cooler and grabbed another. “These will be perfect in bloom by the event. What are you doing here on a Saturday, especially after last night! Cain’s really talented, isn’t he?”
Misty turned a thorn-less stem in her hand, her mind darting beyond his mere prowess with the guitar to where his lips set her neck to sizzling the night before. She closed her eyes and filtered a yawn with closed mouth.
“Tired?” One after the other, the flowers under Sofie’s careful hand filled the buckets, stripped and ready.
“Yeah. Tough night getting to bed. Too many thoughts jumping around in there.” Misty changed the subject. “So, what’s the plan once the thorns are stripped?”
“I’m still working that out. I know we’ve got two large sprays for either side of the podium. I need something dramatic for the entry. And, the tabletops.” She ran both hands over her head. “Let’s talk about what we do know. Silver screen. Thus the white roses. White and silver. Those are the colors. I’ve got oodles of tea lights in tiny votives. Mirrored squares for the table tops. And scads of silver ribbon. See?” She tossed a glance to the corner where it was stacked.
Silver, wire-edged sheer ribbon would catch the light and not detract from the mirrors and candles. Misty fingered a length of fabric. “How are you displaying the roses?”
“We have to pick something out soon. Long stems call for something tall and dramatic. That’s good for tables. Inspires conversation rather than blocks it. But…I want to do something unexpected. I’m stumped.”
Already, Misty’s mind was working. “I’ve got a meeting with Mr. Wiggersham over at the college. Maybe—”
Sofie looked up, a hopeful expression on her heart-shaped face. “Go see if you’re struck with a lightning bolt of inspiration. Call me from your cell.”
Misty chewed her lip. “I don’t have a cell phone anymore…”
“Why not?” Sofie gaped.
“Well…I haven’t worked in over six months. I kind of…” Misty had no excuse. She was back to the land of the living. Perhaps it was time to catch up with the rest of the world.
“We have an account with the mobile center down the block. Drop by and tell Tommy I sent you.” Sofie folded a business card in Misty’s hand. “He’s a cutie.”
“Great.” Misty shagged her hands through her hair. “Cell phone.”
“With texting!” Diane added from the back.
“Right.” She blew a breath and set out to get herself plugged back in.
****
Almond Valley College’s campus tucked itself into the landscape, its brick administrative buildings looking much like the rest of the community. The large auditorium was the only structure that stood out, apart from the rest. Doric columns rose up from stairs quarried from local granite. Grand, palatial, and ready to house the event of the year.
She pulled Grandma’s black and white Buick Roadmaster into the lot behind the theater building and stepped into the afternoon sunshine. Misty frowned at the Mapquest read out on her new, state-of-the-art, touch screen cell phone. She turned it sideways, gasping as the image widened and re-centered itself.
Sofie’s recommendation of the mobile center was either the best thing she’d ever done, or the worst! A two-year contract and she walked out the door with a free device—complete with GPS, unlimited texting, video, and social networking applications. Oh, and a phone. She smirked, folding Tommy’s scrawled suggestions of things to add to it. He’d mentioned something about following her on Twitter. The very notion left her dazed, with images of crowds of people following each other in circles.
The rest of the world, on and offline, moved at fast forward. Long Valley, by comparison, remained stuck on rewind.
Attention on the phone, she sighed. Whether she liked it or not, it brought her to the right spot. She glanced up at the grassy Mall. She followed the sidewalk, walking past the marquis. A man on a ladder spelled out the event. Her mouth edged up into a smile, seeing him writing her grandmother’s name, along with His and Hers in large block letters.
What would it be like to see Grandma up there, larger than life? Sure, she’d watched the old movies until she could repeat the lines. Still, she’d never seen one of Grandma’s films up on the big screen. Her heart did a small thrill, interrupted by a rich baritone voice calling her name.
“I thought that would be you, Misty.” Alfred Wiggersham stood inches shorter, chest puffed out like an opera singer. Ruddy cheeks and bright eyes gleaming, he pumped her arm like an oil well. “We met at the concert.”
She liked him immediately as he ushered her to his office just inside the auditorium, on the other side of the ticket booth. Framed “one sheet” posters for theatrical productions from the 1970s, 80s, and 90s took up every inch of wall space. Rolls and cardboard tubes of what she assumed were unframed posters filled the corners of the room. Two chairs butted up in the corner, a small occasional table in between. His desk and bookshelves lined the other wall, every square inch dust-covered—save for the bright computer screen, flipping an endless slideshow of staged production shots.
Seeing her focus, he pointed. “That’s last season’s production of Les Miserables. We got a three-and-a-half star review from the San Francisco Chronicle. Pretty exciting.” He scratched his chin. “I’m still figuring what we could have done to earn that extra half-star. Your grandparents had the same box seats for forty years.”
Misty nodded, and swallowed a lump of emotion at the sight of an autographed black-and-white picture he had of her grandparents from a past theater event. “He was quite handsome, wasn’t he?”
“Your grandfather?” Alfred nodded, picking up the picture. “A true patron of the arts. He stole your grandmother from the theater, some say. But, we know otherwise. He kept her forever young.”
The picture frame settled back into place, but he knocked over a stack of mail and industry magazines. He bent to reshuffle them and placed all but the top one back on his desk. “Well, what do you know? I didn’t know they’d green-lit the project. Lost in Time—that was your old production studio, wasn’t it?”
“It was.” Heart in her shoes, Misty walked to his side. “What project is it?”
Lids heavy, a guilty look washed his features. He held up the white and green magazine.
She scanned the page. The black-and-white image showed Nona Darling—all of maybe nineteen, she’d guess—sharp eyes clouded with substance, in the embrace of a towering, handsome film studio executive type. In the grainy photo, he held out his hand to stop the paparazzi of the mid-fifties.
Misty read the headline aloud. “Darling No More—The Rise and Fall of a Starlet.” Scanning the page, her attention hooked on a familiar name. Dread grabbed her stomach as she read on. “Executive Producer Todd Rhenquist. After shopping the exposé to the major networks has sold the project to the new PPZ—the paparazzi channel—for an undisclosed sum.”
Glumly, Alfred nodded.
“Todd.” Disbelief punctuated her voice. She sat heavily in one of the chairs, ig
noring the fine cloud of dust that puffed around her. “The bastard finally did it.”
“He’s called here a time or two.” Mr. Wiggersham held up his hands to deflect the daggers Misty shot his way. “I’ve not returned his messages, nor am I planning to. He’s a media hound. A trash peddler.”
“At least we agree on that.” Misty folded the thin, glossy pages, no intention of letting the article out of her sight as she tucked it with her notes. “Mind if I take this?”
“Go right ahead. You must know how fond we are of Nona.”
She nodded, unsure of her voice. How could he steal from her? She needed to get the lawyers involved. The media. Something.
Anger bubbled to the top of her head like a bottle of cheap champagne. She wanted to scream. To burst! Instead, she forced in a shot of courage, and straightened her spine. This was all part of her mistake. She’d have to figure it out somehow, starting with priority one. “Add one little detail to the notes. Todd Rehnquist is not to be allowed on the premises, ticket or not.”
“Don’t worry about him.” He gave a sharp nod, gaze not leaving hers. “Now, let’s get to business.”
They were on the same page.
An hour later, Misty’s notebook was full.
Alfred Wiggersham might be the director of a rather small school by California standards, but he obviously ran a tight ship. He knew his industry, what worked and what would throw a wrench in the production. His suggestions were veiled attempts at herding her to his ultimate goal of Grandma speaking in front of the crowd.
“What are the chances she’ll speak?” He leaned forward. “If she does, it’ll be the first time Nona Darling’s addressed her audience since the death of her husband. A news-worthy moment, to be sure.”
“Well. We’re still deciding all of that, but if she does, it’ll be brief. I’m warning you.” Misty wagged a finger, her project management skills coming back into play. “Now. Let’s go check the venue and then I’ll be on my way.”
His and Hers Page 10
