“Oh goody,” Michael muttered under her breath. It would have to be something messy.
The kids donned smocks to protect their clothing and Michael glanced around for something in adult size. Nothing. Helen didn’t wear designer frocks to work. Five little faces looked up at her eagerly. “Simon, tell your mom we need paper.” A little redheaded girl was staring at her demandingly.
Simon laughed and clapped his hands. “We fooed dem!”
Michael smiled at his pleasure but it also worried her. She squatted in front of him. “We sure did fool them. They think I’m your mommy. But it’s just for today, okay, Simon?”
He nodded and seemed happy enough, so Michael set to work, placing large sheets of white paper on easels in front of each child. She carefully opened each of their paint pots and the children waited with respectful patience for the go ahead. Nothing to it, she thought.
THIRTY MINUTES later, covered in paint and still trying to process what went wrong, Michael was greeted by Helen, who only shook her head in disbelief at the carnage. Michael spoke up before the older woman could say anything. “This was totally not my fault. I don’t know what happened. They just went berserk.”
Helen eyed the children severely. “What do we say to Miss Shannon, children?”
“Sorry Miss Shannon!”
But from the gleam in their eyes, Michael knew those kids didn’t have a sorry bone in their body. The Donna Karan was ruined. She eyed their five paint-smeared faces. “No problem, kids. I’ll clean them up, Helen. It would be my pleasure.”
“Wonderful,” Helen said, visibly relieved. “I’ll hang their paintings to dry. The bathroom is through that door and down the hall on your right. Children, mind your manners with Miss Shannon and then we will have snack time.”
The children filed into the bathroom one at a time, mercifully docile. Michael helped each one at the sink with the soap and rationed the paper towels until the last kid left the bathroom, shiny clean and paint free. As she turned to follow them, Michael caught her reflection in the mirror and was mildly surprised by what she saw. A radiant face, smeared with blue paint, greeted her. Her long blonde hair had come loose of the chignon and her smudged mascara made hollows of her green eyes. Miraculously, she looked ten years younger.
“Not bad,” she said aloud as she washed off the blue paint. It was amazing what a night of fantastic sex could do for a woman’s appearance. And then she was sorry she thought it because remembering last night led to thinking about Hudson again and it had to stop. She had to go back to New York and save her career, and Hudson had to meet a woman who could help out at Simon’s daycare without wrecking the place.
They were ships passing in the night, which was a cliché but an apt one. These seventy-two hours with Hudson Grace had given her more than she’d ever had with any man. She should be grateful to have them. They were enough. They would have to be enough.
HELEN BURST into the bathroom, breathless, waving her hands and making inarticulate noises. “Michael! There are about twenty people upstairs wanting to talk to you!”
“What? Why? Who are they?” Michael tossed the paper towel into the wastebasket and reflexively fixed the makeup around her eyes.
“They said they’re reporters—they have cameras and big lights. I made them wait in the church foyer but one of them insisted they aren’t going to leave until they speak to you.”
“How did they find out where I was? I can’t talk to them! There’s a court order.”
“A court order?” Helen looked worried as though she had allowed a potential felon alone with the children.
“No, it’s not what you think,” Michael said hurriedly. “It was a traffic violation. The judge ordered no contact with the press for seventy-two hours so I was sent to Mandrake Falls.”
“You’re not here to research a role?”
“Not exactly. Listen, Helen, I’m sorry but I can’t talk to the press. You’ll have to get rid of them. Tell them I slipped out the back way. Tell them anything you like but get rid of them!”
“But what do they want with you?”
“The producers have recast my role on Tomorrow Never Comes. I’m off the show. The media obviously smells blood in the water. They want to make me cry is what they want,” Michael said grimly.
“I see.” Helen pulled her sweater tight around her frame and marched toward the door. “I’ll handle this.”
Michael watched her go, feeling a twinge of pity for those entertainment reporters who had no idea what they were in for. She breezed into the playroom and found the children sitting at impossibly small tables on even smaller chairs. Simon jumped up as soon as he saw her.
“I have cackuh for you. Come sid wif me, Mommy!”
A flash of light shone in the window and Michael followed the source to the ground floor windows above her head. A crowd of determined faces, male and female, were pressed against the dusty glass.
Helen darted into the room, her face flushed. “A couple of them got away from me. They figured out where you were. My goodness, I believe they’re actually kneeling in the snow bank.”
“Reporters have no dignity.” Michael grimaced. She’d have to speak to them. They were disrupting the day for the kids and they’d print whatever they wanted to anyway.
Michael caught Simon by the hand and led him to his seat at the table. “Stay here for a minute and finish your snack. I’ll be back soon.” She climbed the stairs to the church’s foyer. The reporters pounced the minute they saw her, firing questions from all sides, which she serenely ignored. Years of training had taught her to respond to reporters only when she was completely calm. She’d learned early in her career to keep her mouth shut until she knew exactly what she was going to say.
Michael moved through the scrum and took a position on the top stair to the choir loft. “Good morning, everyone. I’m sorry you have had a wasted journey. A court order is in effect barring me from contact with the press. Any questions you have will have to be directed to my publicist. That is all.”
The press scrum assembled in a clump at the bottom of the stairs. “Don’t you know why we’re here?” asked one eager novice whom Michael didn’t recognize.
“The producers have replaced me on the show and you are here to get a response. I’m sorry but I can’t help you. Talk to my publicist.”
The tight space exploded with questions and excited voices. One voice rose above the rest—the novice reporter. “Toby Dart is saying you’re a hero! He broke the news yesterday from his hospital room via Skype. He stated if it hadn’t been for you he would have been stuck on the mountain in last night’s blizzard. You carried him out on snowshoes and saved his feet from amputation by giving up your socks and boots. He said you looked fantastic, by the way.”
General laughter greeted this comment. Michael tried very hard not to look pleased.
“I forgot about Toby,” she said. “So he’s the reason you all drove out here? It was my supervisor, Hudson Grace, who was the real hero in that situation. It was his determination that got us all down the mountain safely ahead of the blizzard.”
“But was it true you cut up your scarf to cover your feet so Toby could have your socks?”
“Well, yes, but I only did what anyone would do. There’s nothing heroic in exercising common sense. Toby couldn’t walk on his feet.”
“How long did it take you to make the trip down the mountain? Were you frightened?”
“It took us three hours to make it back to the truck. It had got dark and we had to make sure we didn’t lose the trail markers. I wasn’t scared until night fell and then yes, I confess, I was terrified. But Mr. Grace led us out safe and sound. It’s his job to check the shelters for lost hikers and that’s why we found Toby. I was just along for the ride.”
“Some ride. Toby Dart’s online interview has gone viral, Miss Shannon. Everyone is talking about it. Do you think this will have a positive effect on your negotiations with the producers of Tomorrow Never Comes? They issued a state
ment saying you left without notice and as you were needed on set, they had no choice but to replace you with another actress.”
“I was without a contract when they sent Vickie into a coma. During the negotiations, I was arrested for staging an illegal protest and sentenced to seventy-two hours of community service in Mandrake Falls. I didn’t let the producers know because I was not actually an employee at the time. I was not informed that Vickie was scheduled to wake from her coma. Since I was unavailable to be on set, the producers had to act for the good of the show.”
“How do you feel about Jennifer Swan taking your role?”
A provocative question. Michael fixed the questioner with a thoughtful gaze. The journalist knew exactly how she felt about Jennifer Swan taking her role. The girl would butcher the subtle nuances Michael had used to bring Vickie to life. Swan would play up Vickie’s helplessness and ignore the rest of her character’s development. Michael had infused Vickie Webber with strength of purpose in every peril she faced. In acting parlance: Jennifer Swan didn’t have the chops.
“Miss Swan is a fine young actress,” Michael said smoothly without missing a beat. “She’ll bring her own depth to the part and I wish her well.”
“What is the community service you were assigned, Miss Shannon? Daycare?”
Michael smiled. “This is just for today. The assignments have been varied. I do whatever is needed in the community. Today, the daycare needed volunteer help so here I am.”
“Where’s my mommy?” Simon’s voice rose high over the bodies crowded in the foyer.
“Simon?” Michael scanned over the heads of the reporters for the little boy. “Simon, I’m up here.” He pushed his way through the adults until he emerged, flushed and teary, at the bottom of the stair. Michael reached out to him immediately. “What is it?”
“You didn’t come back!” He burst into tears. “You’re de duty mom. I waided and waided!”
Michael’s heart cracked in her chest. She sat down and gathered him to her lap.
“Is this your child?” a woman reporter asked eagerly.
“Yes!” Simon declared, lifting his chin defiantly. “Dis is my mommy!”
“Well, no, not exactly.” Michael could almost see the Secret Baby! headlines now.
“Well, is he your child or not? The boy says you’re his mother.”
“He’s only three ... he doesn’t understand ... you see, I’m his duty mom today.”
“It’s time for story, Kikel. Can you read to me?”
“If he’s not your son, then who is he?”
“Is this a publicity stunt to get your contract renewed, Miss Shannon?”
The press fell silent, waiting for her response. The reporter who asked the question was the same one who asked about Jennifer Swan. There was always one who insisted on going beyond the bounds of decency. One hack reporter who would do anything to make a celebrity lose their composure and later castigate the actor on air for losing their composure.
Michael spoke firmly. “Simon Grace is my supervisor’s nephew. I’m helping out at his daycare today. Simon calls me the duty mom because his own mother died in a car accident sixteen months ago. The word has meaning for him but I am a very temporary replacement.”
That got them. The collective murmur was sympathetic and subdued. They had been humbled by the three-year-old boy who was hugging her about the neck. The cameras were rolling almost as fast as the recording devices. The moment was better than Michael could have dreamt of when she got herself arrested. Publicity like this was pure gold. The audience of Tomorrow Never Comes would go berserk when they heard the story. Actress trying to save tree is sent to small town to care for orphaned tot and is fired for her efforts! The producers would give her anything she asked for just to get her back.
As she sat with Simon on her lap allowing the press to photograph him, Michael felt an odd queasiness in the pit of her stomach. The flashes seemed to be unusually bright and she shielded Simon’s eyes. Her heart sank when the reporters protested, but she dropped her hand. They were here for a story and if the boy was the story they wanted photos of him. They weren’t to blame—they were just doing their job. It was Michael who invited Simon into this snake pit when he should be enjoying story time downstairs with the other children. Michael lurched to her feet, holding the boy in her arms. She suddenly felt like she was going to be sick.
The front door of the church banged open followed by a gust of frigid December air.
“What’s going on here?” Hudson’s voice drove a wedge between the reporters. “Michael? I thought I’d pick you and Simon early. Helen said you were up here.”
“We are.” Michael waved to Hudson from the stairs. “The reporters were just leaving. They were here for the Toby Dart story. He told them about his rescue.”
“Is this the boy’s uncle, Miss Shannon?”
Hudson threw the speaker a black look which Michael intercepted. “This is my supervisor, Mr. Hudson Grace. He is Simon’s uncle, yes.”
“Mr. Grace, your nephew certainly seems to have bonded with Miss Shannon. Would you say Miss Shannon has made a difference in the boy’s life?”
“She’s been here for two days. I don’t know how much of a difference she could make in two days.”
“Your nephew is already calling her mommy. Do you think that is significant?”
“What?”
Michael began to squirm under Hudson’s stare. “It was his idea and I went along with it for the day. It seemed important to him.”
Hudson dropped his voice. “Michael, you’re leaving tonight. What am I supposed to tell Simon when another mother leaves him?”
“I told him it was just pretend.”
“For who? For the cameras? How far will you sink to save your career? He doesn’t understand pretend. You’re going to break his heart.”
Michael was stung by his words. How could he even think that about her after last night? She said weakly, “It wasn’t like that. You have no idea how badly this boy wants a mom.”
“You’re my mommy.” Simon stared at her with wide eyes and the scrum went silent. The cameras were whirring, the only sound audible.
Her throat closed and her eyes burned with hot tears. At that moment, Michael wished more than anything that she could unleash a stream of bad language that would drive everyone from her sight. She wanted to turn back into the screaming diva she used to be just for this moment. To seize control of the situation, bend everyone to her will, to smother the feelings welling up inside her with bad temper and impossible demands. Vickie Webber had been saved at the expense of three-year-old boy and Michael had never felt more ashamed.
“Simon,” she said softly. “I will never forget you for as long as I live but I don’t live in Mandrake Falls. I live in another town and I have to go home soon.”
“Do you have a boy at your house?”
“No...”
“Then I can be your boy?”
Michael glared at Hudson through her tears, tears that were falling fast now. Even the hardened reporters were snuffling. “Tell me again he doesn’t need a mom, Hudson.”
Hudson looked away, staring at a spot on the wall, refusing to speak. She was on her own.
“Honey, you can’t be my boy because you live here with your uncle. I live far away.”
“Move your house to me. I wan’ go shopping. Me need pj’s wif cowboys on dem.”
Michael dropped her voice to a pitch so low the sensitive microphones on the cameras couldn’t pick up what she was saying. “I’ll buy you some pj’s with cowboys on them and send them to you, special delivery. How’s that?”
Simon whispered “Don’t go, Kikel. I be a good boy, I pomiss.”
Michael crumbled. She thrust Simon into Hudson’s arms and bolted up the stairs to the choir loft. Slamming the door behind her, she leaned against it, sobs wracking her body. She heard Hudson tell the reporters that the interview was over, although there was no need to judging from the silence behind t
he door.
Chapter XII: Twelve Drummers Drumming
SOMEHOW, MICHAEL got through watching the final rehearsal of The Gift of the Magi without bursting into tears. The fact was, with or without Hudson Grace, the performance gave her plenty to cry about, which kept her emotions in check. Crying would really freak them out.
The new furniture and props were a big improvement. Antique Scout really came through even supplying a breakfront which Michael had thought was almost too much to hope for. The set had been transformed from a 1970’s pad to a humble apartment, circa 1905. At least the production had that in their favor. The cast was onstage waiting for her critique. Jeremy’s forehead had an unhealthy sheen to it and his color was not much better. “It’s still a little rough,” he began apologetically. “But the cast and crew took the direction you gave us on Sunday and we ran with it! You can see what a difference it made.”
“Yes,” Michael said slowly. “You’ve all worked very hard.”
“Speak your mind, Miss Shannon.” Letitia Murdoch’s voice boomed at her from the dark in the balcony. Michael jumped. When did she arrive? It was creepy the way that woman appeared out of nowhere. Michael shielded her eyes from the lights and peered up. Murdoch was a shadowy figure, barely visible in the gloom. “The Mandrake Falls Theatrical Society may not be professionals but they’re opening tonight for a paying audience. If you have something to say that might help us in our eleventh hour, please do so.”
The cast nodded, a little uncertainly. They looked terrified. Notes wouldn’t help them now—they needed The Speech.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve been invited to speak my mind and so I will—actor to actor, with respect because you’ve worked hard and you care about this production. The show is in rough shape. I’m not going to lie to you. You are under-rehearsed and clumsy and occasionally terrible. But none of that will matter if you put your heart and soul into your performance. Act like this is the last play you’ll ever appear in on this stage. Give your audience a performance to remember and they’ll forgive the rough patches. Be honest and they’ll love you. Help each other out if you run into trouble and have fun. You have all come so far in such a short time that I have every confidence tonight will be the best opening night in the history of Mandrake Falls! Now, get out there and break a leg!”
The Way Home: Winter (Mandrake Falls Series Romance Book 3) Page 14
