Josie Day Is Coming Home

by Lisa Plumley

  “I’ll call security for you,” Josie said. “You shouldn’t be alone right now.”

  The woman stiffened. For an instant, her demeanor softened—as though she’d glimpsed a friend in the crowd. Then she morphed back to her curmudgeonly self.

  “Look. They’re continuing the show without you,” she pointed out, eyeballing the stage knowingly. “It’s almost as though they never even noticed you were gone.”

  Stricken, Josie glanced up. It was true. Parker and Thad and all the rest of the dancers posed in perfect position on the darkened stage. One by one, the spotlights popped on, illuminating the principals in the second number—a “Chicago”-style jazz routine.

  The show was all she had. If she lost her place there….

  “I’ll comp your drinks and your show ticket,” she blurted, hastily straightening her headdress. “Dinner, too, if you want. Just leave your name at the door and I’ll take care of everything. And next time, I recommend a cosmopolitan.” She couldn’t help but grin. “No olives, plenty of kick.”

  The woman humphed. Taking that as her exit cue, Josie left her behind. Awash in a sea of curious gazes, she hurried backstage to rejoin the show. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d bailed out on an awkward situation.

  Given her track record, it probably wouldn’t be the last, either.

  Tallulah Carlyle had seen a lot of things in her sixty-seven years. She’d done a lot of things, too. Crazy things, wild things, happy and sad things…including losing her beloved Ernest. But somehow, watching the redheaded duplicate of herself who strode backstage toward Tallulah’s chair right now, none of that mattered quite as much as it had a few hours ago. Because she’d found a way to do it all over again. By proxy, of course. But what the hell. A woman had to take what she could get.

  Or at least to maneuver things the way she wanted them.

  Patiently, Tallulah waited for the redhead to reach her. Dancers streamed through the dressing room, trailing short sequined capes and shedding parts of their costumes. There was only an hour-long break between shows, Tallulah had discovered. Then all the dancers would go back onstage for almost two more hours, until midnight.

  “Omigod, Josie! You’re like, a hero, or something!” a nearby showgirl said, grabbing the redhead’s arm in excitement. “Can you believe it?”

  “Yeah, you were amazing,” another dancer added, crowding into the group. “You really saved that old lady.”

  Still unnoticed, Tallulah stiffened. Old lady, my ass. She’d been sitting backstage pretty happily until now. But if this kind of nonsense was going to continue….

  “When you leaped offstage like that, I thought Jacqueline was going to have a cow.” This from a statuesque blond carrying a Dietrich-style black top hat. She slung her arm over the redhead’s shoulders. “Way to go, Josie.”

  “Settle down, Parker. I didn’t do it just to aggravate Jacqueline.”

  “Sure, you didn’t.”

  “I’m serious.” Josie widened her eyes. “Aggravating Jacqueline was just a happy side benefit.”

  They exchanged a mischievous look—borne of longstanding camaraderie, Tallulah would’ve bet—then went on chattering. The dancers neared the long row of makeup mirrors where Tallulah sat, unpinning headdresses as they came. Then, from amid her cohorts, the redhead spotted Tallulah.

  To her surprise, the girl broke into a grin. It was a gaudy grin, brightened with stage makeup on a face streaked with sweat, but it looked authentic. That was good enough.

  “You’re all right!” The girl hurried closer. She peered at Tallulah as though checking her condition, then straightened with crossed arms. Her expression turned suspicious. “Hmmm. That’s weird. You look almost happy. What’d you do, terrify a few slot machines into paying out?”

  She was cheeky. Tallulah liked that. She liked her name, too. Josie. It suited her. She’d thought so from the minute she’d learned it—along with the showgirls’ dressing room location—from the producer. It was amazing what throwing her weight around—not to mention her true identity—could do.

  “No,” Tallulah said. “I came to talk to you.”

  Wariness leaped into the girl’s eyes. As though hiding it, Josie angled herself sideways. She didn’t look at Tallulah as she dropped her spangled prop umbrella on the vanity, then set to work dragging pins from her rainbow headpiece. For a tall girl, she moved with surprising grace.

  She carried herself with surprising nerve, too. She set down her headpiece. Then, rather than wait for Tallulah to take the lead, Josie swiveled suddenly to confront her.

  “Look, about what happened out there. If you’re thinking of siccing your lawyer on me, you’d better think again.”

  At that, Tallulah felt more encouraged than ever. The girl was tough, despite her loopy smile. Probably smarter than those tarted-up looks of hers would suggest, too.

  “Because I only wanted to help you. If you can’t handle that, then—”

  “Is that your real hair color?” Tallulah interrupted. “Or a wig? If it’s a dye job, it’s a good one.”

  Obviously confused by the abrupt change of topic, Josie touched her hair. Her mouth opened slightly. Then, as though realizing she’d let herself be distracted, she shook her head.

  “None of your business.”

  Tallulah nodded approvingly. In Josie’s shoes, she’d have said the same thing.

  She heaved herself upward, cursing the snap, crackle, and pop in her knees as she went. Getting old was for the birds. She remembered when she’d been as lithe and limber as these pop-tarts backstage were. No kidding—that shopworn cliché was true. Youth really was wasted on the young.

  But maybe not on Josie. Not if Tallulah could help it.

  “Well?” the girl demanded. “Are you going to sue? For overly enthusiastic Heimliching or something? I mean, I don’t know why you wouldn’t—everybody’s lawsuit-happy these days.” She flung up both arms in exasperation, showing off the sinuous gold costume bracelets on her wrists. “I might as well warn you, though. You won’t get much out of me. I share a double-wide trailer with two other dancers from Bally’s. The most valuable things I own are my dancing shoes. So unless you plan on cha-cha-ing your way back to the old folks’ home—”

  A pair of dancers lingering nearby gasped.

  “—you’ll be wasting your time.” Clearly wound-up, Josie plunked both hands on her hips. She examined Tallulah with a defiant expression. “What’s so funny? Why are you smiling like that?”

  “Because you remind me of myself. Which is why I’m here.” Straightening herself to her most regal five-foot-two, Tallulah pulled a business card from her purse and handed it to Josie. “Also, to thank you. For saving my life tonight.”

  As she said it, the reality of the situation struck again. Immediately after Josie had Heimliched out that damned martini olive, Tallulah had been too shaken to think clearly. She knew she’d acted badly. But now she wanted to make amends.

  She wanted to fire up a fresh pack of Winston Lights, too. However, like so many other things, her smokes were off-limits. She’d have to settle for this.

  Gruffly, she added, “I might have to go eventually. But I’ll be damned if my obituary will read: ‘Done in by an extra-slippery martini olive. May she rest in peace.’”

  Josie blinked at the card in her hand.

  “I didn’t plan on telling anyone this.” Tallulah paused, glancing around the ever-quieting dressing room. Showgirls nearby puttered with their false eyelashes or their false ta-tas, pretending not to listen. “But you might as well know. I’m…Tallulah Carlyle.”

  She waited for the inevitable shriek of recognition.

  And waited.

  And…screw it.

  “Hello? The owner of this dump! Tallulah Carlyle. Widow of Ernest Carlyle, Carlyle Enterprises. You mean to tell me nobody notices the name on the bottom of their paychecks?”

  Muttering ensued. The lanky blond stepped forward. “It’s just a stamp. It’s pretty unreadabl
e, actually.”

  Tallulah frowned. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

  “Not if you’re causing trouble for Josie.” Loyally, she edged closer to the redhead. “I’m sticking right here.”

  “It’s okay, Parker.” Josie shook her head over the business card, then gave it back to Tallulah. “Look, I don’t know who put you up to this…Chuck and Enrique, probably. Or maybe Jacqueline. But the joke’s over. I get it. April Fool on me, ha, ha.”

  “I’m serious,” Tallulah insisted. “You deserve something for helping me.”

  “Yeah. A joke, apparently.” Josie held up her hands, signaling for attention from the other showgirls. “Okay, you got me. Very funny, everybody. Just wait till next year.”

  Her playful expression promised retribution on an April Fool’s Day yet to come. But when she turned again to face Tallulah, her eyes were troubled.

  “You probably weren’t even really choking, were you?” She smacked her forehead with the heel of her hand. “Geez, am I a sucker. I bought the whole thing. Hook, line, and sinker.”

  “It’s no joke.” Flummoxed by Josie’s unexpected resistance, Tallulah crossed her arms over her chest. “I intend to reward you. So….” She leaned conspiratorially toward the girl. “If you could have anything in the world you wanted, what would it be?”

  Josie rolled her eyes. “World peace.”

  “This isn’t a beauty pageant, Miss Spandex. Be straight with me.”

  “So you can report back to Chuck and Enrique about how gullible I was? No, thanks.”

  “Fine. You won’t tell me what you want?” Tallulah huffed. “I’ll decide for myself. It’ll be a surprise. Here. Take this card.”

  Again she shoved it to Josie. The girl stubbornly refused it. Determined, Tallulah marched to the redhead’s vanity space. She jammed the business card beneath the edge of the light bulb-bordered frame.

  “It’s my attorney’s,” she announced to the room at large. “When you’re ready to get in touch with him, he’ll tell you what your reward is.”

  “Thank you, Don Pardo,” Josie said in an exaggerated game-show-host voice, sweeping her arm to the left. “And thanks for playing, ‘April Fool’!”

  Tallulah tilted her head. All at once, she felt old. It wasn’t a welcome sensation.

  “Someday, young lady, someone just might surprise you.”

  Then she picked up her purse and swept from the room.

  Two weeks later, Josie was leaning toward the mirror to draw on a fake beauty mark for the Glamorous Nights Revue’s Fosse-inspired number when the business card caught her eye. Printed on expensive-looking ivory card stock, it bore a name and address she’d already half memorized. It also seemed to mock her every time she glanced its way.

  Stupid old woman. Tallulah Carlyle. Right. She was probably crazy. Or an actress hired to play a joke.

  Okay…so she did resemble the owner pictured in Jacqueline’s office. Vaguely. And her portrayal of a choking victim had been pretty darn convincing. But that didn’t mean that card was authentic. Or that “Tallulah’s” offer of a reward—especially “anything in the world you wanted”—could be believed.

  Josie snorted, then went back to penciling in her beauty mark. She wasn’t cynical, exactly. But she’d learned a long time ago not to put too much faith in what other people promised. When push came to shove, the only person you could count on was yourself.

  Leaning back, she adjusted the fringe on her fuchsia flapper-style costume. She already had everything she needed, she assured herself, rearranging the navel-length strand of imitation pearls around her neck. She had lots of friends, a good job, a place to live, a car…

  …an ever-increasing feeling of restlessness.

  Damn it. Why did that have to keep resurfacing?

  Plunking her elbow on the vanity, Josie put her chin in her hand. She tapped her fingers on her cheek, thinking, as the other dancers bustled around her. Then she snatched the business card and grabbed her cell phone.

  Time to find out what the score really was.

  Chapter Two

  Thirty-six hours later

  She should have known there’d be a catch.

  After all, when it came to second chances, there usually was. But somehow, Josie had managed to forget that. She’d road-tripped all night from Las Vegas, powered by Big Gulps and Twinkies and fueled by dreams of returning in triumph to Donovan’s Corner. Now that she’d seen what was waiting for her—what Tallulah had “rewarded” her with—she couldn’t believe she’d been so naïve.

  Prompted by Tallulah, Josie had worked up the nerve to confront her past. She’d packed everything she owned in her beat-up Chevy convertible. She’d made her way through the twisty, mountainous roads that divided her old life from her new one. And for what?

  For a tumbledown pile of an “estate”—a term she used very loosely—at the edge of a town she’d thought she’d left behind forever. That’s what.

  But this particular estate was hers, she reminded herself. Every last ramshackle inch of it. That made all the difference.

  It was a good thing, too. According to her lawyer, Tallulah had thought she’d been doing Josie a favor by bringing her back to Donovan’s Corner. If only she’d known the truth. For Josie, having her big second chance plunked down here, of all places…. It was like a big cosmic joke. Fortunately, Josie was always up for a laugh.

  Squinting through the springtime sunlight at the two-story shake-shingled house in front of her, she felt a surge of optimism. Despite the discouraging reality of peeling paint, crumbling stone chimneys, and overgrown weeds, she could make something of this place. She knew it.

  The thought energized her. Or maybe that was just the Twinkies talking—she’d polished off the last of her stash upon rounding the circular gravel drive. Either way, it was time to get started. Through an unbelievable twist of fate, she finally had something to call her own—something bigger than a blow-dryer and more durable than a sequin-spangled G-string. Unreal as it seemed, she’d gotten a lucky break. She intended to make the most of it.

  Pulling her duffel bag from her convertible’s duct-taped vinyl passenger seat, she palmed her keys and headed across the drive. Her platform wedgies crunched against the gravel. Her hair swung across her shoulders, bared in her requisite post-show outfit of terry cloth track pants and a strappy tank top.

  If she’d been smart, she’d have dressed for the chill in the mountain air. But she’d been too eager to start her new life to bother with anything but hauling herself out of Vegas the minute the curtain fell on last night’s show. A part of her still didn’t quite believe this whole thing was real. She half expected to find the house key in her hand didn’t work at all.

  Her gaze fell on the “Blue Moon” sign nailed to a porch post to her left. Josie smiled. It was a fitting name for the place. “Once in a blue moon” was about how often a girl like her made good. At least that’s what people in town might have said…had they known she was coming back.

  “Whatever you’re selling, I don’t want any.”

  The voice—a masculine one—came from someplace above her head. Startled, she glanced up.

  A dark-haired man gazed steadily down at her from the porch roof, a hammer in one hand and a fistful of cedar shingles in the other. Clearly he’d been hired to do much-needed work on the place. Or to serve as eye candy for the newly arriving new owner: her. Either way, Josie relaxed.

  Thank you, Welcome Wagon. Some old houses came with bats in the attic. Apparently, hers came with a resident hunk on the roof. One with dreamy blue eyes, whisker shadow, and muscles galore. Her opinion of the dilapidated estate went up a notch.

  An impatient look crossed his face. “Did you hear me? I said I don’t want any. Thanks, anyway.”

  He stuck a nail between his lips, pursing them to hold it in place. Then he peered at the roof as though preparing to get back to work—as though their conversation were finished. Just like that. Did he seriously think she cou
ld let a statement like his go unchallenged?

  “Unless you find out what I’m here for,” Josie told him, “you can’t possibly know you’re not interested.”

  “Oh, I know.”

  He looked as if he did, too. He looked as though he was always certain about everything around him. He also looked as though he’d been working up there, belly down, for at least an hour. Dust streaked his face. Wind tousled his hair. And some kind of black smudge decorated his biceps. But there wasn’t enough grime in the world to hide his chiseled features, work-hardened shoulders, and ease in his own skin.

  “You must be the handyman. I didn’t know the place came with a handyman.” Tallulah’s lawyer hadn’t mentioned him.

  He ignored her guess. Instead, he rolled his eyes and removed the nail from his pursed lips, like a man forced to take seriously something that was really ridiculous. Killer bunnies. Fat-free cookies. Male pattern baldness.

  His speculative gaze touched her pink-polished toenails, then her bare midriff, then her face and hair. Josie’s skin tingled. Too late, she remembered that while she’d tissued off the brightest of her stage makeup, she hadn’t yet ditched her trusty false eyelashes or her auburn ponytail hair extension—the one she’d affectionately dubbed “Frank.” As in frankly fake.

  He frowned. “You look as if you can probably read. But maybe you need glasses or something. I can see why you couldn’t get them on. You know, with all that fringe on your eyelids.”

  She gawked, speechless.

  “And it looks as though maybe you’re having a little trouble talking, too,” he continued good-naturedly, “so I’ll help you out. That sign over there says ‘No Trespassing.’ That means—”

  “I know what it means. It doesn’t apply to me.”

  He cocked his head, new speculation in his expression.

  “A maverick, huh? I’ll bet you beat your sales quotas all to hell. Good for you.” As though doing her a favor, he nodded toward the acres of ponderosa forest surrounding them. “Try peddling your wares over at the Petersen’s. About a half-mile that way. They’ll buy all kinds of crap. If you’ve got some of those useless knickknack things to sell, you’re in.”