Swallowing his ego, pride, and desire, he had insisted she stay. The years had proved him wise. Unwilling to give her love, Vickie gave him her tireless energy. She expended her multifaceted resources faultlessly for the theater and him, pitching in with a good-natured cheer to help in any circumstance. She earned the regard of the crew and the restaurant employees as well as the cast—building, painting, sewing costumes, and cleaning tables if needed—a sterling example for anyone associated with Monte’s. Although it was clear she would never be his wife or lover, she was his friend, a valued one.
Vickie widened her smile and remarked, “I was such a stage-struck kid! And I grew up lucky. I got to live my dreams. I remember…” Her voice trailed off suddenly as that unbidden memory replaced the one she had been about to relate. Damn! she told herself, thoroughly disgusted and annoyed. What was the matter with her today? Taking a sip of her coffee and lowering murky lashes over her eyes to hide them, she determinedly pushed the discomfort back where it belonged—out of her mind!
“Remember what?” Monte asked, eyeing her quizzically.
“Oh, nothing. Well, lots of things, really!” She resolutely laughed. “Remember when we did The Heiress and Patty Shaffer lost her contact lens in the tea set?”
Monte threw back his graying head and practically roared with laughter. “Unfortunately I do! How about the night Harry Blackwell was making his dramatic exit in Blood Wedding and the door fell in on him?”
As they chuckled over each disastrous absurdity, Vickie totally forgot her uneasiness. Her natural exuberance brushed it aside, and she felt smug with her life. It was a good one, and she loved it. She even forgot her original reason for cornering Monte as they talked. Finally she realized she had fiddled away far more time than she had intended, and unless she got going, she would be late in picking up Mark.
Jumping hastily to her feet, she wailed, “Darn your hide, Monte. I had meant to cajole that name from you, and you made me forget all about it. Now I have to go!” She gave him a beseeching look, arching her brows. “Come on, Monte, how about giving me a clue at least?”
“No way!” he responded with a firm grin. “Not this time. You are going to be enthralled along with everyone else!”
“Turkey!” she snorted teasingly. “Okay,” she sighed in a martyrlike tone. “Make me suffer!”
“It won’t be for long,” Monte promised. “I’ll tell you everything after tonight’s show. Might as well”—he shrugged—“he’ll be here tomorrow.”
“Just as you say, boss man, see you tonight!” Vickie swung her bag over her shoulder, grabbed her script, and kissed his weathered cheek.
“I’m glad to hear you remember I’m the boss!” he chuckled gruffly.
Wrinkling her nose at him, Vickie waved and walked out the doors, blinking beneath the glare of the blinding sunlight. It was going to be a hot summer. It wasn’t the first of June yet, and already they were hitting temperature readings in the nineties. But she was a Floridian, accustomed to the heat, and an avid fan of the endless white beaches of her native state—a happy, often barefoot waif on the sands.
Settling into the driver’s seat of her sturdy old Volvo, she hummed a tune for the night’s show. Godspell was fun to do. She would be sorry when its run ended, although she truly loved to do Shakespeare, especially with a director like Monte. He brought so much to a play, listening to and respecting the opinions of his players. Of course, though, his word was final.
Parking outside her son’s small nursery school, she waited only seconds before she saw Mark coming out with his teacher. Her heart took another unexpected lurch as he looked for her, found her, waved, and with his beautiful lopsided grin, ambled to the car. She had been lucky in a way. Mark was the spitting image of her. Except for two things—his eyes were brilliant blue like his father’s, and he had the same killer grin.
“Mum!” he chortled happily as Vickie buckled him into his car seat and waved an okay sign to the wary teacher who made sure her charge was safely in his mother’s hands.
“How was your day, my darling?” Vickie crooned, kissing his raven head. “What did you do?”
“Play,” Mark said happily. “Play.”
Vickie chuckled. He was only twenty-seven months old—not much of a conversationalist. But he grinned happily when she suggested ice cream.
Over gooey fudge sundaes, they shared precious time together. Vickie’s only remorse over her chosen career was it took so much time away from Mark. Although Monte’s was “dark” on Sundays and Mondays, the rest of the week was hectic. Vickie’s daily schedule would cause a weaker person to wince; she dropped Mark off by eight at his school so that she could be at the theater by eight thirty, rehearsed the upcoming production until two, retrieved Mark by two thirty, and had to be back at the theater by seven to makeup and dress in costume for the current play. Those few hours in the afternoon she devoted to Mark.
Tousling his silky hair, she marveled at what a wonderful child he was. Shaking her head slightly, she wryly thought that blessings did often come in disguise. Mark had been such a blessing. Discovering her pregnancy had been the greatest trauma of her life, but his birth had brought her the most profound joy. He was more than her child now; he was her companion, critic, and friend.
“Finish your sundae,” she directed him. “We’ll scoot over to the beach for a bit.”
“Beesh!” he repeated happily. “Beesh.”
Sarasota, to Vickie, was the epitome of all that Florida should be. The city was quaint, clean, and bright beneath its year-round sun. Winters brought a mild snap of cold weather, never harsh, but just right for a subtle change of pace. Around November the population drastically increased as part-time residents, deserting the ice and snow of their northern habitats, ventured south. They helped to keep the city financially sound and also helped to fill the four hundred seats at Monte’s.
Sitting on a patch of bleached sand while Mark played on the foam-flecked shore, Vickie luxuriated in the feel of the salt spray around her, her skin vibrantly attuned to its gentle caress, her toes tickled by the lapping touch of the encroaching tide. A fiddler crab sidled by her and disappeared into a small black hole as it sensed her movement. Smiling, she lay back on an elbow and grimacingly compared herself to the crab. She always disappeared at the slightest hint of danger. Maybe it was time for a change. Maybe she should become a little wilder, get out more.
“Hey, tiger.” She softly called her entranced son. “We have to go now.” At his crestfallen look she added, “We’ll have burgers and french fries, okay?”
Vickie was never quite sure just how much her two-year-old understood, but “french fries” was as familiar as “beach” to him. He smiled again and she swept him up in her arms to head back to the car. “We have to hurry a bit, sweet pea,” she murmured. “I have to have you all fed and set for bed before Mrs. Gilmore arrives. We don’t want to lose her!”
She smiled at the thought. Harriet Gilmore, the plump matron who cared for Mark five nights a week, adored him. She probably wouldn’t leave Vickie’s employ even if she were beat over the head with a poker. A natural with children, the kindly lady loved Mark, and although Vickie knew she was prejudiced, she could understand why. Her son was blessed with a cheery disposition that seldom failed. He had never been a crier or whiner, and although he did have a temper tantrum now and then like any normal child, his basic nature was beguiling and endearing.
A charmer with a temper, Vickie thought a touch dryly. Like his father.
But, like his father, he usually displayed his temper only to himself. When a toy would frustrate him, he would flounce his sturdy little body into his room, where he would often stay despite her cajoling until he could emerge bubbling again.
At first Vickie had often attempted to deal with his moods. But as time and experience had taught her to control her own mixed feelings, she had accepted that he was like his father, and that that father had certain commendable traits that she should appreciate in h
er son.
Even at two Mark needed to deal with his problems in his own way. Vickie was wise enough now to simply be there when he decided that he needed her.
They drove into a sterile, fast-food restaurant, where Vickie bought hamburgers, french fries, and shakes. She didn’t usually like to eat at burger places, and the strange uneasiness she had felt during the day seemed to stay with her, making her nervously lazy. She didn’t believe in premonitions. She felt as if she should know something, realize something, but she couldn’t put a finger on what it was she should know.
Well, one thing she did know, she told herself, was that she was going to get out more. She chuckled suddenly at that thought. She had had dinner a few times with last year’s summer guest artist, and that had been a disaster. Monte always brought in a “star”; in doing so he could guarantee filling the house in the customary offseason. Last year’s “star” had been the popular hero of a motorcycle cop series—handsome and rugged on the screen, devoid of personality off. He had difficulty lifting a two-by-four in the shop and his egotistical immaturity drove Vickie to boredom.
Granted, she could remember being devastatingly immature just a few short years ago. But she had been naive. No, stupid was more like it! Okay, stupid, naive, overly sheltered—a pathetic twenty-two. And now an ancient twenty-five.
It wasn’t really fair for her to judge anyone, her own mistakes had been so vast. One day she would have to explain to her son why he didn’t have a father. Stop! she wailed to herself. Mental torture didn’t solve anything. This was a hell of a time to worry about what she had long reconciled herself to anyway. Besides, the moral standards of the world had relaxed quite a bit. Mark would fare well, even if he never knew his father. But Mark could never know. No, Mr. Langley would have to stay dead. Better a dead loving parent than a living legend who would never recognize one’s existence.
She was still worrying about the past later when she drove to the theater. “What is this? Drive-myself-buggy day?” she groaned furiously. She never did this to herself. Maturity had long since risen to squelch reproach as well as careless passion. Her decisions had all been made three years ago. It was all water over the dam.
Sliding onto her dressing-room stool, Vickie greeted the other four permanent female members of the troop as she switched on her mirror lights, listening and joining into their banter as she carefully began to apply her makeup base with a damp sponge.
“Vickie?”
She turned from her concentration to see Connie Weber calling her from the other side of the room. Connie was the troop’s youngest member, a petite redhead, still struggling for confidence.
“Would you mind running through the song again before curtain?” Connie asked tentatively.
“Sure!” Vickie agreed, remembering her own days of stage fright with compassion. She and Connie harmonized on “Where Are You Going,” a song Vickie considered to be the loveliest in the show despite the popularity of “Day by Day.”
Painting a large red heart on her cheek, Vickie smiled. “I’ll be with you in just a second.” A few final touches completed her zany makeup and she was on her feet, slipping into her ragamuffin wig and heading for the door.
“I don’t know why you’re bothering,” Terry Nicholson, a former New Yorker, jeered smugly. “She never gets it right.”
“Terry!” Vickie admonished, surprised and wondering what had set off the venom from the tall, sophisticated brunette. Maybe Terry was angry about Othello. She had been cast in a variety of small roles, mostly male, and she heartily resented the fact. But Monte tolerated no prima donnas—they were lacking males for the play and Terry was the most likely candidate to make up for the deficiency because of her height and throaty voice. Little Connie had been chosen for Bianca, the role Terry had wanted.
“Be nice!” Vickie said with a touch of amusement for the attractive friend she didn’t quite trust. “Monte promised you Lady Macbeth for next year, and, besides, Connie has a beautiful voice. She just needs a little push!”
Terry grimaced dryly and sniffed. Shrugging, Vickie left her behind and hurried to the depths of the left stage wing to find Connie, peeking her head discreetly around the curtain to check out the size of the house.
It was full. Handsomely dressed customers sat at every table, some boisterous, some quiet, all eating with apparent pleasure. Vickie felt the small tug of excitement she always did before curtain, no matter what the play, no matter how long she had worked in the theater. Still, Godspell was special. The rolling repartee of the play worked well with their close-knit ensemble, drawing to the inevitable ending of the death of Christ with a poignancy that sent many an audience member off into the night teary-eyed and sniffling. Even atheists! Vickie thought, laughing to herself.
“Places—ten minutes!” The strict command of Jim Ellery, the stage manager, drew Vickie from her meanderings.
Hurrying back, she found Connie with Lara Hart at the practice piano. Lara, a fortyish woman of simple, quiet dignity, gave her a grateful smile. Monte’s brilliant but often perplexed musical directress had been with him off and on since he had opened the place. All cast members had to be able to carry a tune, just as they had to know some rudiments of dance and mime, but they were not singers per se, a fact that sometimes left Lara sadly frustrated. “Thanks for rushing, Victoria,” Lara said softly. “Connie does seem to do better when she’s had a run through.”
“I didn’t rush!” Vickie assured her. “And I never mind rehearsing the song.”
They worked on the song and Connie hit every note unfalteringly. What quality she has! Vickie thought with a touch of open envy. Her own voice was a pleasant alto, strong and melodious, but more from training than natural ability.
“Places!” Jim’s order rang in their ears, and the cast scampered to the wings as the opening lights glittered in their colored gels.
“Slow down a bit on ‘Turn Back Oh Man,’” Lara hissed in final instruction as Vickie nodded an okay and rushed along with the others.
“Curtain!” Jim commanded.
The magic of the theater began, stilling every noise in the audience of hundreds. Vickie forgot everything but the play, becoming an integral part of the wheel that made the fantasy on the stage live—singing, dancing, and giving a spontaneity to her lines that belied the fact she had already been saying them for four weeks.
“Good, up show!” Monte praised them as the curtain brought an end to act one. “Keep up that energy!”
“You sure are in a good mood,” Vickie commented as he tweaked her heart-painted cheek in passing. “Not that I’m not, but you should let us in on the stars in your eyes!”
“One ‘star.’ Our guest is here.” Monte smirked. “He came in a day early.”
“He must have conjured up the spirit of Clark Gable!” Bobby Talford, the talented, homely actor playing the Christ role, said with a grimace. “I’ve never seen Monte this smug over a summer acquisition, and I’ve been here ten years!”
“Listen, smarty,” Monte replied with good humor. “You, Mr. Talford, of all people, will be wiping that patronizing expression right off your face when you see who it is!” With that he folded his hands behind his back and walked away jauntily, knowing he had embedded new fits of curiosity.
“Me of all people,” Bobby mused as they waited for the curtain to rise on act two. He looked at Vickie, his face scrunched in bewilderment.
“Hey, don’t look at me!” she protested, laughing. “I haven’t the faintest idea of who he is talking about. Have you had any crushes on any macho motormen lately?”
“Real cute, Victoria,” Bobby retorted, lightly pulling one of her black pigtails. Shrugging his perplexity away, he continued. “I guess I don’t have long to be curious, but Monte’s secrecy has been driving me crazy!”
“Me too,” Vickie admitted. “I even stayed today to try and trick him into telling me, but no go.”
“Oh, we’ll know in about an hour,” Bobby whispered as they once more h
eard Jim calling “Places.”
“Probably no big deal!” Vickie whispered back, moving to her spot in the wing. “Monte likes suspense.”
Later that night she would wince in memory of her own words. But luckily she didn’t know that now. Susan Morgan and Lynn Vale, the other two women rounding out the female side of the cast, entered into a tapped rendition of “Learn Your Lessons Well” and act two was on its way.
Toward the end of the show, a faint glimmer in the darkened audience caught Vickie’s attention for a split-second. The muted light of a single candle had caught on a patch of blond hair. Odd, she thought. She hadn’t noticed anyone with a truly golden head of hair in the audience when she had playfully run about flirting with her “Turn Back Oh Man” number. She dismissed the slight feeling of confusion. One of her cues was coming up. Then Christ was being crucified on the white picket fence, and it was time for the finale.
The curtain fell on act two only to reopen for the cast to take their bows to the sound of thunderous applause. They sang “Day by Day” again, and finally all ran off for the wings and their dressing rooms.
“Hey!” Jim caught them. “Forget changing for the moment. Monte wants you all out front and center in five minutes.”
Grumbling slightly, they all meandered toward the stage. “This better be good,” Terry said with an exaggerated yawn. “I’ve got a date.”
“We’re meeting our mystery guest,” Vickie told her, wishing that he hadn’t arrived early. She was longing for the comfort of home and the cool, crisp sheets of her bed. The greasepaint on her face was beginning to itch and her two tightly drawn pigtails were becoming painful. “Cheer up,” she advised the woebegone Terry dryly. “From what Monte says, we’ll be so excited that a lost date will mean nothing to you.”
“A lost date always means something to me,” Terry retorted with a wince. “We’re not all long-lost virgins, you know.” She studied Vickie curiously for a moment as if seeing her for the first time. “I guess you can’t be that though. I mean, Mark does exist. Whatever did happen to Mr. Langley?”
Tender Deception Page 3
