by Kristy Tate
Matilda laughed. “There are plenty of noble and worthy performers.”
“Tell that to my father, my mother, my grandmother and my cousins.” Rita swallowed. “Tell that to men like Boris.”
“Your father and mother—although they might not have meant to—have hurt you far worse than the likes of Boris Kidrick.”
Rita had learned a lot from Matilda since she had joined the Rose Arbor troupe, but that particular lesson she had learned months earlier when her parents had shipped her to her grandmother’s ranch seven long, bumpy, jaw-jarring and teeth-rattling miles from Godforsaken Seattle. Had they really expected her to stay on a ranch surrounded by acres of pastures of horses, cattle and cowpies? Did they really think she would learn to behave like her hick grandmother and shovel out stables?
As if reading her mind, Matilda said, “I don’t know why you’re so anxious to return to their company.”
Rita leaned against her friend. “I don’t want to go to New York to see my parents!”
Matilda’s lips curved into a smile. “You want to be on the New York stage.”
“Of course!”
“Do you imagine that you will sing and dance right beneath your family’s nose and they will never notice?”
“I am an actress—and a wizard with makeup and design. They will never recognize me.”
Matilda lifted an eyebrow. “Your family has already summoned a posse to look for you.”
“Here. But they won’t think to look in their own backyard!”
Skepticism clouded Matilda’s expression. “If they are as influential and prominent as you say—”
Rita lifted her chin. “No one can stop a shooting star.”
Matilda smiled and wiped off her face cream. “Laws, child, have you no fear of heights?”
***
Addison put down the manuscript. It was silly…but compelling. The opening advertisement made her ill. So many women through so many generations saw marriage as the end-all. Her mother had taught her, “A man is not a financial plan.” And yet, Addison had still fallen for it. It was like she was programed to see a man as an answer to her problems. When would she finally grasp that a man wasn’t the answer, but, in her case, the problem?
Addison braced her shoulders. She had to solve her own problems now. But a tricky little voice in the back of her head whispered that even after Paul’s death she still wasn’t standing on her own financial feet. The life insurance policy would always eclipse anything she could ever hope to earn at the bookshop. It had been tempting to continue on at the store, watching it lose money every month, but common sense and Mr. Patel had prevailed. She had tried to make a go of a business and she’d failed. Just like she’d failed her marriage. Even if she hadn’t known it.
She glanced around the Books and Bun Bookshop. What made this place successful? Who says it is? the voice in her head asked. All the people? But how many are actually buying anything?
Addison sank back in the club chair and took note of her fellow bookstore patrons. The elderly man with his glasses perched on the end of his nose had a pile of historical fiction books on the ottoman in front of him. In the children’s section, a mother with a toddler on her lap flipped through a picture book. Two chairs over, a nail-biting woman sat lost in a romance. Dozens of people were parked at the tables, hiding behind laptops. She couldn’t see the checkout counter from where she sat and, of course, she had no way of knowing the store’s financials, but if no one was actually buying anything, the store had to be suffering.
It was just like the self-publishing tidal wave. If everyone was going to give away books, how would any book business survive?
“Addison? What are you doing here?”
James.
Too late to hide. She smiled up into his blue eyes. How could she have been so mistaken? Had she completely misread him? Had all those lunches and long conversation been nothing more than a pleasant way to spend the time?
“Checking out the competition?” he asked.
She swallowed. “A bookstore in Shell Falls could hardly compete with a shop in Frisco.” Especially if the Shell Falls shop closed its doors.
“That’s true.” He nodded. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised to find you in here. But why didn’t you tell me you were coming to San Francisco?”
Not knowing what to say, she gave him a weak shrug. She’d wanted to surprise him. But he’d been the one to surprise her when she’d spotted him kissing that blonde on the pier. The girl looked like a teenager with an incredibly poor sense of color coordination—bumble-bee stockings, a red and white striped mini-skirt, a purple hoodie.
“You’re a long way from home.” She heard the questions in his tone, but she didn’t feel the need to provide any answers.
Cary Grant handsome, James usually caused her to melt whenever he came into her shop, but now when she looked at him she couldn’t help seeing the Barbie hanging on his arm. Even if the blonde wasn’t there physically, in Addison’s head, she was.
“Even bookstore owners need a vacation,” she told him.
“How long are you in town?”
She had thought about leaving as soon as she’d seen him and Bimbo in action, but now she decided she wasn’t going to let him run her off like a dog with a tail between her legs. “I’m here for the weekend.”
Trying to mask his surprise, he glanced at his watch. “That’s great. I have a commitment tonight.”
I bet you do, she thought.
“But how about tomorrow? Are you available?”
“No. I have plans.” It gave her a little surge of power to say that, and like candy sprinkles on top of a cupcake, the disappointed look on his face only added to her pleasure.
“Sunday then?”
“I’m sorry, James,” Addison said, picking up the manuscript.
“Well, I can see you’re busy,” he said. “Maybe we can meet up next time I’m in Shell Falls?”
“Mmm,” she murmured. She started reading and refused to watch him walk away.
#
Christian Roberts sat at the gaming table, coins on his left side and a flask on his right. A pair of kings, accompanied by a six, a four and a whatchamacallit, swam in and out of his vision. He tried holding the cards a little further away and willed his eyes to focus on the whatchamacallit. Was it a queen—or that other card that he couldn’t remember the name of—or was it another king? He hoped it was another king. He held his cards away from his chest but after half a second he slapped them facedown on the table. He didn’t trust his friends not to look—not even his partner.
And he was pretty sure these men weren’t even friends. Not really. They tolerated him because he had a steady stream of gold…and whiskey…and he liked a good game. A game with kings. He didn’t mind the whatchamacallits, not when they came in pairs. One by its lonesome couldn’t do much. He picked up his hand and tried to steady his gaze while a mammoth man pounded on the piano.
Christian threw the musician a frustrated glance. Maybe he could focus on the game if that brute would stop filling the room with that awful sound. He looked at the men sharing his table, trying to read them. No one else seemed to mind the racket coming from the corner.
“You in?” Percy, on his left, asked.
He was definitely inside because the piano was inside. Never really ever seen a piano outside—unless it was on its way from one place to another. And yep, there were bottles lining shelves behind the bar. A wood floor. A stamped brass ceiling. Four walls. Definitely inside. He nodded.
“Well?” Reynolds, on his right, prompted.
Aw. The game. He was supposed to ante up. What did that mean? Funny expression, sounded like “auntie up.” Christian tried to imagine how his Aunt Hester would respond if someone tried to ante up her. He snorted. His attention flicked over the men surrounding him, all looking so grim and serious. He doubted any of them even had an aunt.
“What’s so funny?” Kidrick demanded.
Percy and Reynold
s were good chaps, if poor poker players, but he despised Kidrick. A pity Percy and Reynolds didn’t have Kidrick’s business sense and card savvy. Why should a louse like Kidrick own half the town and win at cards? Christian imagined Aunt Hester anteing up Kidrick with a wooden spoon. He chuckled low and deep.
“Idiotic French,” Kidrick muttered.
“I say now—” Bad form cussing his nationality. Well, his mother’s nationality. His eyes welled as he thought of his mother. He blinked away his tears because, while he wasn’t sure whether the brutes at his table had aunts, he was very sure they never cried. At least not over a pair of kings. Or a trio of kings. He still couldn’t tell, but he did push in his entire pile of coins.
“You sure, Roberts?” Percy lifted an eyebrow.
He shrugged. “What have I got to lose? Kidrick here has already won the theater.”
Christian laid his cards on the table. From the reaction, he guessed it was a trio of kings. Percy stood so suddenly, his chair fell over. Kidrick brought his fist down on the table, making all the coins jump.
Christian smiled as he scooped the pot into his bag, then stood and swagger-staggered toward the door.
“Hey! Roberts,” Reynolds called after him. “You can’t leave.”
“Get back here.” Kidrick pushed after Christian and grabbed him by the elbow.
Christian looked at Kidrick’s hand and then at his face. Kidrick cocked back his arm for a punch that would land in Christian’s gut if he didn’t block it. Christian grabbed Kidrick around the neck and held him in midair, considering what to do with him, before tossing him out into the street. Kidrick landed in the arms of a well-built man who also didn’t desire his company. Within seconds Kidrick and the well-built man were throwing punches.
Still inside the bar, Christian watched the fistfight and felt a smidgeon of remorse. He had started it, but dem if he’d back up Kidrick. His gaze went to the stars shining through the window. He had to get away from the tavern’s smoke and stench. He paused at the open door. But first—
Christian raised a hand, which stopped the calls of his poker-mates. He heard their collective sigh as he turned to face the room, followed by their groans as Christian sat at the piano, bumping hips with the brute at the keyboard.
“’Scuse me,” Christian mumbled.
The pianist reluctantly relinquished his seat as Christian poised his fingers over the keyboard and began Dickson’s “Land of Long Ago.”
For a moment the laughter hushed and it seemed as if only music filled the night as the piano cast a spell over the crowded, smoke-filled room.
Christian stopped playing as abruptly as he had begun and pushed away from the instrument and out the door, stepping over the inert Kidrick on his way to anywhere else.
***
Rita literally danced when she heard the news. Her feet skipped, her toes pointed, and her knees wanted to drop to the ground in worshipful thanksgiving.
“You won’t regret this!” she promised Ivan, stopping mid-dance to hug him.
The craggy-faced man smiled while the blond beauty behind him mouthed, “Oh, yes, he will.”
Rita wasn’t about to let Clarisse piddle in her pot of pure happiness. She had an all-expense paid ticket out of Seattle. Her family would never think to follow the Rose Arbor troupe across the country. Think of all the cities she would see! On her way here, she had traveled by rail accompanied by the stiff, self-righteous cousin who never let her leave the confines of the sleeper car. But the troupe would go from city to city and perform on the very best stages!
“Not so fast!” Ivan warned. “You have to prove you can do this.” He handed her a sheaf of music. “Come up with a dance.”
Rita studied the music, noting the eighth notes and basic time signature. Because she was familiar with the popular ballad and its message, she knew choreographing a dance would be fairly simple. Behind Ivan, Clarisse smirked, making Rita wonder what sort of dance Clarisse had used for her audition.
“I want to see it tomorrow morning,” Ivan warned.
“I’ll be ready.” Rita wasn’t worried, but she would need to practice, preferably with Poke, and absolutely far from Clarisse’s spying eyes. Rita couldn’t let that woman sabotage this opportunity. She would need to come up with the dance on her own and then practice with Poke’s accompaniment once…or maybe twice.
“We leave in a couple of days,” Ivan told her. “You can bring one trunk.”
“I wouldn’t care if I could only bring dancing shoes!”
“That would be interesting,” Ivan said.
“We’re not that kind of show,” Clarisse said, coming behind Ivan and laying a hand on his shoulder. “I told you—she’s not star material.”
“We’re taking a chance on you,” Ivan told Rita, ignoring Clarisse. “It’s going to be a lot of hard work and a lot of travel. You will, no doubt, find the troupe demanding and challenging. That’s why I want to see if you can come up with an original dance overnight.”
“I love challenges!” Rita flashed Ivan a smile. She pushed through the backstage door and found herself in an alley. She needed to practice far from Clarisse…some spacious, private place where Clarisse would never look. Her gaze landed on the outhouses and the clearing beyond them. She wrinkled her nose as she drew closer to the small but smelly clearing, far from windows and prying eyes.
***
Christian exited the outhouse and caught a sudden chill. A skin-pricking sensation said he wasn’t alone. Animals. Possibly a red fox, raccoon, skunk, opossum. He tightened his grip on his bag of gold, wondering if Kidrick had followed.
“Hey-ho?” he called out. Night birds answered. Something skittered in a nearby thicket, and a twig snapped. He watched moonlight flicker through the boughs of a pine tree then heard footfalls.
What was dancing in the moonlight? A fairy? Her dark hair had come loose and swirled around her spinning shoulders. Such a creature belonged deep in the woods, or in a valley of wildflowers, or on a gilded throne—she did not belong in a dusty clearing behind the privy with alley cats for an audience. Her dance-warmed skin glowed beneath the stars, and her body moved to no music that he could hear. Unable to stop himself, he stepped closer, as if drawn by a magnet.
“Mon dieu. Qu'est-ce que tu es?”
Startled, she stopped and stared at him. “You’re French.”
Christian shook his head. “No, I am drunk.”
She studied him, as if assessing his potential danger.
Christian tried to look harmless, which wasn’t difficult, because he was basically harmless.
Except when he was angry.
And he had left Kidrick for dead in the street. Christian twisted his lips and decided Kidrick didn’t count.
“Do you always speak French when drunk?”
Christian shrugged. He was better with questions when he was sober. “I asked my question first.”
“Well, it was a silly question—anyone can see what I am.”
He stepped closer and peered at her. With all that dark hair and her dark red lips, she looked like his mother. “Are you French?”
“No. Are you?”
“Partly.” He paused. “Don’t let me stop you.” He waved a hand at her. “Carry on.”
She scowled. “I’m not going to dance if you’re going to watch.”
“Why not?” He motioned toward the theater. “I assume you came from the playhouse, where you presumably dance for hundreds on the stage, so why would you not dance for one, here?”
Her arms dangled. “I no longer feel like dancing. You killed my mood.” She jabbed a finger in his face. “But I’m not going to let you spoil my happiness!”
“I would be devastated if you did.” He tilted his head to one side, smiling. “Do you always dance when you are happy?”
“Of course not. Although I haven’t been this happy for a long time, so it’s hard to know.”
“Why are you so happy?” An unpleasant thought occurred to him. “Are y
ou in love?”
She shook her head.
“Good. I’m glad. Love can make you do regrettable things.”
“Have you been in love?”
Christian didn’t want to talk about love. He wanted to watch this girl dance. “Will you dance for me?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Will you dance with me?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“I’m very rich.”
She laughed, and the noise delighted him. He didn’t want her to stop, but after a few moments, she did.
“Why should that matter?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Demmed if I know, but it usually seems to. Will you dance with me?” he asked again.
She shook her head.
“Can I walk you home?”
“Yes,” she said, smiling up at him. She took his hand and led him the ten yards to the theater’s back door.
“You live here?”
She dropped his hand and pointed to the sky. “On the third floor.”
“Why are you so happy?”
She took a deep breath and told him of her plans to join the Rose Arbor Traveling Troupe.
“That’s not happy; that’s sad."
“Why would you say that?”
“Because this might be the only chance I’ll ever have to do this,” he said, taking her in his arms and kissing her.
San Franscisco
Ugh. Kissing is overrated, Addison thought, glancing at the couples surrounding her on the pier—some young and in love, keeping in constant contact, some middle-aged, tired, and bored, a few senior citizens. She spotted a man about her age, early thirties, thick dark blond hair, with an athletic build. He caught her eye.
She returned her attention back to Rita. The breeze blowing in from the ocean ruffled her pages, making it hard for her to focus. She wanted to tell Rita she shouldn’t be dancing in the moonlight and flirting with drunk men speaking French and telling lies. And this man obviously had a gambling and drinking problem. Ugh.
Why were smart women sometimes so stupid when it came to men?
