by Kristy Tate
Rita grinned. “Tall, blond, blue eyed. And rich… at least he said he was.”
“Sounds pompous.”
“No, he was sweet…and a little drunk. Maybe we could get him to take her to the ranch.”
“Why him?”
“It has to be someone that Kidrick doesn’t think we have any connection to—and he has to speak French.” But the most important reason, Rita realized, was because she wanted an excuse to see to see him again.
“And this man speaks French?”
Rita nodded.
“Maybe she doesn’t want to go to the ranch. Maybe she has ideas of her own.”
“Her own ideas led her into a marriage with Boris Kidrick.”
“That was her uncle’s plan. We, I mean you, should at least ask her.”
Matilda bit a thumbnail while Rita tried to converse with Corinne. After a moment, Corinne smiled around the bits of cheese in her mouth.
“She’s happy to go anywhere far from Kidrick.” Rita picked up slice of bread and tore off a small piece. “I wonder how I can convince him to take her when I don’t even know his name.”
“Does he know you belong in the theater?”
“Yes.”
“Then we won’t need to find him—he will find you.”
“Are you sure?”
“You have a matinee tomorrow.” Matilda looked out the window at the moon. “Today, actually. I bet you dollars to doughnuts he’ll be there.”
“But if he’s not? Or what if he won’t do as we ask?”
“Then we’ll find someone else. Until then she’ll have to stay down here. She should be safe enough.”
Rita explained the plan to Corinne—leaving out the foggy part that relied on the reappearance of a handsome stranger—while Matilda made up a bed on the sofa in the corner. Corinne obediently lay down, and Rita and Matilda draped a few costumes and wigs over her.
Back upstairs, Rita found it hard to sleep. She pictured Boris Kidrick wandering the streets, bellowing in pain and calling Corinne’s name. Downstairs was Corinne, as trusting and as needy as a child, and probably as frightened as one too. Beside her, Matilda snored softly, looking closer to the beauty of her youth than she ever did when awake. Rita couldn’t picture her own role among this cast of characters. Instead, she closed her eyes and imagined the handsome stranger. She fell asleep, warmed with the memory of his kiss.
***
Back at her bookstore in Shell Falls, as she swept the front stoop, Addison told Ginny about the woman who had given her the manuscript. Dissecting their weekend reads was their Monday morning ritual. They were both eclectic readers and their tastes ranged from sci-fi to the literary. Before Paul’s death, or P.D. as Ginny liked to call it, Addison had also read romances.
Ginny hid behind a cart as she returned books to the shelves. “So, do you think this story is going to suck you back over to the sweet side?”
“Not a chance.” Addison frowned at the store display window. In six weeks, Mr. Patel’s business would occupy the store. Could she leave up the spring theme display until then, even though Easter had come and gone? She told herself yes. Rabbits, after all, are perennial. It would be a sad world if they only existed during the months of March and April. Maybe she could throw some Alice in Wonderland sort of decorations in there so it would look more White Rabbit than Easter Bunny. But then, why bother? Using a dustpan, she scooped up the stoop’s debris and deposited it in the outside trash. When she came back inside, she left the door open to let in the early morning breeze and sunshine.
Ginny stood in the center of the shop, holding up a book with a picture of a couple kissing against a pink background. “I think you’d really like this one.” Addison had known Ginny since grade school, and even after all these years, it sometimes surprised her that Ginny was a grownup, because, after all, she’d grown very little. She still tied up her hair in a long pale ponytail and perpetually wore jeans, cardigans, and sneakers.
Addison settled down at her desk and opened up her accounts. She still kept her books in a ledger the way her mom had taught her. “Barf.”
“Are you talking about our revenues, or this novel?” Ginny followed her into the office and shook the book at her. “If you’re talking about this heartwarming, charming, and laugh-out-loud story, I think we’ll need to go outside and rumble.”
Addison looked out the window. “You’re crazy.”
“We can still fight. Unless you’re chicken.”
Addison placed her finger on her accounts so as not to lose her place. “I still write your checks, remember?”
“You need to read this.” Ginny stomped across the room and slammed the book on the desk.
“Fine. I’ll read yours if you’ll read mine.”
Ginny’s eyes lit up the way they always did when she discovered a new author to love. “Is it steamy?”
“It’s sweet.”
“Ohhh, when can I read it?” She placed the heels of her hands together and silently clapped her fingers.
“I want your opinion. I think it’s too sweet.”
“Why? I know you’ve been hurt, but come on! You have to give romances another chance.”
“They’re dangerous.” She waved her hand in front of her ear. “They fill your head with unrealistic expectations. There’s no prince. He’s a fairytale. The only person who can ever save you is yourself.”
“Would you help me if I need it?” Ginny asked.
“Of course, you know I would.”
“And I would do the same for you.”
Addison frowned and returned to her accounts. She hated numbers. “Okay, I get your point, but you have to concede mine, as well. Some would argue that romance novels are dangerous, addictive, mood and mind altering.”
“And that’s a bad thing because?” Ginny sat down in the chair across from the desk.
“It just is. We all need to buck up, buttercup, and face the real world. Me especially.”
“You mean we need to spend less time reading and get out there to make new friends and meet people?”
“No, that would be taking things completely too far.”
“I disagree,” a male voice replied.
Addison’s head shot up. Landon stood in the doorway, backlit by the morning sun. He wore a dark suit and a red tie, and carried a bouquet of roses.
“Who are you?” Ginny slowly climbed to her feet and patted down the front of her embroidered blouse.
“I’m Landon, a guy Addison met this weekend.” He grinned as he stepped into the store. He was larger than she remembered, maybe because she’d only known him outside on the boat on the ocean where nothing but the sky eclipsed him. He dwarfed the small space and blocked out the sun shining through the open doorway.
“What are you doing here?” Addison asked.
“I’m meeting a client in Colina, and since Shell Falls was on the way, I thought I’d stop by and see if you wanted to get a late lunch.”
“How did you find me?”
“There’s only one bookstore in Shell Falls.”
Ginny narrowed her eyes. “Wait. Who are you?”
Landon laughed. “You can’t have it both ways. Telling her she needs to meet new people and then being suspicious when she does is contradictory.” He turned back to Addison. “This will be a lot easier if you give me your number.”
“Oh, sure.” Addison scrambled for her phone and sent him a text.
“Thanks. See you around two.” He handed her the flowers, kissed her cheek and headed out the door.
“What. Just. Happened?” Ginny demanded.
“I’m not quite sure.”
The rest of the morning stretched out as minutes turned to hours. While Ginny manned the checkout counter, Addison grabbed Geneva’s manuscript and settled into the comfy club chair she kept in her office. At first, thoughts of Landon made it impossible for her to focus on Rita’s story, but after a while, the novel sucked her in.
****
“Can you
make sure Corinne gets breakfast?” Rita asked Matilda a few hours later as weak morning sun poured into their room. “There’s something I need to do before the show.”
“Don’t you have to audition this morning?”
Rita’s jaw and stomach fell. How could she have forgotten? “Yes!”
“Are you ready?”
“Maybe.”
“What do you need to do?”
Rita sucked in a deep breath. Selling her mother’s jewelry was a painful decision but needed to be done. Since leaving the ranch, she’d known that at some point she would value cash over pearls. If she could use a few coins to help persuade someone—hopefully a particular someone—to take Corinne to safety that would be money well spent. She hoped.
She bounced out of bed and grabbed her favorite day dress. “If Ivan asks, tell him I’ll be right back. And tell Corinne to stay buried in the basement.”
“I’m not sure how I’ll do that,” Matilda said dryly. “I guess I’ll have to give her my chamber pot since yours is lying all over the alley in pieces.”
Rita glanced out the window. All that remained from the night’s drama were splinters and shards of china. There wasn’t a speck of evidence of the kiss…or Kidrick. Which proved that sometimes the best and worst things could come and go without a trace.
Rita slipped on her gloves, picked up her satchel and gave Matilda a quick peck on the cheek. “I will be right back.”
***
A half-hour later Rita stood in her dancing shoes beside the piano, waiting for her new life to start. She knew that all her plans depended on this moment. So why did her thoughts keep returning to the man and his kiss?
Because she needed him to help Corinne, of course. That was all. Rita took a deep breath then another as Poke began to play.
Somewhere behind the stage lights Ivan sat, watching. Clarisse was also, presumably, nearby, waiting for an opportunity to spoil Rita’s audition. Kidrick might still be roaming the streets, searching for his lost bride. And somewhere a handsome stranger with a knack for kissing was waking up, probably with a hangover.
As the music began, Rita knew she had to clear her head and focus on the rhythm, movement and music. Yet when she started to move, she sensed that, somehow, thinking of the handsome stranger only made her dance stronger and more precise.
***
“I told you he would be here,” Matilda whispered.
Rita ducked behind the heavy velvet curtain. “How do you know he’s here? You don’t even know what he looks like.”
“I can tell from that goofy grin on your face. Now, which one is he?”
Rita felt the goofy grin spreading from her face to all her hinder-parts. She parted the curtain an inch. “Second row, five from the left.”
“Oh—he’s lovely.”
“Yes.” The word came out as a sigh.
Matilda poked Rita in the ribs. “So sad you’re leaving tomorrow.”
Rita braced her spine. “That is not sad. Leaving is exactly what I want to do.” But her voice sounded weak. Almost as weak as her knees. He looked even better in the light of day. Her shoulders sagged. “I don’t know if I can do this.”
Matilda gave her a tight hug. “Of course you can. Now go and perform as if you’re dancing on the moon. I’ll send a note to your Romeo.”
“What if he won’t do it? Corinne can’t hide beneath costumes forever.”
“Then we’ll come up with another plan. Now go dance.” Matilda gave her a little shove, making Rita realize that Poke was already at the piano. Her entry was only a few beats away.
***
Your presence has been requested in the lobby immediately following the show. Please stay for a private audience with our star, Rachel Ryan.
Christian tucked the note into his breast pocket. Most of the matinee crowd had cleared by the time Rachel Ryan trailed down the stairs. She had changed out of her costume and into a plain day dress. Traces of stage makeup remained, making her lips an unnatural red. He hoped his presence could account for the flush in her cheeks.
“My dear Miss Ryan,” he said, holding out a hand.
She laid her gloved hand in his. “You have an advantage over me, sir. You know my name, but I do not know yours.” Which wasn’t exactly true, since Rachel Ryan was not, technically, her real name.
“Christian Roberts.” He drew her hand to his lips.
“And do you live up to your name?”
He blushed. “I do try.”
“Good. I’m in need of a Christian act of charity. And do you have a horse and carriage?”
He nodded and raised his eyebrows, waiting for her to elaborate.
She glanced around the nearly deserted lobby. He followed her gaze, wondering what she was looking for and if she had found it.
“Would you mind if we walked, sir?” Her voice sounded much less confident off the stage. He tucked her hand through his arm and drew her out the wide double doors, wondering what troubled her.
Outside, the sun peeked through a smattering of clouds and a light wind teased the fallen leaves on the boardwalk. Although less ethereal than the dancing nymph he remembered from the night before, Miss Ryan was prettier in the daylight. After the kiss, he’d known he’d have to see her again—if only to apologize—which he knew he had to do, although he didn’t want to. If he said he was sorry, he would be lying.
He glanced up and down the busy sidewalk. The street teemed with horses plowing through mud and dung. Wagon wheels cut into the mire and spat filth with every rotation. Gulls and pigeons flocked around the fish stalls, and the air reeked of the briny putrid Sound combined with fish stench.
Miss Ryan didn’t belong in Seattle’s gritty reality. She belonged in the moonlight—or on a stage surrounded by lights and music. “If I said I was sorry for…last night, I would be spinning tales.”
She tilted her face toward his. “Then please don’t apologize. Lying is bad for your soul.”
“Kissing strangers in the moonlight is bad for your reputation.”
She chuckled. “I am afraid the reputation of an actress is of little value.”
“To whom?” He motioned to the men filling the streets. “Surely not to the good people of Seattle. Women, especially pretty ones like yourself, are a rare commodity here.”
Miss Ryan sucked in a deep breath as if trying to hold back everything she needed to say. He didn’t doubt that she had asked for his company for a reason. She had something to tell or ask of him—he could tell by the jut of her small chin.
She led him through the tall black gates of Denny Park. Until a few years earlier the park had been a cemetery. The city had relocated the majority of the gravesites, but a number still remained. The thought of pulling Miss Ryan behind an obelisk and kissing her crossed his mind, but he dismissed it.
“But are they a commodity to be bartered?” she asked.
Stunned, he wondered if he had missed a beat of the conversation. He studied her. She didn’t look like a suffragette. Even though he knew it wasn’t fair to cast all suffragettes into the same pig-poke, he imagined social reformers all looking like his horse-faced, militant cousin Francine. Miss Ryan, with her ivory skin, violet eyes and fragile build, did not look like a sign-carrying suffragette.
“You may wonder why I speak so vehemently.”
Christian raised his eyebrows, waiting.
She turned to him, eyes wide and earnest. “Tell me your opinion on mail-order brides.”
Christian opened his mouth but didn’t dare speak. What could he say when he didn’t know what would or would not offend the girl on his arm? If he said that a mail-order bride was tantamount to self-imposed slavery—how would she respond if she was offering herself in such a contract? And if she was—what would he say?
I beg your pardon, I appreciate the offer, after all, you are a lovely tiny actress with a voice like an angel, but I have no desire to marry.
Then again, glancing down at her—maybe he did. Maybe he did want to mar
ry her. He raised a hand to his temple and felt a vein pulsing beneath his fingertips.
“Last night there was an unfortunate incident,” she continued.
He stopped short. A thorn from a rosebush snagged his coattail. He jerked it free.
“Not the kiss,” she whispered after a cautious glance around the nearly deserted park. “Afterward.”
Relief whooshed out of him. “So this has nothing to do with the kiss.”
“No.”
“Anything to do with me?”
“That depends on you.”
“How so?”
“On the role you agree to play.”
Christian set his lips into a hard, straight line. He did not like the turn of this conversation, which meant that he should turn around and run. “I am not an actor—I do not role play.”
She clutched his arm. “Do not be so hasty. I am prepared to pay for your service.”
Christian extracted the girl’s hand from his arm and sat on a stone bench. Whatever he had expected to hear—this wasn’t it. He really couldn’t guess the next words out of her mouth, and he found that intriguing. At least worth staying to hear.
She sank onto the bench beside him and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Last night I overheard a…a heated conversation.”
“A ‘heated conversation’?”
“Well, it was more than heated.” She took a deep breath. “I saw a man beating his wife.”
“I’m sorry you witnessed that.” And he was, but he didn’t know why she was telling him this, or what she expected him to do with the information.
She lowered her chin and the volume of her voice. “I dropped a chamber pot on his head.”
“My heavens!”
“Oh, he won’t go to heaven. Not at the moment, at least. He’s still alive.”
“Thank goodness.”
“And so is his wife.”
“Thanks to you?”
“Well…” She again looked around the deserted park. “Thanks to me she’s hiding in the basement of the theater.”
“I take it she’s the mail-order bride of which you spoke.”
She slowly nodded. “I will pay you—”
