Rewriting Rita

by Kristy Tate

  “I have no need of your money.”

  She took a deep breath. “Helping her escape from her husband may be against the law. After all, he did pay for her.”

  “People cannot be sold.” He gave her a hard stare. “Or bought.”

  She glanced around before whispering, “What was I supposed to do? I couldn’t watch him kill her! Nor can I return her to him!”

  Christian tightened his jaw. “And I suppose hiding in the theater is also out of the question.”

  “Especially since her husband owns the theater.”

  “Kidrick? You dropped a chamber pot on Kidrick?” His lips twitched. “Was it full?”

  “Should it have been?”

  “Of course!”

  “Then I am sorry to disappoint you.” She cleared her throat. “I take it you know Mr. Kidrick.”

  “I despise Kidrick, and I would gladly help you steal away his wife. If I knew how.”

  She nodded. “I know a good woman who owns a ranch outside of town. If you take Corinne there, she will be safe.” Her words burst out of her in a rush. “I know it will be a great imposition, and I wouldn’t ask if I knew someone else who speaks French.”

  “French is necessary?”

  “Mrs. Kidrick only speaks French, although she is difficult to understand.”

  “So I was not singled out for my heroic capabilities but for my bilingual fluency?”

  She stared as if trying to read him.

  He decided to set her mind at ease. “I will help you and the distressed Mrs. Kidrick.”

  Relief flooded her face. “Oh, thank you. I somehow knew you would help.”

  “On the condition that you accompany me.”

  She stood, and he followed.

  “When shall we go?” He matched her pace as she walked quickly in the direction they had come from. Her face was inscrutable.

  “It has to be as soon as possible,” she said. “I leave for New York with the Rose Arbor Traveling Troupe the day after next.”

  “You’re really leaving?” He half-remembered something like this from the night they’d met. He knew his face expressed his disappointment. “For New York?”

  After a quick look in both directions, she stepped off the boardwalk into the intersection. A path of bricks had been laid for crossing ease, but they were covered with a film of grime. Brown stained her plain shoes as she lifted the skirts of her simple dress and expertly picked her way across the street. “The New York stage. I want to perform in the Harlem Opera House.”

  “Have you seen it?” he asked.

  “When I left, it had yet to be completed.” Her voice was wistful. “Mr. Hammerstein promised me a leading role.”

  Christian felt himself blanch, and he took her elbow as she stepped up onto the boardwalk. “You are from New York.” He couldn’t return to New York. Ever. How could he persuade Miss Ryan to abandon any ideas of New York? “You know Hammerstein? Then what on earth are you doing, no offense intended, in Seattle?”

  She laughed lightly. “My father knows everyone.” Her eyes twinkled. “Everyone he deems worth knowing, that is.”

  “So your father—Mr. Ryan—what does he do?”

  “Ryan is my stage name.” She didn’t tell him her real one. “And do? He doesn’t do anything, really, other than boss other people around.”

  “And how does he feel about having an actress daughter?”

  Miss Ryan gave a small growl that he found interesting.

  “Your father, I take it, can tell Hammerstein who can or cannot perform on the stage of the Harlem Opera House.”

  “Exactly.” Rita poked Christian’s chest.

  He caught her finger in his hand and pulled her to a stop. “We have just met, but I feel that I will miss you when you are gone.”

  She laughed and pulled away. “You will have to come to New York and see me.”

  “On the stage?”

  “Of course, although I don’t intend to stay there long.”

  Christian raised his eyebrows. “No?”

  She shook her head, making her curls bounce. “I plan on performing in London, Paris, Rome—”

  “Vienna?”

  “Why not?”

  “Do you think your father will mind?”

  “I’m hoping my father will have a change of heart.”

  Christian chuckled.

  “Why is that so funny?”

  “I find it hard to imagine that any honorable man would willingly agree to let his daughter perform on the Harlem stage.”

  She stepped in front of him and stopped so quickly that he had to take two steps backward to keep from stomping on her toes or the hem of her dress. “It has been said that Harlem is the new center of fashion, wealth, culture and intelligence.”

  “Then why go to London or Paris? If Harlem is the new cultural center, why not stay?”

  “I think the better question is, why stay in smelly Seattle?”

  Christian’s lips drew into a straight line.

  “Everyone wants to go to London and Paris,” she said.

  He tucked her hand through his arm and led her to the theater’s wide double doors. “No, not everyone. I, for example, have no desire to leave Seattle. Except, of course, for our drive to a good woman’s ranch tomorrow.”

  ***

  “Do you really think this will work?” Matilda asked. She stood beside the open trunk, frowning at Rita pawing through the costumes.

  “Of course. Corinne and I are about the same height and build. In identical cloaks, he won’t even know.” She held up a heavy blue cloak. “Thank heaven for costumes.”

  “Don’t you think he’ll think it’s odd you’re wearing velvet in the middle of August?”

  “Men do not notice clothes—they only take note of what is not clothed. Did you talk to Poke?”

  Matilda nodded. “He will accompany Corinne by streetcar to the edge of town. But is all this cloak and dagger necessary? Why not take your man into our confidence?”

  Rita sighed and settled the cloak on her lap. Stroking it, she tried to smooth out the wrinkles. “I cannot go back there. If Granny makes me stay on the ranch—and if she sees me, she will—I will die of boredom and loneliness. And if she tries to set me up with one more hairy, smelly farmer, I will slit my throat in desperation.”

  “That’s one way to cut short your singing career.” Matilda shot a fast look in the direction of Corinne, who was asleep on the sofa. “Your hero is going to know as soon as we leave the inn that the switch has been made.”

  “I know I’m putting you in an awkward position.”

  Matilda shook her head. “I don’t mind awkward positions, especially when I’m getting paid. But I don’t think your hero—”

  “You really must stop calling him that. He is not mine and, as of yet, he is not a hero.”

  “You’re expecting him to act like one, and it’s not fair.”

  Rita straightened and held up a yellow dress. “All he has to do is take Corinne to my grandmother’s ranch, and to do that he meets most of the criteria.”

  “He has a high moral code?”

  “No. He has a horse and carriage.”

  “You are asking him to help a runaway wife.”

  “And how is that different from helping a runaway slave?”

  “You do not know that he would have done that either.”

  Rita smiled, remembering Christian. “I do not know, but I believe he has a good heart. After all, his name is Christian.”

  “That means nothing except that his parents were religious.”

  “He hates Kidrick.”

  Matilda snorted. “That does not make him a member of an exclusive club. Everyone hates Kidrick.” She helped Rita step into the yellow dress. “But how do you know that?”

  Rita smoothed the bodice of the dress against her torso. “He told me.”

  Matilda shook her head. “He’s going to be furious when he realizes that Corinne has traded places with you. And if he’s as
big and strong as you say, I’m sure if we brawl, he will win.”

  “But if you flirt—I will place my money on you.”

  “I can’t flirt in French! I don’t speak French!”

  “Speak in broken English. I’ll tell him I’ve been tutoring you.” Rita reached over and patted her friend’s arm. “You know I’m right. This is a good plan. Our hearts are in the right place so nothing can go wrong.” She tucked the sewing kit into the pocket of the cloak.

  In case she needed to care for any loose threads.

  Shell Falls

  Addison met Landon at the Seaside Café near the boardwalk. Although summer was still weeks away, men and women carrying surfboards, wearing little more than their swimsuits and flip flops, congregated on the beach. Even though Addison had grown up just blocks away from the ocean, at times she felt like an outsider. She loved walking on the sand, especially in the winter when the beach stretched empty and forever. In the summer, she would play in the surf, but not for very long, and not if it wasn’t warm…and it usually wasn’t. She really didn’t get those who could swim in the Pacific year round.

  “This place looks great,” Landon said, glancing around at the straw-dust strewn floor, rough wood walls, and picnic-style tables and benches. In his suit and tie, he looked way more out of place than Addison.

  “The burgers are outstanding, the shakes are amazing, but my favorite is the crab cakes.”

  Landon found a table in a splotch of sunlight close to the sand. After sitting down, he picked up a menu. “I like your shop,” he said.

  “Me, too.”

  He must have noticed her sadness, because he said, “It’s a pity you’re closing.”

  She nodded. “It was my grandparents’ home.”

  “So, there’s a kitchen?”

  “And a couple of bathrooms. The basement was finished back in the fifties, although it hasn’t been used for anything but storage for as long as I can remember.”

  He leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. “What’s upstairs?”

  “Just one big room.” She smiled. “It’s actually my favorite because of the dormer windows and funky ceiling.”

  “Have you thought about renting out space?”

  “Not really, no. My mom…well, she was really specific in how she did things. She liked things a certain way.”

  “Is your mom here?”

  Addison shook her head. “My mom died about ten years ago.”

  “I’m sorry. How about your dad?”

  “He was never around. He’s still not. He lives in Anchorage with his girlfriend and has pretty much devoted his life to hunting and fishing.” She fell quiet as the waiter, a kid in khaki shorts and a Hawaiian shirt, came to take their order. “How about your family?” she asked Landon after the waiter left.

  “There was always just me and Granny. My parents died in a boating accident when I was young. I have a ton of cousins on my dad’s side, but they live in Oregon. Let’s get back to your shop. Do you want to save it?”

  “Of course I do, but I already signed a contract with Mr. Patel.”

  “I write contracts for a living. I’m pretty good at wiggling out of them. Did you sell him the house?”

  “No, I couldn’t bring myself to do that.”

  “So he’s leased the entire building?”

  “No. Just the main floor. The thought of cleaning out the attic and basement was just too overwhelming. Why?”

  “Do you have outside access to either of those spaces?”

  “Both.” Before he could say anything more, she added, “There’s also a freestanding garage.”

  He gave her a huge grin that she guessed had nothing to do with the juicy burger their waiter had put down in front of him. “Could you run your bookstore from any of those locations?”

  She crinkled her nose. “The garage would need a lot of work and I can’t see people climbing the rickety outside ladder to the attic. And the basement…” She shuddered.

  “That bad?”

  She cocked her head. “The garage…at least it would give me something to do.”

  “Did you ever have speakers or author events at your bookstore?”

  She shook her head.

  “How about a children’s story hour?”

  “No…” She picked at her crab cake. “It wasn’t that I hadn’t thought about any of those things, but—” She didn’t want to admit to him that she’d been too intimidated to call authors and invite them to speak. And children made her nervous. She liked watching them from a distance where she knew no one would get hurt. “My grandparents did all of those things.”

  “And how about thinking outside the book box?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, we just went whale watching. Why not have someone from the Splendor of the Sea come and talk about whales? You could set up a display of books on sea life. Or why not have a cooking demonstration by someone who wrote a cookbook? A quilt show in the yard—there is a yard?”

  She nodded.

  “You can have a display of quilting books.” He paused. “You could have a barbeque!”

  She blinked. “A barbeque?”

  He looked at his burger as he said, “Everyone loves a barbeque and the best thing about them is the smell. It’s an incredible advertisement! It would be easy enough to set up in the yard.”

  “But Mr. Patel’s massage parlor…”

  “He’ll love it.” He pointed a French fry at her. “You draw in a crowd and they’ll all see the parlor.”

  “I’m not sure I can sell food without a permit.”

  He studied her. “I guess I got carried away. Sorry. It’s absolutely none of my business.”

  “I loved your ideas. I wonder how much it would cost to renovate the garage.” She would have to talk to contractors, maybe an architect, and an engineer. Would she have to get permits from the city? All of these people could take advantage of her, because she knew nothing about converting a garage into a bookstore.

  But what was her alternative? Sitting at home and reading a book? Doing crossword puzzles?

  “Would you like to see my garage?” she asked.

  That evening after Landon left, Addison tried to focus on plans for renovating the garage, but Rita’s story sucked her back in time.

  Chapter 3

  A good-looking young lady of 19, five feet 3 inches high, black hair and eyes, would like to find someone to love.

  Matrimonial News, January 8, 1887

  Christian’s carriage drew up to the theater, and he watched Miss Ryan and a tall woman slip through the front doors. They paused on the steps, but after spotting him, waved and headed his way.

  The older woman, a blonde, looked nothing like the mail-order bride he had imagined. With her fair skin and hair, she didn’t look French, especially not French Canadian. She looked more like a German milkmaid. In fact, she looked very much like someone he had seen just the day before.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Roberts,” Miss Ryan said. “Please allow me to introduce Corinne Kidrick.” Her voice trailed away as if she hated to speak the name.

  He held the door open for the two ladies. “Bonjour. Comment allez-vous?”

  The blonde smiled for an answer as Christian took her hand to help her into the carriage. He watched her settle into the far corner. She blinked at him.

  Miss Ryan made to climb in as well, but he stopped her with a firm hand. She met his gaze without flinching and leaned toward him, whispering, “She’s very quiet and reserved.”

  “She wasn’t quiet when I saw her on the stage yesterday.”

  Miss Ryan’s eyes twitched, but she was a consummate actress. “You must be mistaken, sir. Corinne has never been on the stage.”

  Which might well be true, because he very much doubted if the blonde in his carriage was named Corinne. Still, an afternoon ride with Miss Ryan was an afternoon ride with Miss Ryan. He wasn’t about to let an unknown blonde stand, or in this case, sit, in his way. He cl
imbed into the carriage and closed the door.

  The women perched on the seat opposite him had flushed cheeks and bright eyes. He didn’t know if what he was doing was legal, but he did believe it to be moral. No woman should be forced to stay in a marriage with Kidrick. He motioned to his driver, and the carriage lunged forward.

  Corinne grabbed onto the seat with both hands, but Miss Ryan looked unperturbed. She had her gaze fixed out the window, and a small scowl hovered over her lips.

  “Parlez-vous français?”

  Across from him, Miss Ryan rolled her eyes.

  “Oh! Oui!” the blonde chirped.

  Christian studied her through narrowed eyelids. Her accent was atrocious. If he had to guess her origins, he would say Virginia. Miss Ryan had probably tutored her. He softly began to sing.

  “Frère Jacques, frère Jacques,

  “Dormez-vous? Dormez-vous?”

  He waited for her to join in. Miss Ryan shot her companion an annoyed looked and then turned on him. “She doesn’t sing.”

  “I don’t think that’s true. I’m very certain I heard her singing yesterday.”

  Miss Ryan’s scowl turned into a frown when he continued. “Sonnez les matines! Sonnez les matines!” He paused. “Please, feel free to join in.”

  “Ding dong ding,” the woman sang in the high, sweet soprano that he remembered.

  Christian leaned back against his seat, smiling. “I knew she sang—just like I know she’s not French.”

  “What makes you say that?” Miss Ryan clutched her satchel so hard her knuckles turned white.

  “If she were French, she would sing ‘Ding, daing, dong. Ding, daing, dong.’” Christian turned to the blonde. “Who are you really, my dear? You’re very lovely, and you have a beautiful singing voice. I very much enjoyed your matinee performance yesterday.”

  “Thank you,” the blonde said.

  Miss Ryan crossed her arms and leaned against the velvet seat with a humph.

  “I told you it was a silly plan!” The blonde pointed her finger at Miss Ryan. “He uncovered it in all of five minutes.”

  “Two minutes, actually,” Christian put in. “If that.”

  “See, he hasn’t even met the real Corinne.”