by Kristy Tate
“I’m LeAnn,” she’d said, as if Addison would know who she was. When Addison hadn’t responded, LeAnn had continued, “And this is Lincoln, Paul’s son.”
It was like someone had struck a match on Addison’s world, and then, just to make sure she burned, they doused her with fuel and threw her into the flames.
Addison opened up the book and wrote down the word, Why?
Paul’s first job out of grad school had required a lot of traveling. His division spanned most of the Western United States. It would have been easy for him to pick up women on his travels. Why did he have to find one so close to home? But maybe he had done both.
What would hurt more? A casual fling, or one, or two, or many, or one intense, loving affair?
But when had he stopped loving Addison? When had her love stopped being enough for him?
Addison’s phone rang. Landon.
“Hey, how are you doing?” he asked, sounding breathless.
Addison swallowed and brushed tears off her face. “Good,” she lied. “What’s up? Did they cancel your poker game?”
“Scotty has food poisoning and we need a fourth. Do you play?”
Addison looked down at Paul’s grave. Wouldn’t she rather spend the evening with a group of guys than trying to understand the psyche of her late husband? When was the last time she’d played poker? Strip poker, with Paul, in their tiny apartment near Berkley. “I can play.” And this time, she wouldn’t lose her clothes.
“Good. Can I pick you up in a couple of hours?”
Perfect. Maybe she could squeeze in a couple of chapters of Rita.
****
Typically when Miss Ryan was on the stage, Christian could focus on nothing else. He played the music with his fingers, but her every movement captivated his mind and soul. He thought her charming when she was dressed as the dying grandmother in Cordelia’s Chronicles, but he found her completely irresistible during the Vaudeville acts.
Keeping his fingers on the keyboard and his rump parked on the bench took incredible self-control because he desperately wanted to carry her off the stage, away from the eyes of the hundreds of men filling the hall.
He smiled when he hit a C instead of a D flat. Everyone occasionally takes a misstep, he thought, but his smile faded when he thought he caught a glimpse of a familiar figure in the crowd. Kidrick? Could be, as the man was lurking behind the back row, too cheap to even purchase a seat.
Christian’s fingering faltered, and Ivan shot him a dark look. As much as Christian wanted to vault off his bench and follow the shadow out the back door, he forced himself to play. Four four time, key of C, an easy bit, if one’s mind wasn’t following a short Russian out onto Salt Lake City’s dark streets.
Miss Ryan smiled at him as she finished her song, and he read the question in her eyes. Putting on his poker face, he returned her smile. She visibly relaxed—the tension in her shoulders eased, and her steps quickened.
Would he tell her? No, not until he knew for sure. Was Kidrick following him? Following Miss Ryan? Christian had expected him, but with no idea where Kidrick might turn up. Christian knew that he and Miss Ryan couldn’t share a city with Kidrick. Maybe not even a continent. But how could he separate Miss Ryan from the theater troupe?
Clarisse scowled at him and he realized that he had continued playing even though her song had ended. He added a flourish to make it look intentional. He knew it a nasty thing to do—to leave her standing, mouth open and eyes blank—but she brightened as the air swelled with applause, and she took her bow.
Christian bolted as soon as the curtain fell. He pushed open the stage door, and the night air hit him about the same time as the realization that he would never find Kidrick now.
The next day was Sunday—no performances. Perhaps he could persuade Miss Ryan to accompany him on a picnic in the canyons. Where they would be lost. They would be forced to spend the rest of their lives eking out a modest existence in a small wooden cabin. She would grow vegetables, and he would catch fish in the nearby stream. He would play, and she would sing, he imagined, mentally waving away a question about where the piano would come from.
He stopped beneath a streetlight, watching the evening’s crowd exit the theater through the wide lobby doors. He was tall, but Kidrick was short. Christian couldn’t see Kidrick, but he thought he caught the odor of tobacco and licorice.
He fell in step with the crowd, and even after the theater-goers dispersed, he wandered until his gaze landed on an office building with the words Priceless Princess painted in bold white letters—the same name painted on the boat belonging to the murdered men in Seattle. He wondered if it was a coincidence. Which led him to wonder if he believed in coincidences.
He ran the several blocks back to the theater. Taking the back stairs two at a time, he reached Miss Ryan’s room within moments of her arrival.
She had a note clutched in her hand.
“This is very odd,” she told him in French.
His suspicions grew as he scanned the note. “You cannot attend.”
“There isn’t a show tomorrow.” Miss Ryan sat in front of her dressing mirror and removed the rings from her fingers.
Christian stepped behind her so he could watch her face in the mirror. “Who gave this to you?”
“A boy. He had been paid, obviously.”
“What if it’s a trap?”
“I can see someone laying a trap for you, but for me?”
“You cannot possibly attend.”
She stood and plucked the note from his grasp. “Of course I will intend.”
“Even if I ask you not to?”
“Especially if you ask me not to.”
Christian raked his fingers through his hair. “Then I will accompany you.”
“Well,” she said slowly, “you were not invited.”
“You want me to come?”
“Of course I do.”
“I’m assuming you do not know this Smythe family.”
She shook her head. “I cannot be sure, but I do not think they are related to the founder of the Mormon faith because of the name spelling.”
“You are probably right. They run the Matrimonial News.”
Rita nearly dropped the quill she’d picked up. “That silly paper you’ve been reading? Now how do you know that?”
Christian shrugged. “I’m curious, is all.”
Rita dipped the quill into a bottle of ink and penned a response. “Well, so am I. If they are unlucky enough to have a connection to Kidrick I will discover it.”
“I am not comfortable with this,” Christian said, reading over her shoulder.
“It is only for one night.” She looked at him through her lashes. “You will join me?”
***
She had worried that the Smythes might not have space for the uninvited Christian, but as soon as the carriage pulled down the lane leading to the Smythe home, Rita knew there would be a bed for Christian. Perhaps he would even have his choice of beds. The Smythe home was possibly the largest home she had ever seen, much larger even than the mansion with the beehive.
“They are polygamists,” Rita said to Christian, who was lounging beside her.
Christian straightened, looked out the window and barked a sharp laugh.
But Rita wasn’t trying to be funny. “I do not find this humorous at all. I do not think I can attend—let alone sing.” She tapped her fan on the partition that separated her from the driver, who had introduced himself as Harrison when he fetched them in the plush carriage. “Take me back—I have changed my mind.”
He swiveled to look at her. “On my honor, miss, the Smythe family not be polygamists. They are a God-fearing family.”
“Who happen to have fifty family members,” Christian said in French to Rita.
Rita studied the giant, sprawling house. “Are they a large family?”
“No, miss, not anymore, just the master, the missus, Mistress Melody and young Master Thad. The younguns get lonely, seein
g that they don’t have much truck with the Mormons, and most of the other miners ain’t got families for socializing.”
Rita understood that she wasn’t only to sing but also to entertain. “I hope they won’t mind Didier tagging along. He’s a talented pianist.”
“I dare say he’ll be welcome to the piano bench but not the dining table. The Smythes don’t favor foreigners.”
“I’m sure they’ll have room at their table,” Rita murmured to Christian.
“Perhaps the Smythes are trying to keep up with the neighbors,” Christian said in French, nodding at a neighboring house.
Rita’s eyes traveled across the river and spotted a house nearly identical in size on the opposite bank. “Does that home belong to a polygamist family?” she asked the driver.
“What house?” Harrison asked, his back straight and his gaze fixed on the road ahead. “I don’t see no house and if you’s wise, you don’t see one neither.”
***
Heavy storm clouds gathered over the distant mountains. A small streak of lightning flickered, too far away to do anything more than briefly light the sky. Rita took Christian’s hand as she climbed from the carriage.
“I do not wish to be separated,” she whispered in French as shyness and apprehension gripped her. “Let us say we are siblings.”
“Weren’t you listening? Master Smythe doesn’t like foreigners.”
“Then he can send us home.” Rita glanced up at the mansion. “I don’t like it here.”
“Has a goose walked over your grave?”
“I do not know what that means, but I do know I’m not fond of geese or graves.”
Christian cleared his throat and motioned to the opening front doors. A pretty young woman with thick blond hair and eyes the color of the sky swept down the stairs. A young boy tagged behind while a stately gentleman in a fine linen coat stood on the porch, leaning on a gilded cane.
Rita turned on her stage smile and bowed before the gathered family.
“Miss Ryan! It is such an honor to have you visit our humble home,” the gentleman said. Not even an eyebrow twitched when he said “humble home” and Rita recognized a consummate actor when she saw one. “Let me introduce my son, Thaddeus, and my daughter, Melody.” He swept his free hand in the direction of his children. “I know Melody has been most anxious to meet you. It is rare for her to have the pleasure of her peers.”
Melody gripped Rita’s hand. “Oh, I do so hope that we can become best friends.”
Rita’s apprehension melted into empathy for the young girl living in such isolation. She tried not to, but curiosity made her look across the river at the sprawling mansion and she wondered if that family had anyone Melody’s age.
“Let me introduce my pianist, Emile Didier.”
Christian raised his eyebrows and Rita answered with a small, discreet shake of her head. “He is so very talented. I knew that you would enjoy his music along with mine.”
“Of course, most welcome, sir.” Mr. Smythe descended the stairs, hobbling on his cane.
“He doesn’t speak English, only French,” Rita told them.
Annoyance flashed across Mr. Smythe’s face but Melody flushed a lovely pink. “Quelle formidable!” she said.
“Parlez-vouz français?” Rita asked.
“Certainment!”
“Your accent sounds much better than mine,” Rita said.
Distant thunder rumbled.
“I hire only the best tutors for my children,” Mr. Smythe said. “Come, let’s go inside, away from the approaching storm.”
Rita found the inside of the house to be appallingly simple compared to its grandiose exterior. With the threadbare furniture and faded rugs, the Smythe mansion sadly lacked a woman’s touch.
“Harrison will take your bags upstairs,” Mr. Smythe said. “Dinner is at six. That leaves you with an hour to rest after your long journey.”
“You really don’t want to rest, do you?” Melody tucked her hand around Rita’s arm and led her up the broad staircase. “Wouldn’t you be more interested in a hen chat?”
Rita’s opinions on hens bordered near her thoughts on geese, but after a quick look at Christian, she let Melody lead her up the stairs. She wondered where Thaddeus would lead Christian.
Portraits lined the walls, and Smythes young and old watched her pass. “What an amazing collection of paintings,” Rita murmured. “They all appear to have been painted by the same artist.”
“Yes.” Melody stopped in front of a door and pushed it open.
“Yes?” That seemed the wrong answer. “But surely these are ancestors from different eras and generations.”
“Oh no, some are siblings and many are my cousins. They all shared a portrait artist.”
“So—do they live nearby?”
“It would be, perhaps, more accurate to say that they all died about the same time.” Melody twisted her lips and frowned at the portraits, as if holding them responsible for the untimely deaths.
Curious, Rita had to bite her lips to keep from blurting out questions. They passed a set of curtains flanked by wall sconces and candles. Rita paused, her fingers itching to twitch back the curtains.
“My sister’s portrait. Because my mother misses her so dreadfully, we keep her picture covered.” Melody sighed and her shoulders drooped, but she brightened when she stopped in front of another door and pushed it open. “This is your room. Isn’t it lovely?”
Large windows looked out over a pond, and a four-poster bed covered by a downy quilt and numerous pillows dominated the room. A vase of fresh yellow daisies sat on the fireplace mantel. “Momma insisted on the flowers.”
“I love daisies. I hope I will have the chance to thank your mother at dinner.”
Melody’s eyes clouded. “I doubt that Momma will be joining us.”
Which raised more questions that Rita was too polite to ask.
***
Typically the servants ate after the family, but Christian had been told that because he was scheduled to play the piano after the family’s dinner, he would be served a warm bowl of stew in the kitchen. He ate alone at a massive oak table with a hovering housekeeper and cook at his elbows.
“Je vais bien,” he told them, but they obviously didn’t speak French. Every time his spoon neared the bottom of his bowl, the cook appeared with another ladleful.
“Did you hear that the Joneses have performers at their house too?” The housekeeper spoke over Christian’s head.
“Well, of course they do,” the cook groused. “They have to do everything the same but a wee bit better.”
“I hear Mr. Jones himself is looking for a wife for the young master.”
The cook sucked in her breath. “I never! Amongst the show people?”
The housekeeper leaned a little closer. “T’would be a proper Romeo and Juliet story should the young Master Jones fall for Miss Melody.”
The cook nearly dropped her ladle. “You’d be losing your post for even hosting such ideas.”
“I suppose, but it would be dreadfully romantic,” the housekeeper said.
“No, it would be just dreadful. I think it would send the missus to the grave.”
Both housekeeper and cook shook their heads.
“Good heavens,” the housekeeper said, “what’s to become of them all? Breaks my heart, it does.”
***
After a decent dinner eaten quietly without Mrs. Smythe or Christian, Rita was led by Mr. Smythe to the music room. A large piano stood on a raised platform, and Rita let out a breath when she saw Christian sitting on the bench. She hurried to join him. Merely placing her hand on his shoulder steadied her.
He looked up at her, questions in his eyes, but she didn’t know what he was asking because she had so many questions of her own. What had happened to all the siblings and cousins? Had they all died because of a vicious epidemic?
“Que ferez-vous chanter?” Obviously, Christian’s thoughts were much less sinister than hers.
That was one of the things she loved about him. He refused to be swayed by vile imaginings. She saw harbingers of evil and death, and he wanted her to sing. Taking a deep breath and sending all her dark thoughts to hidden corners in her mind, she picked out a popular tune and within seconds, Christian’s fingers joined in.
Midway through the chorus, thunder crashed, Melody screamed, and Mr. Smythe jumped from his chair. Lightning flashed, illuminating the room in a hot white light. With a sense of deja vu, Rita blinked, certain she had seen the toes of a pair of black boots poking out from behind the curtains.
“Just thunder,” Mr. Smythe said, his words floating on a sigh of relief. He settled back in his chair, and Thaddeus came out from behind the curtain, a flush of embarrassment staining his cheeks.
“Please continue. We won’t be put off by a little weather,” Mr. Smythe said.
But Rita found it difficult to sing when the others in the room, save Christian, continued to jump at every roll of thunder.
***
Christian dimmed the light, and darkness engulfed the small room he had been given in the servants’ quarters above the kitchen. He didn’t mind his room, having slept in worse places. A hot wind blew in the window as he slipped off his trousers and unbuttoned his shirt. He found it curious that there could be an electrical storm without rain. In his experience rain always accompanied thunder and lightning, but it seemed that Utah played by its own set of rules in more ways than one.
The bed groaned beneath his weight when he lay down, but the ropes had settled into silence when he heard another creak from across the room. He bolted up when he realized the door had opened. The weather wasn’t the only thing playing by its own set of rules.
“Dormez-vous?” Melody’s voice moved closer in the dark as she quietly shut the door behind her.
Lightning lit the small room and illuminated Melody’s hair, which she wore down in long riotous blond tresses. Moonlight penetrated her lacy shift. Thunder crashed, and he imagined as much as saw Melody flinch.
