Rewriting Rita

by Kristy Tate

  Christian found a drainpipe running up the side of the building. He tugged on it, doubting its ability to hold his weight, but when several more minutes of searching yielded no better options for entering the building, he grasped the pipe with one hand and braced his foot against the wall. With every handhold he expected the pipe to give way. He was probably moments from lying on his backside and staring at the stars, so he was surprised when he reached the window ledge. He pushed open the shutters and hoisted over the sill.

  Without aid of moon or stars, Christian had to let his eyes adjust to the inky darkness. He brushed off his cloak as he took in the room. A bed, a desk, a ladder-back chair and a wardrobe—leased lodgings. He wondered if the proprietors of the Priceless Princess rented the upstairs rooms as well as the office below.

  Christian stood still and silent beside the wardrobe, listening for a sound that would tell him he wasn’t alone. He released a long breath when he heard only the cries of the tomcat in the alley below.

  Stepping as lightly as he could to keep the floorboards from creaking, Christian cracked open the door and surveyed the shadowy hallway. Two open doors shared the landing. He edged forward and saw that the two unoccupied rooms were furnished identically to the first. Christian descended the stairs with more confidence. The office door creaked when he pushed it open. Moonlight streamed in through a large pane window, revealing an oak desk that dominated the room, but Christian headed for a filing cabinet.

  In the first drawer he discovered enough telling documents to piece together with certainty that the Priceless Princess was in the marriage brokerage business. In the second drawer, he discovered Kidrick’s marriage contracts.

  All three of them.

  ***

  The morning Clarisse didn’t show up for rehearsal, Rita knew something had changed. The sour expression on Ivan’s face told Rita that rehearsal wasn’t the only thing Clarisse was choosing to ignore.

  “What are we to do?” Phillip asked.

  “I’m sure she’ll return in time for tonight’s performance,” Pierre said.

  Rita thought Ivan didn’t look so sure. He clapped and asked them to take their places. Clarisse’s absence left a gaping hole.

  Just then the back door opened, letting in a breath of morning air and a flash of daylight. Clarisse seemed to float up to the stage. “So sorry I’m late! Whew! What a night!”

  “Where have you been?” Pierre asked.

  “That is none of your concern!” Clarisse twirled on the stage, her skirts fanning around her. “I’m here now, and that is all that matters.”

  Pierre placed his hands on his hips. “It most certainly is not! We are family. We depend on each other. We are each an important cog in this production company’s machine.”

  “Well maybe I don’t want to be a piece of machinery anymore.”

  Everyone on the stage took a collective gasp.

  Phillip’s voice dropped to a shocked whisper. “What are you saying?”

  Clarisse slowly turned to face Ivan. “My ambitions have changed. I’m thinking of leaving the stage.”

  “Leaving the stage? For what?” Pierre asked.

  Clarisse did her best to look virtuous. “I want a home and a real family.”

  “I just said we are your family.” Pierre practically growled.

  “But a theater is not a home.”

  “It is to some of us,” Pierre said.

  “I’m becoming jaded. I need to rest.”

  Pierre stepped forward, looking as if he wanted to lay Clarisse permanently to rest.

  Rita shot a glance at Ivan, hoping what she was about to say wouldn’t hurt him. “Is there perhaps someone you are looking to rest with?”

  Clarisse sniffed and looked at the ceiling. “Let’s say that I’m hoping to make Salt Lake City my home.”

  “With the Mormons?” Phillip’s voice squeaked.

  Clarisse stuck out her lower lip. “Not everyone here is Mormon.”

  A thought crossed Rita’s mind. “Have you met the Jones family?”

  The way Clarisse’s eyes slid to the left gave Rita her answer. She moved toward Clarisse. “You can’t possibly know well whoever it is that is promising you a leading role in his life. We have only been in Salt Lake for ten days.”

  Clarisse smoothed down her dress. “Sometimes you just know.”

  “You just know what?” Rita asked.

  “Sometimes all it takes is one glance.”

  Ivan stepped forward. “But I take it since you have been gone all night that you have been exchanging more than glances.”

  “Are we going to rehearse?” Clarisse asked. “Because if not, I would like to lie down. I’m tired.”

  “You’re tired?” Pierre said. “We’re tired! Of you!”

  Ivan pounded his cane on the stage. “Clarisse—you are now Glenda. Rita, you will be Cordelia.”

  Rita knew she should be happy, but she wasn’t. Worse, it bothered her that she couldn’t say why.

  Clarisse didn’t look even a little disappointed in her demotion from star to grandma. Rita resolved to speak to Clarisse alone.

  As soon as she learned her new lines.

  ****

  Hours after Rita had retired to bed, Clarisse slipped into the room, softly closing the door behind her. Rita open one eye and pulled the comforter close as realization swept through her. Now that Clarisse had announced her engagement to Lewiston Jones, not even she could expect to continue to share Ivan’s bed.

  Which left…

  Clarisse unbuttoned her gown, stepped out of it and left it in a puddle on the floor. “Scoot over.”

  At the Smythes, Christian had never asked her to scoot over, even though he was twice Clarisse’s size. He simply stretched out beside her—a comforting warmth smelling of leather and soap. She wondered where he was sleeping now. She had not been to the room he had rented near Salt Lake City’s State Street.

  While Clarisse punched her pillow and confiscated the comforter, Rita stared at the ceiling, knowing she had to say something. Although she didn’t love Clarisse, she hated the thought of the girl becoming an early widow in this nowhere desert—her beauty and talent withering beneath the hot Utah sun. The feather ticking settled around Clarisse, accommodating her in a way that Rita could not.

  “Clarisse, I can’t let you marry Lewiston Jones without telling you about his family.” Rita spoke to the ceiling, not looking to gauge Clarisse’s reaction to her words. She decided it did not matter how Clarisse responded—as long as Rita said her piece, then she could sleep with a guilt-free conscience. Even knowing that Clarisse would greet anything Rita said with hostility and disdain.

  “Oh, but I have met his family.” Clarisse surprised her by talking in an almost, but not quite, friendly tone. “They’re wonderful. They treat me like—,” she paused, “someone special. They called me talented.”

  “But you are talented.” Rita pushed up onto one elbow.

  “So many people don’t see that. They equate actress with…with whore.”

  Rita thought back to the countless nights she’d had to keep a pillow over her head to drown out the sounds of Clarisse and Ivan’s lovemaking seeping through the theater’s paper-thin walls. She bit her lip, but curiosity and concern won. “What about Ivan? He’s always treated you like a celebrity.”

  Clarisse snorted.

  “He is a nice man!”

  “He will be lovely until a younger and prettier actress walks across the stage. I know men like him. Actresses are like horses. A sleeker filly is always able to replace the nag in the stable.”

  Rita thought about this, suddenly seeing her future in a new light. She had years to go before her beauty faded, but eventually it would. What then?

  “You must have thought about this every time you looked at your friend Matilda.” Clarisse rolled onto her side so she faced Rita. “Don’t tell me you thought you would be dancing and singing on the stage until the day you die.” She laughed, and it sounded crue
l. “Believe me, no one wants to see a gray-haired, saggy-breasted hag prancing about.”

  Rita didn’t want to think, let alone talk, about a future beyond the theater. “Do you know about the feud between the Jones and Smythe families?”

  Clarisse lifted an indifferent shoulder.

  “That does not concern you?”

  “Every family has its own measure of drama.”

  “I do not believe you will speak so lightly when it is your own husband or son the Smythes are shooting at.”

  “Lucky thing that I do not intend to have a son…or a daughter.”

  “Does Lewiston know that?”

  “Oh, fiddle! Who wants to think so far into the future? Neither you nor I has a crystal ball.”

  Which seemed a remarkably silly thing to say when two breaths ago Clarisse had spoken of gray hair and saggy breasts.

  Rita took a deep breath, remembering why she disliked Clarisse.

  “How can you not be happy?” Clarisse asked. “This is the answer to all our problems.”

  “I did not know we had problems,” Rita said. “And I think Phillip sees playing Glenda as problematic. He’s much too tall to be a grandmother.”

  “Stuff and bother. He’ll have to hunch.”

  “No one likes hunching, and everyone loves you. Please don’t abandon us.”

  “You should not be the one complaining. Without me in your way, you can have the leading role—at least for a few more years.” And with that parting thought, Clarisse rolled over and feigned sleep.

  ***

  “You cannot share my rooms at the inn.”

  “Why ever not?” Miss Ryan tucked her hand through the crook of Christian’s arm as they crossed the wide and dusty street of North Temple.

  “For one thing, it is unseemly.” He placed his hand over hers and patted it.

  “Oh bother. Who cares?” She dropped his arm when they reached the boardwalk.

  It seemed like they had this particular conversation far too often. In terms of predictability, they were practically like a married couple. This thought almost made him chuckle, but instead he spoke seriously. “I care. I care a great deal.”

  “It would not be the first time we shared a bed.”

  Christian swallowed and pushed away the temptation Miss Ryan so willingly handed him. Memories of lying beside her in the moonlight flooded him, resisting all of his efforts to push them to the hindermost corners of his mind.

  “I will not share your bed again until we are wed.” His voice sounded strangled in his own ears, and his words surprised him. He certainly had no intention of marrying any time soon, but now that the words had been spoken, now that he had a visual of Miss Ryan carrying his child, he could think of nothing else.

  Miss Ryan’s laughter dispelled the imagery. “Did you not see the shocked expression on that lady’s face?” She looked over her shoulder at a pair of elderly women dressed in drab brown and gray hurrying away from them, as if their immorality were contagious. He hadn’t even noticed them because he had been so preoccupied with thoughts of Miss Ryan and his unborn children. “Our conversation must have shocked them.”

  “As well it should.”

  “Stuff and bother. Who knew you would turn out to be such a prude?” She stopped at the foot of a hill. “Your talk of marriage was in jest, but my desire to share your lodgings is serious.”

  “And yet they are dependent upon each other.” He had managed to recapture his light mocking tone despite the longing sweeping through him.

  Did she know what she asked of him? Did she really not understand the supreme self-restraint it took to lie beside her without even sharing a kiss? He increased his pace.

  Miss Ryan skipped to match his steps. “We are not climbing this hill.”

  “I am. You are welcome to return to the theater.”

  Her steps slowed. “I didn’t mean to offend you.” She swallowed hard. “I did not mean to shock your sensibilities. You must know I—”

  He chuckled. “I’m not offended. Indeed, I’m flattered that you would wish to share my bed.”

  She turned a pretty pink. “Pray, don’t misunderstand—”

  He interrupted her embarrassment. “I understand that I am a preferable bed partner to Clarisse, and, as I said, I’m deeply flattered. A great deal of men would happily take my place and take you up on your offer.” He strode up the hill and she skipped beside him to keep up.

  “Huffing up this hill is not your way of being rid of me?”

  “No, I’m ever grateful for your company. If this hill is causing you discomfort then let me signal for a carriage.”

  Miss Ryan paused and studied the hill. “Is there a purpose for our climb? Because if not, let’s walk to the lake.”

  He laughed and continued on. “We cannot walk to the lake! It is miles away.”

  She sighed. “Then I don’t understand the name choice. Why not call this place Mountainside or Goatlandia?” After a few steps in silence, she said, “You still haven’t told me our destination.”

  Christian checked the street sign. “They call this the Avenues. It’s pretty, isn’t?”

  Miss Ryan twisted her lips. “Not as pretty as Seattle or Portland, but at least it is not raining.”

  “It rains quite a bit in Paris. And London.”

  “It will not bother me one bit. I will remain perfectly dry on the stage.”

  Christian stopped in front of a house with a wide front porch. He stared into the windows, wondering what he had thought he would find. Even if he caught sight of the lady of the house, he sincerely doubted she would wear a badge stating her name and rank.

  The front door burst open, and a miniature Kidrick flew down the steps. A tiny female Kidrick followed close behind.

  Miss Ryan stared, her red lips forming a lovely O. After a moment she turned to him and placed her hands on her hips. “Do you know this family?”

  Christian shook his head, wishing he could somehow document these children, capture a likeness or perhaps kidnap them. Of course, paternity was not a crime, although bigamy was—even in the lawless Utah Territory.

  The little female Kidrick chased her brother to a tree and grabbed the back of his britches as he tried to shimmy up and away.

  “Pardon me,” Christian called to them. “Is your father at home?” What would he do if the answer was yes? “Or your mother?”

  The girl tugged on her brother’s britches, and he tumbled on top of her. Arms and legs flailed until the boy successfully scrambled off his sister and took off toward the back of the house. The girl watched her brother’s escape then turned her frown on Christian. Her expression softened to awe when she caught sight of Miss Ryan.

  Christian smiled. He loved how Miss Ryan was completely oblivious to the effect her beauty had on others.

  “Me ma is at the store, and me dad’s away.” The girl stepped closer to the fence, as if tangled in a string.

  Christian glanced at Miss Ryan, trying to read her face. Did she recognize these children?

  “Your brother—” Miss Ryan pointed at a rose trellis scaling the wall and the little boy clinging for his life about seven feet off the ground.

  “Boris Leon Kidrick!” his sister called as she raced to the trellis, grabbed it and shook it. Rose petals showered around her, but the brother held tight.

  “Oh dear!” Miss Ryan gasped, and Christian didn’t know if she was worried about the child’s safety or his parentage.

  Christian unlatched the white picket gate and tramped across the yard. Reaching up, he grabbed little Boris’s leg and managed to pluck him off the trellis. The boy kicked and squirmed, but Christian held him at arm’s length.

  The problem was that now that Christian had rescued little Boris, he wasn’t sure what to do with the boy. It seemed unlikely that the girl would have a cage for him and even more unlikely that the child would stay put if placed on the ground.

  “Thank ye, sir.” The girl dropped a curtsey, touching Christian’s
heart. What sort of life would these two have?

  “What shall I do now?” Christian asked of her—and the question seemed relevant on so many levels.

  “Put him down, sir.”

  The boy’s feet whirled like an eggbeater even before touching the ground.

  “He’ll get away,” Christian told her, letting the child hover a foot above the earth.

  The girl nodded so Christian rotated and lifted little Boris to look the boy in the eye. “Listen here, lad, if your father is away, you need to man up. Your mother and sister need your protection.”

  Boris stared at him wide-eyed and stopped kicking.

  “With your father gone, you are the man of the house,” Christian told him.

  “No he’s not!” his sister protested. “He’s only four. He still wears nappies!”

  “Do not!” The boy spoke for the first time.

  “Do so! I should know, seeing as how I have to change them!”

  Tears welled in the boy’s eyes and embarrassment flushed his round cheeks. Christian’s heart swelled in compassion. “Well, then, first thing first. Time to abandon the nappies and set about protecting your sister and ma. You know how to do that, right? You have to listen to everything they say, stay close by and protect them from villains.”

  “Villains?”

  “And bandits and marauders.” Christian looked up and down the street. “All is well for the moment, but I would think that you should go inside with your sister, where it is safe.”

  Pleased with himself, Christian placed Boris on the ground only to be rewarded with a kick in the shins.

  “Hey!” he complained, stooping to rub his leg.

  “How do I know you aren’t a villain?” Boris demanded as he grabbed his sister’s hand and tore up the wide porch steps.

  Miss Ryan laughed. “Bandits? Marauders?” She watched the children scurry into the house. The door slammed behind them, and the lock clicked. “Bandits and marauders are not nearly as scary as the thought of Boris Kidrick reproducing.”