Rewriting Rita

by Kristy Tate

  Christian took her arm and steered her away. “Come, let’s hurry. If we are not careful we shall run into Kidrick himself.”

  Miss Ryan seemed to find the hill’s descent much easier than the climb, but she stopped at the corner of E Street and 9th and faced Christian. “How did you know about the Kidrick family?”

  He scowled trying to frame a story that would somehow shield her from anything unpleasant…like Kidrick. After a moment he resumed walking, filling her in on his midnight visit to the Priceless Princess and leaving her to worry about Kidrick’s other wives and children.

  Now that he’d given her something else to fret about, he could at least distract her. “Listen,” he said as if he’d just had a grand thought. “I want something of you.”

  She raised her eyebrows at him. Really, she was too naive for her own good.

  He continued. “Accompany me tonight to an outdoor play in Liberty Park?”

  “Of course!”

  “Good. If you can procure a blanket from the prop room, I will purchase a basket of food.”

  “A picnic?”

  He nodded.

  “Let’s go now!”

  He shook his head. “It’s several hours until the show starts.”

  “But we can still go to the park.”

  Again, he shook his head. He didn’t want to tell her that he had news to share with Mrs. Kidrick.

  ***

  Rita spread the blanket on the lawn and settled the basket in the center. “How did the Mrs. Kidrick of Salt Lake City receive the news of her husband’s bigamy?”

  “Shh! The show is about to start.” Christian sat beside her and lifted an apple from the basket. He offered it to her.

  “You cannot buy me off with food! I know you went back to speak to Mrs. Kidrick.”

  He chuckled. “How could you possibly know that?”

  “Well, if not, then where were you all afternoon?”

  “Just because I wasn’t with you does not mean that I was with one of the three Mrs. Kidricks.”

  A man in a red and white striped shirt circled the outdoor stage with a burning torch. Even from a distance Rita could smell his kerosene-dipped rag. The man lit the lights. The band, seated to the right of the makeshift stage, raised their instrument as the actors stepped out.

  Rita glanced at Christian from under her lashes to see if he also noticed the goosebumps on the actors’ arms. Perhaps there’s such a thing as sitting too close, she thought. Close enough to the band to see spit flying around the brass section, close enough to see the actors’ makeup melting beneath the hot stage lights, close enough to lose a smidge of magic.

  Rita looked back at Christian, wondering if he too had seen more than the illusion, but he had his attention fixed on the right-hand wing. What did he see in the shadowy dark?

  The stage lights faded the moon and stars to weak versions of their normal brilliance. Rita wrapped her arms around her chest, shivering, reprimanding herself for not fully immersing herself in and appreciating the—as the program so humbly put it—“provocative, playful, and inspired summer artistry.”

  Christian took her hand. He felt warm, and she melted toward him. He had his gaze on the stage, but one leg twitched. He caught her watching, and he smiled and looked back at the stage but not before another quick glance at the wing.

  Rita dropped her gaze to her lap to read the program, and then she surreptitiously watched the wing as well but saw nothing but a wooden staircase and a tall hedge shielding backstage. Then the hedge rustled, and a shadow appeared.

  She squeezed Christian’s hand, wanting to ask if he knew to whom the shadow belonged.

  Christian used his finger to turn her chin so that she faced him. “Shh,” he said, his face close to hers. “You’re distracting me.” Then he kissed her so deeply that she had to reconsider her theory. There really wasn’t such a thing as being too close.

  She wanted to ask him why he’d kissed her and if he planned on doing it again, and if not—why not? Why not now? Of course, it was terribly shocking to kiss in public—even at an outdoor performance—but Rita didn’t mind attracting a little attention. Especially not Christian’s attention.

  Had he kissed her to distract her from something or someone? Throughout the production, she kept glancing at him, but he studiously avoided her gaze. Finally, the music ended, and the performers took their bows. Rita stood, but Christian pulled her back down to the blanket, lying on top of her and shielding her body with his, which was more or less what she had wanted, but still shocking.

  A gunshot ripped through the night, and several women screamed. Chaos reigned as men pushed and jostled. Rita tried to peek over Christian’s shoulder, searching the hedge for shadows and guns. Kissing would now be out of the question.

  “What happened?” She gasped, struggling for air beneath Christian’s weight. “Was anyone hurt? What has become of the gunman?”

  “Tad Smythe,” Christian whispered in her ear as he sat up, taking her with him and holding her pinned to his side. “I believe he is getting away.”

  Rita then knew why one scream in particular sounded familiar.

  Clarisse.

  Rita disentangled herself from Christian’s arms and scrambled through the milling crowd as quickly as she could, holding her skirts high and stepping around the dazed and frightened people.

  Lewiston lay on a patchwork quilt, his blood a tide of red. Clarisse knelt beside him, wailing in her high soprano.

  “Make way, I’m a doctor.” A small portly man dressed in a black coat and carrying a leather satchel knelt beside Lewiston and placed his fingers on his throat. “He still lives. Everyone step aside.”

  Rita knelt beside Clarisse and gathered her into her arms. Clarisse lay her head on Rita’s shoulder and sobbed while Rita patted her back and murmured comforting lies, hoping that her assurances could possibly be true. She angled away so that Clarisse couldn’t see the gray overtaking Lewiston’s cheeks as his life drained away. Rita listened to Lewiston’s ragged breaths and prayed that the doctor could stem the inevitable.

  But moments later the little man shook his head. “He’s gone,” the doctor said.

  Clarisse slumped in Rita’s arms, and Christian caught them both before Rita collapsed under Clarisse’s weight.

  “Take her,” Rita whispered to Christian, and he obediently scooped the inert Clarisse into his arms. “Can you carry her to the theater?”

  “We must call a carriage.”

  Rita looked at the crowd surging around them. “I don’t think that will be an option.”

  “Then let’s sit until we can all walk.” Christian, carrying Clarisse like a sleeping child, made his way to a park bench and settled Clarisse in his lap.

  “I am glad we are leaving Salt Lake tomorrow. I don’t think I could possibly stay another day.” Rita sat beside him, shivering in the night air despite the hot wind whistling through the trees.

  “Are you chilled?” Christian asked.

  “No, not really.” Rita glanced at Clarisse, wondering when she would wake. “I wonder if she is cold.” Rita glanced over her shoulder at Lewiston on the bloodied quilt.

  The doctor folded Lewiston’s arms across his chest and pulled the quilt around him, fashioning a carryall. “I wonder who will inform his family.”

  “What a shame,” Christian murmured.

  “So senseless.”

  “You are not French, after all,” Clarisse said, opening her eyes.

  Shell Falls

  Addison stood at the stovetop, spatula in hand, while Landon looked over her shoulder. “You have to flip it when the edges are golden,” she told him. “You can’t wait too long or else it gets rubbery. And, of course, you have to eat it when it’s still warm.”

  “I didn’t know crepe making was such an art,” Landon said, his breath warm on the back of her neck.

  “Well, it’s not like novel writing, but there are towns where crepe making is a competitive sport.”

 
“Sport?”

  “Maybe sport is the wrong word.”

  “You mean it’s like a pie contest.”

  Addison scrunched her nose. “That sounds too hillbilly. No, in the Loire Valley where my ancestors are from there’s an annual crepe-building competition.”

  “Crepe building? Not making?”

  “No, you build crepes, you don’t make them.”

  “Huh, and I thought all you needed was a little Bisquick.”

  Addison placed her spatula on her chest. “I’m wounded. And my great grandmother, Eloise De La Mar, longtime winner of the Bay of Biscay crepe-building competition, is probably spitting on you right now.”

  Landon looked up at the ceiling. “I’m not feeling it.”

  “Well, of course not, she’s a ghost. She only has ghost spit.”

  “That’s very sad.”

  “Yes, and this isn’t meant to be a sad occasion. We’re celebrating!”

  “What are we celebrating?” Landon inched closer, a thing Addison hadn’t thought possible. Heat rolled off him. Or maybe it came from the stove. Probably both, she decided.

  “My win, of course.”

  “Of course.” He placed his hands on her waist and drew her against him.

  The crepe’s edges turned golden brown, but she decided she didn’t care. What did it matter if the crepe turned rubbery? Why should she care about her great grandmother’s ghost when there was a warm man leaning in for a kiss?

  A barking ruckus accompanied knocking on the front door.

  Landon’s lips hovered above her own like a question she desperately wanted to answer. “Are you expecting anyone?”

  She shook her head. “Let’s ignore them and maybe they’ll go away.” Placing her hand in his hair, she guided him to her lips.

  He tasted like home.

  A rapping on her living room window froze her.

  “Yoohoo. Addison?”

  Addison rolled her eyes, groaned, and stepped away from Landon. “It’s my mother-in-law. I have to talk to her.”

  He didn’t answer, but lifted an eyebrow.

  She placed her hand on his chest. “It shouldn’t take long. We haven’t really spoken since the funeral, and I’m trying…” She paused, unwilling to confide in him about her forgiveness goal. Patting his chest, she said, “This can wait, right?”

  “Sure.” He took the spatula from her hand. “But this crepe can’t.”

  “You rescue the crepe, I’ll go and talk to Maureen.” She pulled off her apron and checked her hair in the hallway mirror. “I’ll be right back,” she told him over her shoulder.

  Maureen had aged in the two years since Paul’s death, as had Mitzi, the Pomeranian on a sparkly pink leash at her feet. The tiny dog bared her teeth at Addison.

  “Maureen, what a surprise.”

  Maureen gave her a halfhearted smile and leaned in for a hug. “I came by to say thank you for thinking of me on my birthday.”

  “You’re welcome. I felt badly about how… I know I should have done a better job of keeping in touch.”

  “Yes, well…the incident at the funeral was so very awkward.” She motioned to the living room. “Do you mind if I come in?”

  “Now?” Her voice cracked. “It’s not a great time…”

  Maureen stood on her tiptoes to gaze over Addison’s shoulder. Addison cast a quick look at the kitchen, praying Landon would stay out of sight. Not that she was ashamed of him. After all, it had been two years since Paul’s death. And besides, Paul hadn’t waited at all to start dating. He’d started long before the marriage died. But she didn’t want to have that conversation, again, with Maureen.

  “I’ve actually come by to ask a favor,” Maureen said.

  “Really?”

  Maureen lifted her chin. “I’m going on a cruise and Mitzi would like to stay with family.”

  Addison and Mitzi locked gazes. The dog’s lips curled in a sneer. Addison thought about pointing out that Mitzi didn’t like her, but decided against it.

  “Also, Margaret told me you are thinking of remodeling.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “May I suggest you hire Nick for the job?”

  “Oh…Margaret and I talked about that, but it’s still more of an idea than a job.”

  “But you are thinking of it, yes?”

  “Yes, but…”

  “Well, then you can think of Nick.”

  “Of course, but I need to get permits and estimates—”

  “A good contractor can walk you through all of that and Nick is a good contractor.” She stepped forward and lowered her voice. “You must know that they are living with me now, scrimping and saving until they can afford their own place. Really, you would be doing all of us a favor.”

  “And Mitzi, too.”

  Maureen waved her hand. “Mitzi has nothing to do with anything. I’m going on a cruise and dogs aren’t allowed on the ship. I can’t leave her with just anyone.”

  “Yes, but…”

  “I’ll be gone for ten days.”

  “But wouldn’t she be happier at home with Margaret?”

  “They both work. Mitzi would be left by herself for hours and hours. That makes her cranky and naughty. I know she would enjoy hanging out in the bookstore with you.”

  That, of course, could never happen. Besides, Addison was bordering on cranky and naughty herself. The sooner Maureen left, the sooner Addison could get back to Landon. “Can we talk about this tomorrow?”

  “Of course. I know this is a lot to spring on you, but honestly, I’m doing you a favor by lending you Mitzi. It’s not safe for you to be living here by yourself.” She peered over Addison’s shoulder again. “You are alone?”

  Addison followed Maureen’s gaze into the yellow living room with the creamy white sofas and red and white checked pillows. She still used the pine furniture her grandfather had made and her grandfather had painted the ocean and pastoral scenes hanging on the walls. The soft sounds of jazz floated from the kitchen. “I live alone,” Addison said.

  “And I want that, too,” Maureen said in a hard voice. “I’ll come by tomorrow and bring Nick with me so he can get a feel for your remodeling job.”

  “When’s your cruise?”

  “In a couple of weeks. I know that taking care of a dog is a lot of responsibility, but you needn’t be worried. You and Mitzi have always gotten along.”

  The dog curled her lips when she met Addison’s gaze.

  After another brief hug, Maureen and Mitzi left.

  “You shouldn’t let her railroad you,” Landon said as he emerged from the kitchen.

  Addison swallowed. “I don’t know why I let her push me around…”

  “Did she behave that way with your husband?”

  “She behaves that way with everyone,” Addison muttered as she went back into the kitchen.

  Steaming crepes sat on the table. “These are chicken and mushroom,” Landon said.

  Using his spatula, he pointed at the still-flat crepe collection on the counter. “I made those for dessert. I hope you don’t mind, but I looked in your fridge and found some cream cheese, a chocolate bar, and raspberries.”

  “That sounds like heaven, but this is not how this night is supposed to go.”

  “No? What do you mean?”

  “I’m supposed to be making you dinner, not the other way around.”

  “Ha, well, I can think of fair compensation,” he said as he took her in his arms. After a long, slow kiss that made her legs weak and her heart race, he said, “That was definitely worth a few crepes.” He kissed her again. “What do you think your Great-Grandmother Eloise is thinking now?”

  “Ooh la la,” she said with a laugh. She gave a halfhearted glance at the contract templates stacked on the table and promised herself she’d think about business tomorrow.

  Chapter 7

  19 years of age, beautiful girl, medium height, fair, blue eyes, exquisite and well-defined features, amiable disposition, and tale
nted, would make a loving wife, desires to correspond with a young gentleman aged about 23 of medium height, not stout, brown hair and moustache, must have a knowledge of foreign languages. Money no object.

  Matrimonial News, January 8, 1887

  After innumerable days of hot, sweaty travel on the train, they finally reached Kansas City. The big blue sky lay open before them, uninterrupted by the Utah Rocky Mountains or Seattle’s endless army of pine trees. Christian found the flat landscape endless and dull.

  “Pourquoi sommes-nous venus ici?” Miss Ryan asked as he commandeered her trunk and rolled it off the platform. They still spoke French, as the more subdued Clarisse had surprised them by keeping their secret.

  Christian looked around, wondering who in the busy train station might also speak French. “We’re here because we have to warn the other Mrs. Kidrick,” he said in a low voice.

  “Why not send her a letter?”

  “And what if it’s intercepted by her dear husband?” But the fact was that, although Christian had detoured the troupe hundreds of miles for his own purposes, he really didn’t know what he hoped to accomplish by calling on and assessing the Kansas City Mrs. Kidrick.

  Nor did he know how to answer Miss Ryan’s question. He couldn’t very well say, the closer we get to New York, the closer I am to losing you forever, so he said nothing.

  Miss Ryan put her hands on her hips and frowned at him. He loved it when she looked like a bird with her feathers ruffled. He also loved her when her feathers were smooth.

  “Well, this time you must take me with you.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  She stopped on the train platform while porters bearing trunks and travelers carrying satchels pushed around them. “Why not?”

  “Why would you wish to go?”

  Miss Ryan scowled and searched for an answer.

  “Come, let’s find the theater.” Christian shouldered the trunk and stepped down the stairs. Miss Ryan tagged after him.

  “I do not think I like it here,” Miss Ryan said as they settled into a carriage. “The heat is oppressive.”

  “It is only for a few days.”