Rewriting Rita

by Kristy Tate

  Addison turned and ran outside. Standing on the porch, she sucked in a deep breath. The night air carried a hint of rain and wispy clouds shrouded the moon.

  “Where did you find the manuscript really?” Landon said.

  She hadn’t heard him come out, but she wasn’t surprised to find him standing behind her. She didn’t turn around. “I told you what happened. I was sitting on a park bench and a little old lady gave me the satchel and the manuscript.”

  “This little old lady with a grandson Landon and a sister Erma.”

  Addison nodded. “I know it sounds unlikely.”

  He touched her arm, turning her to look at him. “And you say this happened on April fourth.”

  She nodded.

  “And my grandmother died in March.” He studied her. “Could you have gotten the dates wrong?”

  “You were there. We met at the whale watching expedition the day after she gave me the manuscript.”

  Landon looked at the sky. “Is this some sort of sick joke?” He returned his gaze to hers. “My grandmother is dead,” he said in a strained voice.

  “I’m not lying… I’m just telling you what happened.”

  He shook his head. “I’m sorry…this is too…strange.”

  “I could lie, make up some story, but I’m telling you, this is what happened.”

  He stared into her face for a moment, before turning away.

  It hurt that he considered her dishonest. It stung—just like she had probably hurt James. Had it hurt Paul? How about LeAnn? But they were dishonest. They deserved to hurt…at least as badly as they had hurt her. But hurt was hurt and pain was pain. Even if it was self-inflicted, the moral compass would still prick and sting.

  #

  After a sleepless night, Addison set her plan in motion by the next morning. She called the McBains and asked them if they wanted to buy her house. They did and they knew a broker who could make it happen. She put Nick in charge of the renovation of the garage and told him she’d be back when it was finished. Then she packed her clothes and her laptop, and told Ginny goodbye.

  Ginny, a master with a mop, had cleaned up after the disastrous party. The only traces of the previous night’s debacle were the stacks of books behind the piano.

  “But I don’t understand,” Ginny said. “Why are you running away?”

  “I’m not running away… For the first time in my life, I feel like I’m running toward something…something I want. I’ve always wanted to write a book. Geneva—or whoever she was—handed me a perfect outline. I’ll rewrite it, give it punchier, wittier dialogue, and a happy ending. I think it’s what she would have wanted.”

  “You better find her and make sure she doesn’t reappear and sue you for plagiarism.”

  “I’ll look for her…somehow…but I don’t think I’ll find her.”

  Ginny dropped her voice to a whisper. “Do you think she was a ghost?”

  “It’s more likely she had somehow stolen the manuscript from Geneva, right? And now that Landon’s grandmother was dead, she could publish it?”

  “You don’t believe that.”

  “I don’t know what to believe.”

  Ginny sucked in a deep breath. “But why do you have to leave? Why not stay here?”

  “I want to go away for a while…and I can afford it.” She was tired of looking at her finances squint-eyed, as if every dollar were going to be her last. The reality was she had plenty of money. And yes, she spent more money than she earned, but between the life insurance policy and the equity in her house she had enough money to last her a lifetime. “This will be better.”

  “I wonder if Landon thinks so,” Ginny said.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Addison said. “He and his Aunt Erma probably think I’m a liar anyway.” His bad opinion of her stung, and she realized how painful it must have been for LeAnn to not only lose the man she loved, but to also be called a liar. “I want to do something.”

  Ginny looked pained. “Aren’t you doing enough already?”

  “I want to give half the equity in my house to LeAnn’s child.”

  Ginny bounced off the sofa, balled her hands into fists and planted them on her hips. “Now I know you’re crazy!”

  “Don’t you think Paul would have wanted his share to go to his child?”

  “Who cares what Paul thinks? He doesn’t get a vote!”

  “I’ll have to think about it. Find out how to set up a trust, or something.”

  Ginny slid her a glance. “I know an attorney who could help you with that.”

  Addison shrugged. “I’m not going to think about Landon right now. I can’t.” She gave Ginny a final hug. “I’ll see you in a couple of months when I’ve finished the rewrite.”

  Addison had a couple of stops to make before leaving California. They were both emotionally difficult and she didn’t know which she feared more. Logic told her that she owed LeAnn and Lincoln nothing. And yet the analogy of the bunched-up seam kept replaying in her mind, letting her know that somehow, someway, she had to start over. Not for them, but for herself. She gathered a small collection of Paul’s things—athletic trophies, photographs, anything that she thought his son would appreciate.

  When she pulled up in front of LeAnn’s house, she breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the dark, vacant windows. She pulled out the card she’d brought.

  “Dear LeAnn,

  I hope all is well with you and your son. How I wish your child could have known Paul! I also grew up without a father and I know the hole that can leave in a child’s heart. To ease that loss, I’ve collected a few things of Paul’s that I thought your son might appreciate when he’s older. I wish I could do more. I spoke with Maureen, Paul’s mother, and while she’s not yet ready for a relationship with your son, in time her heart may soften and she may long to know and love your son. I hope so. We all need as much love as we can find.

  May your life be filled with love and laughter,

  Addison”

  After propping up the note, she left the box on the doorstep beside a collection of balls and a scooter.

  Her next stop was Landon’s. She had a note prepared for him as well. Since it was a Tuesday midmorning, she thought for sure he’d be at work. She was wrong.

  After double checking the address, she parked her Honda in front of a 1930s white brick Cape Cod style home on a tree-lined street. His Lexus stood inside the open garage. Could he have two cars? Maybe he could walk to work… While she hesitated at the curb, trying to come up with other explanations for why his car would be home while he was at work, Landon stepped out the side door, briefcase in hand, heading for the detached garage.

  She could duck in her car and pray he didn’t notice her, drive around the block until he left, or do what she needed to do—say what she’d come to say.

  After straightening her shoulders and sucking in a deep breath, she picked up the antique key and climbed out of her car.

  Landon paused when he saw her, the surprise on his face fading behind an unreadable mask.

  “Hey,” she said. “I didn’t think you’d be home.” She hurried across the wide lawn.

  “Normally I’m not, but I’ve got a deposition in Oak Grove so…”

  He had to be wondering what she was doing here. “I wanted to give you this.” She held out the key.

  “What is it?”

  “It was in the satchel.”

  When he opened his mouth to protest, she held up her hand, stopping him. “I know the woman who gave me the manuscript couldn’t have been your grandmother, but according to your Aunt Erma, Rita was your grandmother’s story.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” Landon said. “It could be that someone else, maybe a fan of my grandmother, wrote that story and just put Geneva’s name on it.”

  Addison shrugged. “Maybe that’s what happened. Who knows?”

  Landon smiled. “Want to talk about it over dinner?”

  Addison shook her head. “I’m leavi
ng town for a while.”

  He looked as if she’d slapped him. “For how long?”

  “I’m not sure.” She pressed the key into his hand.

  Landon studied the ornate key. “Do you know what it belongs to?”

  “Christian mentions it in the story. He said Rita had his gold, but the thing of most value was the key.”

  His lips twitched. “And you think this is the key?”

  She shrugged. “All I know is I have a satchel, a manuscript, and a key. You may or may not have a lot of your grandmother’s things—including a lock that may or may not fit that key.”

  He glanced at his watch. “I have to go.”

  “So do I.”

  “Really? Are you sure? My Aunt Erma is living in my grandmother’s house, and we could go over there—”

  Addison shuddered. “I’d rather not.”

  He gave her a lopsided grin. “Okay. I get it.” He took her hands and kissed her cheek.

  “Bye,” she said.

  “Bye for now,” he said.

  #

  The Sophia Hotel sat high on a bluff overlooking the southern Oregon Coast. According to the brochure, the hotel had once belonged to a sea captain and had been renovated into a hotel shortly after the First World War. Weather had turned the wood siding to a mellow gray, but the white trim and cherry red door looked fresh and welcoming. The best part of the stay was it lacked technology of any sort. No cell service. No TV. No internet. The dining room served breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Addison had nothing to do and nothing to worry about.

  She just wrote.

  And when she got to the part where Christian died, she resurrected him.

  ****

  Christian woke with a thundering head and a pounding heart. Even before he lifted his heavy eyelids, he sensed he wasn’t alone. Someone close rode a rocking chair. The movement stirred the air and a creak of wood kept time. He took a deep breath and pain shot through him. Every body part screamed in agony—his eyes, his fingers, even his teeth—and yet a surge of gratitude swept over him as he realized he was still alive.

  “Reckon ‘bout time you woke up,” a raspy voice said.

  Christian turned his head to see an ancient woman reclining in the chair, her feet keeping the rocker in motion. She wore layers of calico rags, a pair of sturdy leather boots and a knitted shawl around her shoulders.

  “Not that it ain’t been entertaining to listen to your jabbering.” She smiled and exposed surprising crystal-white teeth—so incongruent against her weathered brown skin and almost gray lips.

  Christian struggled to sit up, but a wave of pain kept him down. He surrendered to his fatigue, lay back against the straw mattress and pillow and asked, “Where am I?”

  “Dead End, Pennsylvania.”

  That made perfect sense to Christian. If he couldn’t die, of course he would end up in Dead End. “How did I get here?” His last memories consisted of rushing wind and a rapidly approaching riverbed. He had thought he would die in the canyon—which obviously hadn’t happened—but how had this tiny creature rescued him? He rolled her way so he could get a better look. With thin gray hair scraped back into a bun, and fingers like bird claws, she appeared as strong as a brittle twig. She held a large carving knife and was using it to whittle a cane of some sort.

  She chuckled. “You be mistaken if you thinking you’re asking all the questions. I’ve done got a quiver full of my own.”

  Christian closed his eyes. No matter how fragile she looked, she had two weapons—a knife and a cane—and Christian had nothing, not even the strength to keep his eyes open. “What do you want to know?”

  “First off, you best be telling me about your fella in the canyon.”

  “I don’t have a fella.”

  “I be thinking you look like someone who prefers fillies, but given your…shall I say, compromising position, I had to wonder.”

  Christian had a vague memory of Kidrick grabbing onto him midair. What happened to him?

  “Where is this…fella?”

  The old woman’s eyes shifted away from his gaze. “Well, that there depends. Was he kin or a friend of yours?”

  “Neither. We weren’t friends and thank goodness we weren’t related.”

  She leaned back, satisfied. “Well then, you won’t be too saddened to hear he’s dead.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “You can go and take a gander for yourself, that is assuming the coyotes have left anything other than his boots.”

  Christian shivered. “How long...?”

  “Couple weeks, I reckon.”

  Weeks? He had lost weeks? Then he had to remind himself that he could have lost so much more. He saw his trousers and shirt hanging over a chair by the fire, his gun sitting on the table. His thoughts went back to his gold and how he had given it to Rita… Rita, had she made it to New York? He hoped so. He didn’t want her looking for him. He didn’t want her lost in Dead End. Of course he didn’t. “How did you find me?”

  “Saw you flying through the sky like a pair of crows. Naturally, I had to do some ‘vestigating.”

  “But how did you get me here?” Christian glanced around the wood-framed cabin and realized he occupied the only bed.

  She barked out a laugh. “I got my ways. But remember,” her voice turned hard, “I be asking the questions.”

  He sighed and pulled the comforter up so it covered a smidge more of his bare chest. He tried to imagine this aged thing undressing him and failed.

  “Now you tell me ‘bout the fella in the canyon.”

  When he finished the Kidrick story, the old woman leaned back in her rocker and picked up the knife. The blade skittered across the wood.

  “You see my problem?” Christian concluded.

  “Not yet,” she returned, not looking up. “There’s more to ya than I’m getting.”

  “But—I’m wanted for a triple murder.”

  She waved the knife at him in a dismissive motion. “That’s nothing. I can go to the police and tell ‘em this Kidrick ‘fessed to the murders right before he died. Didn’t want to face heaven with a guilty conscience and all that rot.”

  “You would do that for me?”

  “Course I would.” She lowered the knife and fixed him with a dark-eyed stare. “Depended on what you is doing for me. And, of course, on the rest of your story.”

  ***

  Months later, Rita paused outside the Harlem Opera House. When she had left New York, the building had been little more than a wood frame and a grand idea, but it had grown bigger and more opulent than she had ever imagined. There on the marquee was her name. Not her real name, of course, her stage name…but names in and of themselves meant nothing. It was the person inside that mattered. Here was the culmination of all her dreams. So why wasn’t she happy?

  Because the person that mattered wasn’t with her. Where was Christian? How had he just disappeared? How could she possibly find him?

  Rita pulled her cloak tighter and headed for the bank. She had originally borrowed from Christian’s gold to pay for lodging, food and an appropriate wardrobe, but since the opening of her show she had been slowly and meticulously saving her money so she could repay him. She needed to believe that she would have that opportunity. Her life, at that moment, seemed like one large golden opportunity.

  But it was all empty.

  She felt hollow inside.

  Rita stopped in front of her father’s house. Shock rippled through her. She hadn’t meant to head this way. How had she walked so far? She tugged her hood over her head, concealing her hair, and stared at the stately home in front of her. She had walked to forty-four East Elm without thought. Her eyes traveled to the second-story window. Her father’s office. She pictured him sitting at his big desk.

  She could go in and talk to him. Tell him about the show, how she had been an understudy suddenly elevated to the lead. She wanted her parents to see her perform. Even after all the praise and critical reviews, she still longed for he
r parents’ approval. She wanted them to tell her they loved her not in spite of her work or because of her work, but simply because they did. She turned away, knowing she wanted something she could never have—their love without conditions. Her parents were incapable of giving what she craved.

  She couldn’t tell them about the theater and she wouldn’t walk through those doors. Not now. Maybe not ever. Thinking about her role in the show, she walked to the corner and stopped.

  She needed to leave New York. Just like she needed to step away from her parents, she needed to move far away. But if she left, how would Christian ever find her?

  ***

  Christian’s strength slowly returned. As soon as he was able, he made his bed in the barn, sleeping on the hay under an eiderdown quilt. He tried to repay Nessa by doing chores. He quickly realized that Nessa had her own selfish reasons for nursing him back to health. But he had no access to his money and no means of transportation other than his feet. So he stayed, telling himself that he would leave as soon as he helped Nessa harvest her apples, bundle the hay for the animals and deliver her bottles of boysenberry wine.

  It had been weeks since he had seen another living person, so he nearly dropped the bale of hay in surprise when he found a girl in an apron standing on the cabin’s doorstep. The girl’s mouth fell open when she caught sight of him.

  “Nessa’s not here,” he told the girl as he shouldered the hay bale.

  Her blue eyes widened, and she fumbled in her pocket, dropped a bundle of gold coins on the porch and took off running.

  Nessa laughed when he told her about the girl that evening over a bowl of stew. “These Pennsylvania Dutch are more upright than a piano. Probably scandalized the poor girl—she be thinking we’re living in sin.”

  Christian lowered his spoon. He didn’t know what to say, but after a moment of thought, he came up with, “I really should go. It’s not right for me to stay here.”