Rewriting Rita

by Kristy Tate

  Rita opened her mouth to defend Christian, but her mother stopped her with a raised hand.

  “You are a perfect pair.”

  “I did not break your heart.”

  “You cannot see into a mother’s heart, my dear. I missed you every day.” Her mother laid her hand on Rita’s arm. “Come, let’s put all past pain behind us and sit by the fire. I do so want to hear how you met your Christian.”

  Rita glanced first out the window at the falling snow and then at the fire burning in the parlor’s grate. She had questions for Christian’s parents, but perhaps they could wait until morning. Perhaps her mother could help her find some answers. She decided to tell her everything.

  ***

  Rita woke the next morning when Webster pushed back the drapes and let the morning sun pour into the room. “Good morning, miss.”

  Rita brushed back her curls, sat up and noticed a tray of breakfast food on the nightstand. “Oh that smells heavenly, Webster, thank you, but I haven’t time to eat. I must see Christian.”

  Webster stood at the end of her bed. “That would be unwise, my dear.”

  “Oh no, has he taken a turn for the worse?”

  Webster chuckled. “Unless you can call a reading down from his mother worse, then yes, he is much worse. If you are referring to his health—the doctor says he is on the mend.”

  “The doctor’s here?”

  “He has come and gone.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Nearly noon.”

  “Noon?” Rita’s voice squeaked and she bolted from her bed.

  Webster stepped in front of the door, blocking her exit. “Miss Rita, unless you wish to meet your mother-in-law dishabille, may I suggest I send for Mary?”

  Rita sat down hard on the bed. “My mother-in-law… I mean Christian’s mother is here?”

  “She is closeted with him as we speak. May I send for Mary?”

  Rita took a deep breath, trying to marshal her thoughts. “Yes, of course.”

  As soon as Webster left, she leaned over and snagged a muffin off the tray. No one should meet a mother-in-law, or a future mother-in-law, without some nourishment.

  A knock on the door. “Come in,” Rita said through the crumbs in her mouth.

  It wasn’t Mary, as Rita had expected, but her mother who bustled in. “I’m so glad you are awake. We have much to do.”

  “We do?”

  Her mother settled on the edge of the bed. “First we must plan a reception for you and Christian to be held immediately.”

  “But last night we weren’t even sure if Christian was going to live!”

  Her mother waved her hand in a dismissive motion. “Of course he’ll live! One just has to look at him to see he is too beautiful and young to die.”

  “Beautiful and young people die all the time.”

  “Well, he won’t be one of them.” Her mother held up her fingers and began to tick off her to-do list. “So, first the reception. Neither you nor Christian are to leave the house until then.”

  Resentment at her mother’s controlling ways boiled in Rita’s chest, but her mother continued. “It’s for your safety, and of course for the health of your baby.”

  “There is no baby!”

  Her mother leaned forward and clapped Rita’s shoulders with both hands. “Hush! Mrs. Roberts thinks that there is and if there isn’t one now, there soon will be!”

  “But—”

  “No buts, our plan depends upon it.”

  “Your plans depend on a baby?”

  “How else could I convince Mrs. Roberts to leave her husband? None of you will ever be safe as long as he continues his affair with McDougal.”

  “McDougal, the banker? What does he have to do with anything?”

  Her mother patted her hand and began a long and sordid story. “You will all be much safer abroad.”

  “We’re just going to let McDougal run us out of the country?”

  “No, of course not. But his demise will take careful planning and time. For the baby’s sake, you need to leave.”

  Rita felt dizzy. “Did you say baby’s or babies’?”

  Her mother fixed her with a blue-eyed stare. “Does it matter? I would give my life for their protection.”

  “They don’t even exist,” Rita muttered.

  “Not yet, but they will. And their existence is our only guarantee that Mrs. Roberts will agree to leave her home. And if she stays, Christian will never agree to leave the country and you will stay to be with him and every day I will fret for your safety. No, this is all for the best.”

  And as Rita slowly chewed her muffin, listening to her mother’s plans, a newfound respect for her parents grew in Rita’s heart. Yes, they made mistakes. Yes, they had misplaced values. But they loved her. They were willing to open their hearts to Christians and the babies. Babies. Rita swallowed the last bit of muffin, realizing that she wanted Christian and his children more than she had ever wanted anything or anyone before.

  Shell Falls

  Addison returned to Shell Falls at the end of July when those seeking the sun swarmed the beaches and filled Shell Falls’s streets, even in the falling twilight. The smell of bonfires—what she thought of as the perfume of summer—filled the air.

  “Don’t go to the bookstore without us,” Margaret had pleaded the last time Addison had called to talk to Nick.

  “Why? I thought you said it was finished.”

  “It is…and it’s great, but I know Nick wants to give you the grand tour.”

  “Grand tour? It’s less than two thousand square feet! How grand can it be?”

  Margaret had laughed. “You’ll be surprised. Just don’t ruin this for him, okay? He’s super proud of it and he wants to be there when you see it.”

  And so she’d promised. But it was a difficult promise to keep. Now that she was home, curiosity pricked her.

  “I’ll pick you up,” Ginny said over the phone. “We can go over together.”

  A white picket fence separated the square patch of parking space from the freshly planted lawn. The Urgent Massage had a new sign in the window and red lettering spelling out WELCOME on the door, but other than that, the house looked pretty much the same as it had when it had been the bookstore. But the garage…

  A curvy brick path led to the double French doors. Potted citrus trees in full bloom lined the path. An easel propped up a large blackboard with the words “Grand Opening, Welcome Everyone” next to the gate.

  The garage had been painted a soft mint green with white trim. Two large windows flanked the French doors. Inside rows and rows of books welcomed her. A pair of wingback chairs and a sofa were grouped around a stone fireplace.

  “It’s beautiful,” Addison said to Ginny. “But where’s Nick? I thought he was going to meet me here.”

  “Surprise!” dozens of voices called out.

  Addison placed her hand on her heart as friends and family emerged from the back room. Nick, Margaret, Babbs and Maureen each had a hug for her. LeAnn and her two golden-haired children stood apart, unsure of their welcome, but smiling. Addison hugged each of them next, whispering in LeAnn’s ear, “Thank you for being here.”

  Lauren introduced her new boyfriend, Theo, to Addison. James came out and, after kissing Addison‘s cheek, placed his arm around Ginny’s shoulder. Mr. Patel and his two massage therapists beamed at her. Finally, Landon came out, holding onto his Aunt Erma’s arm.

  “Surprised?” he asked, after kissing Addison’s cheek.

  She nodded through happy tears.

  “I have another surprise for you,” he whispered.

  “What?”

  “Later,” he promised, but he slipped something into her pocket.

  She reached inside and felt the antique key.

  “Did you finish rewriting my sister’s book?” Erma demanded.

  “Auntie,” Landon said gently, “remember, we have no way of knowing if it really was Grammy’s book.”

  “I did,
” Addison said. “I think Geneva—whoever she was—would be pleased. The plot is the same, but every word is my own.” She winked at Landon. “And the ending is happy. That’s the important part.”

  Ginny tottered into the room bearing a tray laden with shrimp cocktails, steaming crab cakes, colorful vegetables, and stuffed mushrooms. James followed close behind with bottles of wine tucked under his arm. They set up the spread on the checkout counter.

  “Dig in, everyone,” Ginny said.

  James slipped on an apron. “I’m playing bartender tonight,” he informed the crowd.

  Erma stomped her cane three times on the hardwood floor. “Let’s stop this diddly-farting around and open up the box!”

  “Box?” Addison asked, her excitement mounting.

  “I found a box in Gram’s attic. The key in the satchel fits the lock.”

  “But that means…” Addison stuttered as the implications hit her.

  “Really, it doesn’t mean anything,” Landon said. “There could be hundreds of keys and locks—”

  Addison interrupted him. “I’m sorry. The coincidence factor is way too high.”

  He nodded. “Spooky high, I agree.”

  Aunt Erma plopped down in one of the wingback chairs. “Open the box!”

  Landon gave Addison a sheepish smile. “I’ll go and get it.”

  Erma fixed Addison with a greedy glare. “Whatever is inside belongs to Landon, not you.”

  “Now, Auntie, someone—maybe Grammy’s ghost—gave the key to Addison,” Landon said as he came back into the room with a wooden box the size of a toaster oven in his hands. “Don’t you think she’d want her to have what’s inside the box?”

  “No!” Erma struggled to sit upright and rubbed her hands together.

  “What do you think it is?” Ginny asked.

  “I just love boxes,” Addison said. “I always have. They make me curious—in a good way.”

  “Didn’t Christian say that the key held treasure greater than gold?”

  “We don’t know that this is that key,” Addison said. “Rita was a fictional story.”

  “Maybe,” Ginny slid her a glance, “but she sure felt real to me.”

  “Drumroll, please,” James said right before he began tapping his feet in a quick staccato.

  Everyone but Erma joined in while Landon placed the wooden box on the coffee table and unlocked it. Green velvet lined the interior. Photographs and yellowing newspaper clippings.

  “What is it?” Maureen called from the back of the room.

  “It looks like memorabilia,” Landon said.

  Addison knelt beside the coffee table and lifted out a pair of satin baby shoes. The ribbons had faded to gray. A tiny paper envelope held a curl of dark hair. A playbill from a Parisian theater.

  “Oh my goodness, it’s real!” The paper trembled in Addison’s hand. “Look! It’s Clarisse!”

  “No. Way!” Ginny crowded behind her to get a better look.

  “It’s all in French, but look, the leading lady is a Clarisse Miller!” Addison pressed the brittle paper to her chest for just a moment.

  “Do you think the story is true?” Ginny asked.

  “I don’t know what to think,” Addison said.

  “There’s a note,” Ginny said.

  “It’s addressed to you.” Addison picked up the envelope and held it out to Landon.

  “It’s from my Gram,” he said through tight lips.

  “You don’t have to read it here in front of everyone,” Addison told him.

  “Yes he does!” Erma said.

  “If you want some privacy—” Addison began.

  Erma stood on shaky knees. “Open the thing!”

  Landon smiled at his aunt. “I better open it,” he said to Addison.

  As he read it, his eyes filled with tears.

  “What does it say?” Erma wanted to know.

  “That she loves me.” Landon handed the note to Addison.

  Addison lifted her eyebrows in question.

  “She gave you the key,” Landon said. “She must have known.”

  “But known what? Why? How?”

  Landon took her hand and guided her outside.

  The smell of citrus trees filled the warm night air. Stars twinkled above them. Landon led her to a bench beneath a lantern casting a warm glow.

  “Read it,” he said.

  My darling Landon,

  I will always love you. Even though we may feel we are separated by death, my heart and thoughts will always be with you. I will be but a prayer away, and while I’m gone, I hope you will find someone who will love you as much as your grandfather loved me.

  Go with God, my beloved.

  “It’s not mine to read,” Addison said. “I feel like I’m intruding on something deeply personal. Sacred, almost.”

  “She somehow organized this. I know it sounds strange, but somehow she arranged for us to meet.”

  “But why me?”

  Landon picked up her hand and kissed the back of it. “Because she knew a treasure when she saw it.”

  May 1890

  Rita and Christian sat in Paris’ Theatre du Monde waiting for the lights to dim. Rita’s heart hammered, and her nerves jangled. “I wonder how she can bear it. I’m so nervous for her, I feel ill.”

  “She will be wonderful,” Christian murmured, taking Rita’s hand.

  The stage lights dimmed, and a hush fell over the audience as Clarisse, playing as Cordelia, took center stage. Her beauty took Rita’s breath. She clutched Christian’s hand when Clarisse began to sing.

  “Do you miss it, my darling?” Christian whispered in her ear.

  Rita shook her head and shushed him, not wanting to miss a single note of Clarisse’s song.

  When Clarisse exited and the villain took the stage, Rita lost interest in the show. Her thoughts wandered to where she was and where she might have been. Was she glad to be sitting on this side of the stage lights? Looking at Christian, she knew that she would rather sit beside him than stand, sing or dance in front of anyone.

  As though he felt her gaze, he raised his eyebrows in an unspoken question.

  “You,” she whispered, “are the only audience I will ever want.”

  Author’s Note

  Just so everyone knows—I in no way condone plural marriage in today’s Western society.

  Shortly after I marked Stealing Mercy to free, it soared to the top of Amazon’s charts and it stayed there for months. Because a number of readers had issues with the continued disappearance of Cousin Rita, I set out to write her story. And I did. I wrote a novella, had it edited, sent it to beta readers and told my formatting guy to get ready because I was going to publish again.

  But I struggled. The story I told wasn’t the story I started out to tell. There’s a mail-order bride to be rescued, a traveling acting troupe, a villain with wives in every city. Polygamy is mentioned, my characters travel through 1889 Salt Lake City—a year before plural marriage was banned. It’s a great story, very fun. I hope you enjoyed it.

  But in my heart there’s a better story. And it’s true.

  The true story is of my great-great grandmother Martha Diana Case. Martha was from a wealthy family in Chicago. When she and her husband converted to Mormonism and prepared to travel to Salt Lake City to live and practice their new faith, Martha’s parents offered them seventy thousand dollars not to go. But they went. They hired men (Mormons) to drive their three wagons across the plains. Along the way Martha’s husband died.

  When Martha’s wagons arrived in the Salt Lake Valley they had been emptied—everything she owned had been stolen. Brigham Young, the president of the Mormons, encouraged Martha to become William Hickman’s fourth wife, which she did. She had four children with William.

  William was an attorney—the liaison between the U.S. government and the Utah Territory. About the time that William fell out of favor with Brigham Young and church leaders, his second wife left him and took with her William’
s children. The rumor is that the man the second wife left him for was also having sex with William’s twelve-year-old daughter. William went to that man’s home and shot him in the head.

  According to my great grandfather’s personal history, William was excommunicated from the church, convicted of murder and sentenced to live in a desolate part of Wyoming. (It’s true, Wyoming used to be a punishment.) According to Wikipedia, William Hickman was excommunicated for refusing to carry out a murder for Brigham Young.

  In any case, Martha didn’t follow him. Instead, she accepted a teacher’s post in Idaho and it was there she raised her children as Mormons, who loved and believed in the teachings of a restored gospel. In spite of everything she went through, she didn’t return to her family in Chicago. She raised her four children and taught them, and others, the best that she knew how. It must have been cold, windy, and bleak. (I’m sorry, but I can’t imagine Idaho any other way.) I’m sure they were poor. I hope they were treated kindly, despite the family scandal. William Hickman died in Wyoming many years later. I don’t know if she ever had contact with him again.

  To me, that story is just as miraculous as Moses parting the Red Sea. And I can’t even tell it with the power it deserves. There is a quote I love by Friedrich Nietzsche— And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.

  How could I explain the music to Stealing Mercy’s seventy thousand readers plus? I didn’t even know how to try. So I stalled. But I felt my grandmother’s story is so closely tied to Rita’s that I had to tell it. Now I have.

  An interesting side note, more pertinent to those who understand Mormon doctrine than to those who don’t. Several years after my marriage, I read The Life and Times of William Hickman. When I came to the end of the book I learned that many years after his death, William’s temple work was done. The man who granted that privilege? Franklin D. Richards, then president of the quorum of the twelve, and my husband’s great grandfather.

  And so, I have many people to thank for Rita’s story—my husband, my children, my beta readers, my writer’s group, my editor, my formatter, my talented daughter who designs my book covers, but mostly I want to thank my great-great grandmother. Her bravery and strength amaze me.