Kiss Me If You Dare

by Nicole Young

  “You worked with Lionel Barrymore?” I loved him from my favorite film classics.

  Her face turned red. “Please,” she gave a snort, “I’m not that old. I was speaking of Drew Barrymore.”

  “Oh, she’s one of my favorites. Which movie were you in with her?”

  “The classic Cinderella tale, Ever After.”

  “I’ve watched it a million times.” I squinted at Jane’s face. “I don’t remember you offhand. Which character were you?”

  “I had a bit part.”

  Ms. Rigg could barely restrain her excitement. “She served the prince his supper.” The Irish accent was in high gear. “ ‘Would you care for more wine?’ Jane asked him. It was a beautiful moment. Lovely, she was.”

  I shook my head in confusion. “I don’t remember that scene.”

  Jane’s glowing smile had simmered to one of annoyance. “Ever hear of the cutting room floor?” She turned to Ms. Rigg. “Please. I can blow my own horn, Mother.” A renewed smile as Jane looked back at me, somehow still in front of the camera. “It won’t be long before I get my starring role. I’m auditioning for a part opposite Crandall this week.”

  I hated to tell her I’d never heard of Crandall.

  “In the meantime, it’s good that your uncle Denton is a generous provider.” Her voice became sharp. “Though he’s not nearly as generous as his father was.”

  Ms. Rigg turned red and her eyes bugged out. “Be careful, Jane. The professor is under no obligation to support you.”

  “I see no reason he should support me at all.” Jane’s lips toyed in false thought. “Why, it’s my own inheritance he doles out to me in such very stingy portions.”

  I tried to follow along. “Oh? He’s the executor for your estate?” I had a hard time imagining Jane as Denton’s ward.

  A twitch of Jane’s eyebrow. “We share the same father,” she said. “Dennie is legit, so he got the money, while I, the illegitimate daughter, was conveniently left out of the will.”

  Ms. Rigg’s face spasmed. “Jane, dear. I’ve told you again and again the ambassador was not your father.”

  A wave of her hand. “Honestly, Mother. I figured it out by five years old. I’m sure Lenore Braddock did too. That explains why she hated me so much.”

  Ms. Rigg’s trembling fingers tapped across her lips. “No, no. She didn’t hate you. She let us stay. She had a million reasons to throw us out, but she never did.”

  “My point, exactly. As long as she kept you in her snooty little sight, she knew you wouldn’t go blabbing that the ambassador slept with an Irish barmaid. Nothing but an unspoken form of bribery.” Jane gave a roll of her eyes. “The things the bored and wealthy will do to uphold their reputations.”

  An uncomfortable silence descended.

  I swung my arms, hoping to get myself moving. “Uhh,” I pointed toward the fridge, “I’m just going to grab a little snack. It was very nice to meet you, Jane.”

  I dipped into some cottage cheese as Ms. Rigg and her daughter hightailed it out of the kitchen, Jane laughing like a mischievous seven-year-old as her mother dragged her by the elbow. I leaned against the counter as I ate, detoxing from my crazed climb up the cliff and the equally crazed conversation that followed. Jane dear didn’t strike me as a sugar-and-spice kind of girl. There seemed to be a little more naughty than nice to that woman. I set down my fork and peered through my tote again. The fact that everything was accounted for didn’t ease my suspicions.

  Shrugging, I finished my snack. Under the circumstances, I probably couldn’t help but be a tiny bit suspicious of everybody. After a quick cleanup, I slung my tote over my shoulder and headed upstairs.

  9

  I met Team B at the worksite at 8:00 Wednesday morning. Portia had come up with a detailed schedule that would theoretically allow us to attend our other classes and still finish the project on time and in style.

  Today was marked “Demolition Day” on the calendar. “Grab a hammer,” Portia said as I walked in. Koby and Celia apparently hadn’t arrived yet.

  “Hello to you too.” I dug through a toolbox, picking out a mini-sledge. Bold orange letters on the handle marked it property of DGC. The Revamp Program supplied the tools and materials for the project. The students provided the labor and know-how. But when it came to imagining a timely completion, I just didn’t know how it was going to happen.

  Overwhelmed, I sighed. We’d just have to take things one day at a time. A narrow staircase took me to the second story. Cracked and bowed plaster covered the walls. I snapped a dust mask over my face, slid on a pair of safety glasses, and whaled away with my sledge. My neck jarred with every blow. Muscles in my back flexed and stretched. My heart raced and my ears rang as I lost myself in the mindless battering. An hour or more passed with barely a letup. I’d be sore tomorrow, but nothing beat the feeling of accomplishment that would come when all the walls were bare.

  One final swing and I stopped for a break. I sat on the top step and leaned against an exposed stud, listening to the easy chatter going on downstairs between Portia, Koby, and Celia. We’d agreed that I’d cover the second floor work with Portia’s help so Koby and Celia could stay on the main floor. But it sounded like Portia was having too great a time to help me out.

  I clomped downstairs. “Hey. Anybody working down here?”

  Portia flung me a look. “Back off. We’re allowed to have fun.”

  I gave a snort and shake of my head. “Nobody said you weren’t. I was just playing around.”

  “Yeah? Well, your jokes aren’t funny.” Portia planted her wrists on her hips.

  I lowered my voice. “You’re supposed to be working upstairs with me. I’m not trying to pick a fight, just trying to keep things on schedule.”

  She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

  “Go ahead, Portia,” Celia said. “Me and Koby can handle things down here.”

  “Fine.” The ice queen tromped up the steps ahead of me. Huffs of indignation melded with the squeaking treads. Backs to one another, we slung our sledges. After a while, my arms lost feeling.

  “Ugh.” Portia dropped her sledge to the floor and leaned against a two-by-four. “It’s eleven. Let’s call it a morning.”

  I trekked down the steps behind her, my body protesting as much as the old wood.

  “Good work, guys,” Portia said, looking at the progress on the first floor. “Get to class, get a good night’s sleep, and we’ll see you back here in the morning.”

  “I’m getting my stitches out tomorrow, so I’ll be running a little late,” I said as we put away the tools and grabbed our bags. Koby and Portia helped Celia through the door and down the steps. Portia checked the lock and hid the key under a stone, and we all headed up Rios Buena Suerta.

  “There’s enough money in the budget for a wider front door and a ramp,” Portia said in her all-business voice. “Koby, you want to order the supplies so we can get those in right away? That way if Celia gets here ahead of the rest of us, she can start right in.”

  I hated to admit it, but Portia was doing a good job as team leader. It made sense for each of us, including Celia, to have access to the project at any hour. With so much work and so little time, we’d all have to be here every spare second to get the project done on deadline. Eight families were already lined up to occupy the renovated structures once they were completed. We couldn’t let them down.

  “Thank you, Portia. That’s so thoughtful of you,” Celia said over the whir of her wheels. “I’m so used to being independent, you can’t believe how helpless something like too narrow a doorway can make me feel.”

  We turned the corner, bringing the bus depot in sight. “Oh, I believe it,” Portia said. “Probably about as helpless as I felt when my car got stolen. Thank God for Dogpatch.”

  “When did that happen?” I asked, glancing over my shoulder at her. In the background, I saw a form coming down the porch of our current undertaking.

  “’Bout three years ago,�
� Portia was saying.

  “Hey.” I stopped in my tracks and pointed. “Hey!” I dropped my bag and took off at high speed, running along the sidewalk toward the bungalow. “Hey!”

  The figure stopped and waved his hands at me. “Whoa. Whoa.”

  It was what’s-his-name, the purple-face guy.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” My lungs felt like they’d fall out with my next exhale.

  “Peeking in the window. That’s all. Seeing how far you got today.”

  His voice sounded a little too full of schmooze. I didn’t trust him.

  “A spy, huh?” I only hoped that was all he was doing. I wiggled the doorknob. Still locked. “Don’t start playing dirty.” I gave him my most threatening glare. “Neither team has time for it.”

  “Kind of suspicious, aren’t you?” He rubbed at his jaw.

  Portia slid to a halt next to me. “What’s going on?”

  “Just seeing what he was up to on our porch,” I said. Portia stuck her nose inches from his. “What’s your name again?”

  “Simon Scroll.”

  “Well, Simon,” she said, “you just transferred in, so I’ll cut you some slack. But if you cross the line, I’m going to have to teach you a thing or two. Comprende?”

  “Sí, señorita.” He turned his back to us and stepped off the curb, mumbling something unintelligible under his breath.

  I watched him cross the street to his own project. “Gee. For some reason I thought this was a Christian college. With guys like him around, guess I don’t have to worry about the behavior police coming after me.”

  “News flash. We’re just beggars telling other beggars where to find food.”

  “Well, I guess that excuses your attitude.” I turned and started walking toward the waiting Koby and Celia.

  Portia grabbed my arm. “What do you mean by that?”

  I pulled away. “You’re so defensive all the time. And pretty bossy, I might add. But I guess beggars can act any way they want.”

  For a second she looked like she might cry. Then her expression hardened. “I don’t have time for all that niceynicey talk people do when they say one thing to your face and something else behind your back. I just tell you what’s on my mind right up front. If you don’t like it, that’s your problem.” She walked past me.

  “I don’t like it. And I don’t think anybody else likes it, either. That makes it your problem.” I caught up to her. She snarled over her shoulder and walked faster. “I’m doing the best I can. I’m not going to worry my little head about anybody’s feelings but my own.”

  “We can all see you’re hurt. Do you have to take it out on us?” I raced to keep up.

  “You don’t know the meaning of hurt until you’ve read my file. So back off.”

  Celia and Koby scooted aside as Portia barreled by like a steam engine without brakes.

  “Oh,” I shouted at her back, stooping to grab my bag as I flew past, “you have a monopoly on pain? Maybe you should read my file.”

  “Yeah,” she flung at me. “It starts with ‘Once upon a time’ and ends with ‘Happily ever after.’ Who can feel sorry for the Little Princess?”

  The air rushed out of me. She obviously didn’t know anything about my background. And I’d gladly keep it that way. “Hey, just because my uncle owns half of California doesn’t make me royalty. So back off.”

  Portia reached the bus stop and leaned against the metal signpost, panting.

  “Besides,” I gasped for air and took a stand next to her, “if all you’re looking for is sympathy, you’re doing a terrible job. I’d rather slug you than feel sorry for you.”

  “Good,” she said and flashed a smile, “then it’s working.” I leaned over and held my knees, drawing noisy breaths of air. “You are so messed up.”

  She laughed. “I know. That’s what you like about me. We’re so much alike.”

  I shook my head. “I’m not that messed up.”

  “Hey”-she grinned-“the only difference between us is I admit it. You’re still floating your boat down a river in Egypt.”

  “De Nile. I get it.” I let out a chuckle.

  Koby and Celia arrived, concern on their faces.

  “What’s going on with you two?” Koby asked.

  “We’re bonding.”

  Portia said the words so seriously, I burst out laughing. “Yeah. We’re so close, she’s starting to get under my skin.”

  The bus pulled up, the roaring diesel killing any comeback. While Celia and her chair were loaded, I took a seat next to Portia.

  “So that guy back there, Simon Scroll, I thought you knew him.”

  “He’s new to Del Gloria. He showed up in class the same day you did.”

  “I probably shouldn’t have been so suspicious, but I get a little possessive when it comes to my projects.”

  “I don’t blame you. Simon Scroll has to prove himself on his own merits. Being a student at a Christian college doesn’t mean squat.” She rolled her eyes. “And so far I’m not impressed.”

  I liked how Portia put it. We all had to prove ourselves on our own merits. What had Denton said? Words meant nothing. Only actions.

  The bus jerked to a halt in front of the campus fitness center. I waved goodbye to the gang and grabbed a quick shower in the locker room before heading to my next class.

  The relaxing flow of water washed over my aching muscles. It felt so good to be working on a project again. I lathered my hair, picturing what was happening back at my lodge in Michigan. Maybe Puppa was there cutting grass today. The yard wasn’t much of a lawn, mostly woods, so it would just take a few minutes of his time. I hoped he’d weed whip the foundation too. I hadn’t gotten to it yet this season, and it was already out of control when I left. One quick phone call would ease my mind. Soap bubbles crowded the drain as I rinsed. Better not. Brad made it plain that I wasn’t to contact anyone until he gave me the all clear.

  A thud came from the locker area. I’d been alone when I arrived. Someone must have come in. I turned off the water and toweled dry.

  “Hello?” I came around the tiled wall.

  A rustling sound. Footsteps. The door squeaked open, then shut.

  I checked the rows of lockers. Nobody.

  “Hmmm.” My voice bounced against bare surfaces. Back in my own row, my bag lay open on the bench. Fresh jeans, socks, and a tee were stuffed chaotically in the top. Just the way I’d left them. And my dirty clothes lay in the same crumpled pile on the floor.

  I took a deep breath. It would probably be awhile before I could relax, even though I was certain nobody knew I was holed up in Del Gloria.

  The tee kept its wrinkles even after I pulled it tight. Dressed, I brushed out my hair under the dryer, then flipped it back, checking my reflection. All I needed was a little ponytail on top and I’d look like one of those mop-haired show dogs.

  I grabbed my bag and headed to my twelve o’clock.

  The lecture hall was half filled with students, some sitting in chatty groups, others, like me, in a space of their own.

  The instructor arrived-dowdy skirt, blouse escaping from the waistband, wrinkled jacket, oversized eyeglasses, and hair that defied any style. Her unkempt appearance said she’d sandwiched class in between a nap and a late report.

  I cut the woman a good dose of slack on account of our inner similarities. Like me, she was probably more comfortable in jeans and a cotton shirt. She launched into her lecture, capturing my attention with her comparison between ways of dealing with anger. Was I a Stuffer, an Escalator, or a Director?

  I grappled with my bag, feeling around for my notebook and pen. I flipped to a blank page and scribbled my notes.

  Stuffer-avoid confrontation at all costs Escalator-blame someone else for problems Director-express anger to others in healthy ways The business class was supposed to help me manage employees and deal with upper-level peers. But forget them. I flipped the page and kept writing, fascinated to realize I’d been stuffing anger
my entire life. The perpetual stomachaches I suffered were probably a direct result. But then wasn’t I also good at blaming others for my problems? Still, I’d confronted Portia about her slacking on the job this morning. The results had actually turned out pretty good. That had been directing my anger.

  Yippee! I scrawled at the bottom of my notes. I was making progress.

  I flipped the page. My hands froze in place. My heart skipped a beat.

  HELLO PATRICIA AMBLE. The words were scratched across the paper in giant script.

  I slammed the cover shut, trapping the words in the book, pretending I hadn’t seen them.

  10

  The instructor’s voice swirled like gibberish around me. Had Frank Majestic sent a hit man to take me out? Was someone watching me right now, waiting to line me up in his sights? Or had some conniving student discovered my true identity and was playing a sick joke?

  Lots of people had access to my tote, starting with Jane dear, Ms. Rigg’s daughter. Then there were the members of Team B. Celia would never have snooped, but Koby or Portia? I wouldn’t put it past them.

  My foot tapped uncontrollably. And there was whoever had been in the locker room with me today.

  But how could anyone know who I was? Unless they put two and two together regarding Denton’s only-child status. Or…

  I flipped through my notebook, looking for the page I’d used to sign my new name. If someone had come across my practice sheet and been vicious enough to read Patricia Louise Amble through my scribbles… How low could you go?

  The page wasn’t there. A line of paper scraps where it had been ripped out was all that remained.

  That devious, black-hearted, two-faced, backstabbing Portia. It must have been her. She’d had plenty of time to do the deed this morning before Koby and Celia arrived, knowing I wouldn’t suspect a thing until I came across her cute little HELLO PATRICIA AMBLE note.

  She’d had it out for me from the beginning. The question was, what did I plan to do about it? I could be just as devious, black-hearted, two-faced, and backstabbing as her.