“You would do well to keep those lips together more often,” Henry snapped.
The petite twenty-year-old blinked up at him. Grace noticed that Denton Mapes moved fractionally closer to Delight on the sofa, almost protectively.
“You’re too new and too green to have any significant input.” Henry continued to reprimand the young backup singer. “And no more ad-libbing with the harmony. You’ve got a long way to go before you have any kind of voice or stage presence.”
Delight’s fair complexion reddened as her gaze dropped once again to her hands.
Denton cleared his throat. “Henry, could we postpone this conference until our emotions are a little better controlled?”
Henry shot an irritable glance at the theater owner. “We have an agreement, in writing, that I’m the general partner. I’m in charge here, Mr. Mapes.”
The director then transferred his brooding gaze to Grace. “I have an idea for you, Grace. Why don’t you and Delight trade some secrets? She can show you how to lose weight and dress so you won’t be ashamed to show that belly button, and you can teach her how to sing.”
“Henry,” Michael snapped, “that’s enough!”
Stunned silence once more filled the room as heat rushed over Grace’s face. If the ceiling had fallen at that moment, she would have been relieved. She’d long ago grown accustomed to Henry’s blunt comments when he critiqued her performance in private, but this wasn’t private. And he’d never been so caustic. Grace shot a glance at the other target of Henry’s barbs. From Delight’s look of misery, it appeared she shared Grace’s sense of humiliation.
“Major bucks depend on your behavior,” Henry said, rising to his feet and stalking through the room. “When you people mess up, we lose money, and when money is lost, I’m held responsible.”
“We’re making more money than ever before,” Michael said. “As for costumes, I can’t remember a time when you’ve ever disregarded a cast member’s personal convictions.”
The color in Henry’s face deepened alarmingly, and his breathing came in short bursts.
“You need to take a moment to cool off,” Michael warned.
“I’m fine,” Henry snapped. He stopped in front of Grace. “Get the weight off.” He switched the focus of his glare to Cassidy, the blond backup tenor with movie-star good looks. “And Ryder—or whatever you’re calling yourself these days—there’s far too much talk about your lady-killing ways lately, and that can hurt ratings.”
“That isn’t my fault,” Cassidy said. “I can’t help it if Jolene won’t get her facts straight in that gossip column of hers. You know she makes up half the things she prints.”
“Then don’t even give her a reason to write about you,” Henry snapped. “And practice smiling. Half the time you look like you’re snarling onstage.”
One more time the director turned his attention to Grace. “I’ve worked long and hard to put you where you are, Grace. Now you dare to throw it back in my face by refusing my orders on wardrobe?”
She stared at him helplessly. The man was out of control. Michael and Henry had been friends for several years. If Michael couldn’t talk some sense into the director, no one else in this room had a chance.
“I want you to start listening to me, and trust that I know what I’m doing,” Henry said, then pivoted and stalked to the door. “Time to go home.” Without another word he walked out.
Chapter Two
Henry’s words seemed to echo through the room as Delight stared at Denton Mapes’s hand on her arm. She wanted to snatch it away and tell him to keep his hands to himself. Did he think he had a right to paw her just because he owned this theater?
She felt like telling Denton and Henry and Ladonna exactly where they could shove this theater. But that would be stupid. She desperately needed to make them happy, and time for that was running out.
Denton withdrew his hand. “Why don’t we have a talk?”
“Nothing’s stopping you.” She knew she sounded like a sullen brat, but she felt like pouting for a few minutes.
“I think this conversation should be held in a nice restaurant with soothing music and good food.”
She gave him a suspicious look. Soothing music? What did he mean by that? Was he asking her for a date?
Denton was at least forty-five, with graying hair, bushy dark eyebrows and a face that looked as if he’d hit the bottle a few too many times. Or a bottle had hit him. He also had the reputation of using and losing women at breakneck speed.
Or wait…maybe this invitation had nothing to do with a lusting older man. Soothing music. Maybe she was about to be let go from the show. Why else would she need to be soothed?
Denton couldn’t do that, could he? Just take her out to dinner and dump her from the show? He didn’t strike her as the kind of man who would do Henry Bennett’s dirty work.
“Where did you want to go?” she asked, surprised she even had a voice left.
Those thick eyebrows rose, as if he hadn’t expected her to be interested. “How about Top of the Rock, near Big Cedar? I could reserve a table with a good view of the sunset.”
Oh, sure. She wanted to watch the sunset with this boozer—this rich old boozer—while her career went down the drain. Very appetizing.
“The only time we could do that is on Monday,” she said, “since I’ve got a show every other night.”
“That works.” He sounded almost eager. “Why don’t I pick you up at your condo about five Monday evening?”
She studied his face. He didn’t hold her gaze, but at least he didn’t stare at other parts of her anatomy. Instead, his attention dropped to the floor, as if he was deep in thought about something else.
“You know where I live?” she asked.
He nodded, returning his attention to her.
She hesitated. Did she really want to do this?
But it wasn’t as if Denton Mapes was some kind of rapist or killer. He owned this theater. “Fine, Mr. Mapes. See you then.”
Grace rushed down the hallway, praying no one would approach her. Cassidy, Peter and Blake stood huddled by the vending machines, and only Cassidy glanced her way as she swept past them. She made eye contact with him briefly. Obviously the others had been as upset as she was by Henry’s behavior.
She stormed into her dressing room, barely refrained from slamming the door behind her and glared at her reflection in the mirror. Okay, so she did have a little extra puffiness around her eyes lately. And her dresses all fit a little too snugly. But how much did that matter to the show?
She saw Michael’s image in the mirror half a second before he spoke from the open doorway. “There should be speed limits in those hallways,” he said as he entered the room. “What’s the rush?”
She slumped onto her bench without turning around. Her humiliation was complete.
“Grace, he was way out of line.”
She nodded. “Thanks for defending me.”
“You stood up for Mitzi, and for your personal convictions. I’m proud of you.”
She unfastened her rhinestone necklace and placed it carefully on the jewelry stand, noticing he hadn’t given her a word of reassurance about Henry’s diatribe. “And?”
He frowned at her. “And I’m afraid he might have given Delight a major shock.”
“And what else struck you about the meeting, besides the fact that Henry was behaving like a jerk?”
He considered that question as his frown deepened. “His anger was out of control, which probably has something to do with his blood sugar, but I didn’t dare ask him about it after the meeting. He’s headed for trouble if this stress continues.”
Grace relented for a moment. Michael was right. Henry’s health had deteriorated these past two years. His failing ability to control his emotional outbursts was a symptom of his physical condition.
Still, his words had plunged deeply and scraped bone.
“Could you persuade him to have a physical?” she asked.
&
nbsp; “I’ll have a talk with him after he’s had a chance to calm down.” Michael stepped up behind her at the dresser and placed his hands on her shoulders. “Are you okay?”
“Oh, sure. I love it when the director castigates me for being fat. It’s an especially sweet experience in front of an audience.” Especially when no one contradicts him.
“He overdid it a bit, didn’t he?”
She stiffened. A bit? “You think I’m too fat?”
He pulled out a chair and sank into it beside her. “Nope, I think you’re just fat enough.”
She smacked him on the arm and he laughed, grabbing her hand to keep her from hitting him again.
“Do you ever take anything seriously?” she asked as she pulled away.
“Sure I do. Fishing. My horse. Riding my Harley.”
She swiveled her chair away from her reflection in the mirror. Michael had a knack for drawing her out of herself, and right now she really appreciated that. “What about God?”
He paused, then winked at her. “You’ve got me there. Definitely God is to be taken seriously, but I don’t think He’s just sitting up on a cloud somewhere watching us, ready to tromp on us every time we blow it. Mind telling me why the sudden change of subject?”
She gestured toward the beautiful stained-glass music box on her dresser. “I’m sorry. I can’t get that out of my mind.”
He frowned and leaned closer. “God has something to do with the gift you received tonight?”
She allowed herself to be lost in those dark brown eyes for about half a second, then she reached for the box and raised the lid. The familiar tinkling song spiraled through the room as she picked up the card and handed it to Michael. She closed the lid quickly to shut off the music.
He read the inscription, then handed it back to her. “What’s going on? Who’s a cheater, and what contest is this referring to?”
She took the card and slid it back beneath the stained-glass lid without setting off the music again. “About three years before I met you, I entered a music contest sponsored by Henry and some of his business associates.”
“That would have been eight years ago.”
She rested her elbows on the dresser and rubbed her eyes wearily, not caring that it would probably smudge her makeup. “I sang that song for the contest.” She gestured toward the music box. “I didn’t realize until later that they preferred original songs.”
“And you won anyway?” he guessed.
She nodded. “And unfortunately, I was aware that the contest was for amateurs. No one was eligible who had already earned more than five hundred dollars from their music. I had earned more than that singing with a band at some concerts in the four-state area.”
“So you were young and you blew it. What did Henry do when you told him?”
“What makes you think I told him?”
“I know you.”
“It gets messier,” she said. “I heard later that the other judges had chosen another contestant, and Henry had done some major cajoling to change the results. Seems I wasn’t the only one who cheated. The winner had bought off the judges.”
“Anyone you knew?”
“Nope. The contestants never met. I heard later the guy’s name was Wes Reinhold, but he’s never been heard of around here since. Apparently Wes went ballistic and threatened Henry. Not a smart thing to do. Henry’s always had a lot of contacts among the major players in this town. Wes had the sense to move on.”
“So what happened then?” Michael asked.
“A few months later I had a ‘come to Jesus’ moment. Literally. I embraced the faith my mother had tried so hard to instill in me, and I went to Henry and told him about my lie.”
“Did he care?”
She shrugged. “He said it was too late to do anything about it, and that I had a promising career ahead of me. I didn’t know what else to do, so I just let it go.”
Michael glanced at the music box with a frown, leaning forward with elbows on his knees. “After all this time, why is someone suddenly making a big deal about it?”
“Could be they’re just finding out.”
“You don’t think it could be this Wes guy, could it?”
Grace shrugged. “He could easily have discovered I misrepresented my amateur status, since the music community is so closely woven here in Branson, but as I said, he moved on.”
“People don’t always stay gone,” Michael said. “Still, I think this whole thing began and ended tonight. Someone discovered that past mistake and decided to chide you a little. But you mentioned God. Where does He come into this?”
“If my name is discredited, then so is the God I serve.”
“My dad always warned me not to borrow trouble,” Michael said, “and he knew what he was talking about. He had me. He didn’t have to borrow trouble.”
Grace cast her gaze to the ceiling, but she couldn’t resist a smile. “I rest my case. You never do get serious.”
“All things in moderation, as Dad always said. You know, if you’re really worried, you could go public with the news,” he said quietly. “Beat your note-passer to the punch.”
Grace struggled with the clasp on the bracelet that matched her necklace. “Maybe.”
Michael pushed her fingers away and reached for the clasp, unfastened it and placed it on the jewelry stand with the matching necklace.
He had a healing touch. He also had a healing voice. When Grace listened to him sing during practice, she could feel her whole body relax.
Grace knew Michael’s laid-back attitude wasn’t the result of never suffering pain or loss. His mother had died when he was ten. His father—a minister—had passed on when Michael was seventeen, leaving Michael with major debt. When he was in his third year of med school, his aunt—his final close relative—passed away. In the aftermath, Michael had quit school.
“Written any songs lately?” he asked.
“A couple. You?”
“One or two.”
“Any serious ones?” she teased. Michael had a knack for humor, and he particularly liked songs that pertained to children or romance—even if the romance was between a couple of broken-down old horses in his neighbor’s pasture.
“Life’s too serious as it is,” he said.
“The women go wild over a big, handsome, broody hunk like you who sings about kids and love.”
Instead of blushing, as she’d expected, he caught her gaze and held it. No smile. “I’m not interested in a bunch of women going wild over me. Just one woman.”
“Of course,” she said with a grin. “That’s why they love you. A one-woman man who hasn’t found his woman yet.”
“They all know better,” he said, then sighed and leaned back, fiddling with the rim of the cowboy hat he’d worn onstage. “You’re the one with the writing talent. When you sing ‘Daddy, Don’t,’ I doubt there’s a dry eye in the theater. That one digs deep.”
She rested her elbows on the dresser. “Thank you. It’s autobiographical.”
He didn’t even blink. “I always wondered about your father. Neither you nor your mom ever talk about him.”
She studied Michael’s earnest face for a moment. “The last time I saw him, the police were hauling him out the door after he’d beaten me nearly senseless.”
Compassion shone in Michael’s eyes. “What happened?”
“I was sixteen. I’d come home late one night from a music recital. He was drinking, he got mad, I mouthed off and he went after me. Mom tried to stop him, and he punched her in the stomach. Hard.”
Michael winced. “I’m sorry.”
“We left him out in California—in prison—and moved to Hideaway.”
“You never told me about that.”
“It isn’t something a person goes around talking about,” she said. “It left some scars.”
“What kinds of scars?” Michael asked gently.
“For instance, whenever I get really tired or the weather changes, I walk with a limp because
of some damage I took that night.”
“Your mother never thought about leaving him before that happened?”
Grace kicked off her shoes. Enough soul baring for one night. “Nope. She doesn’t believe in divorce. As long as he picked on her and not me, she stuck it out. Now, are you going to get out of here so I can change clothes?”
He slowly rose from his chair, reached out and gave a wayward strand of her hair a gentle tug, then left the room, closing the door behind him.
The main women’s dressing room coldly reflected the overheads from the long mirror. Everyone else had left. Delight picked up a hairbrush from the counter and raised it to her head.
The bristles scratched her forehead. She winced and hurled the brush across the room. It smacked against the far wall with a thwack as she sank onto a bench and burst into tears.
“No stage presence, Delight Swenson.” She mimicked Henry’s guttural growl. “You should have Grace teach you how to do it. Grace is a goddess. Grace can walk on water. Grace, Grace, Grace.”
“Hello in there.” Blake Montana’s deep voice sounded from the doorway.
“Goodbye,” she called back.
“You decent?”
“Never.”
There was a snicker. “Okay, well, did I hear you kick something, or did the ceiling fall on someone named Grace?”
She grimaced and raked the back of her hand across the moisture on her face. “I’m not up to company.”
Blake entered in spite of her protest, his tall frame filling the doorway. “You been crying?”
“Go away.” She wasn’t in the mood to talk. She swung around and grabbed her sable coat from the rack beside the dressing-room door. She would wear this gown home tonight, and Mitzi could worry about it later.
She stalked past Blake out of the dressing room, not bothering to close the door behind her. Blake did it for her, then caught up with her in seconds.
“I don’t need an escort,” she snapped.
“Mind if I walk you out to the car anyway?” he asked. “I’m parked beside you, and it’s dark out there. In your frame of mind, no one would dare attempt to mug us.”
Note of Peril Page 2
