The True Love Quilting Club

by Lori Wilde

  “Don’t mention it. Go knock ’im into next week, kid.”

  It took Emma an hour to decide what to wear to the audition. Finally she settled on the artsy look, donning a short black skirt with turquoise tights and a matching turquoise blouse that hung off one shoulder. She layered the look with a black leather belt, black ankle boots, and bright pink bracelets.

  She was still having trouble believing this was really happening. Oh, she’d fantasized about it plenty. Most nights she lulled herself to sleep with visions of seeing her name in lights on a Broadway marquee. Whenever she got the blues and feared she was just another cliché, she’d head down Forty-fourth to Sardi’s and sit at the bar. She’d order an old-fashioned, because, hey, it was old-fashioned, and she would stare at the framed caricatures on the wall—Katharine Hepburn, Marilyn Monroe, Clark Gable. Yes, these days Sardi’s was little more than a tourist hangout, but you could still feel the energy, and if you listened closely enough you could hear the ghosts from the past.

  If she closed her eyes she could see the special watering hole the way it had been in its heyday. There sat Walter Winchell and his Cheese Club cronies at their table—joking, laughing, and telling newspaper stories. In that corner were Bette Davis and her friends, drinking highballs and trying to pretend they weren’t anxious about the impending reviews. Across the room, Eddie Fisher canoodled with Elizabeth Taylor.

  A trip to Sardi’s never failed to snap Emma from her doldrums. After her audition she’d go there again, either to celebrate or to drown her sorrows, depending on how it went.

  She arrived at the theater fifteen minutes early and was surprised to find no one else was there for the casting call. Surely she wasn’t the first to arrive. Had the audition been canceled? Had she gotten the time wrong? A bored-looking assistant, years younger than Emma, sat at the front desk. She was enrapt in an e-book reader and barely glanced up.

  “I’m here to see Scott Miller,” Emma said, forcing a note of authority into her voice. “I’m auditioning for him at three.”

  Without looking up, the assistant waved toward the door at the back of the theater. “Go on, he’s in his office.”

  “We’re not auditioning in the theater?”

  “You’re the only one who’s auditioning.”

  Her heart lurched, and a ripple of apprehension ran through her, but she tamped it down. This was good, right? She’d never been the only one at an audition before. She wasn’t sure what it meant, but suddenly she felt like a fox in a trap. Mentally, she shoved aside the sensation and chanted the mantra she repeated in front of the mirror every single morning after she brushed her teeth.

  You are a Broadway star, I am a Broadway star, Emma Parks is a Broadway star.

  “Which way is his office?” she asked.

  “Through the back corridor, past the black curtain, last door at the end of the hall.”

  “Thanks.” Emma smiled, but it was for no one. The girl wasn’t even looking at her. She shouldered her handbag and moved forward, gliding past the stage entrance. How many times had she come to see plays in this very theater, sat in the back-row, nosebleed-cheap seats, and imagined herself up on that stage? Dozens for sure, maybe even fifty or more.

  This is it. This is it. This is it. All your dreams are about to come true.

  She eased down the corridor, following the assistant’s directions, and pushed back the dusty black velvet curtain. To Emma, the building smelled like years of stardom. Meryl Streep had performed here. She could almost feel Meryl walking with her toward the door at the end of the hall.

  Not to put any pressure on you or anything, but don’t blow this.

  Damn that naysaying voice. Purposefully channeling Meryl, Emma strode forward, knocked boldly.

  “Come in,” rumbled a deep masculine voice.

  Resisting the unexpected urge to run, Emma turned the knob and stepped inside.

  The office was ordinary—desk, chairs, framed pictures on the wall. The man sitting on the burgundy leather couch was not. He was the most famed producer on Broadway, and he looked every inch the part.

  Scott Miller styled his thick mane of gray hair combed back off his broad forehead and curling to his collar. It lent him a leonine mien. He wore a white button-down shirt with the top three buttons undone, revealing a mass of wiry gray hair, and he had the sleeves rolled up, showing off his muscular forearms. Even well into his sixties, he was in great physical shape. His wedding band was a wide chunk of gold interlaced with a sprinkling of small diamonds. He wore a Rolex at his left wrist and oozed an aura of pure money in spite of the faded black jeans with a tattered hole in one knee. He had on black loafers with no socks and a look of supreme ennui on his face. She resisted the urge to curtsy even as mental alarm bells went off.

  His eyes lit on her. Miller sat up straighter and gave her a predatory smile. “Ah,” he said. “The Munchkin. Come on in, shut the door and lock it so we won’t be disturbed.”

  Emma’s pulse pounded and her mouth went dry. Something inside her told her to run, but maybe it was simply because she was in the presence of greatness and she didn’t know how to handle it. She felt humbled and thrilled beyond measure. She closed the door, locked it, and turned back around to see that he’d gotten to his feet. He was tall, at least six feet. Standing beside him, Emma felt like a redheaded toadstool.

  “You’re gorgeous,” he said, moving quickly across the floor to close the gap between them.

  Okay, she’d taken extra care with her makeup and clothing, but gorgeous was not the initial response she usually got from men. Perky, yes. Cute, uh-huh. Adorable, yep. Gorgeous, not so much.

  “I knew the minute I saw you that you were perfect for Addie, except you’re going to have to ditch the spiral perm.” He reached out to finger her Nicole Kidman curls.

  “It’s not a perm. That’s the way my hair grows.”

  “Then you’ll have to have it professionally straightened.”

  “Okay,” she said, even though she had no idea how she’d pay for that. It was perilously close to sounding like he was seriously considering her for the part. Did she dare hope?

  He stood so close she could feel his hot breath on the nape of her neck, and it was no secret he’d had garlic for lunch. Cloves of it, apparently. Dude, ever heard of Tic Tacs? Unnerved and a tad nauseous, she stepped away from him to study the pictures on the wall of Miller with a pretty, much younger woman and three kids in their late teens.

  “Is this your family?” she asked, and turned back around to face him. “Your wife is beautiful and—”

  “Yeah, yeah, that’s my wife and kids. Now take off your clothes.”

  “Pardon?” It wasn’t that she hadn’t heard him; it was just that she couldn’t believe what she’d heard.

  “Get naked.”

  Her mind grappled with the situation. Was this really happening? Oh God, were the rumors really true? Emma gulped. “My…Myron didn’t tell me the play involved nudity. I don’t do nude scenes.”

  “The play doesn’t involve nudity.”

  “Then why do I have to get undressed?”

  “Honey, do you want the lead in a Broadway play or not?”

  Anxiety slammed into her. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening. The biggest producer on Broadway wanted to have sex with her? “I do.”

  “Then get those clothes off. I’m dying to see if the curtains match the carpet.”

  She wasn’t naïve. She knew such things went on. She’d come up against a lot of sexual innuendo in this business, some inappropriate touching, and, yes, she’d even been propositioned. But nothing so blatant as “Give me sex and I’ll give you a job.”

  “Come on,” Miller said, closing the gap between them. “Schmansky said you’d do anything for a part. I gotta see that red hair. He said you’re a natural.”

  Inside her chest her heart was an engine, revving hot and fast. Was this really what she was going to have to do to make her dreams come true? Humiliation tasted
soggy and sour, like laundry left too long in the washing machine.

  Do you want the part?

  Not like this. Please God, not like this.

  Miller’s hands went to the snap of his jeans. His eyes were two lusty black dots. Spittle gleamed at the corner of his mouth. She realized he was standing between her and the door. Over his shoulder she could see the smiling face of his wife and kids. What a prince.

  Emma straightened her spine, stitched together the scattered pieces of her courage. “I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding.”

  “Yeah?” He slid his zipper down.

  She knotted her fists. If she screamed, no one could hear her. She was five-foot-nothing and ninety pounds. Miller was over six feet and weighed at least two hundred. She didn’t stand a chance of fighting him. She tried to look haughty. “You’ve been misinformed.”

  “How’s that?” He came toward her.

  She inched backward, her longing gaze caressing the door. “Myron misspoke. There’s a lot of things I won’t do for a part.”

  “Just a blow job then. Five minutes you’re done, the part is yours.” He stripped his pants to his ankles and stood there completely naked from the waist down, sporting a boner the size of Detroit. It made her hurt just looking at him.

  “I…I…” She was so stunned she couldn’t breathe, much less talk.

  Miller snaked out a hand and grabbed her by the waist. “Here, let me help you with those clothes.”

  What happened next was pure reflex. She forgot he was big and she was small. Forgot he was the most famous producer on Broadway and she was a lowly struggling actress. Five years of Krav Maga training took over. She brought her knee to his crotch at the same time she jammed her fist up underneath his chin.

  Miller’s head snapped back. He let out a blood-chilling shriek, clutched his testicles with both hands, and sank like a sack of salt to the floor.

  Emma turned, leaped over his prostrate body, and ran for the door. She fumbled at the lock as Miller cursed her with every colorful word in his extensive vocabulary. “You’ll never work in this town again,” he screamed.

  Feeling like the utter cliché she was, Emma stumbled down the corridor, staggered past the assistant who no longer looked so bored, and tumbled out onto the street.

  It was only as she ran, pushing her way through the cluster of humanity thronging Forty-second Street, that the enormity of what she’d done hit her.

  She’d just clocked renowned Broadway producer Scott Miller squarely in the gonads.

  It was official. Her long-cherished dream of stardom was over.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Friends are like quilts, you can never have too many.

  —Lieutenant Valerie Martin Cheek, R.N., late member of the True Love Quilting Club

  The Rottweiler was a licker.

  Every time Dr. Sam Cheek bent to place the stethoscope on Satan’s chest, the drooly black dog lavishly bathed his face with a thick pink tongue.

  “He’s giving you kisses,” explained Satan’s owner, a woman in her mid-forties who was dressed like an escapee from Cyndi Lauper’s “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” video. She wore her hair—streaked with various colors, the primary one being pink—pulled up into a high ponytail on the side of her head and pink leggings underneath a pink and black polka dot miniskirt. If Sam’s older sister Jenny were here, she’d whisper, “What not to wear” into his ear.

  But Sam didn’t care about things like that. Clothes were clothes. Sam cared about three things—his family, his town, and animals, and not necessarily in that order. “Could you lean over here and let him kiss you so I can listen to his heart?”

  “Oh sure, sure.” The Cyndi Lauper wannabe puckered up and cooed, “How’s my little Satan? Who’s my good boy? Is it you? Is it you?”

  The Rottweiler transferred his sloppy kisses to his owner’s face, leaving Sam free to finish his examination. Ten minutes later, he straightened, shook his head. “Tell me about Satan’s symptoms again,” he said. “I’m not finding anything out of the ordinary and all his lab work is negative. I could do a CAT scan, but that’s expensive and I don’t like putting animals through unnecessary procedures.”

  The woman cocked a hand on her hip and her cheeks tinged pink. “Okay, I guess this is where I come clean.”

  Sam took a step backward, twisted up the stethoscope, and tucked it into the pocket of his lab jacket. A sheaf of hair fell over the right side of his face, but he didn’t brush it aside. He let it hide the scar that made him feel self-conscious. He didn’t say anything, just waited for her to confess whatever secret was making her blush.

  “There’s nothing wrong with Satan,” she admitted.

  Other than that hellacious name you gave him. Still, Sam did not speak. He was the fourth child out of six and he’d learned a long time ago that the best way to get to the truth was by keeping your mouth shut. Ninety percent of the time the other person would trip himself up if you just gave him a chance.

  “I’m new in town.” She batted her eyelashes. “And newly single.”

  Aw crap, not another one. Satan flicked out his tongue and licked Sam’s hand. He scratched the dog behind the ears. It wasn’t the pooch’s fault he had a lovelorn owner.

  “I heard you liked older women and—”

  “Who told you that?”

  She looked shamefaced. “Belinda Murphey.”

  Sam’s mother’s younger sister, Belinda, ran a local matchmaking service called the Sweetest Match. She’d been trying for months to get Sam to sign up, but he wasn’t the least bit interested in dating again. It was too soon. Valerie had been gone just over a year, and between being the only small animal vet in Twilight and raising his son, Charlie, he had no time for distraction. His aunt Belinda had been surreptitiously sending women his way, and if it wasn’t for keeping peace in the family, he’d have confronted her before now.

  “I don’t appreciate you using your dog as a matchmaking tool,” he admonished.

  “So you don’t like older women? Belinda said your late wife was six years older than you and I—”

  “I’m not ready to date again,” he said curtly. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have patients to see.”

  “Yes, okay, sure. I didn’t mean to offend you, Dr. Cheek.”

  He wasn’t offended. He was just irritated. “No harm done,” he eased his tone. The problem wasn’t this woman, but rather his matchmaking Aunt Belinda.

  “I’ll pay for the exam,” she offered.

  “Never mind that,” he said. “Just stop using your dog to pick up guys and we’ll call it even.”

  “It’s a deal.” Her smile shone falsely bright and her perky pink ponytail seemed to sag a little.

  She left the clinic with Satan through the side exit, and Sam went to the reception desk. “Don’t charge the Rottweiler’s owner for the visit—”

  “Not another freebie,” his receptionist, Delia, groaned. “You can’t make a living if you keep giving away your services, Sam.”

  “I don’t need a lecture,” he said. “I’ve got a mother, two sisters, and a very nosy aunt for that. Just letting you know that I’m leaving the building for a few minutes.”

  “You have a poodle that got pecked in the eye by a rooster on the way in.” Delia stamped “no charge” on Satan’s bill.

  “I’ll be right back.” He turned and went out the rear door.

  The alley of the clinic ran parallel to the town square that was one block over. To get to the square he had to walk past the Twilight Playhouse, built in 1886. In the summers, the theater hosted touring companies performing Broadway musicals. In the winters, the town put on its own productions, including everything from cowboy poetry readings, to musical groups, to Christmas pageants.

  Now that it was September and the kids had gone back to school, the playhouse would be gearing up for a new round of homespun programs. The sound of someone banging out a ragtime tune drifted through the open window of the sandstone building as he roun
ded the corner to the town square. The first time he’d ever kissed a girl, it had been in the upstairs stage loft.

  He couldn’t help thinking of Trixie Lynn. Even now, he could still remember her impish green eyes surrounded by a riot of burnished orange curls. He’d had a thing for redheads ever since. Valerie had been a redhead as well, although her hair had been darker, more brownish. Trixie Lynn had possessed corkscrew tresses as vibrant as oak leaves in autumn.

  After the kiss he’d filched from her in that loft, he’d fallen madly in love with Trixie Lynn the way a guy only falls once. Never mind that he’d been only fifteen, he’d yearned for her completely and without reservation. He was embarrassed about it now, the way he’d been so overcome. Not just that, but he was embarrassed at how often he still remembered it. Almost every time he passed the Twilight Playhouse, he thought of her and wondered where she was. Had she married? Did she have kids? Had she ever achieved her dreams of being a star?

  It was so long ago. So dumb to keep thinking about her, but if he closed his eyes, the memory came back sharp and fully in focus. He remembered all the little details: the way she’d smelled like watermelon shampoo and Ivory soap, the way her soft curls felt slipping between his fingers. The way the storage loft had been hot and airless, how sweat had trickled down his back, how no one knew they were up there together in the dark.

  “I feel like I’ve cheated you,” Valerie had said to him on their honeymoon. They’d gone to San Antonio and were strolling the river walk hand in hand. Cumin from a nearby Mexican restaurant had scented the air. In the distance, a mariachi band sang “El Paso” in Spanish. They’d just shared a kiss, and he could taste her mild milky flavor on his tongue. Her comment surprised him.

  “Cheated me? How’s that?”

  “I had my one great love with Jeff. He was my soul mate. But you…” She’d stopped walking, dropped her hand, looked him in the eyes. “You’ll never have that as long as you’re married to me.”