Love Finds You in Branson, Missouri

by Gwen Ford Faulkenberry

  Will took a sip of his ice water. “So, tell me about the winery.” “What do you want to know?”

  “What’s it like? What’s the history? Or would you rather I googled you?”

  “Ha ha. You wouldn’t find much if you googled me, but we do have a website for the winery. It tells a little bit of the history. My great-great-grandfather Richard founded Heinrichs Haus. Actually, he was one of the first to settle Hermann—it was sort of a satellite community from the greater German community in Philadelphia.” Ellie tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

  “They were looking for a new place to settle to preserve German culture, so they sent out a group of explorers, who found Hermann. The setting reminded them of the Rhineland in Germany. Great-great-grandpa Richard moved there from Philadelphia, pioneered our land on the Missouri River, and started the winery. We have grapes in our yard that he planted.”

  “That’s amazing.”

  “During Prohibition the wine business was really bad, but my family expanded the juice side of the business, cultivating muscadines. It was during that time they created the nonalcoholic juices that are really wonderful. Since Prohibition we’ve done about equal amounts of both wine and juice. My mother and my Opa run the business, along with my uncle Garry.”

  Frodo returned with their entrées. Armed with more cheese, he deposited steaming platters before them: Eggplant Parmesan for Ellie—lunch portion—and “Tour of Italy” for Will, which consisted of lasagna, chicken parmesan, and spaghetti, the latter being substituted for fettuccine alfredo. They thanked him, and then Will reached across the table for her hand. “Would you mind praying with me?”

  Before Ellie could answer, a voice shrieked, “Well, well, well.”

  Ellie unconsciously pulled back her hand.

  A blond about Ellie’s age suddenly stood over their table. She wore a tight red halter dress and a mocking smile. “Don’t do that on account of me.” The girl’s brown eyes darted back and forth from Will to Ellie. “I already saw you. The deed is done.”

  “What are you talking about, Cristal?” Will’s voice sounded different than it ever had to Ellie. It was controlled but hinted at rage.

  “I’m talking about you and your little girlfriend here, Will. Don’t think I don’t see what’s going on.”

  “What’s going on is that we were about to bless our meal, not that it’s any of your business.”

  “Oh, I think it is my business.”

  “You need to step away from here, Cristal.”

  She turned on a satin stiletto heel but glanced over her shoulder to narrow her eyes at Ellie. “He didn’t choose you for your acting ability, I can promise you that.”

  “Oh my gosh.” Ellie’s skin prickled as she watched the girl in the red dress march away.

  “Ellie, it seems like all I’ve done is apologize to you today.”

  “Who was that?”

  “Cristal Dunaway. She’s a girl who tried out for the part of Sammy awhile back—I guess she thought she was entitled to the part because she’s been in several shows around Branson, and she knows a lot of people.”

  “Well, she’d make a good villain.”

  Will laughed, sounding relieved. “True. Were you getting visions of—”

  “The Wizard of Oz?” Ellie broke in. “Yes!” She stuck out her forefinger, wagging it as she pretended to be Cristal. “Well, well, well!”

  Will roared with laughter. Then he chimed in, “I’ll get you, my pretty, and your little dog too!”

  “It would seem she has—or had—a thing for you.”

  “I don’t think so. I think it’s all about the part. And you beat her fair and square.”

  Ellie shrugged, then changed her accent from wicked witch to Elly May Clampett. “What can I say? I just found my inner hillbilly.”

  “Your name is Ellie, after all.”

  Chapter Eight

  By the time they left The Olive Garden, it was three o’clock. Will seemed reluctant to leave, and Ellie was glad, because she was in no hurry to go either. The drive across town felt faster than usual. Soon they were at Branson Landing, and Will pulled Scarlett into a parking spot beside Ellie’s condo. He opened the truck door to let her out, then walked with her to the porch.

  Standing on the top step, she turned to face him. “Thank you for inviting me to your church and for lunch.”

  “Thank you for going.”

  A shimmer of naughtiness passed though her. “I didn’t know I’d be risking my life.”

  “Huh?”

  “Both at church and the restaurant.”

  Will laughed. “I never imagined myself as a dangerous character. But come to think of it—”

  She cut him off. “It was worth it.”

  Her words seemed to please him. His eyes gazed into hers, then swept downward to her lips, lingering there. Suddenly he jerked his head up as if he’d remembered something. “See you tomorrow at practice?”

  “Yes. I’ll be there.”

  “Okay then.” He ran his hand through his hair.

  Ellie turned away to put her key into the lock, and Will waited while she opened the door. She waved at him over her shoulder. “Bye, Will.”

  “See you.” He backed away toward Scarlett.

  * * * * *

  Shutting the door behind her, Ellie leaned on it and clasped her keys to her chest. Her heart beat like a tom-tom. She smiled to herself as she skipped up the stairs, depositing her keys into the glass bowl along the way.

  Going to her bedroom, she flung off her boots and skirt and changed into a pair of gym shorts and a T-shirt. She didn’t quite know what to do with herself. Running would be a good outlet, but it was too hot. That would have to wait till evening. There wasn’t anybody she wanted to call just now. And she wasn’t hungry. Spotting the scruffy cover of her great-great-grandmother’s diary on the nightstand, she opened it and read:

  7 February 1887

  It seems I will not be a schoolgirl for long. Mama and Papa want me to sit for the exam to become a teacher, and if I pass, I can work, possibly even in my old school, as there is a rumor Mr. Bachman may leave. The family needs the income in these hard times. Of course I am more than willing to do it. I just hope I pass.

  Richard Heinrichs came by our house the other evening after supper and asked me to go riding again. Papa gave his permission, though I was not even finished with my chores. I quickly washed my face and brushed my hair, changing my dress. Heidi, who lent me her white ribbon, said that, without it, my straight black hair looked just like an Indian’s.

  Richard let me hold the reins, which was a great thrill. I do love the horses. They are magnificent creatures. We rode through the countryside, bundled in blankets, and Richard pointed out his land. He said he plans to plant vineyards on it. I cannot imagine all of those acres planted in grapes. When I told him so, he laughed and asked me what I would plant. “Flowers, I guess,” is what I said, and that made him laugh harder. His laugh was deep and pleasant, like Papa’s, and his eyes wrinkle around the edges when he smiles.

  Ellie set down the diary after a page of painstaking translation. It had served its purpose of engaging her mind. Though she’d been joking with Will about “connecting to her inner hillbilly,” she had to admit her great-great-grandmother’s story was interesting.

  Her ancestors were legends in the winery lore, well-recited throughout Hermann, but reading this dairy made everything so much more personal. It was almost like she was alive and becoming Elise’s friend. A real person with real struggles, and surely real dreams. A girl like her, with the same given name, Elise, and the same nickname, Ellie.

  She imagined her great-great-grandmother riding through a primitive Hermann in a buggy belonging to the would-be founder of Heinrichs Haus winery. A man ten years her senior, who would become her husband. He had money on his mind and probably a family. She reveled in the fun of driving horses and thought of planting flowers, if she planted anything at all. It was clear to Ellie that
her grandmother’s parents approved the match. It was also clear that Elise felt a huge sense of responsibility toward her family. Did she love Richard Heinrichs? Not yet, Ellie decided. Elise seemed like a girl who wanted to hold on to her childhood. But it was clear her heart was softening toward Richard, even after these two entries.

  Ellie decided to check her e-mail, something she’d neglected in the last day or two. Going to her desk, she opened the silver laptop and brought it to life. There was a new e-mail from Audrey.

  Ellievator,

  I just had the most gruesome day of my entire law-student existence. This beats the interrogations in Professor Norvell’s Property class. It beats the debates. It beats Guzman’s tirades in Criminal Law class, with his tanned leather skin and wiry gray chest hairs poking out of his golf shirts. It even beats Professor Brill’s totally over-the-top exams. Nothing could have prepared me for this.

  Ray sent me to the public health clinic. Supposedly I was set up to interview a client there, although I couldn’t find her to save my life. What I did find was appalling. Beyond appalling. The whole place reeked of urine. Blood was spattered on the wall. The lobby, if you can call it that, was packed like a sardine can. Drug addicts with needle scars up and down their arms moaned and howled about God knows what. Obviously battered women, some with children in tow, stood in line to fill out paperwork, seemingly on the point of complete exhaustion. And the poor of every color—so many—with their grimy faces, stained clothes, and shoes with holes, if they had shoes at all, were scattered throughout like forgotten toys. They were there to be immunized, to sign up for WIC programs, to be treated for various and sundry ailments. Runny noses all. I wanted to gather the children like a mother hen and take them all home for a bubble bath. But what then? I left with a headache and stomachache—and would be in total despair were it not for my faith.

  Please tell me your day has been better. A.

  Ellie hit the REPLY button.

  Dear Audrey,

  You never cease to amaze me, not only with your uncanny ability to morph my name into new words at will (have you ever repeated yourself since you began this practice in sixth grade?), but with your powers of description. In one fell blow, you have put me in a place I’ve never been (and never want to go, might I add)—a public health clinic in NYC. I can see it, smell it, feel it, hear it, even (ugh!) taste it. If Ray ever sends you back there, be sure you have a bodyguard.

  My day has been better. Much, much better. I cannot believe I am saying this, but I think I have a crush on my director! His name is Will Howard, and he invited me to church, which I know is not a date, but then he took me to lunch afterward, which I’m thinking might have been sort of a date. (?)

  His church was very, um, interesting. It was in this area called Mt. Branson, across Lake Taneycomo from Branson proper. I guess you wouldn’t really call it a bad part of town, as Branson has nothing to compare with parts of New York—the parts that seem to fascinate your employer—but it is much less affluent, more working-class, more gritty than the Branson you or I have ever seen. In fact, I think Will’s church could be called downright seedy. It’s in an abandoned building, and on the outside it looks completely forlorn. But inside, well, I’m still getting my head around it. There was a warmth I’d never experienced in all of my churchgoing days. I was a little uncomfortable and wished I wasn’t. Do you know what I mean? If you’re uncomfortable with warmth, does it mean you’re cold?

  The people were the most eclectic mix you can imagine, especially for Branson, Missouri. The range was straitlaced Caucasian middle class, to an Indian woman in a sari, to recently immigrated Mexicans, to a Goth girl in her twenties. The latter had eyes that haunted me, and then, minutes later, she got up to sing like an angel. It was a day of surprises, let’s just say that. Will was sort of the music leader, and he played the guitar. Very cool.

  After church we ate at Olive Garden. We had some pretty deep conversation. You’ll be surprised to know I told him about my dad (btw, have you managed any investigation on that point?). Will was such the gentleman; at the very least I think we might become real friends. He seems so very genuine. And he’s really cute. Why don’t you google him and see a picture?

  One crazy thing happened while we were eating lunch. This rabid blond came to our table and caused a scene. Even interrupted our mealtime prayer! Evidently she wanted the part of Sammy Lane—and maybe more…I sensed she had a thing for Will too. I found it ironic that someone else could want the part so badly when it meant so little to me at the time I tried out. I can’t imagine dreaming of being Sammy Lane. That said, I’m beginning to like the idea more now, I think. Rehearsals should tell the tale. They start Monday.

  I can’t believe I’ve rambled on and on in this e-mail. My fingers hurt. I should have just called you.

  Love and misses,

  E.

  P.S. Okay, I have to be honest. He walked me to the door. (He’s very old-fashioned—does all kinds of stuff like that. It reminds me of Opa. I sort of like it.) I think he thought about kissing me. And I really wanted him too! But I think it’s cool that he didn’t, in a way. Does that make sense?

  Chapter Nine

  The campus of The Shepherd of the Hills was buzzing with activity when Ellie pulled her BMW into the parking lot Monday morning. The turquoise trams were lined up in neat rows, presumably eager to tote visitors around the property. Men in overalls and blue shirts with straw hats milled about doing various chores, and a hefty lady in maroon calico swept the sidewalk with a straw broom underneath the sign AUNT MOLLIE’S MERCANTILE. Her kind face glistened with sweat. Hanging baskets of flowers dotted the façade of the store at four-foot intervals.

  Adjacent to Aunt Mollie’s was the main building, a converted two-story painted yellow—Ellie remembered that one of the owners had lived in it at one time—that housed the main ticket desk, a leatherworks shop, knife shop, and various offices, including Will’s. To the other side were restrooms, and beyond them, past a weathered split-rail fence, the Pavilion Theatre, a gathering hall for the Chuck Wagon Dinner Show. This featured a singing group called “The Sons of the Pioneers,” touted on the sign as a “Grammy-Winning National Treasure.”

  In front of Aunt Mollie’s were a couple of raised flower beds, bursting with color. Curious props like tin pails, washtubs, and other pieces of pioneer Americana held red, yellow, purple, and white blooms surrounded in fresh red-cedar mulch and bordered by giant ropes you might find on a ship. In the center of the main bed was a clock on an ornate yellow pedestal—about six feet tall. Apparently the clock didn’t work, because the time read exactly the same as when Ellie came for her first meeting with Will: 7:41. Neighboring the beds was a wagon-cart-turned-flower-showcase full of pink and purple petunias and sporting red spoke wheels. Nearby a man in a candy-striped shirt was setting up an umbrella stand and a sign that advertised ITALIAN ICE.

  Ellie, prepared for hiking in her ponytail, jean shorts, green polo, and tennis shoes, chose to bypass the main office altogether. Instead she took the paved road to the right. This route took her past the Livery Stable, another tourist shop where a cute miniature pony was tied, looking miserable. She stopped to pet his head for a moment before continuing her descent. Winding down the steep hill, she cut back to the left, passing a forlorn picnic area with mossy playground equipment and a gazebo that must have been part of the Christmas display she’d heard about.

  Before long Ellie found herself at the amphitheatre that was to be her stage for the next few months, or however long. Her heart skipped a beat when she spotted Will several tiers of seats below her. He was on the set, standing next to the Shepherd’s cabin, which burned every night, probably checking something. She took a deep breath and slowed her pace, walking carefully down the many stairs and taking one of the stadium seats near the front where other cast members were gathering.

  In less than a minute, a red-faced girl with bright blue eyes and dark pigtails plopped in the seat beside her. “Hi, I’m
Suzy. I play the part of Mandy. And I’m guessing you play the part of Sammy Lane.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Marcus, the guy in the tower who has been here forever, told me a certain kind of person gets the part of Sammy. She has to be tall, thin, and have a look of elegance. I’m thinking you’ve got it.”

  Ellie blushed. “I don’t know about that, but it’s very nice of you to say. I am going to play Sammy. My name is Ellie Heinrichs.” Ellie stuck out her hand.

  Suzy took it, giving it one good pump. “Where are you from?”

  “Hermann. What about you?”

  “Blue Eye. But I live close by here. I go to the University of the Ozarks in Hollister.”

  “Does everyone from Blue Eye have blue eyes as lovely as yours?”

  It was Suzy’s turn to blush. “Nope.”

  They watched as one of the trams pulled up with a load of what appeared to be the rest of the cast. When it cleared, and the new arrivals were mostly assembled, Will ambled over to where they sat. A pretty redhead with a clipboard joined him, and a few other guys trickled in from various points on the set. When everyone but Will was seated, he addressed the group. It was nine o’clock sharp.

  “I’d like to welcome you all to our first practice. Thank you for being on time. I’m Will, as most of you know, and I’m very honored to work with you on this production. I’d like to take some time this morning to introduce everyone, so when it’s your turn, if you’d please stand, give your name, where you’re from, a bit about yourself, and what part you are playing. We’ll start with Cheryl.”

  The pretty redhead stood and faced the group. She was very petite, well-dressed, and appeared about forty-five. “Cheryl Jech. I’m from Gentry, Arkansas, but have recently moved to Branson. I’m your assistant director.” She sat, crossing her legs and holding her clipboard on her lap.