Remembering her mission, she sighed and stepped back onto the sidewalk. There’s nothing for me in this abandoned old shop, that’s for sure.
She turned her head. What was that next door? The hand-lettered sign in the window of the aged brick building did appear to be a plea to the unemployed. She squared her shoulders and took a few steps, anxious to see what kind of business it could be.
Visions of herself as manager of a day spa or saleswoman of chic housewares rolled through her head. Sure she lacked work experience in these areas, but her actual skills were of no use to anyone here. Besides, she was a new person now, with new abilities. She just needed to find out what they were.
Drawing closer, she read the neatly written notice. ‘Help Wanted—Desperate.’
She slowed her gait. ‘Desperate’, huh? That makes two of us.
The lovely brass-plated sign over the double doors announced the name of her potential future employer. ‘The Madison Playhouse.’ Grace fought the urge to cry, letting out a weak little chortle instead. The Madison Playhouse? Her last remaining hope was a theatre?
Flinging back her head, she strained to hear God laughing. This had to be some sort of cosmic joke. How could she fall off the radar working in a theatre? That would be the first place anybody would think to look for her.
She shifted her weight. The first place, yes. But wouldn’t Madison Falls be the last place? So even if someone were to look in the first place of the last place, that still left her pretty well hidden.
Examining the carefully lettered sign, she climbed the front steps. After all, they were desperate. With a strengthening inhalation, she pulled on one of the rustic iron door handles.
Stepping from the sun-drenched porch into the theatre was like traveling back in time a good hundred and twenty years. As the door swooshed shut behind her, she looked around a slightly frayed but otherwise perfectly preserved old west theatre lobby. It was tiny, like a child’s play theatre, but lushly decorated in warm shades of red and brown. The well-used velvet settees beckoned her to curl up and hide from the world, but that wasn’t on her To Do list.
Her eyes moved languidly around the room for some indication of how she should proceed.
Something on the wall to her left caught her eye and she stepped over to get a better look. A painting about the size of a magazine hung between two tall velvet-draped windows. Just inches from the canvas, she faced it full-on.
She studied the image of a woman with upswept hair and a rich burgundy gown, with a jeweled opera glass in her hand, leaned forward over a railing. It was striking, and oddly familiar—the brushstrokes, the colors, the theme. For a lovely moment, Grace was cast into its luxurious world.
“Oh, man!”
A female voice joggled Grace back into her own century. She jerked around, facing a window marked ‘Box Office.’
“Ow!”
Her nerves on edge, Grace stepped toward the door next to the box office. Its top half stood open to create a second window, over which hung a sign that read ‘Concessions.’ There was a loud crash, and Grace tilted her upper body to get a look inside.
A petite woman hopped around a space the size of Grace’s closet trying to dodge a cascade of runaway soda cans.
“Excuse me.” Grace hesitated. “I’m here about the job. Should I come back?”
The woman looked up, pushing a stray strawberry blonde hair out of her widening eyes. “Are you serious? You’re really here about the job?”
Hearing the incredulity in the woman’s voice, Grace considered beating a hasty retreat. “Uh…h….” she stammered. “What exactly is the job?”
Through a series of staccato movements, the tiny woman worked her way to the window. “My concessions manager eloped and her husband won’t let her work. As of yesterday she’s living in wedded bliss in a trailer on a pig farm.”
“Sounds romantic.”
“Terribly. You’d think she could at least have waited until Wait Until Dark closed, but no.” She scrunched her young face and rolled her eyes upward.
Grace let out an anxious breath, relieved that the woman was apparently too frantic to ask for references. She’d been prepared to say that everyone she’d ever known or worked for was now dead, but that seemed farfetched.
“In the five years I’ve worked here,” the woman waved a can for emphasis, “we’ve never once not opened the concession stand. So here I am trying to juggle a thousand things and get the snack bar ready for the hungry masses.” She looked at the can as if realizing she’d shaken it to within an inch of its fizzy life. “It doesn’t pay a lot, and it’s really only three nights a week, but like the sign says, I’m desperate.”
Grace bit her lower lip and considered her options. Taking a theatre job didn’t seem wise, but maybe it would work in her favor. It wasn’t as if she’d be onstage. How hard could it be to stand behind a counter?
Her chest heaved with uncertainty. This job was subservient, but the waitress’ prophetic words stuck in her mind. Could it be that God had used the waitress to deliver a message to her? She hadn’t ever thought of God as being that proactive in her life, but hey, maybe.
She lifted her chin. “I’ll do it.”
“Yes!”
Grace had never seen relief and gratitude wash so completely over a person, as the tiny woman did a high-strung victory dance. What was Grace getting herself into?
“Can you come back tonight? That way you’ll be all trained for tomorrow night’s show.”
Grace nodded. At least now she’d have a little something to supplement her savings, and to keep her busy while she waited for things back home to change.
Promising to return, she shrugged off thoughts of home. Something would change, she had to have faith. She just needed to distance herself from the problem, and it would work itself out. She had to believe that.
Lost in her thoughts, Grace pushed at the solid front door and stepped back out into the mid-morning glare. She paused on the broad front porch to let her eyes readjust. She’d always loved that about the inside of a theatre—it was its own world. Safe and separated.
The gentle rumble of a car engine jostled her and she squinted in an attempt to see where it was coming from. She had just enough automotive expertise to judge from its timbre that this was no beat-up wreck on its last leg before meeting its destiny at the salvage yard. This was the sound of a motor that had cost its owner a fine chunk of change. As if in salute, she raised her hand to her forehead to block out the sun. Her eyes at least doubled in size.
Glistening in the sunlight, a sleek silver-blue Lexus coupe rounded the corner like a diva making her entrance. A tingle shot through Grace as the car picked up speed. Not enough to create a hazard, but just sufficient to declare its right to do so. It traveled a half-block and curved its way into a parking space right in front of the theatre— 'rock star parking’, as they called it back home.
Grace wanted to believe she was above staring, but found it impossible to pull her eyes from the car as the driver’s door swung open. She held her breath. Out stepped a strikingly handsome man in a well-tailored, pale grey linen suit—the first evidence Grace had witnessed of actual fashion sense in this town. He wore his shirt open with no tie, and his light brown hair gelled back just a touch. He was probably pushing thirty, but Grace had always admired older men.
He gave the car door a gentle nudge then adjusted his silver shades with one hand while holding a sleek—probably Prada—briefcase in the other. He then stepped onto the sidewalk and toward the theatre—toward her!
Stepping backward for no apparent reason, Grace nearly lost her balance. Blood rushed to her face as she realized she’d held her hand visor-like to her face all this time. So much for discretion.
He bounded up the porch steps with an energetic air of clear purpose. He hovered at the top step, as if noticing Grace for the first time. In one fluid moment, he removed his silver Armani shades, flashed a chiseled smile, and spoke.
“Good mo
rning.”
Grace grappled for air. A small, unidentifiable sound escaped her voice box as he breezed past, drew open the heavy front door with ease, and disappeared inside.
Placing a hand on her hip, Grace expelled a breath. Who was he? Some rich donor, probably. Her head snapped toward the Lexus. Obviously not from here. Legs wobbling, she moved slowly down the steps.
Wavering, she made a thin attempt to pull her eyes from the car. Why did she find it so difficult to walk away? Maybe because this car reminded her of home. While she was far from wealthy herself, her job catered to those who were. She had grown used to the finer things.
Caving to curiosity, she eased her way toward the coupé. She wove her fingers together to keep from touching the sleek exterior that could well have been custom-tinted to match the eyes of its handsome owner. Casually, she craned her neck to get a peek inside.
Ecru leather gleamed, smooth and spotless. What she wouldn’t give to feel its luxurious softness against her skin. She leaned in a little further. A large manila envelope sat on the front passenger seat under a thick stack of letters. He must have his mail forwarded here.
She took a quick look around. No one paid her any attention. Twisting her neck, she read the name on the top of the stack. Devon Sinclair. Her gaze lifted. What a distinguished name, mysterious even.
Her stomach fluttered. Was she really spying on this man to find out where he was from? She took a deep breath, as if about to dive under water, then bent down slightly. She straightened with a gasp. New York, New York. She could have guessed. Another quick look. Park Avenue—in an exclusive neighborhood. Wow.
Reluctantly, she stepped back onto the curb and started toward home. It raised her spirits to see someone in Madison Falls she could relate to, even if only in passing.
Funny, she should have been startled by the similarities between this man and Kirk. The good taste and affluence. The charm and appeal. But there was no mistaking the missing element—Kirk’s self-conscious desperation.
Clearly, Devon Sinclair was everything Kirk aspired to be but wasn’t.
She smiled. Adjusting to her stay here suddenly seemed a whole lot easier.
Chapter 8
“I know it’s a lot to learn all at once, but you’ll get the hang of it.”
Grace had figured out fast that Nancy, the high-strung house manager who had hired her, moved at a mile a minute whether propelled by desperation or not. She was in charge of all front of house activity, which probably explained her frenzied pace.
“We have two kinds of canned soda, and whatever cookies are on sale down at the Peach Basket Market.” Nancy pattered like a sped-up voice on a Chipmunks record. “That’s pretty much it. That and gum.”
“Got it.” Grace looked around the small stand. “No coffee?”
Nancy stopped moving and creased her brow. “Nobody’s ever asked for it. Why would anyone want to drink coffee at night?”
Hadn’t she ever heard of decaf?
Nancy flicked a look at her watch. “Any more questions?”
Anxious to avoid any surprises, Grace pointed to a narrow wooden door at the back of the stand. “What’s in there?”
Nancy squinted, as if seeing it for the first time. “I just about forgot about that.” She took a step toward it, rubbing her fingers across its splintery surface. “It just leads to the place next door. It’s been empty for years now, but it used to be the general store until they built the Peach Basket. Mr. R. owns both buildings so he lets us rehearse over there. Don’t worry though.” She rattled the knob. “It’s locked.”
Grace nodded at the reassurance, then creased her brow. “Mr. R.? What does the ‘R’ stan—”
“Oh, gotta run.” Nancy glanced at her watch again. “I have to approve the costume designs for the next show.”
“Costume designs?” Grace took a step back to accommodate Nancy’s exit. “Aren’t you the house manager?”
“Yep.” Nancy scuttled into the lobby and turned to Grace with a fight-or-flight stance.
Grace spoke quickly. “Don’t you have an artistic director?”
“What’s that?” Nancy shifted her weight from foot to foot.
Grace spoke haltingly. “The person who makes the artistic decisions.” What kind of amateur operation had she gotten herself involved in? “Who chooses your season?”
Nancy’s face went blank.
Grace tried again. “Who picks out your plays?”
The light returned behind Nancy’s hazel eyes. “A bunch of us get together.”
“Oh. Well, who hires the directors?”
“I do.”
“Who determines the budget?”
“I do, but just because I’m good at math.” Nancy bobbed up and down on her toes as if revving her engine for a race. “So anyway, the lobby opens tomorrow at seven. We’re in performance in the theatre Thursday through Saturday, and our new show rehearses next door Monday through Saturday. They’re having auditions right now in the auditorium if you’d like to stick your head in the door. It’s a really good play.”
Grace heaved a resigned sigh. “I think I’ll do that. What’s the play?”
Nancy smiled. “It’s really funny. It’s called The Pirates of Penzance.”
Grace’s chest tightened. Was this just a cruel coincidence, or did God have it in for her? How could she possibly stand in a closet selling cookies while one of her favorite plays was being performed, however badly, in the next room? This might just be the straw that would put her on the next plane back home in spite of what awaited her there.
“I’ll be in my office.” Nancy skipped off, leaving Grace with the impression that her training was now complete. From the sound of it, the job would be a piece of cake.
Cringing at the reverberation of overacting that wafted out to the lobby, Grace traversed the room with care. Would this be too painful? She opened a weighty door and slipped through, thankful to the darkness for concealing the reflexive roll her eyes did at the sight of the amateurish living room set on the tiny stage.
Taking a careful look at an auditorium no bigger than the women’s chorus dressing room back home, Grace flipped down one of the padded wood seats and admired the intricate ornamentation of its iron armrests. The threadbare cushion failed to inspire much confidence, but she sat anyway. Its base eased down slightly as she sat, as if deciding whether it would support her weight. How long had these seats been here—since the patrons silenced their six-shooters instead of their cell phones?
A row of women of various ages stood on a stage so small it would have been more at home in a children’s playhouse. A hawk-faced young woman with a sumptuous brunette mane moved to center stage and flashed a self-assured smile straight out of a toothpaste ad. Grace pulled herself up in her seat, anxious to hear what was about to transpire.
The woman nodded toward an upright Baldwin piano which stood where an orchestra pit would be had there been room. The instrument appeared to be about the same vintage as the grey-haired woman who began happily plunking at its keys. Grace cringed. Had it occurred to anybody that the ability to read music might be a necessary requirement for an accompanist?
The brunette gazed out over Grace’s head, clearly oblivious to her presence, and filled her chest with a supportive breath. Grace held hers for a moment, in pained anticipation.
“Poor wand’ring one…”
Grace clamped her eyes shut as a discordant note reverberated off the room’s aged wooden beams. This was just too painful to endure. Why on earth had Nancy put a musical in their season with no apparent musical talent to pull it off?
“Fine, Sophia.” A man rose from the director’s table at the center of the audience.
Grace perked up. It was Mr. Lexus himself. What was his name…Devon?
He made his way out of the row of seats and down the aisle. “I’d like you to take it again.” He stood at the foot of the stage, looking directly up at the brunette. “Remember, nice and bright, just like we worked on.
”
Grace grimaced. He had coached this girl before the audition? Weren’t the other candidates irked by that?
Actress Sophia flashed him a Scarlet O’Hara smile and sang again, just as before but a little louder. Grace resisted a scream. Gilbert and Sullivan would no doubt have denied any rumor of their participation in this.
Devon paced the short distance at the foot of the stage, his ear craned toward Sophia till she hit the final note. “Much better.” He stopped, waving an approving arm.
Grace shook her head. Was he tone deaf?
He turned to retake his seat. Halfway up the aisle he stopped, his steel-blue eyes locking onto hers. She shrank back, her stomach suddenly aflutter. A smile played on his lips causing a dimple to materialize on his square chin. Grace smiled slightly. If Devon had been a movie star in the 1940’s, Cary Grant would have been nervous.
“Oh, Devon.”
The willowy actress called out from the stage, with a hand on her hip and a glint in her eye.
Lithely, Devon turned first his head, then his body. “Yes?”
Grace kept her eye on him, entranced by his indisputable manly magnetism.
Sophia gave him a look that dripped syrup. “Did my phrasing play, or should I go back to my original interpretation?”
He flicked a hand toward her. “I liked the old way, Sophia. Your instinct is brilliant.”
She radiated her pleasure at that verdict as she glanced at the row of ladies behind her.
Grace clucked her tongue. Yes Sophia, they all heard him.
Devon returned to his seat, calling out over his shoulder as he did so. “Ruby. You’re up next.”
Sophia frowned slightly, taking a step back to allow a stout young woman in a John Deere cap to take center stage. Visibly shaking, Ruby clasped her hands at the level of the bib pocket of her well-worn overalls. Grace fought the impulse to raise her hands to her ears.
“Go ahead, Myra.” Taking his seat, Devon looked at the accompanist, who gave him a grandmotherly nod of consent and began playing.
Saving Grace (Madison Falls) Page 4
