by Janet Dailey
“Not many,” she admitted. “But I haven’t been in town much either.”
“That doesn’t matter. You still won’t see many. And every year they become fewer and fewer.”
“People are always moving to new towns. It’s a national trend.”
“But their reasons aren’t the same,” Bannon insisted. “The director at the Aspen Art Museum recently resigned when she couldn’t find a two-bedroom home in Aspen that rented for less than two thousand dollars a month.”
Kit had no response to that. They walked a few more paces in silence. Then Bannon said, “I don’t blame you for worrying about how you’re going to take care of your mother. I worry, too. About raising my daughter in a town where there’s so much subtle emphasis on material possessions, where the stores sell one-hundred-thousand-dollar fur coats.” He waved a hand at the full-length sable displayed in the window of a furrier across the street. “Or boots that cost four thousand dollars, or sweaters for six hundred and up. Where other girls her age have their own television sets, compact disc players, and heated pools to swim in. High times, high style, high living-that isn’t the kind of small-town environment you want to raise your child in.”
“No,” Kit agreed quietly, sobered by the thought that she had no children to raise, no cause for the same concern. She couldn’t help thinking how different it might have been if Bannon hadn’t married Diana. But there was no point dwelling on a past she couldn’t change.
“Most of the people who work in Aspen can’t afford to live here. Most of them don’t even shop here. It’s too expensive. Which makes it hard to get help. Several restaurants don’t even open for lunch anymore. What’s going to happen when all the volunteer firemen move someplace else?” he asked, grimly rhetorical, then sighed. “I do what I can, but it’s never enough.”
“Like the rooms above your office that you rent to the school-teacher and that man you represented on a pro bono basis,” Kit recalled, eyeing Bannon with a quiet pride.
He smiled ruefully. “Sometimes I feel like the little Dutch boy with his thumb plugging the hole in the dike. A stopgap that stems the flow but doesn’t correct the problem. There’s no easy solution. There’s too much money in this town and money changes the way people think. When you’re poor, you look at things one way. When you’ve got a million dollars in your pocket, you look at things differently. The money won’t let you do anything else.”
“I don’t accept that.”
“It’s true. If a man spent ten dollars and built a lemonade stand out of scrap lumber, then charged three dollars for a small glass, he’d be condemned for it. But if that same man spent five million dollars and built apartment units, then rented them for three thousand dollars a month, he’d be forgiven because of the amount of money involved-even though it’s the same sin.”
“It isn’t right.” Even to her own ears, that sounded terribly naive.
“No, it isn’t.” Lifting his hand, Bannon glanced across the street. “Do you remember Max Davis?”
“The tyrant of the boards? Are you kidding?” Kit grinned, instantly recalling the big, ruddy-faced man who’d been the director of the first play she’d done with the local repertory company. “No one could forget Max. Is he still around?”
“Still around, still involved with the theater company. In fact, they’re in rehearsals for a new musical over at the Wheeler.” He nodded in the direction of the red-sandstone building on the corner. The opera house was an Aspen landmark built over one hundred years ago, when silver was king. At three stories it was still the tallest building in Aspen. “Want to drop in?”
“I’d love to.” She broke out of her strolling pace and grabbed at his arm, drawing him along as she headed across the street with quickened strides.
The house lights were down, the only illumination coming from the work lights on the bare stage of the old and elegant opera house. Gravitating toward the stage, Kit moved quietly down the shadowed center aisle, her gaze riveted on the six dancers in practice tights and faded leotards working out a routine while a man at the piano banged out a bawdy tune. She slipped into the fifth row and sank into the second seat, leaving the one on the aisle for Bannon.
For a time she content to simply watch and listen, absorbing the scene before her. At last she leaned back in the seat and whispered to Bannon. “Can’t you just see it? Low-cut dresses in red satin trimmed with naughty black lace, feathery plumes in their hair, and garters flashing on black stockings, a saloon set behind them.
Glancing sideways at him, she saw the amused look in his eyes-and she saw it fade, his eyes darkening with longing and something more. In the same second, she discovered his arm was draped across the back of her seat, the ends of his fingers lightly touching her arm. She didn’t want to remember all the other times they’d sat close like this in darkened places, sometimes innocently, sometimes not. His gaze drifted to her lips and she felt that old ache come back, just as intense, just as heady as before.
His hand lifted as if to touch her. She caught the glint of his wedding band, the one Diana had placed on his ring finger, and looked back to the stage. Her heart seemed to knock against her ribs for an instant. Then Bannon was withdrawing his arm from her seat back, raising it over her head, and lowering it to the armrest between them.
Conscious of his profile sharply etched in her side vision, Kit stared instead at the stage’s red-velvet curtain and the gilded and curved cornice above it. The brass rails on the ornately embellished side boxes flanking the stage gleamed softly, reflecting the glow of the work lights, as did the multi-armed, brass and silver-trimmed chandelier overhead. But the graceful curve of the auditorium’s balcony remained in deep shadows.
To break the heavy tension she felt, Kit said, “Mother used to bring me here a lot. I always thought it was the most beautiful place in the world-and that was before it had this last four-and-a-half-million-dollar facelift,” she added, then went back to her original thought. “Before the lights went down and the curtain went up, I’d sit and imagine how grand it must have looked to the people who came a hundred years ago. I’d close my eyes and pretend I was there-silk and taffeta gowns rustling around me, perfumed handkerchiefs fluttering and scenting the air with myriad fragrances, my hands clutching a white-satin program,” she murmured, letting her voice trail off. “Then the curtain would go up and I’d dream that someday I would be one of those actors on the stage.”
“Maybe it’ll happen yet.”
“Maybe,” she echoed with a touch of old wistfulness, then mused, “When you think of all the years the Wheeler stood empty, boarded up after fires gutted the stage area, it’s a miracle no one ever tore it down.”
“I hate to count how many times Dad has told me about my grandfather’s efforts to help put out those two fires,” Bannon remarked, punctuating it with a silent, laughing breath.
“Endless, right?” Kit flashed him a smile, relieved that they had again made the transition back to an easy camaraderie and away from that dangerous tension, charged with past feelings.
“Endless,” he confirmed, then nodded at a silhouetted figure slumped in one of the front-row seats. “That’s Max sitting there, isn’t it?”
“I think so.” The burly shoulders, the challenging tilt of his head, and the bushy shock of hair looked familiar, but Kit couldn’t see enough of his profile to be sure. Then he used the point of a finger to push his chin up higher, the distinctive gesture removing all doubt. “Yap, that’s Max,” she declared softly, watching the chin come down and the point of his finger press in the tip of his nose.
The music stopped. A crushing silence swept from the stage. “Good,” the choreographer pronounced and signaled the dancers to take five. They scattered, grabbing up towels to mop away the perspiration. The choreographer, a slim, wiry man, turned to face the man slouched in the front-row seat. “What do you think?”
As Max Davis started to rouse himself, Kit spoke up impishly, “Looked good to me.”
M
ax turned in his seat and glared into the shadowed house. “Who’s out there?”
“Who do you think?” Kit replied, rising as Bannon stepped into the aisle to let her pass.
When he saw her moving toward him, Max almost broke into a smile, then caught himself and glowered in mock menace. “I should have known it would be that sassy Kit Masters.”
“Not sassy. Opinionated,” she offered in compromise.
“You were green all right, and you had more talent than you knew what to do with,” he declared, then wrapped her in a bear hug before pushing her back to take a good look. “But you’re wrong about that routine. It drags.”
“It won’t-not once they’re in costume, the orchestra’s playing, and the props and set are in place,” she countered.
“Which shows how much you know about it,” he said in false scorn, then spotted Bannon behind her and nodded in his direction.
“I see you’re still keeping good company.” He winked.
“Do you think so?” She pretended to give the matter serious thought.
“I know so,” Max replied in a decisive voice and pushed a chunky hand at Bannon. “Good to see you again, Bannon.”
“Same here, Max.” He stepped up to briefly grip the man’s hand, then leaned against the brass-railed divider that separated the seats from the orchestra pit.
“I haven’t had a chance to thank you, Bannon, for all the lobbying you did to get some affordable housing in the area, Max said.
“I wasn’t the only one.”
“No, but you did some damned effective arm-twisting,” Max replied, then glanced at Kit. “I’ll bet he didn’t tell you about that.”
“No,” she admitted. “He only mentioned that housing had become a problem.”
“That’s an understatement,” Max declared. “Last winter, the repertory company had to cancel its season because they couldn’t find housing for the actors.”
“I didn’t know.” Kit frowned, surprised by the news. “Dad never mentioned it.”
“Now you have an idea just how critical the shortage has become,” Max stated. “A lot of people were shocked when the season was canceled, but at least it woke everybody up to the problem. Now the town’s taken over some housing units to rent out cheap to teachers and employees. Unfortunately, there’re still over two hundred names on a waiting list.” He paused, a twinkle entering his eyes. “While we’re on depressing subjects, remember Garth Turner?”
“Of course.” She smiled, instantly recalling the actor she’d worked with so many years ago. “How’s he doing? The last I heard he’d gone to New York.”
“He’s back. In fact, he’s backstage.”
“You’re kidding,” Kit protested in a mixture of surprise and delight.
Max cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted at the choreographer, “Hey, Chris. Holler at Garth and tell him there’s someone out here to see him.”
He waved an acknowledgment and exited stage left. Bannon straightened from the rail. “Sounds like you’re going to be having a reunion, and I’ve got some calls to make,” he said, glancing at his watch.
“Good to see you, Bannon.” Max lifted a hand in farewell.
“You, too,” Bannon replied, then nodded to Kit.
“See you,” she managed to say an instant before Garth Turner burst onto the stage, followed by a half dozen other members of the cast, mostly young.
“Looks like Chris dropped your name,” Max observed when he saw the others. “There’s nothing that gets an actor’s juices up quicker than having a star in the house.”
“I can’t believe I’m hearing that from you,” Kit chided. “The first foot of film isn’t in the can.”
“But you’ve got what it takes to make it.” He paused and ran a measuring eye over her. “You’re still a little too soft, a little too trusting, but you’ll toughen up.”
She didn’t like the sound of that, and tried to laugh it away. “You know me, Max. I have the proverbial heart of gold.”
“So does a hard-boiled egg,” he countered.
She was saved from coming up with a reply to that as Garth descended on her, catching her hand and swinging her around to face him. “As I live and breathe, it is Kit Masters in the flesh. And what gorgeous flesh it is, too.” The little-boy deviltry in his eyes diluted the leer of his look.
She laughed, then sighed. “God, it’s been ages, Garth.”
“It has.” His fingers briefly tightened their grip on her hands. “Did you come slumming or what?”
“This is hardly slumming.” She lifted her gaze to the lush interior of the richly gilded opera house.
“True.” He grinned, then turned to the group hovering in the background. “I want you to meet some of our illustrious cast.”
Shy, eager, wary, self-conscious, hopeful, reserved-Kit saw one or more expressions reflected on the faces of the four actors and two actresses Garth introduced to her, confusing everything by including the names of the characters they were playing. She gave up any hope of keeping them straight and simply smiled and shook hands with each in turn.
“Garth told us he did some summer theater with you,” the last one said, an older man in his fifties. “We all thought he was just bragging again.”
“It’s no brag; it’s a fact,” Kit insisted, smiling at the sandy-haired actor. “We had a lot of fun, too.”
“We sure did.”
“Doris McElroy was in that play, wasn’t she? Where is she now? Do you know?”
“I think she got married and moved to…Texas, I think it was. Remember Bill Grimes? He’s a news anchor at some little station in Nebraska.” They spent a few minutes catching up on news of others they’d worked with that summer, then Garth remarked, “You’re the only one of our old bunch that’s made it into the big time.”
Max cut in. “All right, let’s break up this conversation and get back to work. In case you’ve forgotten, we’re here to rehearse, not stand around all day talking.”
With a grin, Garth jerked his head at Max. “Still the slave driver.”
“I noticed.” Kit smiled.
“Hey, Garth!” one of the dancers called to him from the stage. “Is that pizza party still on at your place tonight?”
“You bet. We serve from five until ten. Come anytime, just bring your own beer or wine.”
The word pizza sparked an instant memory. “Does Jenny still make that fabulous pizza with pepperoni and olives and sausage?” That summer ten years ago Kit had stuffed herself on his wife’s pizza.
“Are you kidding? It’s better than ever.”
“Impossible.” She waited expectantly for an invitation.
“It’s true,” he insisted, then moved off with a wave. “See you around, Kit.”
“Right.” She kept her smile in place, but it was a little forced.
As Garth walked away, she heard the young actress hiss at him, “Why didn’t you invite her tonight?”
“Get real, Annie,” Garth muttered out of the corner of his mouth. “Kit’s moved into the big leagues. She’ll be making the scene at Gordon’s or Pinons or Syzygy tonight.”
“Yeah, Annie,” someone else chimed in. “She’s too big to party with peons like us.”
“I’m never going to be that way when I make it,” the girl declared.
Kit wanted to tell her that maybe she wouldn’t have a choice. First you have to be asked. Briefly she toyed with the idea of inviting herself to Garth’s place, but she had the distinct feeling it wouldn’t be the same. They wouldn’t let it be the same.
She told Max good-bye and left to meet Paula.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Sunlight bounced off the chrome bumper of the white Range Rover parked in front of the house, the brilliant flare of light blinding Kit for a fraction of a second as she swung the Jeep into the ranch yard. Instinctively she threw up a shielding hand to block the glare, but the angle was broken by then.
“You have company,” Paula observed from the passenger sea
t.
“It’s John.” She smiled for the first time since they’d left town as she saw him run lightly down the porch steps to meet them.
He opened the driver’s door before she had the Jeep’s engine switched off.
“Marvelous timing, John,” Paula called across to him. “You can help us carry all my packages in.”
“Somehow, in less than three hours, Paula managed to have her hair done and buy out half the stores in Aspen.” Kit slung her purse strap over her shoulder and climbed out of the Jeep. “I don’t know how she managed it.”
“Practice, my dear Kit. Sheer practice.” Paula stepped out and reached back to gather up one of a half dozen shopping bags.
“I’d help you with those, Paula,” John said as he cupped his hands over the rounded points of Kit’s hips, his gaze moving lazily and possessively over her. “But I’m afraid my hands are full right now.”
“Is that a fact?” Kit spread her hands over the front of his headier gray sweater and tipped her head back.
“A most enjoyable fact.” He rubbed his mouth over her lips, then tunneled into them to kiss her thoroughly while his hands glided onto her back, applying enough pressure to align her body with his.
Responding to him, Kit leaned closer, welcoming the contact with the hard warmth of his body. There was strength in her arms, strength and solidness. It was a combination that soothed and stimulated, made her feel wanted and protected.
When he drew back, she settled more comfortably against him.
“I needed that, John T.,” she whispered and brushed her lips over the taut muscle in his neck.
“So did I.” Turning, he rubbed the side of his jaw, catlike, along her hair. “Nolan and I have to fly back to L.A. and pull together a few things on that end. Throw some things in a suitcase and come with me.”
She tipped her head back to look at him. “How long will you be gone?”
“Four or five days. A week at the outside.”
