LOVE AND LOATHING

BACKSTAGE ROMANCE BOOK ONE

BLUME
Copyright © 2019 by Sodasac Press All rights reserved.
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except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Editing: SJS Editorial
Custom Cover Design: Jessica Parker
Formatting: Kayla Tirrell
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 CONTENTS

1. The Stanley Sisters

2. Loathe Pie
3. Fine Eyes
4. Spiders, Sharks, and Barnacles, Oh My!
5. It's Hard to Be the Bard (or MacGyver)
6. Good Opinion Once Lost
7. Quetzalcoatl’s Hot Chocolate
8. How Pitiful His Tale (How Rare His Beauty)
9. Eggs, Pie, and Cheese Wiz
10. Any Savage Can Dance
11. Red and Black
12. The Yam Incident
13. Telenovelas and Cap’n Crunch
14. What Is This Feeling?
15. He Ran Into My Knife Ten Times
16. At Common Sense She Gaily Mocks
17. Twitterpated
18. Taco Wednesday
19. Some Disenchanted Evening
20. Cold Civility
21. Will with A Quill
22. The Winter of Our Discontent
23. The Girl with The Lanyard
24. The Woman Who Stole My Heart and My Dog
25. First-Rate Opportunity
26. Stay
27. Lights, Cookies, Snoopy
28. Hold, Monsters!
29. T Minus One Day
30. Something Else
31. Take Heart, Take Mine
32. Pour, Oh Pour, the Pirate Sherry
Epilogue

Love Romantic Comedy?

Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Blume
 1

THE STANLEY SISTERS

Beth

IT IS a truth universally acknowledged that a hotshot movie star must be

off his rocker to do regional theatre. It wasn’t uncommon for A-list
celebrities to sharpen their chops as Hamlet or star in a fresh, new musical
between filming projects, but as far as I was concerned, vain pretty boys
who made hot-rod movies could leave Moliere and Mamet to the real
actors. Unfortunately, nobody asked my opinion.
This was my first professional gig. I was a principal cast member
in Pirates of Penzance at the Stella Gardiner Theatre, a prime regional
playhouse in Los Angeles. After an eternity of paying my dues performing
in obscure shows in shoddy warehouses, I was finally getting paid. Squee!
It was a mystery how I managed to get the part of Edith, but there I was,
hoping nobody would notice the giant newbie in the room. I was certain it
was some sort of mistake and half-expected the director to kick me out the
first day of rehearsal. Can I be honest here? I was mildly disappointed he
didn’t. Here’s why: Professional theatre meant they expected professional-
level work. And that terrified me. I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. And by
Kansas, I mean community theatre.
(I’m not from Kansas. I’m from Long Beach.)
The one thing that settled my nerves as I took my place among the other
cast members in the rehearsal hall was the presence of my friend and
roommate Jane. She landed the lead role of Mabel, and everybody knew it
was well deserved.
I lifted my binder of sheet music over my face and leaned into Jane.
“I’m just going to hide under your rehearsal skirt like a woodland animal
for the next few weeks. Okay?”
She grinned, regarding me with amusement, her perfect teeth and
flawless skin just another modus to render me invisible. Who would pay
any attention to little ‘ol Pluto when the very sun shone upon them? I
winced and figured I’d bask in the shadow of her glory for the
unforeseeable future.
“You’ll be brilliant, Beth,” she said sweetly. “I’m your biggest fan.”
Yeah. Okay then.
She was my biggest fan because, with the thin walls of our apartment,
she was a captive audience. Nobody was knocking down my door to hear
me sing in the shower even though the laminated lyrics I suction-cupped to
the tile wall were the most genius idea I’d had. Ever.
A squeal behind me shook me out of my reverie.
“Did you hear? The guy cast as Frederic is coming right from a national
tour.”
The squeal belonged to Lydia, a girl I knew from a previous show. She
leaned in between Jane and me and propped her chin on my shoulder,
bouncing her eyes around the room at the twenty or so male cast members.
“Which one do you think he is? I hear he’s eye candy.” She tilted her face
towards Jane like a little bird and smiled. “Oh, hello. My name is Lettuce
Stanley. What’s your name?”
I raised my eyes to the ceiling because I knew this bit. She liked to
make up names for her character when she was in the ensemble. She
insisted everyone call her that all the time. She wasn’t interested in Jane’s
real name.
“This is Mabel Stanley,” I replied on Jane’s behalf. This little tidbit of
information lit up Lydia’s face, and she squeezed Jane’s arms, snapping a
selfie.
“Hashtag Stanley Sisters.”
She posted the photo immediately with the addition of #piratebootycall.
A hush came over the cast as the director entered the room. We all clung
to our sheet music with rapt attention. Cole Forster preceded his reputation
as one of the toughest directors in Los Angeles theatre. He semi-retired
from his Broadway career after a lucrative stint on shows such
as Nine and Dracula The Musical. When he came to Los Angeles, he
worked almost exclusively at the Gardiner, where he would direct one show
a year. Every single one of them won awards. No pressure.
He cleared his throat and scanned the room. I wasn’t sure if the scowl
he wore was attributed to his displeasure at such a ragtag cast, or if that was
a permanent fixture on his face. I pushed the thought aside for later. He
addressed the thirty-five or so performers thus.
“I want to start by congratulating all of you for your display of talent
and skill that has brought you here today. The audition process was
rigorous, and the elimination rounds were especially difficult for Fitz and
me.”
He gestured to Fitz Hanlon, the music director standing by the piano
with his music stand at the ready. Fitz nodded gravely.
Cole Forster continued, “As some of you may be aware, we pre-cast
some of our principal players which I don’t see here at present, but I
do have a surprise which I think you’ll consider a real treat.”
Everyone in the room straightened at attention a little bit more, if that
was at all possible, but Lydia slumped in her chair, almost pouting that Mr.
National Tour had yet to enter the building.
And then, like a tropical storm, the woman of the hour swept into the
room. The legend. The queen of theatre for whom the place we were sitting
in was named. Audible gasps waved across the cast. A faint smile cracked
across Cole Forster’s face as he introduced the elderly but spry woman
entering with a flourish in a black leotard and a flowing paisley kimono.
“Our very own Dame Stella Gardiner will play the part of Ruth.”
The room filled with thunderous applause. Scripts hit the floor, and
everyone was on their feet, the applause growing in intensity as Stella made
several large, sweeping bows.
It was a beautiful moment. This woman was so celebrated, she didn’t
even have to open her mouth with one line of dialogue to get a standing
ovation. In my opinion, she deserved it. Black and white photos
of Ms. Gardiner in various productions over the years lined the foyer and
hallways of the theatre.
Dramatic images taken candidly upon the stage of her playing Lady
Macbeth, Evita and Maria von Trapp were the whispers of antiquity that
gave the theatre its character. Her legacy was set upon the long and notable
career she built for herself. She was nominated for seven Tony awards and
won three, had an Oscar under her belt, and her countless film and
television appearances were probably just another day in the life of the
great Dame Stella. Yep. Definitely not in Kansas anymore.
“I just want you all to know,” she began with her regal English air, “that
even though I’m technically the owner of this pile of bricks…” She waved
her hand around, indicating the theatre. A flutter of chuckles accompanied
her pause. “…we are all in the same boat together. By the way, I’ve seen the
designs for the actual boat, and we’ll be packed in quite cozily. So wear
deodorant.”
This earned her more laughs, and she smiled with that famous glow she
was known for. It wasn’t a trick of good lighting or the magic performed in
the editing room. That glow was all her. She was radiant. I noticed with awe
how incredibly electric the room became simply by her presence. But she
didn’t strike me as one of those old-timey movie stars who expected
everyone to grovel. She cracked jokes and exchanged hugs with the creative
team. Fitz said something in her ear, and she laughed with an easy mien,
squeezing his shoulder in genuine camaraderie.
This was her tribe, I thought wistfully. I’d observed it in many
celebrities and Broadway stars. There was always that group of people who,
sharing the toil of one’s life work, became more than friends. It was like a
club one could only join by doing brilliant things. I wanted to be a part of it.
I was a part of it. It could be my tribe, too.
Admittedly, I still felt like a voyeur, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
It reminded me of that time my uncle snuck into the U2 concert by
simply walking through the stage door with the crew. He described how he
watched the entire show from the wings, and nobody said anything to him.
He did that three times. But on the fourth attempt, part of the security staff
stopped him for not having a lanyard.
A lanyard.
So he pretended he was lost. No big deal. I wondered how many
rehearsals I could realistically attend before people noticed I didn’t belong.
I’d have to act confused and claim I wandered in there by accident, thinking
it was a Pilates studio. I did a quick perusal of the other actors to see if any
of them had lanyards or name stickers. Nope. So far, so good.
Stop freaking out, Beth. They want you here. You’re good enough. You
can do this.
 As if on cue, two men walked into the rehearsal studio riding on the
wake of Stella’s limelight. It was as though, true to a stage performer’s
instincts, the applause drew them there like moths to a flame. Everyone was
dazzled by their presence as the two men shook hands with the directors.
They were both gorgeous. I recognized one of them from some movie
posters I’d seen, but I couldn’t place the name. He carried himself as a
movie star would, bigger than life. Even though he was casually dressed,
there was something about him, something in the atmosphere surrounding
him that declared, “Is it great to see me or what? I’m rich and important. Be
impressed.”
It must have been an effective device for him. Nobody seemed to mind
he was a half hour late. I noted with some amusement that if you’re going
to be late, you might as well make a memorable entrance, and the way that
man sauntered into the room, I’m sure it wasn’t easily forgotten for
anybody present that day. My heart sped up just a little as he passed by me
on the way to his seat. The molecules in my personal space were disrupted
in the ripple he caused. I had to blink a few times to shake it off. Was that
how it would be, working with a movie star for the next few months? My
temporary lack of composure made me angry with myself. I never got
starstruck. Celebrities are human just like the rest of us, born into this world
naked and pruney. My dad always said their poop was just as smelly as the
next guy. He usually spoke about politicians, but I decided the same
analogy could apply to actors.
Cole introduced the two men as having come straight from the U.S. tour
of Something Rotten. This was met with some oohs and aahs by all of us
nobodies in the cast. I admit, it piqued my attention. I had the Broadway
cast album on my playlist, and I knew all the songs verbatim.
“You might recognize Will Darcy from the popular Fast and Dangerous
franchise,” Cole announced. “He’ll be our Pirate King.”
Aha! Darcy. I knew he looked familiar. Action-flick guy. He was the son
of Martin Darcy, Hollywood old-timer and recipient of countless zealous
fangirls before fangirling was even a thing. My mother was the president of
the club.
Cole likewise introduced the other man although with a little less
fanfare. His name was Bing, and he had the part of Frederic. His features
were exactly what a male romantic lead should be. He was lean with the
muscles of a dancer, an almost-boyish, handsome face, and the most
charming smile I’d ever seen.
He was fresh faced and eager looking, and if my accurate judge of
character gave me any clue (and my judge of character was always
impeccable), this guy was just as thrilled and surprised to be there as the
lowliest of the lowly chorus boys. He’d just come from a national tour, yet
he was humble and unassuming. Also, he didn’t have a lanyard.
It was a comfort, and I reassured myself with the idea of holding my
own amongst these seasoned professionals. My imposter syndrome was on
a need-to-know basis. I decided I wasn’t one of those who needed to know.
You’re good enough. You can do this.
I repeated the affirmations in my mind all throughout the first day,
pushing aside self-doubt and the nagging nostalgia of old habits. Things I
could hold on to. Kansas was easy. Kansas was comfortable. Oz was scary
and massive and overwhelming. But it was also magical. It was home. I
glanced at my surrounding friends. Lydia the scarecrow and Jane as Glinda
the Good Witch. Was I Dorothy or the cowardly lion? Neither, I decided at
last. I was the freaking tornado, fools! And I was ready to blow everyone
away.
Emboldened by this confidence, I took the opportunity to introduce
myself to Mr. Action Flick on one of our breaks. I found him in the green
room finishing a call. I considered it incredibly convenient to catch him at
the same moment I needed a bottled water. I had a few seconds to observe
him before he turned around. He wore a crisp pair of jeans that looked like
they were tailored for his tall form and tucked into those jeans was a black
button-down shirt which reminded me of something Gene Kelly would
wear. The short sleeves were cuffed just enough to showcase the long line
of muscles and sinews on his arms. Action hero arms—but not too bulky.
His hair, a sandy light brown, fell in careless, tousled waves and framed his
aristocratic features, dotted with a two-day stubble. But his eyes. That’s
probably where I lost my ability to speak in intelligent words. They were a
piercing blue, rimmed with speckles of dark grey. Like the Pacific on a
sunny day when there’s a single cloud over the horizon, promising an
oncoming storm. And when those eyes fell over me, I suddenly felt
freakishly tiny.
“Hi,” I stammered. It actually surprised me I even got that word out.
 He didn’t respond with words. He did that chin nod thing that’s the
gangster equivalent of ‘Hey, wut up.’ Then he frowned at his phone and
tucked it in his messenger bag. Yes, the man carried a messenger bag like a
bohemian hipster. It didn’t add up to his Gucci loafers and Bulova watch.
I allowed myself to recover from that somewhat standoffish greeting,
giving him a smile anyway. Sometimes people just need a smile. I
continued on with the office of hydrating myself with the complimentary
water. I noted with a measure of discontent that all the bottles were kept
cold. I preferred room temperature water as a rule. Better for the vocal
chords. But I was thirsty, and I’d forgotten to bring my own.
Mr. Action Flick, A.K.A. Will, was scowling at his sheet music by this
point. I knew exactly what he was thinking. The score was incredibly hard,
operatic in nature and lots and lots of words. Especially the pitter-patter
songs.
I strode towards him, feeling comical and witty. And standing on my
tippy toes to glance over his shoulder at the sheet music, I quipped, “Far too
many notes for my taste.”
“What?” He turned his head just enough to glare over me sidelong.
“Uh… notes?” I grasped at the hope he’d get my humor and laughed.
“From Phantom of the Opera. Just a little musical theatre joke.”
He didn’t get my humor. He seemed adamantly opposed to it. There was
a definite Ebenezer Scrooge quality to his stare. Next, he would surely say,
‘Every idiot who goes about with musical theatre jokes on her lips should
be boiled in her own pudding and buried with a conductor’s baton through
her heart.’
What was with this guy? I was just trying to be friendly.
His lips drew into a thin line, and his eyes moved over my form in open
assessment. I supposed by the way his eyebrows lurched down, he didn’t
like what he saw. There wasn’t much to see, really. I was five foot one and a
half on a good day. This particular day, I wore black yoga pants and
a Guardians of the Galaxy t-shirt, and my hair was fashioned in two loose
braids. I wasn’t trying to impress anyone. And I certainly didn’t feel the
need to make myself attractive for an underacting movie star.
Underacting is a thing, by the way. People usually classify poor acting
with overacting. But when someone is just blah, delivering their lines with
no feeling at all, that’s underacting.
 So this underacting action star looked at me like a vegan would look at
a plate full of raw meat. He closed his music binder, turned on his heel, and
left the room without so much as a syllable from his lips.
So much for introductions.
I immediately searched for Jane before rehearsal could resume. I wanted
to tell her all about my encounter with Will Darcy. But she was floating in
some weird cloud of euphoria. While I was being scrutinized by a cocky
movie star, she was quite happily getting acquainted with his friend.
She flipped through her script, not really looking at it, the side of her lip
curling slightly. Bending her head closer to her binder, her buttermilk locks
covered her face, but I could still see the flush of pink overcome her cheeks.
“Spill it,” I said. “I want details.”
“Nothing to spill.”
“Liar. I can see your face.”
Jane’s face flushed deeper, but she tried to stifle a smile as she tilted her
head and turned to face me. I rarely saw her in such a state unless she liked
a guy.
“So, what’s he like?” I pried.
“He’s nice.”
Apparently, she considered this description sufficient enough. Getting
information out of her was like reading Proust’s In Search of Lost
Time from start to finish within one lifetime. She wasn’t much of a talker. In
short, after some probing and unabashed bribery concerning ice cream, the
little I could extract from her was that he was a very polite, gentlemanly
sort of fellow. Her words, not mine. The girl watched too much Masterpiece
Theatre.
But after a long day of rehearsals, I conceded that true to Jane’s
nineteenth-century description, he really was a polite, gentlemanly sort of
fellow. He was all smiles all the time. Everyone was smitten by him.
But his friend Mr. Action Flick, I’m sorry to say, didn’t disappoint in the
boorish department.
My prejudices of his character were spot on, and everyone in the cast
soon discovered he was the most ill-mannered, self-centered, arrogant man
ever to be birthed from the bowels of Hollywood.
 2

LOATHE PIE

Beth

THE FIRST FEW days of rehearsals were a whirlwind of arpeggios and

pitter-patter tongue twisting, Gilbert and Sullivan nonsense. Fitz wasn’t at
all easy on us. He expected perfection, and I was about to shove the many
cheerful facts about the square of the hypotenuse up his modern major
falsetto.
“Again,” he’d say. “Take it from the pick up to measure one hundred
and twenty-six.”
It felt like one hundred twenty-six billion. Twice.
I did have to admit this was what I signed up for. But I was so tired.
I worked a hodge-podge schedule at Lucas Lodge, a swanky
establishment on Santa Monica Boulevard, owned by the father of my
childhood friend Charlotte. I couldn’t tell you what his concept was when
he first opened the lodge, but it turned out to be an eclectic mixture of
sports bar, gastro pub, tea house and a novelty dining experience. All the
staff was required to wear renaissance costumes in varying degrees of
historical accuracy. We wore name tags that labeled our rank in the Lucas
Lodge realm. I was Lady Elizabeth, my friend was Princess Charlotte, and
we were all to address her father as Sir William Lucas. We could never
abbreviate it by calling him Sir or even Sir William or heaven forbid Mr.
Lucas. We were to use his complete title every time we mentioned him or
spoke to him.
It was, perhaps, the closest my friend’s father could get to performing.
Charlotte mentioned once her father was a frustrated actor in his youth but
inherited the restaurant before she was born. He transformed it into his own
creation and became quite successful despite himself. I think it was part
accident, part dumb luck, and part location being situated close to several
studios and agency offices and less than a mile from the Gardiner Theatre.
During the 90210 heyday, Aaron Spelling brought an entourage of
Hollywood gatekeepers for lunch, and the rest was history. Now, we got a
handful of celebrities and big shot producers every week.
Night shifts at the lodge took their toll, and I didn’t have time to
memorize the gazillion lyrics by the next day’s rehearsal. So now, I felt
Fitz’s laser eyes burn holes in the top of my head as I tucked into my sheet
music. It was probably my imagination, though. Then I noticed one of the
pirates across the room. His mouth moved, but he didn’t even make any
attempt to pretend to sing the right lyrics. It looked like he was repeating
watermelon, watermelon over and over again. I leaned over to Jane and
whispered, “Who the Zuco is that guy?”
Jane laughed. She knew I didn’t like to cuss. Instead of curse words, my
thing was to replace expletives with characters from musicals. This was my
Grease day.
“That’s Denny,” she replied. “He’s Cole Forster’s nephew.”
I furrowed my brows and stole another glance in his direction. “He
looks like he’s auditioning for Bad Lip Reading.”
I couldn’t help staring. It was like watching Milli Vanilli in a train
wreck. My mouth might have been hinged open with incredulity. Denny
shifted his gaze toward me and locked eyes with mine, giving me a sly
wink. Ugh, Rizzo! My face went hot, and embarrassment flushed over me.
Goodness, he thought I was checking him out. I didn’t find him remotely
attractive. Then, trying to avert his stare, I turned my head only to see
Action-Flick Guy giving me the stink eye. He unabashedly stared me down.
What was his deal? Was he making a mental list of the many cringeworthy
facts about Elizabeth Bennet? I had to tear my eyes away before he also
thought I was into him.
Ugh!
 Lydia, who sat next to me, coquettishly smiled in Denny’s direction and
dramatically crossed her legs so her skirt could inch up a little. Holy Rizzo
and Frenchie. Now all the guys in the cast would think we were a couple of
boy-crazy teenagers. That wasn’t the way I’d hoped to make my
professional debut. I grimaced and buried my face deeper into my sheet
music.
“I’d like to be congically matrimonified with that guy,” Lydia chimed
between stanzas. “Well, not the matrimonified part.”
Typical Lydia.
I rolled my eyes at her lyric quoting and snickered. “Musical theatre
boys are a special breed, Lydia.”
“It’s Lettuce, thank you,” she corrected. “And I’ll bet my bra that one is
straight.”
“You don’t wear bras.”
“Whatever.”
She shrugged and scanned the room. “Who do you think we’ll be
matched up with?”
“What?”
“Matched up with,” she repeated as if I didn’t speak English. “You
know… the Stanley sisters all get matched up with pirates and cops in the
end. You’ll probably get matched with the Pirate King. That’s the way they
usually do it.”
I kinda knew that. The delicious Kevin Klein played the Pirate King in
the movie with Linda Ronstadt. He was sublimely dashing in an Errol Flynn
kind of way, and he kissed every single one of the Stanley sisters.
Especially Edith. Images of swashbuckling pirates in billowy, open-chested
shirts danced in my head like sugarplums. Merry Christmas to me. I amused
myself with that thought for maybe three seconds then shook it off when I
remembered the uncivilized ogre playing the Pirate King in our production.
I stole a quick glance at the movie star to remind myself of my dark and
dismal fate and was horrified when his eyes glanced up and caught me
staring.
Great.
I’m a professional, I’m a professional, I’m a professional.
I sunk my face deep into my sheet music as though it were the most
interesting thing in the universe. As Fitz worked with the tenors on their
harmonies, I did my best to look busy.
 Avoid contact with every single person here. That was my new motto.
“Oh, gag me,” Lydia exclaimed.
“What now?”
“Kate’s already got her claws in the Pirate King’s britches.”
Lydia already had an intense loathing toward Caroline, the actress cast
as Kate, who twirled her hair and laughed as she took the empty seat next to
Will. He wasn’t laughing, though. He wasn’t even smiling. Maybe he had
bad teeth? They can do wonders with CGI. Nevertheless, I found it hilarious
he had a clingy groupie in Caroline.
I didn’t particularly hate Caroline. More like felt sorry for her. Let’s just
say Caroline was the type of musical theatre performer to look down her
nose at any play that the actors didn’t break into spontaneous song. She
would erect shrines to the genius of Andrew Lloyd Webber, Steven
Sondheim, and Lin Manuel Miranda. But Neil Simon? Lame. August
Wilson? Loser. Shakespeare? Imbecile.
In other words, people like her didn’t get straight plays. They wore
leotards and character shoes e-ver-y-where, usually had a full face of
makeup at rehearsals and would cling to the male leads like sequins on
Liberace. I was being generous by calling her an actress. Plus, she was a
first-rate snob. When she found out I worked nights as a server, she flipped
her hair and laughed. She actually flipped her hair. Mean Girls style.
“Is there something wrong, Miss Bennet?” Fitz bore his icicle eyes on
me. His eyes were a remarkable shade of arctic blue. He reminded me of
1995 Hugh Grant but more intense. An angry Hugh Grant.
Every set of eyes in the room swooshed in my direction. Most looked
surprised, Will’s looked annoyed.
“No, I’m fine,” I said.
“Are you sure?” asked Fitz. “You weren’t singing.”
Oh snap. The sopranos were supposed to join in. I could see Caroline’s
smug grin in my peripheral vision like she could smell my fear. She nudged
Will with her elbow and said something snarky out of the side of her mouth.
I could feel the weight of his intense stare. A wave of burning humiliation
washed over me. I may have momentarily blacked out. Why was Fitz
singling me out? Crazy Lips Denny wasn’t even facing the piano. He had
somehow migrated behind Fitz and sat on a stack of eight chairs with his
legs dangling. Lydia was chewing gum for crying out loud. The
accompanist looked irritated. Furthermore, everyone stared at me, probably
annoyed to have the song interrupted.
Mr. Action-Flick Darcy couldn’t be bothered to take part in any of the
lowly ensemble numbers—obviously. He must have had a direct line to
Gilbert and Sullivan, channeling their spirits through the divine talent
bestowed upon him from heaven on high. He snorted, got up from his chair,
and left the room.
Fitz, unfazed by this display of Hollywood entitlement, awaited my
reply. I swallowed hard and looked down to my music. There were so many
words!
“Uh,” I said. “It’s just…” I already regretted the words before they
came out of my mouth because it was a stupid, small, trivial thing, which
didn’t justify the interruption. But I was now the subject of everyone’s dog
stare and rather than reveal the true reason for my distraction, I blurted,
“There’s a typo.”
“A typo?”
“Yes. It’s no big deal.”
Fitz stared at me without blinking, his frigid, blue eyes piercing deep
into my self-confidence. He closed the gap between us in three easy strides.
“Let me see.”
I pointed to the error in the music and placed the sheets into his
outstretched hand. He examined it with a squint, took the sheets to his
music stand and compared them to his own, grunted, and brought them
back to me. I was eighty-five percent sure I’d made a mistake and expected
him to make an example of me by citing my ignorance of Victorian English.
But he nodded and said, “Good catch. Everyone, mark your music. Measure
seventy-eight, change infinity to divinity.” He stepped neatly behind his
music stand as the cast whipped out pencils, all of them frantically making
the change in the text. I couldn't help but notice Caroline didn’t bother with
a pencil and instead, opted to sip her alkaline water with an obvious scowl
in my direction.
I resolved to keep my head down and direct all my attention to my sheet
music, like it was the most interesting thing in the world. Sixteenth notes.
Fascinating. I was totally not thinking about Will Darcy or the way his
beautiful eyes tore right through me, shredding all my pretend poise. It was
almost as though he didn’t exist.
 My perfect indifference was put to the test when I was packing up my
bag after a long day of rehearsal. How was I supposed to know he was on
the other side of the costume rack? Unfortunately, I overheard the tail end
of his conversation with Bing.
“You should come out with us, Will. Just a couple of drinks.”
“A couple of drinks and then what?” There was a frown in Darcy’s
voice. “You’re not being smart about this.”
Wow. He was even rude to his friend. Poor, misguided Bing.
“A lot of the cast is going,” Bing pleaded. “Don’t be such a snob.”
“I told you I would help springboard your career. You need to focus.”
“Yeah, I know.” Bing paused like a child under the scrutiny of a
schoolmaster. “Listen. Jane asked if I was going. I just want to get to know
her better, you know, so our stage kiss won’t be so awkward.”
“Do you plan on going out with every actress you have to kiss on stage
or screen?”
“No, but—have you seen her?”
“She smiles too much.”
“She’s a goddess. And her voice!”
“She’s the only girl with a trace of talent in this whole cast.”
“That’s not true. What about her friend? Beth, the girl that plays Edith.
She’s seems good.”
Darcy snorted. “Her? She is tolerably mediocre.”
A knot formed in the pit of my stomach. Mediocre? Those were my
exact thoughts about Caroline. That would have been a bad enough insult to
my ego, but he went on. “She contributes absolutely nothing to this show. I
wouldn’t waste my time following her career into obscurity.”
The knot in my abdomen grew into a great, big ball of loathe pie. Have
you ever had loathe pie? It is sweet on the tongue with a bitter aftertaste and
sits at the bottom of your stomach like a rock. I wanted to throw that rock
right at Darcy’s smug, aristocratic face. Then I wanted to strangle his
elegant neck. Then I’d gouge out his striking blue eyes and reach down into
his soulless innards and make him eat it. That’s loathe pie.
But I was a grown woman, and I decided Will Darcy didn’t even
deserve a slice of my loathe pie. Or any pie. He wasn’t worth a crumb. And
I was determined in that moment to let him know it.
I reached into my bag and retrieved my cell phone. A few swipes of my
settings, and my ringtone sounded. Through the gaps in the hanging
costumes, I could see both men turn their heads, surprised to see me—a hint
of guilt played on their features.
I pretended to take a call. “Hello? Oh, hi. No, no, I’m not busy. I’m just
leaving rehearsal.” I covered the mouthpiece with the palm of my hand and
whispered to Darcy who was turning a shade of white. “Sorry, it’s my
agent.” The shock on his face was pure gold. So I milked it. “Yeah, I’m still
looking at those scripts. Well, they’ll just have to fight over me then.” I
feigned a show biz laugh. “You know it’s not about the money. It’s the art I
care about. I’ll let you know in a couple of days. Sure. Love you too,
darling. Ciao.”
I pretended to end the call and returned the phone to my bag as I strut
myself around the clothing rack and right next to that deplorable man. I
looked straight at his pretty boy face and said with a smile, “Mr. Darcy, you
dropped something. Oh, it’s just your tact. Never mind.” Then I flounced
right out of the theatre, through the parking lot, and into my beat-up vintage
Volvo. I’d never felt better or worse at the same time. It was some pretty
awesome pie.
 3

FINE EYES

Will

SHE WAS WALKING AWAY. I had the urge to run after her. Explain
myself. But why? Perhaps to save face. I told myself I didn’t owe her my
apology. She wasn’t the press, or anybody really. But watching her tiny
little form retreat from me, her resolute chin pointed in the air, while her
pigtails bounced behind her head, reminded me a little of my sister. Small
but mighty. I shook my head to clear it. She certainly wasn’t anything like
my sister. Too much spunk.
And those curves…
“Fastidious.” Bing peered at his phone. It was that damn word of the
day app he liked to use. I didn’t think it made him any smarter, but it was a
distraction. I brought myself back to the present to respond to him.
“Use it in a sentence.”
“I would not be as fastidious as you for a kingdom,” he said with a
smile.
“Your own sentence.” I knew he liked to cheat by using the example
sentence.
He squirmed a little where he stood, twisting his features in thought. “It
would be fastidious of you not to accompany me to the bar.”
I rolled my eyes, and he quickly added, “Beth works there.”
If he was trying to tempt me into going to some grease trap hole in the
wall so he could score with some pretty blonde, he had to do better than
that. Even if that pretty blonde had a hot little pixie for a friend. I didn’t
need the distraction. But Bing was new in town and probably wanted to see
more of L.A. than the inside of that little room he sub-rented.
“I know a great place on Sunset,” I replied. “I don’t want to name drop
or anything, but last time I was there, I ran into Leo DiCaprio.”
I hoped a night out in a legendary Hollywood hangout would give him
some perspective. Keep his eye on the prize. But he shook his head and
responded with a dopey grin. “The whole cast is expecting us. Right. The
whole cast. What he meant was “leggy blonde.”
And if I were being honest, I had my thoughts on seeing a particular
person myself. Just because I was curious. By the sound of Beth’s phone
call, it would seem she had tons of offers on her agent’s desk. Then why
would she moonlight at a dive bar? It didn't add up. She didn’t add up. So I
went—not making Bing any promises how long I’d stay.

I HAD TRAVELLED the expanse of this great earth. I had been in places as
diverse as India, Guatemala, Brazil, Germany, China, and South Africa, just
to name a few. In my travels, I had encountered cities and slums in varying
degrees of society, customs, and enlightenment. I was no stranger to the
diversity found in the most distant corners of the world. But never had I
ever beheld the singular, outlandish abomination that was Lucas Lodge.
Where would one even begin to describe this place? The entryway was akin
to an old-timey Las Vegas casino. I think I’d seen the same carpeting at
Circus Circus. As I made my way through the front lounge, the floor
yielded to checkered tile that I imagined Alice encountered in her
adventures in Wonderland, except in place of the White Rabbit, a silver-
haired, ostentatious man greeted us in a garish, peacocky sort of fashion and
loudly introduced himself as Sir William Lucas. He tripped all over himself
in effusions of outrageous salutations and, beseeching me for a photo to
hang on his wall, he directed Bing and me to our seats at a booth covered in
leopard-print fur. I most likely would have paid little attention to his
ramblings anyhow, but I found myself more disinterested than usual as I
scanned the restaurant for a sight of Beth. I told myself I was just curious
and nothing more, imputing my desire to see her to the virtues of pride. Yes,
pride, and justifiably so. I wasn’t to be castigated by a waitress.
 You dropped something, she’d said. Oh, it’s just your tact.
I couldn’t see a trace of her without drawing attention to myself by
craning my neck. Perhaps she had the night off. That would be the best
scenario. I was beginning to relax when we were greeted tableside by the
small voice of our waitress. Beth. How could it be we were seated in her
section? Fate was an ugly visitor sometimes. By the looks of it, she wasn’t
any more thrilled by the situation than I was. We’d be forced to… exchange
pleasantries!
She shifted her weight to one foot, making her hip jut out to one side as
her eyes locked onto mine, narrowing into slits.
“Really?”
My thoughts exactly.
“Okay, whatever.” She sighed heavily and rolled her eyes. “I bid thee
welcome, good sirs. Dost thou care for an ale or perhaps a robust mead?”
She was using a posh English accent and if I wasn’t completely
mortified by the whole business of being found in her section, I’d have been
immensely amused.
I contemplated an escape as she rambled through the specials. Honestly,
I didn’t hear a word she said. I was too busy planning my own death hoax,
wondering how to stage an alien invasion, or staging a distraction by way of
fire—anything to get away from her. I half consciously heard Bing order a
drink then excuse himself to the men’s room, but I was overwhelmed by my
inability to concentrate. Beth wore this atrocious wench costume, and I
couldn’t help but ogle at the way the bodice accentuated her curves. It was
like her figure was teasing me, dancing in my line of vision, just waiting to
be—
“Have you decided, My Lord?” her little voice squeaked, erecting a
blockade upon my thoughts.
“What?”
“I have to address the guests of Sir William Lucas with a title. May I
call you ‘My Lord,’ or do you prefer another royal title?”
“Oh,” I croaked. What kind of crackpot place was this? She waited for
my reply, but she kept looking over her shoulder impatiently. Why couldn’t
I just order a beer or something and get this over with?
“Um,” I said taken by surprise. “I am the Pirate King, so you can call
me… Your Majesty?”
Where the blazes did that come from?
 She placed a hand on her tiny little waist and scowled at me. “Very well,
Your Majesty, shall we pour the pirate sherry or would a Bud Lite be your
pleasure?”
My pleasure? The way she looked in that costume—I drew a blank.
“Dilly dilly.”
That, my friends, was the ridiculous reply my blood-deprived brain
offered. What was wrong with me?
“Bud Lite it is,” she said rather salty and turned on her heel in the
fastest exodus imaginable. She walked away from me again, and I wasn’t in
any more control than I had been earlier in the day. She infuriated me to no
end.
The form of another female slipped her way into my vicinity. This one
wasn’t any more pleasant than Beth, but at least she didn’t get under my
skin. Caroline sat herself down next to me and scooted her hips flush
against mine on the furry bench seat. She certainly wasn’t very shy. I’d had
my share of bold women, but I wasn’t in the mood at present.
“I bet I can guess what you’re thinking,” she said huskily.
“I doubt it,” I replied laconically.
She held a fruity-looking cocktail and set it down on the table to free
her hands to turn my chin towards her face. Whoa! She wore a lot of
makeup. She smiled coquettishly and ran her tongue along her top teeth.
Checking for rogue lipstick perhaps?
“I’m really good at this game,” she purred. “Stare into my eyes.”
I really wasn’t in the mood for this, and I let my expression show it.
Maybe she’d get the hint and leave me be. And why hadn’t Bing returned?
“You’re thinking about how disastrous rehearsal was today,” she said.
“Not really.”
“Well, it’s not a very happy thought by the look on your face.”
“You think?” My reply was laced with a heavy dose of sarcasm.
She adjusted, positioning herself up on her knees so her head was at my
level and stared intently over my features.
“Hmm. I know. You’re thinking about how stupid this party is.”
“I’d hardly call this a party.”
She inched a little closer. “It can be if you want it to.”
I did my best in the distracted state of mind I was in to expose her lack
of logic. “As you said, if this were a party, I’d think it’s stupid.”
 She opened her mouth to reply but must have thought better of it and
clamped it shut.
“In any case,” I continued, “that’s not what I was thinking.”
In an overt, suggestive manner, she wrapped her lips around her straw
and took a long sip of her cocktail, never taking her eyes off me. It was a
little more than disconcerting how tawdry she was. Frankly, I was rather
embarrassed for her.
“So?” she said, batting her lashes. “Are you going to tell me?”
Tell her what I was thinking? Oh, darlin’ there were sooo many things I
was thinking. Where to begin? But before I could respond, the one image
that rushed to the forefront of my mind and assaulted my senses manifested
before me, bearing my Bud Lite on a tray. Beth took one look at Caroline,
set the beer on the table, and whisked herself away again. Caroline took the
opportunity in that moment to throw her arms around my neck.
“Well, what are you thinking?”
Caroline was a good-looking woman, and she knew it, but she was
laying it on a little too thick. And without glancing away from Beth,
watching her tend to her other tables, I gave Caroline my answer.
“I’m thinking,” I said in a low gravely tone, “how much I like a
gorgeous pair of fine--”
She snorted and gave me a little chastising smack on the back of my
hand. “Oh, you are a naughty one, aren’t you?”
And it was then that I finally looked at her.
“…eyes,” I said. “Fine eyes.”
A splattering of crimson overspread her cheeks, and I realized with
some regret she must have taken it as a compliment to herself. But she was
playing a game as women like her often do, and in a coy, kittenish purr, she
said, “Whoever could you mean?”
I suddenly felt claustrophobic, caged in by a pair of long, ivory arms. A
dancer’s arms. She was probably exceedingly flexible, I mused. But why
didn’t she do anything for me? Was I losing my libido? I turned my eyes to
Beth. No. Definitely not losing my libido.
Untangling myself from Caroline’s tentacles, I slid the best I could
along the furry surface of the booth, all the way around to the other side,
still maintaining my eyes on Beth. Caroline’s scrutiny followed the
direction of my gaze to where Beth stood across the room, and her jaw fell
open.
 “Her?” she cried incredulously
“I gotta go.”
I extracted the first bill I found in my wallet and tucked it under the beer
bottle, unabashedly leaving Caroline behind without another word. I didn’t
even care where Bing was at that point. There must have been something in
the air at Lucas Lodge that made my head feel so foggy. It wasn’t until I
escaped into the cool, November night that my mind cleared.
“Hmmph,” I growled as I climbed into my Ferrari. Regional theatre!
What had I gotten myself into?
 4

SPIDERS, SHARKS, AND

BARNACLES, OH MY!

Beth

“THAT QUASIMODO LEFT ME A HUNDRED-DOLLAR BILL.”

I was livid. Not only did Darcy purposefully sit in my section to taunt
me with his arrogant ‘dilly dilly’ and ‘call me your majesty,’ but he found
pleasure in degrading me by flaunting his wealth in my face. Yeah, I was a
waitress like every cliché Hollywood hopeful, but unlike him, I didn’t have
a rich daddy with connections to pave my way through tinsel town. It was
the end of the night, and I had to vent about it to Charlotte, and although I
hadn’t ‘musical cussed’ all day, I decided it was a Hunchback of Norte
Dame kind of night.
Charlotte was genuinely confused and blinked her eyes at me for a few
moments before asking, “Is that… a bad thing?”
“Of course it’s a bad thing!” I cried indignantly. “He’s trying to put me
down by throwing his money around, implying I’ll never make it as an
actress, thinking that he’s better than me.”
“Or maybe he just was happy with your service,” she said with a shrug.
“He ordered a beer and didn’t even drink it. What a gargoyle.” I then
told her about the conversation I heard between Will and Bing by the
costume rack, how he descriptively dismissed my talent, how he sat in my
section to act like an entitled Phoebus, and how he was practically
copulating with Caroline in the booth. And then he left. He just left,
abandoning his friend. “Bing looked all over the bar for him,” I added.
“Jane had to give him a ride home.”
Jane actually had no problem with that.
“Well,” Charlotte said after some thought, “would you rather he’d not
left you a tip at all?”
“That’s not the point. It’s the principle of the whole thing.”
“Oh.” She shrugged. “Okay.”
She resumed her side-work of marrying ketchup bottles and was silent
for some time, and I was disappointed to learn she’d considered the subject
dropped. But then, after several minutes, she said, “You must have made
quite an impression on him to single you out like that. He would never have
so much as spoken to you if he didn’t notice.” She stopped her actions to
punctuate her thoughts. “No, there’s more to this than what’s at the
surface.”
“Did you not hear what I’ve been telling you?” I cried. “There’s no
more than what’s on the surface. He’s a surface kind of guy. He’s…
shallow.”
“What makes you think that? You don’t even know him.”
She leveled her gaze to stare me down behind those thick-rimmed
glasses. “He’s not Brett, you know.”
I snorted, trying to find the words to support my argument and also a
little miffed that Charlotte didn’t seem to be on my side. Did she have to
bring up Brett? My ex might have been a ruthless, Hollywood, social
climber, but he was small beans compared to Will.
“He’s obviously shallow,” I replied. “Look at the movies he makes.”
I had a more profound basis for my interpretation, but I couldn’t put it
into words. Loathing Will Darcy was an intangible feeling. It was there, but
the justification was just out of reach. That didn’t make it less credible
though.
“Let me ask you something,” she said. “If you were offered ten million
dollars to make a sell-out movie, would you do it?”
I thought about it for a half second before answering. “Would there be
nudity?”
“Um, maybe just your bootay.”
I knew where she was going with this. I wasn’t a shallow person. I
considered myself a serious actor. I was committed to my craft. But I was
broke. And truth be told, I couldn’t say with one hundred percent certainty I
would turn down an offer like that. Actually, I’m sure I wouldn't be able to
resist it. And did she just the word bootay?
“So…” I croaked. “Does Darcy bare his—ahem—derrière in his
movies?”
“Oh, yeah,” she said with a little too much enthusiasm.
Ewww!
I was so glad I’d never seen any of his movies. I wouldn’t be able to
look at him with a straight face if I’d seen him in the buff. Geez, if I were to
ever go nude in a movie, there’s no way I could let Mom and Dad watch it.
Fortunately, that was rarely a problem in the world of musical theatre.
“I’d request a body double,” I decided. “IF… and that’s with capital
letters, I were offered ten million dollars.”
Charlotte didn’t have to look so smug. But at least she didn’t say
anything more. She made her point. I didn’t have to agree with her, but she
felt satisfied to leave it there. It was all hypothetical anyway. The principles
that applied to me certainly were different for a guy like Will. I knew I was
right about him because, frankly, I was never wrong.

ALL I HAD to do was get through with this show and take every
opportunity to avoid contact with him. For the most part, especially while
we were only rehearsing music, it didn’t take much effort. It was a rather
unfortunate impasse. I wanted with all my heart for this experience to be all
I had ever dreamt. No, I wasn’t on Broadway—yet—but performing at the
Gardiner was a giant step in my career. I wanted to love every second of it,
savor each moment, make important connections and post about it on
Instagram. Instead, I dreaded rehearsals, dragged my feet every time I
walked through the door, and couldn’t wait for the run to be over. All
because of one man. One infuriatingly chauvinistic, egotistical, arrogant,
pretentious (albeit hunky) man. I hated that perfectly symmetrical,
esthetically pleasing, phony smile; the way he would soft-soap Stella
Gardiner, the way he beguiled the directors in his favor, but especially how
he influenced his friend Bing. It was a mystery to me how a sweet-tempered
guy like Bing and a grump like Will could be friends. Sure, Will had all the
right connections, but Bing didn’t strike me as the worshipful barnacle type.
The only thing Bing seemed to worship was the ground on which Jane
walked on. He followed her around like a puppy dog. Over the course of the
week, I couldn’t help but steal a glance at Will every now and then just to
see the look on his face when Bing favored Jane’s company over his. A
couple of those times, however, I caught him glancing my way instead.
What was he trying to prove by giving me the stink eye? I felt like I was in
high school all over again. I was the band geek and for some unknown
reason, the football star shot eye daggers at me while Caroline, the flossy
cheerleader, clung to him like—well, like a worshipful barnacle. At least it
was finally Friday, and rehearsal was ending.
“Caroline might not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but she’s definitely
the hoe.”
I practically choked on my own spit before I turned around to see Lydia
making tawdry jokes.
“What did you say?” I managed to squeak.
She was right behind me, conspiring with Holly, another soprano in the
chorus, who laughed so hard, I was afraid I’d have to employ CPR on the
poor girl. But Lydia didn’t let up.
“Seriously. Her hoo-ha has more users than Twitter.”
Lydia had most likely been at it a while, because Holly seemed to be
hyperventilating. In a fun way, I guess.
“I mean, she was craving Five Guys before it was a restaurant.”
Holly doubled over, practically in tears and turning bright red. “Oh my
gosh, stop!”
Those girls! I was certainly not a fan of Caroline, but I wasn’t so low to
resort to hoe jokes. I did, however, agree with them on one thing. She
wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed if she was at all attracted to Will Darcy.
But then again, maybe they deserved each other.
“Hey, I’ve got one,” I said. “She’s so fake, Barbie is jealous.”
Crickets. Clearly, I didn’t have the talent for juvenile insults. Lydia and
Holly shook their heads and offered me a consolatory pat on the back in a
nice try but no cigar sort of way. Then they abandoned me.
It was the end of a truly horrible day. My old Volvo broke down on the
way to rehearsal, and I had to run the rest of the way.
Let me repeat that. I had to run in Los Angeles.
It was like my car waited until my AAA membership expired. I was
grubby, tired, hangry, and I had to work the closing shift at the lodge. Most
of the cast had cleared out of the rehearsal studio, and I needed to find Jane
to ask for a ride because Holly and Lydia had already gone out for drinks. I
was just on my way to search for Jane when I was stopped in the hallway
by the theatre’s chief costume designer. I knew her name was Ari—I’d met
her when we were sent to her costume shop in the bowels of the theatre to
have our measurements taken. I remember her chiding me for sucking in. I
argued that I’d be wearing a corset, but she won me over by telling me a
funny story about a costume malfunction in Tartuffe.
“Would you do me a huge favor?” she said to me a little out of breath.
She had a bolt of brocade satin in her arms and a huge bag slung over her
shoulder. “I’m late for an appointment but I can’t leave this lying about.”
It took me a moment to register what she was saying. My brain was still
clearing out the bad hoe puns. And so I stared at her for a few seconds
longer than was socially acceptable. Derp. Yo speako English.
“Would you be a dear?” she pleaded, offering the bolt of fabric to me.
“Oh!” I said with a jolt. “Do you want me to take that down for you?”
She most likely thought I was a ninny. I took the fabric and smiled,
nodding like a clod, and she gave me a big hug, bidding her appreciation
and before running toward the door, called over her shoulder, “Just put it on
the cutting table and shut the door on your way out. It will automatically
lock.”
And then she was gone like the enigma she was. A little bit of an odd
birdy, that one. It was a small wonder she wasn’t completely nutso with a
workshop so many flights of stairs below the theatre.
Down once more.
I amused myself by singing as I navigated my way down, down, down
those narrow stairs as the air became cooler the further my descent into the
dungeon of black despair, my geeky musical theatre brain just an endless
loop of songs on repeat.
As I continued through my repertoire, I found myself testing the echo in
that long stairwell with an eerie reverberation reminding myself to keep my
hands at the level of my eyes.
I must have spooked myself out because I thought I heard footsteps
behind me, masked in the echo of my voice.
I realized in that moment that although I was most likely perfectly safe,
it would have given me more peace of mind if I had only waited to find
Jane before taking this endeavor all alone. A faint light at the end of the
corridor like a beacon in the darkness peered through the costume shop
door and as I reached it, I could hear music coming from inside. That
scatterbrained woman left her music player on. I thwacked the bolt of fabric
on the cutting table and went in search of the offending music.
Three things happened at once.
One. I found the source of the music. It was a small Bluetooth speaker.
Two. The music shut off, but I wasn’t the one to do it.
Three. The figures of two people moved in the shadows.
I was already spooked from the creepy dungeonous stairwell and the
freaky echoes reminiscent of the secret passageways to the fifth cellar. To
say I was startled would be an understatement. I screamed. Reality
dawning, my addled brain devised it could either be A) a deformed man
obsessed with a soprano or B) a rat catcher. This is what happens when
you’re tired, haven’t eaten much, and allow yourself to get worked up over
an ominous yet harmless stairwell.
In the half second after my B-movie scream, I sobered to the vision
before me. Jane and Bing were shuffling apart with the guilty evidence of
post-osculation faces. And yes, I resort to obscure vocabulary when in
shock. Osculation. In other words, smooching, making out, smacking lips
together. Kissing. I was equal parts embarrassed, delighted, and furious.
The two of them likely felt the same way, but not in the same order.
For the next few moments that felt like ten minutes but was probably
only three seconds, we had a staring contest. I stared at them eyes wide,
mouth open. They stared at me cheeks flushed, hair askew. I opened my
mouth wider to say something, but nothing came out. So many thoughts ran
through my head at once, I couldn’t figure out which to give voice to.
Apologize? Give them high fives? Yell at Jane for sneaking off like a randy
teenager?
To my chagrin, I was spared the effort because the bustle of heavy
footfall exploded into the room and the imposing, shark-like form of Will
Darcy appeared, followed closely by his very own remora fish—Caroline.
“What’s going on?” he said rather threateningly. I nodded in agreement,
deciding that’s exactly what I would have said had I been given the chance
—if he hadn’t barged in or, more accurately, if I’d remembered how to use
the faculties of my mouth. It seemed to be contagious because neither Jane
nor Bing could remember how to use their mouths either, other than
opening and closing them like fishies gasping for air—fishies about to be
eaten by a great, big Darcy shark.
“Uhh, uhh…” was all Bing could manage to say before a shrill scream
came from the direction of Caroline.
“What is it with the screaming?” growled the Darcy shark.
Caroline danced like a leprechaun on hot coals, shrieking, “Spider!
Spider!”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” cried Will. “Step on it.”
At that moment, my animal activist roommate suddenly remembered
how to speak and shouted, “No, don’t kill it.”
It seemed to happen in slow motion like I was a distant spectator to the
most ridiculous scene: Caroline shrinking away from a spider, Jane rushing
to save it, Bing looking for something to humanely capture it, and Will
staring everyone down like they had gone insane. I didn’t watch sports, but
I imagine that was what the instant replays must look like. Then, as the
crazy town scrimmage played out, Caroline swung her leg in one swift
motion and kicked the spider like a football through a field goal—the goal
posts being the threshold of the costume shop door which she quickly and
abruptly shut.
A robust “Noooooo!” resounded from the remaining four occupants of
the room because we knew—we knew what Caroline obviously was too
dumb and self-absorbed to realize—the door locked from the outside.
 5

IT'S HARD TO BE THE BARD (OR

MACGYVER)

Will

WHAT SORT of moronic architect would design a door to lock from the
outside? Unless guarding a bank vault or sensitive government documents,
there was no reason for a door to have a Fort Knox security system like the
one currently employed by the costume shop in the Gardiner Theatre. I
would have felt inclined to credit the idea to that crazy woman who ran it.
But I knew that door had been there many years before Ari became the
wardrobe director. How did I know this? Because I’d been locked in before.
The Stella Gardiner Theatre was my playground when I was a kid. My
father, the most excellent actor I’d ever known, enjoyed taking a break from
filming his blockbusters to perform in a summer-stock show at the
Gardiner. He would often bring me to his rehearsals, and since there were
no other boys my age to play with, I would wander backstage, in the
catwalks, and through catacombs for hours. I knew every single crevice of
this theatre better than my own home. One day in particular, for a reason I
no longer remember, I hid in the costume shop and closed the door which
locked me in. I was rescued within twenty minutes, but to me, it seemed an
eternity. To this day, I never close a door without checking the knob first.
Therefore, when Caroline dislodged the doorstop in the surprisingly
impressive soccer play with a spider, my instinct was to dive for the door,
but my body felt like it was swimming in glue. I couldn’t get there fast
enough. Furthermore, if Caroline spent more time learning to read rather
than watching makeup tutorials on YouTube, she would have seen the
bright-red warning sign on the door. That sign must have been put there by
Ari. That woman might have been nutty as a fruitcake, but she did make a
point to warn the actors about that door when they came in for fittings. I
imagine Caroline was too busy taking selfies to pay attention.
To compound my frustration, she had no business following me down
there. She had no idea what I was doing. I could have taken advantage of
her if it suited me. She certainly was willing enough. As hot as she was, all I
wanted to do was shake her off, but she was gum on my shoe—
irremediably stuck to me.
To some extent, I was used to the attention from women, but that
lifestyle got old very quickly. Oh, I was a firm believer in fun, but I liked to
think I was more selective than girls like Caroline took me for. Plus, she’d
been grating on my nerves all day. If it wasn't a jibe against other cast
members spewing from her mouth, it was the conditions of our contract, or
a complaint about the facilities, or bragging about her film work. But her
crowning sauciness was her barefaced, unequivocal contempt for Beth.
Honestly, I couldn't care less about that pixie. As far as I was concerned,
Beth was just a pretty little girl in over her head in professional theatre. She
was rarely prepared for rehearsals, always seemed to be frazzled, and would
oftentimes arrive at the theatre a hot mess. And I couldn’t keep my eyes off
her. What was it about her? She was… scrappy. The way she looked in
those clingy yoga pants she wore, or how her fandom t-shirts stretched
tightly over her chest and exposed just a tiny bit of skin at her waist when
she moved the right way. I didn’t have to particularly like the girl to
appreciate her at a distance.
Woah! Hold it right there. I certainly did not like the girl. But I didn’t
hate her the way Caroline was determined to.
Beth had been a half hour late for rehearsal that morning, blaming her
tardiness to car trouble. Her arms and face were smudged in grease, and her
hair was all over the place. She looked flushed and radiant. It was hot. But
Caroline wouldn’t shut up about it.
“Did you see her pants?” she sneered when Beth left to clean up in the
bathroom. “Looks like she wiped her hands all over them.”
Oh, I had most certainly noticed that.
 She went on. “What was she doing? Trying to fix her own car? Is she a
hillbilly? And so sweaty!”
When I didn’t indulge her rants, she pressed me for my opinion.
“Still admiring her fine eyes?” she mocked. “Hard to see much of them
under layers of dirt and sweat.”
“I wasn’t looking at her eyes,” I said more to myself than to her, and
then to shake off the effect the vision had on me, I stood and spent the
remainder of rehearsal by the piano.
At lunch, Caroline climbed into the passenger seat of my car and
insisted I take her to Whole Foods. Since I hadn’t yet decided what I
wanted to eat, I acquiesced. All the rest of the day, I would catch her
eyeballing me. Once rehearsal was dismissed and Bing was missing in
action, she followed me when I went in search of him. Subsequently, by the
turn of events that ensued, she trapped us in the costume shop. And who
just happened to be there? The very woman I was trying to forget: Elizabeth
Bennet. I was cursed.
At present, however, it wasn’t the arousing yet vexing presence of Beth
in the room, or that Caroline had shut us all in together indefinitely that
upset me. Those things were enough on their own. What irked me the most,
and after all my admonishments to him, was that Bing got us into this
situation because of some girl. It was written all over his dopey face. I
didn’t blame him for wagging all over Jane; she was gorgeous—blonde
hair, blue eyes, and legs for days. But Bing wasn’t the kind of guy to
differentiate hook-ups from serious girls. He wasn’t a player, and he was
falling fast and hard. I warned him not to get distracted by a woman. He
needed to think of his career first, and he wasn’t following any of my
advice. It infuriated me.
Also, my brain was a muddled mess with Beth so nearby. I needed to
think of a way to get us out before we all murdered each other.
Four sets of eyes incredulously stared at the door as though staring at it
with a Jedi mind trick, it would open and grant us passage. Then the same
four sets of eyes turned to Caroline, and I don’t know about the others, but
mine were set on kill mode. I might have strangled her if Beth hadn’t
spoken up.
“Dddd-did you just…” she stuttered. “Did you just… slam the door to
keep a spider out?
Caroline didn’t respond.
 “You slammed the door to keep a SPIDER out?” she repeated with more
of an edge.
“Yeah. So?” Caroline looked around at all the incriminating faces
burning holes into her skull.
“It wasn’t a big spider,” said Bing in a stoic fashion. “He can get back in
through the crack.”
“She,” corrected Jane.
“What?” he asked, turning his gaze to her.
“She,” Jane repeated. “It was probably a female spider.”
“Well, he or she is dead,” said Caroline, “so you’re welcome.”
“Then why shut the Thenardier door?” cried Beth.
“Thenardier?” said Bing.
“From Les Mis,” touted Jane matter-of-factly.
“There might be more spiders,” exclaimed Caroline.
“Can we drop the issue with the spider?” I bellowed. Why was I the
only sane person in the room? “We’re trapped in here now.”
Caroline laughed, evidently not believing me and jiggled the door knob.
Then she jiggled it again. It wouldn’t budge.
“There must be some other way out of here,” she said. “Or another way
to open the door.”
I pressed my lips in a thin line, keeping any profanity at bay and slowly
shook my head. For good measure, I crossed my arms over my chest, so
they wouldn’t decide to commit homicide on their own accord. Caroline
tried the knob again. Yep. Still locked.
“We’ll just wait until someone comes down to let us out,” she said.
“It’s the weekend, Caroline,” I growled. “No one will be back until
Monday.”
“Does anyone have Ari’s phone number? Or anyone with a key?” asked
Beth optimistically.
I immediately took the phone out of my back pocket. “I have Stella’s
number.”
I quickly found her contact image and tapped the screen. A red ‘X’
appeared where the signal icon should have been. No service. I moved
around the room, trying to get reception from different areas. I tried
standing on the sofa, pointing the phone towards the ceiling, walking
around that confined space like a Ghostbuster trying to detect psycho-
kinetic energy, but nothing I tried was successful. We were too far below
ground. In a fruitless endeavor, Bing did the same with his phone. We
looked like a couple of interpretive dancers offering our smart phones to the
ceiling gods. This lasted a good five minutes before frustration got the
better of me, and I lashed out on the one person I believed was responsible:
Bing.
It was he who stole away with Jane to hide from the rest of us for his
face-licking fest, he who I went in search of followed by the door-
slamming, spider-kicking Caroline. I surmised Beth was down there
because she had likewise searched for Jane and found the lovers climbing
on each other right before I arrived, hence the scream I’d heard earlier. All
this could have been avoided if Bing had taken my advice. Therefore, in a
not-so-articulate display of anger, I barked. All at once, everyone in the
room pointed fingers at one another, placing the blame on Caroline for
having shut the door, on Beth for creeping up on them and screaming, on
Jane for being so beautiful, and on myself, according to Beth, for something
akin to sharks. It was a very messy and poor rendition of It’s Your Fault
from Into the Woods, except with no music and no Bernadette Peters. I
didn’t approve.
I had to do something. I couldn’t stand still, and I certainly couldn’t
wait until Ari came to work on Monday only to find four corpses and one
crazed and homicidal Will Darcy. I went in search of something, anything
that I might use to get that door open. Tools, perhaps.
“What are you doing now?” Beth crossed her arms and glared at me.
“I have to get that door open.”
“With what?” she said sarcastically. “A seam ripper?”
I pretended to ignore her, but I was hyper aware of her scathing glower
as if she willed me to fail. She wouldn’t be the victor. Not today, pixie girl.
Determination under my wings, I searched harder and finally came upon
some paper clips, corset boning, knitting needles, and a butter knife. I
immediately set to work on the door, jamming the knife in the frame and
poking around with the paper clips. I thought for a minute I felt it give, but
then I lost it. Surely, it couldn’t be that difficult.
“Are you picking the lock?” asked Caroline.
“Yes.”
She hovered over me, blocking my light. It took all my willpower not to
bite her head off. Maybe that was what Beth meant when she called me a
shark. I sighed and counted to ten. Maybe Caroline got the hint or maybe
she just got distracted by something shiny, but when she moved to the other
side of the room, I was hyper aware of Beth sneering somewhere behind
me.
“Do you mind?” I said, turning my head just enough to see her crossing
her arms. “I’m trying to concentrate.”
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t mind me, MacGyver. Would you like some
bubble gum and a wire hanger? You could build a bomb.”
“I’ve done this before, you know.”
“Oh? And then did the director call ‘cut?’”
I feigned a laugh. “Har har! Actually, a wire hanger would be great.
Thank you.”
Caroline was at my side in seconds with the hanger and said quite
seriously, “I have faith in you, Will.”
It was too much pressure. At one point, Bing tried to help me, using his
flashlight app to illuminate the doorjamb. One thing I could say for those
old industrial steel doors—the craftsmanship was far from shoddy. That was
one sturdy mother-lovin’ door. After about a half hour, I took a break, not
conceding to defeat, but to rest for a time. By then, Caroline amused herself
by stacking spools of thread, Beth had found a copy of Anna Karenina
somewhere on Ari’s shelves, and the lovebirds exchanged hushed secrets.
I was so worked up and quite frankly peeved beyond all that was good
and holy, socializing with any of them was out of the question. And so I
took a seat at Ari’s desk, fished a notebook out of my bag, and vented my
frustrations on paper. It was much safer than venting on Bing’s face. I was
able to write a few lines, but only before Caroline once again interrupted
my solace.
“What are you doing?”
“Writing.”
“With a pen?” she asked confoundedly.
Smothering her with a pillow sounded good in that moment.
“Yes,” I hissed. “That’s usually what one uses to write in a journal.”
“OH! You keep a journal? I’d love to read it.”
“It’s a rather private thing.”
“Oops. Sorry. So, it’s more like a diary.”
“If you want to call it that, yes.”
She thought about that for a minute and at length, asked, “You won’t let
anyone read it?”
 Clearly, I wouldn’t get much else down on paper. I sighed. “If you must
know, my sister reads my journals sometimes.”
She perked up at this. “I didn’t know you had a sister. Is she older or
younger?”
“Younger.”
“What does she look like?”
I could tell she was fishing for me to produce a photo. In fact, my sister
Georgia’s image was the screensaver on my phone but sharing that
somehow seemed oddly intimate all of a sudden. I didn’t have the energy
for that.
“She’s my sister, I don’t know how to describe her. She’s petite, I
guess.” I flicked my hand dismissively. “Like Beth.”
I felt rather than saw Beth look up from her book. A shift in energy
waved through the room at the awareness.
“Does she live with you?” Caroline continued to drill for information.
Good Lord, woman! All the questions!
“Only when she’s in L.A. She’s at Juilliard School now.”
I didn’t mind bragging about that a little. I was truly proud of my sister.
She had come a long way in recent years. It wasn’t an easy road.
“That doesn’t surprise me at all,” continued Caroline. “If she’s anything
like you, she must be the most talented in her class.”
“Her talent far exceeds mine.”
“I’m glad to hear it. So many girls call themselves actors even when
they lack the talent,” she said pointedly, rolling her eyes in Beth's general
direction.
“She’s not an actress,” I replied. “She’s a musician.”
She didn’t seem to hear me, because she ploughed through with her
thoughts.
“In order for an actress to be truly accomplished, she has to have a
strong dance background, can sing both classical and contemporary musical
theatre, and have a great stage presence.”
Bing decided to join the conversation at that point. “I’m always so
amazed at the talent I’m surrounded by every day in this business,” he said.
“All the girls in this cast are triple threats.”
“Hardly,” I said with a small laugh. I was still very much upset with
him, and he had a lot to learn. I also noticed Beth set her book on her lap at
that moment.
 “I can probably count on one hand the women I know who are true
triple threats,” I continued. “The term is applied too liberally these days.”
“I agree,” chimed in Caroline.
But then Beth cast aside her book entirely and finally spoke up. “You
must have extremely high expectations, then.”
“I do,” I said. “It’s a competitive business.”
“I can imagine,” she said with a smirk. “It must take an immense
amount of talent to bend over the hood of a Camaro in a bikini.”
I knew she was making a jab at my movies. I’d never pretended they
were Oscar-worthy performances, but they were lucrative, and that paid for
my sister’s tuition. I wasn’t proud of those films, but I didn’t have to
explain myself to her.
“Acting, singing, and dancing are only the basic skills one must have to
make it,” said Caroline. “You have to be able to read music, play piano,
have some acrobatic skill, perform basic stunts, have a thorough repertoire
of songs in your arsenal, know the mechanics of acting on stage and on
screen, not to mention voiceover work, and go seamlessly from drama to
comedy in one audition.”
“Not to mention,” I added for good measure, “a brain in her head.”
Someone who reads books instead of stacking spools of thread.
“Well then,” said Beth to me, “I’d be surprised if you knew any
actresses with that impressive list of skills.”
“You don’t think so?”
“No,” she replied, pointing her chin in the air. “That person doesn't
exist.”
Caroline, bored with the subject, interjected, “I’ve been staring at that
piano for the last hour.” She pointed to the upright piano in the corner. It
looked pretty beat up. “Let’s play a song together, Will.”
No, no, no! I wasn’t up for that.
“I’m going to finish writing for now, thanks,” I said dismissively.
Caroline chuckled and tapped me on the shoulder. “You’re a regular
Shakespeare, aren’t you?”
From the corner of my eye, I caught Beth making a puke face.
“It’s hard to be the Bard,” she said under her breath.
Touché, Miss Bennet. Touché.
 6

GOOD OPINION ONCE LOST

Beth

THREE HOURS PASSED since the brilliant Caroline shut the door,
trapping us in the costume shop. For two of those hours, I watched, with
some amusement, the futile efforts of Will-the-action-hero-Darcy to rescue
us from our plight. He tried everything, it seemed, and with every passing
minute, became more and more frustrated by degrees. The heat radiating off
him became palpable as I could sense by the sheen of sweat on his face, and
then after he removed his button-down shirt, more glistening sweat issued
along the lines of muscle on his arms and shoulders exposed by a tank
undershirt. If he continued to work fruitlessly on the door, I imagined he
might have found the heat unbearable enough to warrant the removal of his
tank as well. I wasn’t opposed to the idea, as it would pass the time by the
amusement of watching him get upset and therefore, increase my pleasure
twofold by the added benefit of a splendid view. I loathed the man, but I
wasn’t blind.
I had long abandoned the book I’d found. Too many long chapters about
nineteenth century Russian politics. Plus, the references to food made me
hungry. I hadn’t had breakfast—and lunch consisted of a cashew butter
sandwich and Funyuns. My stomach growled relentlessly, and I probably
had rank breath. A perusal through Ari’s mini fridge produced only a few
bottles of water and some hot sauce packets, and so, I’d grabbed one of the
waters and occupied myself with a piece of remnant fabric, a needle, and
thread.
I’d left my rehearsal bag upstairs and even if I’d brought it down into
the dungeon, there would be little in it to occupy me. In fact, the only
person to have brought their things was Will, and every now and then, he’d
dig something out. He reminded me of an overachieving boy scout. Or
Mary Poppins. After he abandoned his efforts on the door, he pulled out his
iPad and started up a movie for the other three. Most surprising, was the
fact he had Moulin Rouge downloaded, as if he watched it often. I didn’t
have Will pegged as a fan of anything I would share an interest in.
“You have a digital copy of Moulin Rouge?” I exclaimed incredulously.
Will glared at me pointedly. “Yeah. What did you expect?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I responded. “Fast and Dangerous one through
seven?”
He sneered at my comment but didn’t say anything more. After he set it
up, he positioned himself at the other side of the shop.
Moulin Rouge was one of my favorites, but Bing, Jane, and Caroline fit
nicely on the sofa together. An addition to their party on the sofa would
have been too crowded.
For more than half of the movie, however, Caroline talked over it,
starting absurd discussions about the parts she didn’t agree with. Bing
gently reminded her more than once to enjoy it regardless.
For example, she’d say, “I’d prefer it without so much music.”
And then Bing would reply, “Then it wouldn’t be a musical.”
Will, ignoring all the rest of us, fished out his earbuds and listened to
music on his phone. When the battery wore down, he plugged it in, because
of course, he came prepared like the Mary Poppins Boy Scout he was. I also
noticed he went in the adjacent bathroom to brush his teeth more than once.
Not two seconds after he emerged from the bathroom the last time, Caroline
accosted him so he could settle a disagreement between herself and Bing.
“What profession has better job security?” she bellowed at Will. “Film
acting or theatre?”
“Neither one is a secure industry to pursue,” he said without any
emotion. “If you want security, stay out of show business.”
“Yes, we know that,” she said. “But between the two, which do you
prefer?”
“I make my living in film. You know that.”
 “Well, I’d like to do both,” said Bing with vigor. “If I could, I’d film on
location by day and perform on stage by night. I wouldn’t be able to decide
between the two.”
I giggled at his wide-eyed optimism. He was quite adorable. “I can
totally tell that about you,” I said lightheartedly.
“Really?” he asked. “Am I that transparent?”
“Not exactly,” I said. “I’m just a good judge of character.”
“Oh?” he said with interest. “And what’s your diagnosis, doctor?”
“It just shows you’re diverse in your interests and can adjust to any
situation.”
“The theatre,” interjected Will, “is a great way to exercise your craft,
but it doesn’t compare to film when it comes to monetary concerns. A
performance in the theatre is fleeting, but once recorded on film, there’s no
telling how much you can make in royalties for years to come.”
“I think the takeaway here,” I said to Bing, “is to do what makes you
happy.”
“You have to admit,” Will retorted, “that a career in theatre is limited in
its longevity. There are less and less roles as you age. Not so with film.
Especially for men.”
Jane, who had been silent for much of the evening, smiled at Bing and
said, “It doesn’t hurt to have the right people in your court, either.”
Will narrowed his eyes at her.
“All I know,” said Bing after some thought, “is that when I’m in the
theatre, there’s no place I’d rather be. But when I’m on a movie set, I feel
the same kind of magic.”
“Nothing wrong with that.” I nodded in agreement.
Caroline, who must have felt left out of a conversation that she herself
had started, stood from the sofa, stretched a little too provocatively in front
of Will, and, pulling me from my seat, said, “Come on, Beth. I’m so sick of
sitting on my butt. Let me show you some of my favorite yoga poses. It’s so
good for the muffin top.”
I had little choice other than follow her lead, muffin top remark
notwithstanding. I figured I could do for a little bit of stretching anyway.
We took the only available space for such an exercise and faced away from
everybody. I noticed Will usurped my comfortable chair almost
immediately after I quit it.
 “Don’t forget to breathe, Eliza,” mewed Caroline while we were in
downward dog. Where did she get off calling me Eliza?
“Isn’t this refreshing?”
“Yeah,” I huffed. “Sure is.”
She turned her head slightly to look behind us while her rear end
wiggled toward the ceiling. “Care to join us, Will?”
Oh no, please no. I’d rather lock myself in the bathroom a la Michael in
Be More Chill. I’d lock myself in there, and everybody else would have to
hold their pee the rest of the weekend.
I could hear an appreciative groan come from Will’s vicinity.
“The view is just fine from here, thank you,” he said unabashedly.
I shot up immediately, and Caroline, a little slower to respond, also
straightened her body to stand, but it was more like a bend and snap
maneuver.
“Oh my goodness!” she squeaked. “Shame on you!”
She placed her hands on her hips, feigning offense at his confession of
ogling her, but she giggled and blushed. She loved the attention. I wanted to
hide within the costume racks and pretend to be invisible. But Caroline
wasn’t content to be the object of only one person’s attention, regardless of
gender and so, she linked her arm in mine and pulled me along with her as
she planted herself right in front of Will.
“What do you think, Beth? Should we punish him?”
Will shifted in his seat, crossing his legs, and I noticed he held in a
breath.
“I think,” I said, “that we should just ignore him.”
Will let out the breath, but the rhythm of his breathing was shallow and
erratic. This wasn’t Caroline’s first rodeo.
“That’s impossible,” she said. “We’re trapped indefinitely. We might
have to choose who gets eaten and who gets to eat.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Lovett,” I said, “but remember, actors always taste
overdone.”
I saw Will relax at my joke as the corner of his lip curled ever so
slightly. He caught the Sweeney Todd reference. That also surprised me.
“We’ll have to just tease him,” I concluded. “Laugh at him.”
“Laugh at Will Darcy?” blurted Caroline, disentangling her arm from
mine and crossing to perch herself on the piano. “I don’t think so.”
 For some reason, I felt inclined to remain rooted in place, even
considering the proximity to Will. Maybe it was the advantage I had in that
position in regard to height. I was hardly ever able to look down on
someone. It felt good. Especially when that someone was an arrogant
misanthropic misogynist.
“Why not?” I asked.
“Because…” she cooed. Good heavens, now she was twirling her hair.
“He’s a good man.”
“A good man?” I couldn’t believe this girl. “Less than a minute ago, you
were considering mincing him into pie filling. Besides, there’s always
something to laugh at. Even with action heroes.”
Caroline just shrugged as if to say Will Darcy shan't be laughed at
because he is without fault other than his pervy remarks.
I looked down at Will, narrowing my eyes into slits. “I guess you’re off
the hook, Mr. Darcy. Not guilty.”
“No one is completely off the hook, Miss Bennet,” he said, swallowing
hard. “Even the best of men will be laughed at by people who see the world
as one big joke.”
“There are people with no sense of humor at all,” I replied. “In contrast,
I suppose, there are those who joke too much. But it’s perfectly normal to
laugh when someone is being ridiculous. Even the great Will Darcy must
have character flaws.”
“I do my best to avoid them.”
“Like vanity?” I goaded.
“Maybe.”
“Or pride?”
“No. Not pride.”
“Aha!”
“I’m proud of a lot of things,” he said, straightening in his chair. “My
work, my family, my position—lots of things. Pride is definitely not a flaw.
It’s a virtue.”
“Are you done with your interrogation?” cried Caroline. “I’m bored.”
“He’s all yours, Caroline. Will has no flaws. He said so himself.”
“I never said that.” His tone was a little too cool for my taste. “I’m just
as bad as the next guy.”
This caught my interest more than it should have.
“Oh?”
 “Yes,” he croaked, trying to regain his usual composure. “Nobody's
perfect.”
“So what’s your defect, then? We’re all dying to know.”
“I’m not,” chirped Jane. I’d almost forgotten she was there. “Dying to
know, that is.”
“I’m not either,” said Caroline. She actually pouted at the fizzle the
conversation made in turning the focus from her.
“Bing?” I asked. “What about you?”
He just shrugged, but he had a devilish smirk on his cute, little face.
“I have a short temper,” offered Will. “I’ll admit I have little patience
for idiots and rude people.”
Rude people? That was ironic!
He went on. “I don’t have time for users or liars. I’m the king of holding
grudges. Call me resentful or petty or whatever, but I don’t care. I have
strong opinions about people and once they're on my Burnt List, they’re on
there forever.”
The whole room fell silent. He was truly a fierce thinker, and I found
myself wanting nothing more than to get away from him and his unfair
scrutiny.
“Those sure are some heavy defects,” I said, trying to lighten the mood,
“But nothing I can laugh at.”
He shrugged and gave me a cool, calculated stare. “We all have our
quirks, Elizabeth.”
“Yours is to hate everybody.”
“And yours,” he said, standing to his full height, towering over me, “is
to intentionally misunderstand them.”
The earth stood still, and for the length of a thousand heartbeats, all the
reality around us fell away. He stood so close to me, my chest was a hair’s
breadth away from brushing against his white Fruit of the Loom trailer-
tank. His heat and fury bore down on me, and I shrank into myself, flushed
from the inferno he diffused from his infuriatingly brawny figure. His entire
presence was imposing, invading my senses with whatever scent that was. It
was unique to him and mingled provocatively with the minty freshness of
his toothpaste. It was intoxicating and swoony. And I knew in that moment,
he tried to break me. Oh, he was good. He knew the effect he had on
women, and I felt all the weight of his artifice. But I had an advantage over
him because I could see right through him. I knew the type. Hunky
Hollywood playboy, lots of money, and the power to crush someone’s
career with a few carefully spread rumors. I wouldn’t play into his hands.
I’d leave that to Caroline.
The piano interrupted our staring contest. Bing played remarkably well,
which was a welcome distraction to everyone, but nobody quite as much as
Caroline, who dripped her body all over the piano, cabaret style, while she
sang song after song like a diva in a speakeasy. Bing seemed to know every
song ever composed in the history of musical theatre. He only missed a few
notes here or there, but his skill was beyond anyone in the room and
probably the whole cast. It was little wonder why Will had taken him under
his wing.
I returned to my sewing abomination, and Jane stretched out on the
sofa, admiring Bing and his magic fingers fly over the keys. Every so often,
I’d glance up and watch her drowsy, contented smiles, and my heart
warmed to the sight. She was so smitten with him. I’d only seen her fall for
a guy once before. He’d write songs about her and serenaded her with his
guitar. What girl wouldn’t go gaga over a guy like that? I was the only one
who didn’t trust him, and I almost lost Jane’s friendship when I voiced my
concerns. The guy hoodwinked her. Turned out Jane wasn’t his only muse
for those beautiful songs and when she found out, she cried on my shoulder
and watched Spanish telenovelas for days. I never once said I told you so,
and I vowed to keep my opinions about her boyfriends to myself from then
on. But Bing was different. I didn’t sense any danger for her where he was
concerned.
Will once again took up his pen and journal he so secretly wrote in.
Probably writing songs for multiple women. Every so often, I’d catch him
glowering at me then turn back to his writing when our eyes met. What
could he have been writing, I wondered? Probably one hundred and one
ways he hated Beth Bennet. I honestly couldn’t figure out any other reason
why he’d glance my way so often. It couldn’t be that he found me at all
attractive. I’m a Hobbit—not a tall bombshell like Caroline or a beautiful
Swedish goddess like Jane. Still, I was at a loss why someone like him
would waste any more energy than necessary in such contempt to warrant
the stink eye. I went over our earlier conversation in my memory. He’d
looked right at me when he spoke of his impatience with idiots and rude
people. Was he referring to me when he told us about his Burnt List? What
had I ever done to be on his Burnt List? For the record, I wouldn’t expect
anything less crass from Will Darcy.
An energy bar flew in my direction and landed on the cutting table in
front of me. I blinked at it like it had fallen from the sky.
“Are you allergic to peanuts?” Will was several feet away, far enough to
keep a safe distance.
“Um… no,” I croaked.
He didn’t say another word and turned away from me, placing himself
at the farthest end of the room. I looked up to find everyone else with a
similar bar, devouring them like manna from heaven and Will taking his
seat, fishing another one from his Mary Poppins messenger bag. He was an
overachieving boy scout. Did he have any burritos in there by chance? The
stubborn part of me didn’t want to accept anything from him. It was
counterintuitive to the sinister joy I got from loathing him. But hunger won
out, and I ripped into the package, grateful for anything other than the hot
sauce packets in Ari’s mini fridge.
I finally made my bed out of layers of crinoline and nineteenth century
wool coats (probably from previous productions of Oliver or Jekyll and
Hyde) and drifted off to a restless sleep. Caroline likewise found some coats
for a makeshift bed while Bing and Jane shared the sofa. Will, as far as I
know, stayed up all night. Maybe he thought I might bludgeon him in his
sleep and decided to stay on guard. All I know is each time I shifted from
sleeplessness or got up to empty my bladder, he was awake in his chair,
reading or listening to music.
Somewhere after three in the morning, the tumult of what was arguably
the worst day of my life caught up with me, and I fell into a hard and deep
slumber. I only awoke when an abrupt jostling roused me from the weight
of it and coming out of the haze of dreaming, I focused on the image of
Charlotte shaking me like a sack of flour. Caroline, Jane, and Bing rose,
having just awoken, and there in the threshold of that blasted door, stood
the formidable Dame Stella Gardiner. She wore an amused grimace on her
stoic features and leaned against the doorframe, fondling the keys on her
forefinger. It took me a minute to register the scene before me, somewhat
disoriented to my surroundings before a flood of realization washed over
me, and the dreamy haze was replaced by a splitting headache.
Charlotte spoke, but I only caught a few phrases. Something about
being worried I didn’t show up for work, not finding Jane or me at our
apartment, and coming upon all our cars in the theatre parking lot. Stella
must have been called at some point, but since it couldn’t be any later than
six in the morning, I imagined she wasn’t amused by the early-hour
disturbance.
And then I noticed with more interest than I cared to admit—and a good
measure of relief—that Will Darcy was gone. He no doubt fled the moment
Stella’s keys turned the lock.
 7

QUETZALCOATL’S HOT
CHOCOLATE

Beth

THE BEST PART of Monday’s rehearsal was the absence of all the male
members of our cast except for Bing. We were expected to learn the
choreography for three pieces in the first act, which required only the
Stanley Sisters and Frederic. I knew I couldn’t avoid Will entirely, but the
reprieve of three days was like a mini vacation. At least it would have been
if I didn't have to spend my every hour of freedom at the lodge. In
consequence to missing my shift on Friday night, I was given the worst
section in the restaurant and extra side work. I also had to pick up the
Sunday Brunch shift nobody wanted. In short, I spent more on gas than I
made on tips. Still, it was better than spending a weekend rationing energy
bars between five people in a costume shop, two of which were Heathers to
my Veronica Sawyer. I pondered whimsically who I could recruit for the
character of Jason Dean.
All thought of poisoning aside, I did have to endure an entire day
dancing with Caroline, but she was the lesser thorn in my side. In fact, I
hardly noticed her presence. Of course, a day at rehearsal wasn’t complete
without its weirder-than-fiction theatrics, and that came in the form of our
replacement choreographer who was the most spectacular mixture of drill
sergeant and drama queen on the planet. He was such an amusing study that
I found myself watching him when I should have been dancing. He could
easily put on a one-man show without even scripting it, and I’d probably
pay to see it.
Stella introduced Colin Hunsford in the morning with a short
announcement and quickly left the rehearsal studio. The man sashayed
before us for a long, silent minute as if to survey what he had to work with.
He didn’t seem pleased with what he saw until his eyes fell on Jane, and
then only gave a little nod of approval. He spent the next three quarters of
an hour showboating his accolades and why he was more qualified than our
previous choreographer, or anyone else in his acquaintance for that matter,
with the exception of his mentor whom he was sure to name-drop
throughout the day whenever an opportunity arose. I’d never heard of her. A
sneaky Google search on my phone while he ranted on came up with pages
of information on Catherine de Bourgh, apparently a world-renowned
dancer in her time and founder of the Rosings Institute of Dance. The most
current photo I could find was of a majestic, slender woman in her sixties or
seventies. Her silver hair was tied into a fierce, yet elegant bun, and she was
celebrating the debut of one of her star students.
After some of the oddest warm-ups in the history of dance, Colin taught
the choreography for Climbing Over Rocky Mountain. He pranced to the
center of the room and flicked his hands in the direction he wanted us to go.
“All right!” he chirped with a clap. “We will start with a sashay from
stage left, go into three pirouettes on pointe, and then I want you to break
off into the lines which I will now place you in.”
“On pointe?” cried Caroline. “We’re dancing on pointe?”
Colin swooshed his long, flowy scarf and snapped his head over his
shoulder sharply in her direction. It was quite fabulous in a Nathan Lane in
Birdcage sort of way. “Daaaahling,” he oozed, “of course you’ll be on
pointe. This song is a classic ballet showpiece. Haven’t you listened to the
D’oyle Carte soundtrack? The flutes, the staccato trills. It begs for sissonne
and temps levé sauté. In 1978 the great Fordyce Ballet Company performed
a musical rendition of The Tempest entirely on pointe.”
He then waffled on for ten minutes about the Fordyce Ballet Company
and how every dancer should study the principles of their training
philosophy.
At length Holly spoke up. “But we didn’t audition on pointe.”
Colin’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows arched into his hairline. “What?
That’s preposterous. No wonder the old choreographer was replaced.”
 “He had a family emergency,” offered Lydia.
“And what is your name, love?” Colin asked with interest.
“Lettuce.”
Colin ran his eyes up and down over her body and strutted around her,
making a complete circle. I found it a little amusing that Lydia calling
herself Lettuce didn’t faze him one bit. Maybe he didn’t hear what she said?
He stopped in front of her, resting one hand on his hip and the other on his
chin.
“Hmmm,” he resounded. “You have a lovely long neck. Graceful arms.”
“Uh… Thank you?” she squeaked.
“I’m making you dance captain.”
Her mouth fell open. “But I’m not a ballerina.”
“You will be once I’m done with you,” he said as he strutted back to the
front of the room. “I want everyone to bring pointe shoes tomorrow. Today
we will make do with demi-pointe.”
More than a few groans and shared expressions of confusion followed. I
was sure the only one trained on pointe was Jane, and she wasn’t even in
this scene. I certainly didn’t own pointe shoes, and I was willing to bet
Lydia didn’t either. I was already calculating how many sprained ankles
there would be by the end of the week.
Colin shooed everyone back in place and pointed to Lydia to front the
line. He assumed fifth position and demonstrated his most elegant port de
bras. He counted and sashayed. Everything he said was in rhythm. “Ready?
And, one two three four five six seven eight. Everybody, follow Lettuce.”
(Apparently, he did hear her call herself Lettuce after all.) There were a few
snickers from some of the girls. He sped through, ignoring them. “Sashay,
sashay, and turn, turn, turn, relevé, don’t forget your port de bras. Again.”
And again and again and again. Poor Lydia was on the spot, and Colin
lavished her in equal measures of fury and praise. Any time we couldn’t get
a port de bras or jete perfectly, he’d scream, he’d cry, he’d use his scarf as a
whip and smack us with it until we got it right. However, when we were on
it, he’d fall to his knees and kiss the floor.
“If you had been wearing pointe shoes,” he said to Lydia, “I’d kiss your
feet. As it is, I will defer my raptures until tomorrow and content myself
with kissing the ground you walk on.”
This well-meant but slightly creepy compliment found Lydia, who
loved attention from any human of the male variety, embarrassed. She
shifted her wide eyes around the room and shrunk back into the folds of the
other girls like a shy schoolgirl.
I overheard her tell Holly later that day that she wouldn’t be purchasing
pointe shoes just to spite Colin and his overzealous foot fetish.

IT WAS mid-day when we finally broke for lunch. Most everyone went to
the juice bar down the street, but I had packed leftover mac-n-cheese that I
shoveled in my face in forty-five seconds flat. With time left to spare, I
wandered the scope of the theatre, inhaling its essence, letting the ghosts of
shows past seep into my skin. A theatre was a magical place, and there was
nowhere else I felt more at home than within the dome of its shelter. I loved
the smell, the texture, the sounds of the building itself even when it was
resting from the bustle of performers.
The stragglers that stayed behind for lunch remained in the green room
or the rehearsal studio, and since nobody was in the house, the theatre was
dark. I felt like a voyeur, running my hands along the velvet-backed seats as
I made my way down the aisle. How many patrons had sat in those seats
over the years? What stories they could tell of entertainments long ago
enjoyed, faded laughter and echoes of applause. Such history was etched
within the walls, along the proscenium and upon that stage. Such a beautiful
stage!
I glanced around the enormity of the theatre. Not a soul in sight, not on
the stage, not in the tech booth high above the balcony, not in the orchestra
pit. I was alone. Yet there was an awareness that tickled the back of my
neck as I stepped onto the stage as if I were passing some invisible border.
It wasn’t as though I was restricted to enter that magical realm—after all, I
would be performing in a few, short weeks. But somehow, it was as if the
stage were my lover, and I wasn’t to cross its virgin threshold until our
wedding night. There was only one thing to do. Only one thing in answer to
my fantastical little musings.
Tap dance.
If there were one thing musical theatre performers couldn’t resist when
presented with the broad, beautiful surface of a stage, it was tap dancing.
Flaps, shuffle off to Buffalo, pullbacks, time steps, you name it. We loved to
tap. It was an addiction, like dollar slots for grandmas or Starbucks for basic
white girls. I was always that annoying person, tapping down the aisles of
the supermarket, at the DMV, at the museum—anywhere that had a floor
that went click, click, click at my footfall. A stage? Well, that was tap
Disneyland. The surface was sooo satisfying—like protruding veins for
nurses or clickable plaque for dental hygienists. I had to get my fix.
I began with some flaps, just to get accustomed to the resistance my
Converse All Stars gave on the floor and made a mental note to bring my
tap shoes (along with pointe shoes) the next day.
I transitioned into the time step and before I knew it, my feet were
flying, doing paddles and syncopated digs. I was in tap heaven. Tappity tap,
tap.
And for my big finish, the Bombershay Broadway!
I supposed I liked this step because of the name. Also, I had a thing for
traveling steps. I could make an entrance or even a memorable exit doing
the Buffalo or Bombershay Broadway. Like at the convenience store after
getting my change. Just shuffle on out of there. Or at the bank. A spank step
and twist ball change and a see ya later!
The whole human race needed to learn to tap. It would achieve world
peace.
So I was doing my Bombershays, imagining myself in A Chorus Line or
Thoroughly Modern Millie, when the rubber soles of my Converse caught
on the floor, or my feet, or the laces. It happened in a millisecond, but I was
flying through the air, trying to flap my arms as if that would help, and
crashed onto the hard plane of man flesh. My first reaction as I fell was to
grab onto something to get my bearings. My hands instinctively reached out
and clutched onto the closest thing they could reach, and oh man, they were
rewarded with miles and miles of muscle attached to long, sinewy arms.
At the same moment, as I slid down to my utter humiliation, my face
found a place to burrow and stifle a scream. I found myself in the peculiar
position of staring straight into the midst of a dark, olive-skinned set of abs.
Also more muscles. A pair of strong, sure hands reached behind me and
before I could be completely devastated by a crash to the floor, they
scooped me up and held me close to their owner’s chest. It was indeed a
fine chest, but what was more fascinating was the set of perfectly white
teeth smiling down at me, attached to what could only be described as the
most perfect face imaginable. It was almost unfair how perfect it was, so
beautiful it might not have been real. His skin was a golden brown, a
natural tan made even more bronze by the effects of the sun as was evident
by the whips of blond invading his chestnut hair. A long, straight nose
dipped down, pointing to lips full and plump and rounded with a single
dimple on his left cheek. But what most arrested me in that moment were
his eyes. Lord in heaven, those eyes! I cannot guarantee a little drool wasn’t
dripping on my chin, but while the rest of this Latin demigod was carved
from Quetzalcoatl’s hot chocolate, those gorgeous eyes were blue-green,
like the ocean in Cozumel, and they looked at me like I was the last piece of
flan. I felt gooey and soft. I probably wouldn’t have protested if he were to
request a taste test.
“Do you often lose your balance, or just enjoy attacking the floor?”
The demigod speaks!
He set my feet gently on the floor and held me at arm’s length, his
hands still searing into the small of my back.
“Oh, uh.” My mouth might as well have been stuffed with cotton balls
because he rendered me speechless with his shirtless, golden torso and the
swagger of a caliente surfer dude.
At length, I managed to say, “I was doing a gravity check.” I tapped a
foot on the floor. “Yep. It works.” I was such a dork!
He smiled and generously chuckled at my dorkiness. His lips curled as
he said with a shrug, “Here I was hoping a beautiful woman was finally
falling for me.”
“Um…” I croaked. Was he flirting with me?
“I’m Jorge.”
Wow. He pronounced his name with a soft roll of the tongue. Also, he
was so gorgeous, my IQ dropped several points.
“Hor-hay,” I repeated. “Is that spelled with a… W-H, or just an H?”
“With a J.” He laughed. “That crazy Spanish language, always mixing
up consonants.”
“Right. I knew that,” I said with a nervous laugh. “How annoying.”
“That’s what I’ve always thought.”
“Is it short for something?”
“Spanish consonants?”
“Your name.”
“No… just Jorge.”
“Oh, yeah, of course. Duh.”
 His eyes smoldered, surveying me from my toes, lingering on my hips
and teetering from my face to my chest in unveiled interest.
“I’m Beth,” I blurted. “That’s short for Elizabeth. Some people call me
Lizzie. Actually, only my parents call me Lizzie. So just Beth.”
He was silent, just looking at me with his head tilted to the side like he
was trying to figure me out. It made me a little uncomfortable, and when
I’m uncomfortable, I talk way too much.
“I thought I was alone. If I had known you were here, I would have
never… I mean, I didn’t mean to disturb your work. Do you work here?
What do you do? I’m an actress. I’m in the cast of Pirates, but we’re still
using the rehearsal studio. Are you building the set? It must be hard to erect
something like that. It’s really big!”
One brow shot up on his remarkable face, and he let go of me, stepping
back an inch. I immediately felt the cool air on my back where his hand had
been, oddly missing the contact. But then he enclosed his hand on mine and
nudged me softly toward the wings.
“It is really big,” he said with a wink. “Would you like to see it?”
I nodded furiously and followed him backstage, passing a forest of
trellis and scrim. I looked up to the fly system. It was so high, it made me
feel small. He took me past counterweights and pulleys, through the
crossover behind the scrim and into a large, cool room smelling of sawdust
and fresh paint. I loved that smell. It reminded me of building sets in high
school and college to fulfill my tech requirement.
Jorge led the way with his arms stretched out.
“And this is where the magic happens.”
He spun around to see how impressed I truly was, and it hit me. This
guy was smooth. Real smooth.
“Oh, I get it,” I said, shaking one finger. “You’re good, I gotta hand it to
you.”
“What?”
“I almost fell for it.”
“Fell for what?” he whimpered. “I don’t understand.”
“Come on. Look at you. No shirt. Low-fitting jeans. You appear out of
nowhere with your ripped abs and foxy simper and bring me to ‘where the
magic happens.’ Oh, pah-leez. That line must work on lots of girls.”
He looked at me, marveling my words for a long, still moment, and he
appeared so out of sorts, I suddenly regretted my verbal diarrhea. But then
he laughed, and I regretted opening my mouth at all because it sounded so
ridiculous once the words were out there, hanging between us.
“I’ve known you for like, ten minutes.” He laughed.
“I know. Sorry. I don’t know why I said that. I watch too many movies,
I guess.”
“I mean, if I were to have my way with you, I’d wait at least a half
hour.”
“Ha ha.”
“It’s one of my rules. No swimming after meals and wait a half hour
before seducing girls.
“Okay. Now you’re making fun of me. That’s fine. I deserve it.”
His laugh simmered into an amused sigh and his lips curved into a smile
that reached his sparkling eyes, provoking that dimple to make an
unguarded appearance. His eyes searched mine, and an electric charge
sparked and turned my innards into molten lava. I felt like one of those
chocolate cakes with the drippy center. Why did this guy make me feel like
food?
I didn’t notice how he closed the distance between us, but he was
suddenly close. I had known the man for less than fifteen minutes, but I felt
in that moment, as his presence shared the energy surrounding my body, I
wouldn’t protest if he didn’t wait a half hour before swimming. I was a rule
breaker like that.
His eyes traveled over my figure, and he sucked in a sharp breath as he
said, “Do you like my vessel?”
“You… your what?”
His eyes flashed with mirth, and he grinned ruefully as he repeated,
“My vessel.” He inched closer to me. “Do you think it’s large enough?”
“Whaa—”
For the second time in our short acquaintance, he closed his hand
around mine and guided me to follow him. This time, it was to the other
side of the scene shop where there were various projects in different degrees
of completion. He stopped in front of the unfinished structure of what
looked like the beginnings of a boat and gestured to it with an air of
accomplishment.
Oh! His vessel.
“Is this the pirate ship?”
He moved around it, stroking the wood with reverence.
 “Not just any pirate ship,” he said, wagging his brows. “This boat is
automatic, it’s systematic, it’s hyyydromatic…”
“It’s greased lightning?”
“I’m trying to convince Stella it needs a fuel-injection cutoff and
chrome-plated rods.”
“You should totally do it,” I said with enthusiasm.
“You think?”
“Paint it cherry red and put some thirty-inch fins on the back. The
pirates could wear leather jackets.”
He laughed. It was a contagious one. “The girls could dress like the
Pink Ladies.”
I had a eureka moment. “We are brilliant,” I said. “We should do a
Pirates of Penzance/Grease crossover.”
“I’d actually pay to see that.”
I felt such a connection with this person I barely knew, but it was like
I’d known him all my life, like our meeting was destined.
“You see, it was serendipity, me bumping into you,” I said, making light
of the chaos going on inside my mind. “We could make a million dollars
with our brilliant ideas.”
“Just a million?”
“Or maybe we’d go bankrupt,” I teased.
He retrieved two wooden stools from an alcove overstuffed with props,
and giving me one, perched himself on the edge of the seat and leaned
forward, offering me his full attention.
“So, Beth, short for Elizabeth but hardly ever Lizzie, tell me something
about yourself.”
“Me? There’s nothing to tell. I’m boring.”
“You’re anything but boring. Why did you get into theatre?”
I could feel the flush of blood rush to my cheeks.
“For the money,” I said, dismissing his smoldering stare. I could never
receive a compliment well, usually deflecting the resulting bashfulness with
humor. “I entered into one of those Ponzi schemes,” I continued. “Turns out
I was duped.” I shrugged and made a meh face. “Too late to back out now.”
He sighed an easy and unaffected laugh, never releasing me with his
eyes. “So you’re a comedienne.”
“I get my share of comedy roles, yes.”
“Okay.”
 He shifted in his seat, tallying his knowledge of me on his fingers. “I
now know you have a knack for comedy, you’re a snappy dresser…” He
gestured to my Doctor Who t-shirt. “and you’ve got the moves like Jagger.”
Holy Moley!
“You’ll never let me live that down.”
“But I still don’t know what makes you tick, Beth, short for Elizabeth,
sometimes Lizzie.”
His stare was penetrating, searching my soul. “Why theatre?”
His tone shifted to earnest sincerity. Was this guy for real?
“Okay,” I conceded. “If you really want to know… there’s no other art,
not even cinema, that can combine music, storytelling, dance, painting,
costumes, lighting…” I gestured to the pirate ship. “Set design… and all of
those things come together for three hours every night, and it’s a shared
experience as it happens on stage. It’s the most magical thing in the world.”
I crinkled my brow in thought, and his face softened, leveling into my orbit.
“The stage is not merely the meeting place of all the arts,” he said,
holding my eyes, “but is also the return of art to life.”
“Jorge, that’s… wow! That’s beautiful.”
“That’s Oscar Wilde.”
“I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be. I memorize prose just to woo the ladies.”
“Good one.”
We had come full circle, it seemed. He enjoyed teasing me far too
much.
“So…” He grinned. “Ripped abs and foxy simper?”
“Well, it’s a little distracting to tell you the truth,” I said, gesturing to his
bare chest.
“It gets hot in here,” he said apologetically. “Let me get my shirt. I’ll be
right back.”
He was gone before I had a chance to stop him. I would have to get
back to rehearsal soon. Checking my phone for the time, I had the notion to
arm myself with some ammunition of my own in the form of poignant
theatre quotes. I was determined not to blurt out the first idiotic thing that
came to mind. I’d be ready with brilliant verse and resplendent sonnets
upon his return.
“The internet does not a smart person make,” I whispered to myself as I
scrolled the memes.
 The sound of footfall announced his entry through the passageway. I
hoped to high heaven that his shirt wasn’t a clingy, white t-shirt, because
that wouldn’t have been much better for my concentration than his bare
chest. Please be flannel, please be flannel.
“Here’s one for you, Shakespeare,” I bellowed, not daring to look
behind me. “Movies will make you famous, television will make you rich,
but theatre will make you good.”
The footsteps halted, and then there was long pause. My estimation was
that he was too overcome with my smarts to answer. But then a response
did come, but it wasn’t the Latin demigod I expected.
“Terrence Mann,” the voice said.
I shot up from the stool, almost knocking it to the floor, and flipped
around to see Will Darcy assessing my presence with intense scrutiny.
“What are you doing here?” I cried.
“I might ask you the same thing,” he said coolly, lifting a solitary
eyebrow.
It was a Mexican standoff. I felt like I was in a Sergio Leone Spaghetti
Western, where he was Clint Eastwood, and I was that other guy about to
get his head blown off.
For what seemed an hour, neither one of us spoke. The last time we had
exchanged words, they weren’t pretty.
At length, he declared, “I met him once.”
“Clint Eastwood?” Had I spoken that aloud?
“What? No. Terrence Mann.”
“Oh.”
“My father took me to see him perform in Beauty and the Beast. We
were invited backstage.”
“I like Beauty and the Beast,” I blurted stupidly.
He had the most terrified expression; his body was stiffer than it usually
was, and his eyes were so wide, they were fixed on me as if he were dealing
with a hostage situation, and I was the terrorist about to blow us all to
kingdom come.
“Yes,” he replied robotically. “That’s a good play.”
Don’t blow us up, his eyes spoke. Back away from the ledge.
I was suddenly very aware of a prickling in my toes. What was it about
this man that ate away at my nerves so much? He was a haughty hottie. So
what? There were plenty of those guys in Hollywood. They made me laugh.
But Will had a special sort of arrogance—the kind that cast a shadow over
everyone in his vicinity but was pointedly directed at me. The prickling in
my toes spread up my legs, and I no longer had confidence they would
support my weight. Traitors. I sat on the wooden stool before I could make
a fool of myself.
“It’s a tale as old as time,” I agreed.
“Right.” He exhaled and shook his head vigorously.
“I just came for these.”
He frowned, and grabbing two prop swords, made a beeline towards the
exit. But upon the appearance of Jorge, still shirtless I might add, he
stopped abruptly and glowered at him.
I’d seen enough nature shows to recognize when a tiger confronts a lion.
I could have sworn I saw Will bear a sharp set of fangs. Jorge, lingering in
the shop entrance, took one glance at Will and turned an ashen pale. I
marveled at the sight—he was like a stone carving from Tenochtitlan—
majestic, protective, fiercely angry. Darcy stood his own, though. Strong
and proud.
The coincidence of the prop swords in Will’s hands wasn’t lost on my
overactive imagination. Jorge’s eyes flickered to them for just a moment
and returned to hold Will’s stare lest he be tempted to use them. (They were
dull anyway.) But with the release of a long-held breath, he turned his focus
to me and slowly inched out of Will’s vicinity. There was a heady tension
that even words couldn’t cut through, and I found myself enthralled by the
curiosity it ignited. There was history there, and I could only imagine it was
a juicy one. Rival suitors for the same woman perhaps? Beer pong
adversaries? Or gasp… maybe Will was a Yankees fan. I had to know.
Will narrowed his eyes as Jorge crossed the room to me, watching him
balance an arm over my shoulders with a claiming simper. The dissonance
was deafening. With a scowl that went on for days, he heaved in contempt
and swiftly quit the room.
“What was that all about?” I asked as Jorge took a step away from me.
For a long moment, he watched the space Will left vacant, waiting for a
ghost to reappear. He was quiet, preoccupied by the erstwhile encounter.
His beautiful brow wrinkled in review of it, and I noted his fists clenched at
his sides. It was inspiring—the sensation of solidarity I acknowledged with
a person I barely knew. But a heavy awareness aroused me. (Or maybe it
was just because he was still without a shirt.) In any case, something had
gotten him all worked up, which oddly made him appear even more
attractive.
“Why so silent, good monsieur?” I asked, attempting to bring him back
to Earth.
When he turned around to face me, all trace of malice was gone from
his features. He wore a cheery smile (and that irresistible dimple) and
posed, “Do you like pubs?”
“Is that a rhetorical question?”
He exhaled an easy laugh, drawing near enough to touch me. “There’s a
gastro pub that serves the best onion ring tower in the universe. Come out
with me tonight.”
I blinked at this intriguing man standing before me, a man I had known
for less time than it took to order lunch at Jerry’s Deli, and he was inviting
me out for onion rings.
Onion rings!
My eyes ran over his body, clad in well-used Levi’s, tattered Vans, and
nothing more. Then I gazed upon his perfect face and blurted like a dope,
“Where’s your shirt?”
 8

HOW PITIFUL HIS TALE (HOW RARE

HIS BEAUTY)

Beth

“JONNY WITHOUT AN H CAR!” I screamed, kicking the tire. It wasn’t

the fault of my poor old Volvo but taking out my frustrations on an
inanimate object was more palatable than taking the blame for running it on
fumes.
“Zombie Prom?” Lydia appeared behind me, laden with her dance bag,
worn out from Colin’s endless whims. I’d never seen her so spent. It was
rather refreshing.
“Yeah.”
She guessed right. It was my Zombie Prom day for curse word
substitutes because at this point, I felt like a zombie. It wasn’t just the
grueling dance rehearsal, however. Meeting Jorge had me tingling with
anticipation for our date, if you could call it that. We were taking separate
cars, after all. But it was the odd encounter with Will that was the turning
point of the day, and it all went downhill from there. Now my car decided it
wasn’t worth starting for me with only a tablespoon of gas in the tank.
Maybe if we gave it a push?
“What’s wrong with ol’ Betty?”
Oh, Lydia. She had a name for everything.
“Ol’ Betty is hungry,” I replied. “Do you think you could give me a ride
to the Arco? I have a gas can in the trunk. It’ll only take a few minutes.”
 She smirked at me, shaking her head in resignation. “You’re hopeless.
Come on.”
Her car wasn’t much better than mine. A Honda Civic hatchback. It was
newer than my car, but just as neglected. Well, at least it had gas.
“Let me just clear a space for you,” she said, throwing items from the
passenger seat to the rear. Every nook of her little car was occupied with
stuff. Clothes, boxes, blankets, and pillows filled the backseat to the brim.
“Lydia,” I said, “are you living in your car?”
“Oh, it’s just temporary.” She waved her hand dismissively. “And my
name is Lettuce.”
“Fine. Lettuce,” I said. “How long? How long is temporary?”
She released a long sigh, slouching her usually proud shoulders. I
imagined the exhaustion from the long day coupled with whatever was
weighing her down finally caught up with her, and she was remarkably easy
in the recitation of her plight. She’d been evicted. Not entirely her fault. I’d
met her roommates and let’s just say they were avid greenery aficionados.
Among other things. As a result, she’d been living in her car for about a
month.
“That’s not very temporary,” I said. “Some people have held public
office for less time than that.”
“Who?” she challenged.
“I don’t know. But that’s not the point. You’re coming to my place. You
can have the couch until you get on your feet. And you’re going out with
me tonight.”
She protested, insisting she’d be in the way (regarding the couch, not
the bar). Surely, Jane wouldn’t approve. But in the end, she agreed,
promising to be out as soon as possible.
The truth was, I hardly ever saw Jane anymore. She spent all her free
hours with Bing, and while I was happy for her, I missed our movie nights
and ice cream binges. Lydia would return some life to the apartment.
Hopefully not too much life.

JORGE WAS WAITING FOR US, with a shirt on, already on his second
beer. To my surprise, our director Cole sat at the table. Sitting very cozily
next to him was Lydia’s new friend Holly. With the way she was giggling at
Lydia’s jokes the other day, I wouldn’t have matched her with someone like
Cole. It didn’t seem to faze Lydia at all, however, and she greeted Cole and
Holly in a cheery and familiar fashion. Then she took one appraisal at Jorge
and offered him the back of her hand. “Well, hello there. I’m Lettuce.”
Jorge took her hand and kissed it. “Yes, I know. Your reputation
precedes you.”
She giggled coyly, and I resisted an urge to gag myself with my index
finger. Jorge then winked and said, “Buttercup was telling me all about
you.”
“Buttercup?” I questioned although I knew what the answer would be.
Lydia shrugged out of her pea coat, revealing a terribly skimpy
spaghetti-strap dress.
“Don’t be silly, Edith,” she said to me. “Buttercup is our sister.”
Right—her zany method acting, if you could call it that. So Holly was
now Buttercup, and I wondered, by the way she was nuzzled close to Cole,
if he was her Wesley.
I’d never been inside Phillip’s Gastro Pub before. The location was a
former Blockbuster Video and had been vacant for some time before some
developers tore the building down to the foundation. I remember watching
the progress each time I passed that way, and once it was finally finished, I
figured it was far too hipster for me and my pocketbook. One look at the
trendy hemp menu and my suspicions were confirmed. A hamburger with a
side of slaw was twenty-eight dollars, and that was the cheapest entree they
had. My reaction must have played plainly on my features because Cole
leaned across the table and placed his warm, heavy hand on mine.
“It’s my treat tonight.”
“Oh no, I couldn’t accept—”
“Just order something,” Jorge interjected. “You’ll make all the rest of us
look like jerks if you don’t.”
I looked around the table to find the nodding faces of Lydia and Holly
in agreement with Jorge.
“You can repay me with a song,” Cole bade to me. “It’s karaoke night.”
Great! Karaoke. I considered myself an open-minded person, but there
were a select few things I disliked on this great earth of ours: war, poverty,
global warming, Will Darcy, and karaoke.
 This evening was turning out to be far from what I expected. I wasn’t
prepared to make a fool out of myself by singing I Got You Babe in front of
my director, much less the humiliation of conceding to the offer of a free
dinner. To compound the whole armpit of a night, Lydia took the seat
closest to Jorge, placing me far from his side. Even though we had hit it off
earlier, I didn’t have a claim on him, nor was I sure I wanted to just yet, but
for the hours that led up to meeting up with him, all I wanted was to do was
ask about his acquaintance with Will. There was a juicy story in there
somewhere, and I was too curious for my own good. As it stood, we were in
a bar too noisy for conversation, a night of drunk karaoke revelry was on
the horizon, and our party was getting bigger by the minute by the addition
of the lip-syncing pirate.
“Sorry I’m late.”
Denny took the empty chair between me and Cole, rounding out our
party of six. Presently, Denny the lip-syncing pirate, with whom I’d never
spoken two words in succession, gave me an artless grin and claimed my
water for himself.
“You’re not drinking this, are you?” he asked. “I’m parched.”
I just shook my head because, frankly, I’d never given it more of a
passing thought that he could have any word in his vocabulary other than
watermelon.
“You all know my nephew Denny, of course,” said Cole.
We all nodded and smiled, but Lydia twirled her hair and winked.
“Hi Danny.”
“It’s Denny. With an ‘e,’” he said nonplussed. “Like the restaurant.”
“Oh,” she purred, casting her eyeballs all over him in open assessment.
“Are you open all night?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact,” he said without a pause. “And I’ve got hot
cakes.”
“I like to call them flap jacks,” she cooed.
Jorge laughed lightly—that beautiful, unaffected laugh—and he caught
my stare. His eyes flickered over me with awareness, sharing a moment—
the sort of telepathic moment that suggests Let’s blow this taco stand. Or
maybe I was imagining things.
All I knew was that this conversation was getting weird and oddly
enough, making me hungry for pancakes. Denny’s (the restaurant, not the
pirate) would have been much cheaper, less hipster, and best of all, have no
karaoke.
I had to admit, however, as the evening progressed and after a few
margaritas, we all relaxed into comfortable intimacy like good friends. Cole
surprised me the most with his easy humor. I suppose I never thought of
him more than the stern director he wore as a facade at the theatre. He wore
many hats as any professional would. It was a pleasant discovery on my
part. It was also alarmingly plain there was a lot more going on between
him and Holly than innocent flirting. I found myself watching them every
so often through the night—the touches, the stolen whispers. What was the
age difference between them? It had to be close to thirty years. And yet they
were so beautifully matched and so incandescently in love, it hardly
mattered.
Lydia, never one to turn down a free drink, made good use of Cole’s
generosity. He’d left an open tab for our table, ordering pitcher after pitcher
of margaritas. And Phillip’s Gastro Pub, being overly trendy and hipster,
had delicious and expensive artisan-crafted margaritas. We were all a little
buzzed and so cozily paired, we danced all night. And when a patron on the
karaoke mic would sing painfully off key, we’d cheer them on with raucous
encouragement. To Cole’s amusement, and my astonishment, Denny and
Lydia sang Don’t Go Breaking My Heart as a duet. Denny actually had a
great voice as he channeled his inner Elton John. No lip-syncing at all. It
was so contagious, I dragged Jorge on stage to join as back-up singers. He
was reluctant at first, and I found the timid reaction an endearing, awkward
garment he clearly didn’t frequently wear.
“I’m a backstage guy,” he said later on. “I’ll leave the performing to
you.”
“You did great.” I laughed. “With the exception of all the ho-ho-hos.”
“It’s not ho-ho?”
“No, Santa Claus, it’s ooo-ooo.”
The corners of his lips curled and leaned into me, brushing his stubble
against my ear. “I’m really good at coming down chimneys.”
His breath was hot on the delicate skin of my collarbone, and he wore
the lingering scent of tequila like a fine cologne. It suited him very well. All
at once, I didn’t care about any of those other things I was preoccupied
with. Not Cole and Holly, not Lydia’s homelessness, not that Darcy guy. In
a haze of onion rings and tequila, I wondered why any of those things
mattered at all. I was having fun.
The small escape from my cares was too short lived, and I crashed into
sober awareness with the abrupt appearance of Denny. He flew to me with a
whoosh so swift, he didn’t pause or halt his steps as he pulled me by the
arm towards the back of the restaurant.
“Lydia threw up all over the stage,” he said with a determined gait. “I
was able to get her to the restroom, but you’d better check on her.”
Wonderful!
“Where’s Holly?” I questioned.
He chuckled. “Are you kidding? She left with my uncle about an hour
ago.”
“Oh.”
I was in Latin dreamland longer than I’d realized.
“He left me his credit card,” said Denny. “He’s gonna be livid when he
gets the cleaning bill.”
I found Lydia in the first stall, huddled over the toilet. She was a shade
of pale puce and strands of her hair were plastered against her face. One of
her spaghetti straps hung low on her shoulder, causing her dress to sag low
on her tiny boobs.
“You okay, hon?” I asked, stroking the hair from her neck.
“You’re holding my hair as I hurl into the toilet,” she managed to say
with some humor.
“That’s what friends do.” I smiled.
She looked like she was going to say something else endearingly sappy
but gagged again and let more party evidence spill into the toilet.
“How much did you have to drink?” I asked but thought better of it a
moment later. “Never mind.”
It didn’t matter at this point. I needed to get her home—hopefully
without damage to the interior of my Volvo. I stayed with her until I
deemed it safe to move her. Jorge and Denny met us at the door, carrying
both our purses. I would have made a cheeky joke had I not been
determined to get Lydia the Eddie Flagrante out of there.
Denny was a little more anxious than I was. “Let’s go before there’s
more damage,” he cried. “The busboy is giving us the stink eye.”
“I don’t blame him,” I said with sympathy. I’d never had to deal with
drunk customers at the lodge, but I’d cleaned my share of messes. Mostly
idiots playing with the ketchup or Tabasco. It gave me an unhealthy
aversion to condiments.
Jorge gathered Lydia in his arms and carried her out of the pub. We
made it to my car without incident, and he gently lowered her into the
backseat. “I better ride with you,” he said. “To make sure she’s okay.”
“I can handle it, really,” I protested.
“Are you going to carry her into the house?” he argued. “Besides, I’m a
little too tipsy to drive.”
He climbed into the seat beside Lydia without another word and cradled
her head on his lap.
“I feel like a dip-head,” said Denny. “I didn’t even realize she had that
much to drink.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
I would have hugged him, but I suspected traces of Lydia’s vomit got on
my clothing. “Are you okay to drive?”
“I am now,” he blurted. “Nothing like a little drama to kill the buzz.”
We parted with a nod and an awareness of the new friendship an
experience like that produced. I drove home with these thoughts in the
forefront of my mind. New friends already forming a tender attachment to
my heart just because we spent an evening laughing over margaritas and
bad karaoke. I wondered if Jane was having as much fun with her new
acquaintances. I imagined her meeting Bing at a bar, maybe one of those
posh martini bars. And wouldn’t it be a riot to be joined by Will and
Caroline.
Gag me.
I wished her well, but as long as Bing relied on such meddling friends,
she’d always be under their scrutiny. There was no sign of her when we
arrived at the apartment.
Jorge helped me get Lydia situated on the couch. She was totally passed
out, but I put a barf bucket next to her just in case. I wasn’t interested in
losing my security deposit. Before I even noticed what he was doing, Jorge
had disrobed down to his boxers. I almost leapt into the barf bucket.
“It’s not a good party unless you’re covered in vomit.” He shrugged,
holding his soiled clothes. “Do you mind if I wash these in your bathtub?”
“Oh! Of course.”
I looked down at my own clothing and noticed patches of caked-on
residue. “I’ll get you some detergent. And a robe.”
 The evening had played out just a little differently in my imagination
when I was preparing to go out. Jorge was in my living room, exposing
more skin than should be legal, but my fantasies never included a barf fest.
I consoled myself with a quick shower and fresh pajamas while Jorge
washed his clothes in the guest bathroom, and when he met me in the
kitchen with the Hello Kitty robe I lent him, I had a pot of boiling water on
the stove.
“You look dashing as ever,” I teased.
“It suits me,” he said, modeling the robe. “I think I’ll keep it.”
“Sorry, the laundry room is locked at this hour,” I apologized. “Tea or
hot cocoa?”
“Cocoa, if you have milk. My mom used to make it with milk.”
Used to. That didn’t escape my notice, but I didn’t want to ask after the
night we’d had. Instead, I continued to tease him, offering him my fluffy
slippers to match the robe and suggesting we give each other manicures
while watching chick flicks. We joked over cocoa and laughed louder than
we ought to with a sleeping reprobate just a few feet away on my couch.
She was so barbecue, she never stirred an inch. After some time, he thanked
me for a lovely evening and prepared to gather his clothes to leave.
“But they’re still soaking wet,” I protested. “Are you going out like
that?”
He shrugged. “This is L.A. I’m sure the Uber driver has seen weirder
stuff than a guy in a Hello Kitty robe.”
“What if I don’t let you take the robe?”
He shrugged it off his shoulders and held it out to me in one fluid
motion. “Like I said, this is L.A.”
He was a sight to behold—pure, chiseled man flesh, the defined features
and golden brown of his skin more pronounced in the low light of my
apartment. I swallowed hard and squeezed my eyelids tight. “Put that back
on before I—”
I choked on my words, not entirely sure what I planned to say.
“Before you what?”
Gah! I lost all sense of sentence structure around this guy!
“Just put it on and stay.” I sighed. “You can’t go out like that. Just crash
here.”
My eyes were still shut. I heard him chuckle under his breath as the
swoosh of the cloth brushed against his body, and I rendered it safe to open
my eyes again.
“You are something else, Beth short for Elizabeth and sometimes
Lizzie.”
He drew near to me, invading my space. Even with a silly bathrobe
barely covering his tall frame, he was still way too gorgeous. I began to
regret this whole evening. The temperature in my apartment was always a
slight chill in November, but the heat from his presence was downright
tropical. He locked his eyes with mine as his arm wrapped behind me,
barely grazing my side, and I heard a screech.
“Shall we sit and talk then?”
The screech was a chair he pulled out behind me at the breakfast nook.
What a ridiculous tweenager I’d become. My innards crumpled into a heap
of nerves whenever he was near. Get it together, Beth. I reminded myself he
was a player. He had to be. The question was, did I care?
“Some people call me Eliza,” I blurted. “But I don’t like it. Too much
like Eliza Doolittle.”
He smiled at my admission. “Okay, Beth short for Elizabeth sometimes
Lizzie but never Eliza. Got it.”
An awkward silence fell over the room as if after a full day of easy
banter, we’d finally run out of words to say to one another. I went over the
inventory in my head. Yep. Tank was empty. But what I really wanted to
talk about, what I was burning to know, was something I didn’t feel the
confidence to ask. The showdown in the scene shop earlier in the day
seemed like so long ago, but the feelings it stirred were still fresh on my
mind. It turned out the same thoughts weighed on Jorge’s mind as well, and
his countenance shifted to somber reflection.
“I want to apologize about this afternoon,” he began. I didn’t interrupt
him. I let him speak without reservations lest he change his mind. “You
probably noticed the… less than cordial greeting I exchanged with a certain
person today.”
I nodded, understanding he was referring to Will, but waiting for an
explanation I was anxious to learn. What could be the story between these
men who were polar opposites of one another? How could their paths have
crossed in life to have triggered such a response? The eager features on my
face gave him the encouragement he needed to continue.
“Let’s just say he and I don’t exactly get along very well.”
 That was it? No, no. He opened Pandora's box and now, he would show
me all the ugly contents inside. I didn’t want to pry too hard. Best to keep
the questions neutral. Respectful.
“How do you know each other?” I asked as innocently as possible.
Perhaps I didn’t do innocent very well because he ran his fingers
through his hair and apologized, “I’m sorry. If you two are friends, I don’t
mean to—”
“NO,” I blurted a little too loudly. “We’re certainly not friends. I had the
unique displeasure of being locked in the costume shop with him all night. I
could definitely understand your visceral reaction to him today.”
He relaxed into a relieved smile, and I could almost hear the wheels
turning in his head. He was no doubt thinking what I was thinking. There
was an agreement between us. Something unspoken but heady in the air. We
were very much alike right down to the people we couldn’t stand together.
It’s the little things.
Inspired by the confidence he sensed in me, he proceeded to tell me the
story—the long story—of his childhood and how he came to be a close
member of the Darcy household. To truncate his lengthy explanation, to
which I was entirely enthralled but kept us up until almost four in the
morning, Jorge lived the first eight years of his life without a clue about his
real father. Why his mother kept it from him, I didn’t know. I got the
impression she was nervous about getting deported back to Costa Rica and
never revealed to her erstwhile lover he had a son. When she fell ill and
could no longer care for Jorge, she confessed the truth to a very shocked
and overwhelmed Greg Wickham, who was (you guessed it) Martin Darcy’s
publicist. The relationship between Greg and Martin was so close to
brotherly, Martin himself accepted Jorge as a nephew once the truth was
made known. The passing of his mother brought Jorge into a new lifestyle,
spending long hours at the Darcy house while his father worked or played
golf with Martin. It was a culture shock and complete contrast to his
humble beginnings.
Jorge then explained the distance of only a few years between himself
and Will, and that they would often play together. But he described Will as
a spoiled child and a poor playfellow most of the time and then went on to
relate memories of some rather unpleasant pranks Will would play on him,
all in the name of some ‘good ‘ol fun.’ He was quite the little brat.
 The untimely death of Greg Wickham brought Jorge once again to a
crossroads in his unlucky life, and he was taken in by Martin, a single father
himself by that time, in the hopes to give Jorge a family. Although Jorge
didn’t find much of a brother in Will, he became like a mentor to Will’s
young sister Georgia. She’d follow him everywhere. He was like a hero to
her.
“She’s at Juilliard now, right?” I interjected, remembering the
conversation Will had with Caroline.
“Yes, she is. She’s a truly gifted musician. They don’t let you in that
school if you’re not. But it’s gone to her head. She used to be such a sweet
girl. Now she’s almost as bad as her brother. I don’t know where they get
that entitled attitude from. Martin was such a humble man.”
I was sorry to hear that but not at all surprised. Will and his sister were
born into privilege. They’d never know the struggles of people like Jorge—
or me for that matter. We were worlds apart, and more often than not,
people like that became conceited.
Unfortunately for Jorge, his suffering was only beginning. His studies at
UCLA had opened all sorts of doors for him in film production and he was
on course to a successful career. But his world came crashing to a halt when
Martin Darcy died suddenly.
Jorge’s eyes welled up with tears as the memory flooded into view.
“He was like a father to me,” he said woefully.
Cue the tug on my heartstrings. Imagine the loss this man had to endure
—first his mother, then his father, then his foster father and friend—it was
overwhelmingly painful to hear. But that wasn’t the worst of it.
When Martin’s will was read, Jorge was left with a considerable sum as
well as some sentimental personal items. He didn’t expect anything at all
and only wanted a book of poems Martin would sometimes read to him. It
was a special item and held a lot of happy memories. But once the dust
settled from the funeral and following weeks, Will cut Jorge off completely
from the estate. He had found some kind of legal loophole to shut him out.
This in itself didn’t bother Jorge half as much as what he did next.
“When I came to claim the book.” Jorge winced at the painful memory,
“he flat out refused to give it to me.”
“Why not give you the book?” I asked incredulously.
“I don’t know,” he answered. “At first, he said he couldn’t find it, but
then after some prodding and looking around on my part, he finally
admitted he had no intention of letting me have it. What would he want
with a book of poetry? That was a little petty, don’t you think?”
“More than a little,” I agreed.
If I were a cussing person, I might have chosen a few choice words a
little stronger in context than ‘petty.’ But there was even more to the story
to add a gruesome cherry to an already distasteful pudding. Just as Jorge
was making connections, close to advancing in his career, Will flexed his
celebrity muscle and had Jorge blackballed from every studio worthy of
working for. Nobody would hire him. All his hard work and Martin Darcy’s
wishes wiped away with one sweep of Will’s callous influence.
I could hardly believe my ears, but Jorge was the sincerest I had ever
seen in a human being. There was deep misery in his features. It was a
fascinating vision to see such a different man than the one who’d been
flirting with me all day. He was a broken, tortured man, afflicted with a life
of disappointment after bitter disappointment, and here he was in my
kitchen, telling me his heart-wrenching story, wearing nothing but boxers
and my Hello Kitty bathrobe. I was moved beyond words.
“What a Delilah,” I said. “Why would he do such a thing?”
It didn’t make much sense to me. Then again, the rich and famous were
an entirely different breed of human.
“I hate to say it,” he admitted, “but the truth is, Will was jealous of my
relationship with his father. I was closer in temperament with Martin, and
he loved me like his own son. That made Will blind with jealousy.”
He sighed and dug into a package of saltines on the table. “So here I am,
getting odd jobs in stage craft, trying to keep afloat.” He took a
disappointing bite out of a cracker. “I didn’t expect I’d see William at the
theatre of all places.”
I noted his use of the long form of Will’s name. Even after what he went
through at that man’s hands, he still showed that small gesture of respect. I
wondered if it was an ode to the great loss he felt, a wasted opportunity for
a brother he never had and now never would.
“What about other family?” I asked. “Do you have uncles or cousins?”
“I never met any of my father’s family. He never spoke of them. And
my mother was the only one in her family to immigrate to the United States.
All my relations on her side live in Costa Rica. I have no contact with
them.”
 That was probably the saddest thing I’d ever heard. My own mother was
a pain in the Coco, but at least I had a mom.
“So,” he said with finality. “Do you have a secret sofa hidden away
somewhere, or do I sleep on the floor?”
I wasn’t sure if his question was laced with innuendo or if he was just
sleepy. I hadn’t considered the sleeping arrangements when I made the
offer. Now with Lydia on the couch and Jorge in my kitchen, there were
more people than my little two-bedroom apartment could accommodate.
“You know what?” I said at length. “Take my room.”
His eyebrows shot up. “That was easy.”
I smacked him in the leg. This guy!
“Alone!” I chided. “I’ll sleep with Jane.”
Truth be told, I didn't expect she’d come home at all at this point, but I
didn’t want to offer Jorge her room just in case she did.
“Mine’s the master bedroom, so you can have the bathroom in there all
to yourself.”
He wagged his brows provocatively. “I don’t mind sharing. I’m a giver
like that.”
I could sense a rush of heat flood my cheeks. “You’ve got a one-track
mind, don’t you, Mr. Wickham?”
He flashed his ever-so-white teeth, and a twinkle overcame the whole of
his expression. “Maybe,” he replied. “But right now, I’m just slap happy. I
mean tired. Right now, I’m just tired.”
“I’m sure that must be it.”
“And maybe a little bit slap happy.”
“How ‘bout I slap the happy right out of you?”
“I would like that very much, Beth short for Elizabeth—”
“Yeah. I got it,” I interrupted. “Go to sleep.”
He reluctantly obeyed with a pout to his lips but not before several
attempts to convince me to join him. At last, I was rid of him behind my
bedroom door, and hoping he wasn’t going through my drawers in search of
incriminating baubles, I stole into Jane’s room. I was so worn out by the
day’s events, I was almost inclined to take the bed without pulling back the
covers. But I knew once the fever from the effect Jorge had on me wore off,
I’d be too cold to sleep yet too tired to burrow under the covers. And as I
felt my way around the bed in the dark, to my surprise, I found the form of
Jane fast asleep and occupying the entire bed diagonally. She’d been home
the whole time? At that moment, I wished I did have a secret futon hidden
away, but I was so exhausted and my head so full of the words from Jorge’s
story, I yanked an extra pillow from Jane’s bed and fell into a hard, fast
sleep on the floor.
I woke in the morning to the shrill echo of screams. They were far away
at first in the hazy cloud of a half-dream state, but as I shed the weight of
sleep, I shot up to find myself alone and wondering if I’d overslept.
Strangely, the first thought in my head was pointe shoes I never attempted
to buy. Didn’t they have to be custom fitted or something? The second
thought in my head was that the scream wasn’t Jane’s, but another woman
whose wailings I unfortunately recognized. My mother. I shot up, finding
that at some point, Jane had covered my body with her comforter. Always
thoughtful, that one.
As I rushed out of the room and into the hallway, I noticed three things:

1. My mother screaming my name and pacing in the vicinity of my

bedroom door.
2. My bedroom door was wide open, and a dripping wet Jorge
emerged from the master bathroom wrapped in only a towel.
3. Lydia was eating a bowl of cereal at the kitchen bar, laughing
between bites.

When my mother saw me, she scurried down the hallway and cried,
“Lizzie. Oh, Lizzie. There’s a naked man in your shower!”
It took all my efforts and Jane’s gentle urging to get my mother to calm
down. The half-naked presence of Jorge didn’t help matters. He stroked her
back, offering her water—all while she flailed about, waving her arms in
the air and gasping for breath. No wonder he thought she was having an
apoplexy. Between each labored breath, she would cry about having a heart
attack.
“I’ll be remembered for dying on this hideous beige carpet,” she
bellowed. “Just like Elvis.”
Jorge valiantly swooped her into his arms and carried her to the couch.
There she was, shocked dumb against the bare chest of the Latin demigod,
much like I had been yesterday. Did this guy make a habit of scooping up
women upon first acquaintance?
 “Elvis died in the bathroom, Mom,” I said as Jorge placed her down.
“And you’ll be fine.”
“Fine? Fine says you. You who don’t even acknowledge your poor
mother.”
“Take a deep breath, Mrs. Bennet,” Jane said as she demonstrated,
channeling her inner yoga guru. Surprisingly, Mom followed her example.
Was Jane some kind of mom whisperer?
“Lizzie…” Mom said after a few calming breaths, “Why was there a
naked man in your shower?”
“That’s actually a funny story.” Jorge laughed, his wet thighs just inches
from her vision. Her eyes went wide, sweeping over him in open
assessment. She turned her head ever so slowly to me like a possessed doll
in a horror movie.
“And why,” she said with a strained calm, “is he still HERE?!”
I motioned for Jorge to leave the living room. He wore a surprised
expression, clearly clueless to the reason he had to go, and with a shrug,
padded down the hall, stopping to retrieve his clothes from the guest
bathroom before closing himself in my room.
I then proceeded to explain all the events that led to his current state of
undress—the gastro pub, Lydia’s vomit, and the chivalry of Jorge’s
assistance to get us home safe. In my new G-rated version, Lydia had fallen
ill with food poisoning, not for drinking her weight in tequila. I concluded
with the assurance to my helicopter mom that it was all very innocent, and
I’d roomed with Jane for the night. She looked to Jane for confirmation, my
own mother giving more of her faith in my friend than me. Jane nodded in
grave agreement but betrayed me in saying, “Mrs. Bennet, I was just as
surprised as you were. But yes, Beth slept on the floor of my room.”
“On the floor?” cried Mom. “On the dirty carpet?”
“The carpet’s not dirty, Mom,” I tried to explain. “It’s just a little
stained.”
She narrowed her eyes at me, surely judging my housekeeping skills,
and then, as if Lydia had suddenly appeared out of nowhere, looked to her
and said, “Who are you?”
“That’s Lydia, Mom.” I sighed. “My friend who got sick, remember?”
Lydia waved cheerily. “Vomit girl.”
A light went off in mom’s head and she nodded. “Oh yes. Nice to meet
you, you poor thing. Have you tried apple cider vinegar?”
 Mom and her internet remedies. She had new diet and health ideas
every week—all contradictory to one another.
“We’ll be late for rehearsal if we don’t get going soon.” I sighed. “I’ll
call you and Dad on the weekend.”
She sat upright and patted on the sofa for me to join her. I obeyed but
didn’t allow myself to sit comfortably lest she never leave. Jane and Lydia
took this as a cue to get dressed for the day and left the room.
“I’m worried about you,” she said like a woeful Jewish mother. “You
haven’t had a boyfriend since college.”
“That’s not true,” I protested. “I’ve gone out.”
“But no one serious. What was that boy’s name? Jon?”
“Brett,” I said flatly.
“Yes,” she said with a vague expression. “He was a nice boy. Why don’t
you call him?”
“No, thanks. Besides, I don’t want a boyfriend.”
She glared at me for a few moments and deciding something that must
have just come to mind, said in a semi-serious tone, “Are you a lesbian?”
“NO! Mom. Seriously?”
She shrugged innocently and threw her hands up, waving them in front
of her. “Well, you’re always around those theatre types.”
“I can’t believe we’re having this conversation,” I said, rolling my eyes.
“Again!”
“Okay, okay,” she conceded. “Just promise me you’ll try to get a
boyfriend.”
I released a heavy, frustrated breath as I rose from the couch. “I have
two boyfriends, actually.”
She perked up immediately, poised for the news with an eager
expression. “Oh?”
“Yes,” I said as I crossed to the kitchen. “I have a serious relationship
with Ben and Jerry.”
She huffed and followed me across the small space that connected the
living room and kitchen.
“Please be serious,” she said. “Dad and I want you to come for dinner
this Sunday. Bring a date.”
“Can I bring Lydia?”
“Vomit girl? No. I’ve just had my floor waxed. Bring that naked man if
you like. Just bring someone. Preferably male.”
 9

EGGS, PIE, AND CHEESE WIZ

Beth

PART of me wanted to keep the dirt Jorge told me about Will to myself. He
had told me those things in confidence. Would he appreciate it if I blabbed
about it all over the theatre? When I pressed him about revealing Will’s true
character to Stella, he just shrugged humbly and said he couldn’t slander the
Darcy name for the sake of his foster father. He said it wasn’t his place to
expose Will—something about karma—and he’d get what he deserved. I
took this as an open-ended invitation to at least leak a little incriminating
evidence to my friends. I had to at least tell Charlotte, who was convinced I
was blinded by prejudice toward Will. I wanted to rub it in her face. For the
present, I had to content myself by confiding the secret to Jane and Lydia
during our carpool to rehearsal. We’d dropped off Jorge at Phillip’s to
retrieve his truck, and Lydia ogled at his retreating backside when I felt
compelled to drop a few hints about our heart-to-heart over hot chocolate
and saltines. I left out a few of the more intimate details, but by the time we
were halfway to the theatre, I had said enough to convince Lydia that Will
was a complete Molokov. (It was my Chess day) Jane was less inclined to
form such colorful judgements and turned over the information in her head
with a good measure of thought before exclaiming, “It doesn’t make sense.
There must be some other explanation.”
 “What other explanation could there be?” I said. “Will was a jealous,
spoiled brat--and probably racist. The things he did to Jorge were plain
vindictive. He had no reason for it.”
“I’m sure there are two sides to the story,” she replied. “They were both
grieving the loss of Will’s father. It all could be a big misunderstanding.”
“Cutting him out of the will, keeping an otherwise worthless,
sentimental object from him and then spreading lies about him around
Hollywood hardly can be written off as a misunderstanding.”
“Sorry, but I agree with Edith,” chirped Lydia from the backseat.
“Everyone knows The Pirate King is a dirtbag. Nobody in the cast likes
him.”
Jane was still getting used to Lydia’s quirky habit of calling every cast
member by their character name. It took her a minute to realize Lydia was
referring to Will. I twisted in my seat to address Lydia behind me. “I
wonder why Gilbert and Sullivan never gave The Pirate King a name,” I
said diplomatically. “We should give him a name to simplify things. How
about… oh, I don’t know… Will Darcy?”
“If he is the evil villain Jorge paints him to be,” continued Jane, “why
would Bing think so highly of him? I know Bing. His friendship with Will
is genuine, and I don’t see how he could be so close with someone so
inherently rotten. He’s probably exaggerating.”
“Bing sees the world through rose-colored glasses, Jane,” I replied. “I
can more easily believe that Bing is too nice to see the truth, than that Jorge
is exaggerating. I could see the very painful memory in his eyes…”
“Blue, blue eyes!” interjected Lydia dreamily.
“…and he wasn’t exaggerating.”
There was a length of silence after I spoke, and Jane drove on,
concentrating on the road, but after a long pause, she sighed and said,
“Well, it’s hard to know what to think.”
“Excuse me,” I exclaimed, “but I know exactly what to think.”
But she was no longer listening, and I couldn’t help but wonder for the
remainder of the ride, whether she was just as deceived as Bing to Will
Darcy’s true colors.
ANOTHER DAY of choreography without the men was on the schedule, but
I didn’t feel confident we wouldn’t be ‘graced’ with another appearance of
Will. A small part of me secretly hoped to run into him like the day before,
and this time I’d be armed with a few carefully rehearsed words instead of
gushing over Beauty and the Beast like a nine-year-old girl. It wasn’t my
fault I was caught unaware. It also wasn’t my fault he was ninja trained to
make women swoon with his brooding glower. I was sure there was a
Hollywood Masterclass for that. Smoldering for the Camera 101 and A.P.
Bedroom Eyes. I was both relieved and dampened to find no trace of him
for the course of the day.
When I casually brought up the subject to Jorge, he grinned smugly and
said, “He’s the one who should be avoiding me. I have every right to be
here.” Of course I would never suggest Jorge not come to work, so I don’t
know where that came from. Perhaps he felt threatened by Will’s influence
over Stella. He certainly spent enough time in her office.
I concluded my visit to the scene shop with an invitation to my parents’
house for barbecue on Sunday. I quickly amended that it wasn’t a date or a
‘meet the parents’ kind of situation.
“My mom just wants to see what you look like with your clothes on,” I
joked. Casting my eyes over his shirtless torso, I added, “And so do I, for
that matter.” To ease him of any possible apprehension, I informed him I’d
invited a few other friends and that Sunday barbecues at my house were
totally casual.
“My dad marinates the tri-tip all weekend,” I said in an attempt to allure
him. “And my mom buys cheap prosecco.”
“How could I resist?” He grinned, brushing my chin with his thumb.
“And it’s not because of the free food.”
My toes curled at the contact. This was a guy who didn’t need to take a
Bedroom Eyes Masterclass. He was a natural, and I was afraid I’d be in big
trouble if I wasn’t careful. I had to protect the friend zone at all costs.
“Stop by the rehearsal studio later on,” I said as I walked away. “You’re
gonna love our new choreographer.”
He did come to watch our dance rehearsal in the afternoon, but he didn’t
stay for long. If he was looking for a laugh, Colin wasn’t one to disappoint.
I just wished Jorge could have stuck around a little longer to experience the
drama. But after only a few minutes, he bristled at something Colin said
(probably all his bragging about Rosings Institute of Dance) and abruptly
left.
It turned out I was the only one to bring pointe shoes. I begged Jane to
let me take hers, even though they were too big for me.
“I won’t even put them on,” I pleaded. “I just want to bring them with
me. Like show and tell.”
I didn’t know how to dance in point shoes per se, but that wasn’t even
on Colin’s radar. He was too busy throwing a fit about everybody else’s
unpreparedness.
“Never have I ever,” he spat, “in all my years at Rosings Institute of
Dance under the patronage of Catherine de Bourgh…” (he loved to name
drop and quite often) “have I seen such incompetence. Did I not instruct
you all to bring pointe shoes today?”
Holly timidly raised her hand as if she were in grade school. “None of
us are trained on point. We could get injured.”
He narrowed his eyes on her. I imagined if he were a Sith Lord, she’d be
dead by now. But he growled and with a flip of his chiffon scarf, stormed
out of the rehearsal studio.
“That’s why they call this the cry room,” chirped Lydia from behind my
shoulder.
“What?”
“The cry room,” she repeated. “There have been many a tear shed in
this room, from firing actors I suppose.”
“I’ve never heard that before.” I laughed. “You're making this up.”
She nodded her little head with energy, but Holly disputed her. “No, no,
Lettuce. They call this the cry room because someone actually died in here
and now, it’s haunted. Sometimes, late at night, a melancholy wailing can
be heard coming from this room, but when theatre staff come to investigate
it, the lights flicker, and the crying person cannot be found.”
She shuddered at the idea and crossed herself even though she wasn’t
Catholic.
“You two are being ridiculous,” I exclaimed. “No one’s getting fired,
and there are no ghosts.”
“Actually…” a girl spoke up, one of the altos I didn’t know very well.
“All theatres are haunted.” Her name, I believe, was Mariah, and I
sometimes would see her with Caroline—whenever Caroline wasn’t
hanging all over Will. Since there was no Will today, it was Caroline and
Mariah for the win.
Yay.
Lydia, who hated Caroline, didn’t seem to have a problem with Mariah
and nodded in agreement. “That’s actually true,” she said. “The Majestic on
Broadway is haunted. That’s a fact. And all the actors at Her Majesty’s
Theatre in London confirm the ghost that lives there will sometimes tap
someone on the shoulder.”
“A ghost that taps people on the shoulder?” I rolled my eyes. “Lydia—I
mean Lettuce—both those theatres house Phantom of the Opera. It’s a
publicity gimmick having an Opera Ghost in real life—or death, depending
on how you look at it.”
Holly, Lydia, and Mariah all grumbled at my disbelief and agreed
amongst themselves to ask Stella when they saw her next. Surely, Stella
would have heard the Wailing Ghost, as they now called it, and she’d settle
this dispute.
Colin’s return saved me from any more kooky stories. He was calmer
but still had unrest simmering beneath the surface. “We shall dance on
demi-point today,” he said through his teeth. “But I want to see those
relevés high.”
For the rest of the day, we were treated to more of his tantrums whereby
he would drill the choreography into us until we begged for mercy, pout if
we asked for a bathroom break, and waste an immeasurable amount of time
bragging about his accomplishments at Rosings or lecturing the
philosophies of the Fordyce Ballet Company. He spent a half hour straight
preaching on the virtues of a wide turnout. Then he showered all the girls
with compliments, admitting he’d taken the time to rehearse a few lines of
delicate flattery so we might feel encouraged to dance better. He batted his
eyes as he said this, and I noticed his lids were brushed with a hint of
dramatic gold eyeshadow. It seemed to me he was going for that stage
makeup look. I’d have to ask him for some advice on contouring when we
got closer to dress rehearsals.
“HAVE any celebrities worth talking about gone to eat at the lodge lately?”
Mom asked on Sunday. We were gathered on the deck in the backyard
where Dad had built an area for outdoor entertaining. It was normally used
in summer, but it was warm for a November afternoon, and the large
farmhouse table fit seven of us better than the dining room table would
have. I was able to convince Jane to invite Bing, and I was a little giddy at
the arrival of Jorge. I could hardly believe this gorgeous man was at my
parents’ doorstep, looking for me. He’d brought a bottle of Argentinian
Malbec from the Mendoza region. Dad loved it. I didn’t know why that
made me so proud. I didn’t make the wine. I didn’t even bring the wine. I
supposed I was responsible for inviting the man who’d brought the wine, so
I claimed a little pat on the back.
Presently, Mom made small talk, but I was sure she was fishing for
more information on Will Darcy. I’d told her a little about his arrogance,
how we clearly didn’t get along, and about our adventure in the costume
shop. I didn’t, however, tell her about Jorge’s relationship with him and the
Darcy family. She’d heard enough of my aversion to the man and decided
to be offended on my behalf. But with the presence of Bing at her house,
she dropped subtle hints, trying for any morsel of intelligence about Martin
Darcy, what the house must look like, or if there was anything Bing could
slip in his pocket for her that Martin might have touched. Bing was too
naive to understand her meaning. And so, she brought the subject around to
Lucas Lodge where she lived vicariously through my brush with the rich
and famous and their eating quirks. The truth was, I didn’t pay much
attention to celebrities, most of them producers or screenwriters who I
wouldn’t recognize just by their order of the Windsor Castle Club Sandwich
and a Perrier. But there was one celebrity I did recognize, and thankfully, he
didn’t sit in my section. Will came alone to the lodge on Saturday, and he
took a table in the far corner. It was a fair distance from my section, but
there were a few openings through the arches separating the two dining
halls where I had a clear view of where he sat. A couple of times, I caught
him glaring at me. What he was doing there, I couldn’t tell. It certainly
wasn’t for the fine cuisine. I could only surmise he was looking for some
fault in me, perhaps because he’d seen me with Jorge, and he wanted to ruin
me as he’d done to him. Maybe he hoped to get me fired. In any case, I
didn’t consider that worth talking about at my mother’s indelicate prompt,
and so I simply said, “No. Not really.”
 It was more or less a pleasant afternoon. Dad made his famous tri-tip
and mashed potatoes, which everyone praised. I was sure Bing had a
generous second helping of everything, and Dad polished off the Malbec
almost single-handedly. We all laughed on the subject of Mom finding Jorge
naked in my shower, which I noted embarrassed my poor little sister Mary.
She was a senior in high school and as polar opposite of me as she could
possibly be. She was generally quiet and never caught without a book in her
possession, She didn’t have a large social circle and was usually clammy in
nature. She was a little shy of Jorge and Bing at first, but Jorge couldn’t
have been more polite and sweet with her, even bordering on charming. It
gave me the warm fuzzies when she opened up to Jorge, becoming more
chatty than usual, and a little pink faced. He was entirely attentive to her
and even spent twenty minutes discussing her favorite books.
At the mention of the shower story, however, Mary buried her nose at
once in the book she’d brought to the table. Even though books and devices
weren’t allowed.
“I must apologize,” Mom said to Jorge. We all thought she was referring
to barging in on his shower, but she’d changed the subject without warning.
“You must not be used to this kind of food. I should have insisted we serve
Mexican, but my husband wanted to make his all-American barbecue. Next
time you visit, we’ll have something from your culture.”
Words couldn’t describe the mortification I felt in that moment. I
wanted to throw a burlap bag over Mom’s head and pretend the racial faux
pas we’d just heard came from a sack of potatoes.
“He’s from Burbank, Mom,” I said. “I’m sure they have barbecue in
Burbank.” I turned my eyes to Jorge with as much I’m sorry for the
existence of my mother in my expression as I could communicate silently,
but he wasn’t fazed at all and was rather pleasant in his reply.
He gently placed his powerful hand on my forearm and chuckled, “It’s
okay.” He turned to Mom and responded, “Actually, I don’t have any
Mexican heritage. My mother’s family is from Costa Rica. It’s a common
misconception.”
“Every culture chars meat on the fire, Marie,” Dad growled with a
mouthful of steak. He was a man of few words, and those few words were
usually sarcastic.
I could almost hear the thoughts turning over in my mother’s head. She
was most likely wondering if there was any difference between Mexicans
and Costa Ricans. I wouldn’t be surprised if she thought Costa Rica was
actually Southern Mexico. For my part, I knew the geographical and even
perhaps the cultural differences, but I’d be ashamed to admit I had no clue
about the cuisine of Costa Rica. Lots of fish maybe? Thankfully for Bing
and his innocent inquisitiveness, he asked for me.
“What would you say is a traditional dish from Costa Rica? I’d love to
visit someday.”
“Black beans and fried plantains are the staple for almost any meal,”
Jorge shared whimsically. He had that glassy look to his eyes, traced with a
shade of sadness, as if he were remembering his mother’s cooking and heart
sick for his loss. “A traditional Costa Rican meal is called casado. It literally
means married. It’s usually a combination of meats or fish on a plate with
beans and rice and salad, plantains, bread—everything on one plate. My
mother made the best casado for me on my birthday and special occasions.
Even on Christmas and Easter.”
“Sounds absolutely delicious,” exclaimed Bing. “We were stuck with
very dry ham every year. No one had the heart to tell my grandmother how
bad it was.” He laughed at the memory. “Oh! And the deviled eggs!”
Jane expressed she loved deviled eggs to the room, but my sister said, “I
can’t eat deviled eggs. Too gassy.”
Jorge admitted, “I’ve never had them.”
“Well,” continued Bing, “You’re lucky you’ve never tried my mother’s
deviled eggs. She’d use the eggs from our Easter Egg hunt, but the food
coloring had seeped through to the flesh. It was epically unappetizing. My
sister—excuse me for saying this at the dinner table—but my sister once
lost her cookies when she was served Mom’s deviled eggs. It ruined the
whole dinner that year.”
His story made everyone laugh, and I watched him light up at the
attention. I’d never seen him so talkative, but somehow, the memory
brought out the natural performer in him.
“I can match your Easter story,” Jorge said in challenge. The attention
was once again reverted to him. “We’d never decorated eggs at my mother’s
house,” he began. “It’s not a custom in Costa Rica, so I didn’t grow up with
that tradition. I’d only ever hunted for plastic eggs at school or the
community center. So one year after I heard my friends talking about
decorating real eggs, I made the request to Mom. She kind of put me off at
first, clearly confused, but come Easter morning, she surprised me with a
dozen eggs she’d dyed after I went to bed. I was so excited, I could hardly
sit through church. Later that day, we went to a neighborhood party, and she
brought the eggs to contribute to what the other families brought. Anyway,
to make a long story—well, I can’t make it much shorter at this point—once
we’d found all the eggs, one of the girls—una gordita—went to crack open
the shell to eat it and got raw egg all over her fancy dress.”
Mom and Jane gasped at this, but the rest of us laughed.
“Like I said,” he continued as he laughed with us. “It’s not a tradition in
Costa Rica. My mother didn’t know to hard boil the eggs first. No wonder
she was so confused.”
“You have to be careful not to leave dairy products out,” said Mary.
“When in doubt, throw it out.”
“Thank you for those wise words, Mary,” Dad said. “How I’ve survived
all these years without them, I’ll never know.”
“It’s actually sound advice,” said Jane. “My family used to hide real
eggs until one Fourth of July, there was a terrible smell in my uncle’s
backyard. It was so incredibly bad, and nobody could figure out where the
smell came from until one of my cousins found a three-month-old Easter
egg in the bushes. I’m sure it was worse than your mom’s deviled eggs,
Bing.” She smiled, leaning into him with a spark in her eyes.
“My sister would have fainted for sure.” He laughed.
“What’s your sister’s name?” asked Mary.
“Rose,” he answered with a smile. “My parents’ favorite movie is White
Christmas. She was named after Rosemary Clooney, and I was named after
Bing Crosby. My middle name is actually Crosby.”
“Well, I think that’s adorable,” said Mom. “And speaking of holidays,
I’d like you to come for Thanksgiving dinner. You too, Jose.”
Jorge thanked her for the invitation but said he had other plans. Since he
didn’t have a family, I couldn’t imagine who he’d spend it with, but I didn’t
let the thought run too wild. Bing was also grateful to be included but
lamented some business in New York he had to attend to with Will. This
piqued my mother’s interest, and she asked all sorts of questions about his
friendship with Will and what was it like on the national tour where they
had met. I stole a glance at Jorge, but if the subject made him
uncomfortable, he was good at hiding it. I felt inclined to be offended for
him, but Bing didn’t linger on his relationship with Will for too long. He
mostly spoke about his job as a swing in Something Rotten (or Rotten on the
Road as he endearingly called it) and all the roles he had to learn and be
ready to perform at any time.
“My favorite track was Bard Boy,” he said brightly.
Jane gave him a sly wink. “Because of the leather pants or guy-liner?”
she quipped. She was truly a different person around him. I liked it.
I watched her as Bing spoke of his experiences. She was clearly
enamored with him beyond anything I’d seen. It gave me all the feels,
watching the two of them interact, and in that moment, everything was right
in the world. Jane had Bing, and I had a new man-candy friend. I actually
didn’t know what Jorge and I had going on. I told myself not everybody
could be crazy in love like Jane and Bing. Jorge was nice enough. Maybe it
could grow into something more. I wasn’t the type to get butterflies in my
stomach anyway.
My mother certainly didn’t miss an opportunity to voice her admiration
towards Jorge when he was out of earshot. She attacked me as soon as we
went into the kitchen for the key lime pie.
“Tell me all about Naked Man,” she stage-whispered. “Is he keeping his
hands to himself?”
“We’re just friends, Mom.”
“Well, don’t let him slip through your fingers,” she chided. “I had a
Latin lover like him once. Before I met your father.” She sighed, and I
wasn’t sure if there was a hint of regret in her words. I didn’t want to know.
“It was my third year of college,” she said dreamily. “I spent a summer
abroad in Zijuatenejo.”
“You need not say more, Mother.” I stacked the plates and dessert forks
to take outside, but she didn’t budge. She leaned on the kitchen counter, lost
in a memory.
“My friends and I would take the water taxi to Ixtapa Island almost
every day. He was the driver. One day, I scraped my leg on a sharp piece of
coral, and he came to my rescue. He was so beautiful standing over me with
the sun glistening off his back—so tan and sculpted.”
“I don’t want to hear about this.” I would have plugged my ears if I
thought it would help.
“We spent all our free time together after that,” she went on, ignoring
me. “He knew a little English, so our communication was limited, but who
needs words when there’s the language of love, am I right?” She wagged
her eyebrows, and I shook my head, trying to jostle the vision from my
brain.
“I really really don’t want to hear about this,” I pleaded. “Please, just
stop.”
She sobered immediately from the high of reminiscing, and her face fell
into a serious frown.
“Then one day, I found out he had a secret love child.”
She came to me and took me by the shoulders with a hard stare. “Make
sure Jose doesn’t have a secret love child before it gets too serious.”
She nodded once in finality and retrieved the pie from the refrigerator.
“It’s not going to get serious,” I said. “And his name is Jorge, not Jose.”
She waved her hand at me in dismissal. “Same thing. Jose is just the
diminutive of Jorge.”
“No, it’s really not.”
“Would you rather I continue to call him Naked Man?”
She gathered the pie and the serving utensils in her arms and flurried out
of the kitchen. I pondered her admonition with amused reflection. She was,
in her own quirky way, giving me the best motherly advice she knew how
to give—to learn from her mistakes. Lord knows she had made enough of
them and therefore, had lots of sage advice to give. I didn’t have any fears
about Jorge, though, because I wasn’t in the market for a man at this time of
my life. At least I did everything in my power to convince myself of that.
But when I walked him to his car, I seemed to forget what I did or didn’t
want.
“You sure you don’t want to stay and sit through three hours of baby
photos?” I joked. “Mom hasn’t finished scaring you off yet.”
He laughed, his face brightening with an expression of contentment. “I
actually like your mom. She can show me your baby photos the next time I
come to visit.”
The next time. There would be a next time. Was I reading too much into
his words? I smiled awkwardly and hugged my hands over my bare arms.
The weather was finally cooling down, and the ocean breeze washed a brisk
chill through the air. He was responsive to my actions as he always seemed
to be, and he gathered me in his arms, rubbing warmth into my back.
“You’re a tiny thing,” he whispered. “You’ll catch a cold.”
He released the embrace just enough to look me in the eyes. His face
was the most perfect thing I’d ever seen. I found myself examining each of
his features individually, amusing myself with the idea they couldn’t
possibly be real. He was the type of handsome that was so remarkable, it
made me feel extremely uncomfortable. He was a freshly frosted cake—no,
he was fondant, and I was cheese wiz. I pressed my lips together, suddenly
self-conscious of my teeth, what my breath must be like after Dad’s garlic
mashed potatoes. What would I do if he tried to kiss me? Was that even
what I wanted? I still didn’t have those butterflies.
He caressed his fingers over my chin, and I thought for a moment that
was what he wanted. The mashed potatoes couldn’t have been so bad. I did
have wine to mask the garlic, after all. But he didn’t draw any closer to me
in the electric moments as our eyes met. If anything, he inched just a little
bit further away. I felt like an idiot. What made me think a guy like Jorge
would be into me? I was cheese wiz.
“I have to go,” he said at length. “Can I call you?”
Whoa! Those were some serious mixed signals. Did he like me or not? I
decided I didn’t want him to like me at this point. I didn’t have time for
games, and so I shrugged and played aloof.
“Yeah, whatever,” I said. Yep. Totally not playing games.
He smiled and stepped closer to his car.
“Great.”
He slung his keys around his fingers. I could tell there was something
more he wanted to say. I wasn’t about to prompt him. He was way too
complicated. Maybe my mother was right. Maybe he had a secret love
child.
“Beth,” he began. There it was. Secret love child. Or he was gay. Or he
was artificial intelligence—like DATA from Star Trek, only cuter. I knew he
was too beautiful to be real. Whatever his confession, he had a hard time
verbalizing it. After a pause of several seconds, he sighed and said, “I didn’t
want to bring this up, especially after I’ve had such a nice time tonight.”
What? What could it be?
“It’s the garlic mashed potatoes, isn’t it?”
He chuckled and shook his head. “No. Those were awesome. It’s…”
“Yeah?”
“It’s Bing.”
“Bing?” Now, I was really confused. “What about Bing?”
“He’s a great guy, don’t get me wrong,” he replied quickly. “Just tell
your friend to be careful.”
 “I don’t understand.”
“I know Will Darcy. He’ll do everything in his power to poison Bing’s
mind against Jane if he feels like it. And Bing is just enough of a follower to
believe him.” I crossed my arms over my chest and shook my head
furiously. I couldn’t imagine Bing would ever hurt Jane. Jorge noticed the
protest in my body language and quickly amended, “I’m sorry. Bing seems
to really like your friend. I hope I’m wrong.”
I didn’t know whether to be grateful or angry. Surely, Jorge had good
intentions, but with him in such proximity, Will Darcy was the furthest
thing from my mind. Clearly, the feeling wasn’t mutual.
“You think about him a lot, don’t you?” I said, more of a comment than
a question.
“How can I not?” he cried. “He has his claws in every corner of my life
—you, your friend, even Stella.”
His face was contorted into something a little less beautiful but still
magnificent, like the fury of a tropical storm or a raging sea.
“That new choreographer you have…”
“Colin?”
“He works for Rosings,” he spat. “Did you know that the founder of
Rosings is a shareholder of Darcy’s production company? Will is practically
engaged to her granddaughter. He’s everywhere. I can’t get away from his
influence.”
I was speechless for the duration of several tense moments. I didn’t
know what to say. There was certainly nothing I could do about it. With any
luck, Jorge would get through the run of Pirates, and Will would be back to
filming his stupid movies. Also—practically engaged? Why did that
suddenly bother me so much? I wondered if Caroline knew about that juicy
tidbit.
Jorge tossed his head from side to side and looked down at his shoes
with a sigh.
“I’m sorry,” he bade softly. “I just can’t lose this job.” After a lengthy
pause, he exhaled a profound breath he had been holding and plastered a
forced smile on his tragically gorgeous face. And running a paw through his
mane, he declared lightly, “Ah! You don’t want to hear about my financial
woes. I seem to always spill my heart out when I’m with you. What is it
about you, Beth short for Elizabeth sometimes Lizzie but never Eliza?”
 I shrugged, feeling rather like a bartender in a bad movie. “Maybe I just
have that effect on people.”
He smiled tenderly and closed his hand over mine.
“You certainly have that effect on me.” He winked and placed a sweet
kiss over my knuckles. I felt my bones turn to butter before he withdrew the
warmth of his touch and slid into his truck. He closed the door between us
like an exclamation point on the distance he asserted in our friendship. His
faucet ran hot and cold—this was the cold side of him and in the end, that
was all it would ever be.
10
 ANY SAVAGE CAN DANCE

Beth

THANKSGIVING WEEK WAS UPON US, and we would only have

Monday and Tuesday to rehearse before a five-day weekend. Jorge wasn’t
there either day, nor was he returning my texts. I started to worry his fears
were founded in truth—that perhaps Will had him fired after all. But Denny
assured me he was just out of town for the holiday.
“He’s probably surfing in Cabo,” he said dismissively. “He said he’ll be
back next week.”
This was confirmed by the head set designer when I inquired after Jorge
in the scene shop. He didn’t know any details but told me Jorge had some
personal business to attend to. He didn’t seem alarmed at all, so I took his
cue to feel likewise. Besides, I had my own discord with Will to endure.
“Guess who ‘gets’ to marry the Pirate King at the end of the play?” I
said with as much sarcasm I could muster. I vented to Charlotte who’d
brought me lunch from the lodge. We hadn’t spent much time together since
I started Pirates rehearsals, so I suggested she visit me at the theatre on my
lunch break. I was also craving a Lord Byron Reuben sandwich, so that was
a bonus.
Charlotte squeezed ketchup all over the French fries and shrugged as I
ranted. “I don’t know. Jane?”
 “Jane!?” No. Jane marries Bing in the end. I mean, their characters
marry each other.”
“Well, thanks for the spoiler.”
“It’s a classic. Charlotte, everybody knows Frederic marries Mabel.”
“All right. So, who marries the Pirate King?”
“Me, Charlotte. Me. And I have to kiss him. Colin is doing the pairs
choreography after lunch.”
“So?”
She was completely engrossed in meticulously laying out her makeshift
picnic. That was Charlotte for you. Control freak. A place for everything
and everything in its place—even a hamburger wrapper.
“You haven’t been listening to me all these weeks, have you?”
“Not really, no.”
She unapologetically took a bite from her cheeseburger.
“Charlotte!” I cried. “The Pirate King is played by Will Darcy.”
She set down her burger and wiped secret sauce from her chin with a
napkin.
“You’re making a big deal out of nothing,” she said rather seriously. “If
I were you, I’d take advantage of the opportunity. You’re playing opposite
of an uber-famous movie star. Capitalize on the publicity you could gain
from this.”
She smiled and pierced into the French fries with a plastic fork. “Who
knows? You might even end up liking the guy.”
“That would be the worst thing that could possibly happen to me,” I
said. “Especially since I swore to hate his guts for all eternity.”
“All I’m saying, Lizzie,” she warned, “is don’t burn your bridges. This
might be the key to get what you’ve always wanted. Don’t let one bad apple
spoil the whole bunch.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She dabbed her mouth with a flimsy one-ply napkin and gave me the
serious Charlotte face. “I know why you never audition for screen work
anymore.”
“I don’t audition for screen work because I prefer the theatre.”
“You’re a good actress but a terrible liar,” she said. “So don’t try
improv.”
“Okaaaay.”
 “That was just one incident, Beth. One incident that’s totally forgotten
by now.”
I wasn’t interested in hashing up my past while eating a Reuben in the
theatre parking lot. My reaction gave her pause, so she did her best to drop
the subject, but not before sneaking in one more thing.
“I didn’t want to bring up your ex, but you’re not letting it go. All I’m
saying is don’t let your bad experience ruin your opinion of all Hollywood
types.”
Her advice made a lot of sense in theory. But in practice, it was a
disaster waiting to happen. Why should Will Darcy be any different than all
the rest of the Hollywood slime balls I’d encountered? And I was the lucky
girl who had to dance with him.
I didn’t know why Colin decided lifts were the best choice to
choreograph right after lunch, but the Reuben sandwich and fries sitting
cozily in my belly might have made a good argument against it. After
reviewing the moves from the morning session in which pirates chased the
Stanley sisters all over the stage, Colin paired each of the girls with their
mate. The pirates would capture all the sisters and have their ways with us
until the appearance of Major General Stanley. This whole encounter
consisted of only ninety seconds of the song, but Colin wasn’t one for
simplicity. Oh no. The sequence consisted of a series of complicated lifts,
flips, and an array of acrobatic aerials. Once the vignettes were established,
he had each couple or small group work independently.
He took Will and me into the lobby and said, “Have I got something
special for you.”
He clapped his hands together, actually expecting we’d be as excited as
he was, and he explained our choreography.
“Beth, you will run stage right away from a group of pirates where Will
is waiting to catch you. Now, Will, stretch out your arm and catch Beth.”
I swallowed my pride and ran into Will as instructed. He reached for my
hips to stop me, and the skin of his hands seared through my spandex pants.
We immediately recoiled from one another.
“No, no, no.” Colin waved his arms wildly. “Catch her, dip her, and then
kiss her.”
Oh, the things we do to entertain the masses.
My eyes locked onto Will’s. We were sharing the same thought. Dread. I
took a fortifying breath and ran into him once more. He caught me, dipped
me…and held me there for a long, uncomfortable moment, staring into my
face. He held me there so long, I started to get a cramp in my side.
“Kiss her.”
Will and I turned our heads toward Colin at the same time. Did we
really need to practice the kiss? It was only a choreography rehearsal.
Right?
The cramp in my side jabbed with more force, and I jerked my body in
the most ungraceful way imaginable, falling onto Will’s shoes. Colin turned
his eyes to the ceiling and huffed.
“Again. Do it right this time.”
Sheesh. Did the term learning curve mean anything to this guy? I picked
myself off the floor and repeated the sequence again. Will’s hands were
strong and sure as he caught me. They were of such an impressive size, they
almost wrapped completely around my waist. His thumbs grazed
unintentionally along the skin where my t-shirt met my yoga pants. The
sensation sent a shockwave through my veins. I was acutely aware of each
nuance of his touch, and I hoped and prayed he didn’t notice. Somehow, the
rational part of my brain no longer sent signals to the rest of my traitorous
body. The fact he was undeniably gorgeous momentarily shut down every
ounce of logic I possessed. It was a natural reaction. One I expediently
shoved down. I wasn’t some semelparous animal, after all.
He faltered in the dip for just one moment. It was hardly perceptible,
and most likely we were the only ones who noticed, but it was there. A
slight hesitation. Because we both knew what was next. When his lips
pressed onto mine, my heart galloped unwittingly. His lips were soft and
warm, and the stubble of his afternoon shadow grazed against my skin. In
that miniscule moment, our eyes met, and I could almost guarantee he
looked horrified.
Was it the sauerkraut in my Reuben?
Colin clapped his hands to hurry us along. “Now throw her over your
shoulder.” Will and I were both so flustered, we dumbly went along with it.
He picked me up like I weighed nothing at all and perched me over his
shoulder. The next bit was more complicated. It was basically an acrobatic
lift in which I ended up suspended over his head.
My job was to keep my body (and core) very stiff, otherwise we’d both
topple over. Needless to say, we toppled over quite a few times. To
compound the difficulty, all this was to be done while singing the lovely
operatic score by Gilbert and Sullivan. My sandwich tumbled resentfully in
my stomach.
When Colin left us to practice the dance on our own, Charlotte’s words
rang in my memory like a Bieber song on repeat. Make the most of the
opportunity. Be nice to the guy. Don’t burn the Frau Schmidt bridge. I
didn’t want to talk to him. I didn’t even want to be in the same room with
him. I was at first resolved to speak as little as possible and get the Von
Trapp out of there, but the little devil in me thought it might aggravate him
all the more if I coaxed him into conversation. It was one way to let him
know I was aware of his dirty games with Jorge. I thought it best to begin
with a benign subject and work my way from there, and so, I made a cheeky
observation about the choreography. He made a short reply, not giving me a
hint to whether he agreed with me or not and then fell into a lengthy
silence. He was incorrigible.
“It’s your turn to make small talk now,” I said after I fell on the floor for
the twentieth time. “I commented on the dance, so you should say
something about the size of the stage or how poorly the pirates are paired
with the maidens.”
Then he did something I’d never thought I’d see. He smiled at me. It
was the beginning of a laugh that didn’t reach his vocal chords. There was
mirth in his eyes as they flickered to meet mine, and he openly surveyed my
form on the floor like he was studying me with curious amusement. He
offered me his hand to lift me to my feet, which I surprised myself by
accepting without protest, and in a swift motion, lifted me easily with the
strength of one arm like I was made of neoprene or some other form of light
plastic. He didn’t let go of my hand at first, perhaps to make sure I was
steady on my feet, but I found myself pressed against his chest without the
faculties of strength. My brain told my feet to move, but the traitors didn’t
listen. I still wasn’t accustomed to the contact of his skin. It cemented me
there in the small orbit we inhabited, and he leveled his gaze on me, saying,
“As you wish.”
Did he seriously make a Princess Bride reference to me? It shook me
from the gravity that held me rooted to him, and I jumped back.
“That’s enough talking for now,” I said, gathering my wits. “Maybe in a
few minutes, we can talk about the weather.”
I assumed the starting position and poised myself for the lift, but he
placed his hands on his hips and squinted his eyes at me.
 “Do you make it a habit to make small talk while dancing?”
“It would be weird if we didn’t speak at all,” I replied. “Some people
might find that the more they talk the less they have to say.”
“And is that more for your benefit or mine?”
“Both, I guess. Neither one of us has a lot to say unless it’s from a
script.”
That did make him laugh. “You? Not have a lot to say? I wouldn’t
describe you that way at all.”
“Are you saying I’m chatty?”
“Are you saying I’m aloof?”
Yes.
“I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet.”
He had no other response, unwittingly proving my point, and we got
back to work on the acrobatics. He was silent for quite some time,
concentrating on the lifts but not seeming to find much difficulty in them.
He was rather strong but not bulky—more like an athletic dancer in which
he again reminded me of Gene Kelly. He obviously had some form of
training. After a few sets while we were catching our breath, he opened the
subject I hoped to cover.
“Do you always like to roam around the secret places in the theatre?” he
asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, the other night in the costume basement, and then last week in
the scene shop. This theatre has lots of interesting corners to get lost in.”
“Oh, that.”
I couldn’t have asked for a better opening. Charlotte did tell me to make
the most of every opportunity, after all. I decided I would make the most
out of this one and so, with a devilish smile, I said, “Yes. And I made an
interesting new friend.”
I charged at him from my opening position. His reflexes responded by
extending his arm as was his choreography, but instead of a flip, I toppled
over him and fell hard on my butt with a painful slam.
“Leisl…” I cursed.
Will didn’t offer to help me up this time. Really, this choreo was less
like a dance and more like stage combat. A dark shade of arrogance claimed
his features, and his eyes were lit with flame. Talk about triggered. I hadn’t
even mentioned Jorge’s name and already Will was poised to rain fury
down upon me.
“Jorge Wickham,” he said through clenched teeth, “has the kind of
charisma that opens lots of doors for him, and he’s fortunate to make
friends everywhere he goes. Whether or not he’s capable of keeping those
friends is another matter altogether.”
He didn’t wait for me to prep for the run-up. Once I was on my feet, he
wrapped his hands around my waist and threw me over his shoulder. I
couldn’t get the height needed for the next move and finding it exceedingly
difficult to continue the conversation in this manner, I remained slung over
his shoulder. His hands were dangerously close to my backside, and I found
my face dangerously close to his as I held on to the hard muscles at his
sides.
“He couldn’t keep your abs,” I squeaked from my upside-down
position. The blood rushed to my head.
“I mean friendship.” I had to stop thinking about Will’s abs.
“He couldn’t keep your… friendship,” I continued. “Now, those doors
are closed because of it.”
I could feel Will’s shoulders and back tense beneath by body and with
iron tension, he bent down and lowered me to my feet.
“I think we should get some water,” he said quietly. I noticed as he
reached for his bottle, his entire face was washed in crimson. I hit a nerve
there. How could talking about Jorge upset him that much? He was the
guilty party and, by Jorge’s account, Will didn’t even care about the pain he
inflicted on him. It was nothing to him—a fly on his windshield. It couldn’t
have affected him the way he appeared. Perhaps calling him out on it was
an injury to his pride. Heart throb Will Darcy: a handsome exterior but
rotten underneath. The facts surrounding his behavior toward Jorge were
unforgivable, and the anxiety Jorge expressed to me on Sunday night still
rang in my ears. I was convinced there was nothing Will could say in his
defense that could justify his actions.
The silence between us was thick and palpable as we drank from our
water bottles. When it seemed Will had sufficiently calmed, I saw a flitter of
movement around the corner. Bing and Jane were sneaking off somewhere
—again. Seriously, didn’t those kids have to rehearse something? I honestly
didn’t care if they got lost in the bowels of the theatre all night. I wasn’t
about to go after them and get locked in the costume shop ever again.
Thinking I was the only one to see their secret rendezvous, I turned to Will.
That’s when I saw the lasers in his eyes searing into the back of Bing’s
retreating head. His face, where it was a red flush a minute prior, was now
fiercely white. His expression was a mixture of contempt, disappointment,
and frustration. He appeared derailed from the present by whatever
occupied his thoughts and with a conflicted aura, he turned to me and said,
“I forgot what we were talking about.”
11
 RED AND BLACK

Will

THIS WOMAN WAS MESSING with my head. I found myself engrossed

with thoughts of her, wondering what her agenda might be, imagining her in
a mini skirt, or lost in the aftershock of that kiss. A stage kiss, nothing more.
I had done thousands of them.
But in the lobby where we were rehearsing our choreography, it was
something different altogether. There were no cameras. There were no
boom operators or grips mulling about. There was only Beth.
She smelled of coconut lotion and the clean scent of shampoo, and my
resolve was about to crumble. I needed some distance and hydration. A cold
shower would have been ideal. And that’s when I noticed Bing and his
leggy soprano sneaking off somewhere and all I saw was black. Black. The
color of my gloom. Red. The blood of angry me. If Bing didn’t appreciate
what I was doing for him, I wasn’t responsible for the consequences.
With regret boiling in my veins for all I’d done for Bing, I turned back
to my dance partner. There she was, incessantly staring at me with her
delicate hand resting on her hip. Those tight leggings clung to her body like
fresh paint. Black. The spandex of her pants. Red. I thought I’d catch on
fire. Black. The darkness of my heart. Red. The blushes of her skin.
Stop. Stop it. I told myself. No more Les Mis. What were those Sponge
Bob lyrics? That would do the trick. I had to say something, or my regrets
wouldn’t be limited to just helping Bing.
“I forgot what we were talking about,” I admitted. Something,
something, pineapples in the sea…
“We weren’t talking at all,” she replied coyly. “I don’t think there are
two people in all the world who have less to say to one another than you
and I.”
I frowned. I had to admit talking about the weather was safer than
talking about feelings. The more we talk the less we have to say. Wise
words on her part.
“We were attempting small talk,” I said.
“We were attempting the lift,” she retorted and held out her arms and
curled her fingers into her palms. “Let’s go.”
“Wait,” I exclaimed. “I’m not ready.”
But she was already charging toward me as I set my water bottle on the
floor. I was en route to straightening my body when I turned to find her
forehead crashing into mine.
“Rolf!” she cried as she reached for her face. “That hurts like a Mother
Abbess!”
I could sense a quiver in her voice and the signs of tears being
repressed. Still, I couldn’t help from being amused at her choice of
language.
“What is that? Why do you do that?”
“Do what?” she groaned. “Head-butt movie stars?”
“No. You shout out stuff from shows. Like some sort of Musical Theatre
Tourette's. You did it the other night when we were locked in the costume
shop. Is it for luck? Like the opposite of saying the M word?”
“The M word?”
“You know,” I whispered. “The Scottish play!”
“Macbeth?”
“Shhh. Don’t say that.”
She laughed, actually laughed, thankfully forgetting the pain on her
forehead.
“That’s a stupid superstition,” she said, waving her hand dismissively.
“Just like the hype about the Wailing Ghost in the Cry Room.”
I had heard the rumors about the theatre ghost. There were so many
conflicting tales about it over the years, I’d lost track. It used to scare me as
a kid, though.
 “Are you going to make me guess?” I asked impatiently.
She smirked, probably enjoying my confusion. After a short pause and a
little flush of pink to her cheeks, she admitted, “I don’t like curse words.
They just sound so vulgar to my ears.”
“So you replace them with showtunes?”
“Musical theatre characters,” she corrected. “Today is my Sound of
Music day.”
That was one of the oddest and cutest things I’d ever heard.
“So let me get this straight. All day today, if you want to cuss, you’ll
yelp character names from Sound of Music and only Sound of Music?”
She nodded energetically. “Yes. And tomorrow might be a Sweeney
Todd day. I usually go by the first expletive of the day.”
This took me aback with amused admiration.
“Do you ever repeat days?” I asked.
“Now you’re just making fun,” she said with a pout. “Let’s try that lift.”
“You can ask me something about myself if that makes you feel better,”
I said, trying to appease her. “Then you can make fun of me.”
Her eyes narrowed into slits, and she tilted her chin up to meet my gaze.
If I knew this girl at all, she was taking her time to think of some wise crack
to throw me off, but she surprised me by her serious tone when she said,
“You told me other day that once someone’s on your… Burnt List, they’re
on there forever.”
“That’s true,” I admitted. Where was she going with this?
“What does one have to do to get on that list? Is jealousy a good enough
motive?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever been jealous of anything or anyone my entire
life.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Where is this coming from?”
“I’m just trying to figure you out,” she said.
The feeling was mutual.
“And what’s your impression so far, Miss Bennet?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think you want to know the answer to that
question, Mr. Darcy.”
Black… Ugh. This girl would be the death of me. I picked up my water
bottle and, in an attempt to sound calm, said, “We can practice the lift again
after Thanksgiving.” And with a smart clap to her rump, I added, “Don’t eat
too much stuffing.”
It was a small but short-lived feeling of satisfaction when I saw her jaw
drop to the floor. It wasn’t my finest moment, but the only way I knew how
to respond when someone insulted me was to throw it back in her face. I
suppose it was low of me, and I almost immediately regretted it. Therefore,
I halted my steps on the way out to say one more thing to her.
“Don’t believe everything you hear, Elizabeth—about theatre ghosts or
superstitions or movie stars. Maybe get to know me before you form an
opinion?”
“If I don’t form it now, I might not get another chance,” she said
defiantly.
“I wouldn’t deny you the pleasure,” I replied with a wink, and I left the
theatre entirely without a word of goodbye to Stella or Bing or that
wannabe queen posing as our choreographer. I was so over this place.
Thanksgiving in New York with my sister couldn’t come fast enough.
12
 THE YAM INCIDENT

Beth

“GET to know me before you form an opinion?” Charlotte exclaimed when

I saw her at work. “Guuuurl, that man is sweet on you!”
“What?” I cried. “Good Lord, no. He just has such a huge ego. He can’t
stand the thought of anyone alive in the world disliking him.”
“Whatever you say.” She shrugged as she placed the last of the crepe
paper turkeys on the tables.
Lucas Lodge was one of the few restaurants in the area open on
Thanksgiving. We were scheduled to close at five o’clock, so the staff could
celebrate with family, but it still sucked working on a holiday. With any
luck, my career would take off, and this would be my last Thanksgiving as a
food server. Of course, I’d been telling myself the same thing for years.
“Besides,” I said after a minute’s pause, “he clearly thinks I’m fat.”
“Who?” she asked absently.
“Will Darcy.”
“Oh,” she said. “Are we still talking about him?”
“What did he mean by the stuffing remark? I don’t even like stuffing.”
“Who doesn’t like stuffing?” she cried. “It’s un-American.”
“Lots of people don’t like stuffing. It’s just soggy bread with bits in it.
Disgusting.”
 She turned from her work to give me one of her serious looks. “What
may be disgusting to some people, is a delicacy to others. Don’t knock it.”
I narrowed my eyes on her. “Why do I get the feeling there’s a metaphor
in there somewhere?”
Charlotte was halfway to a degree in philosophy but could only take a
few classes a semester. Lucas Lodge would fall apart without her, and she
had little time for studies. It made me a little sad because she was too
brilliant to stay where she was in life.
“If you find a metaphor in that,” she said, “then it’s your own
conscience feeding it to you. No pun intended. But, if we’re on the subject
of men…”
I raised my eyes to the ceiling. “Here we go.”
“Never mind,” she huffed.
“No, go ahead.”
She hesitated for a moment but realizing I wouldn’t let her drop a
subject once she opened it, she went on with her thoughts.
“Okay, here it is,” she said. “You seem hung up over that Jorge guy, and
don’t shoot me for saying this, but I don’t think he’s all that attractive.”
“Are you blind?”
“Will you let me finish?”
I held up my hands to surrender my remaining interruptions and kept
silent, and with a sigh, she went on.
“You don’t exactly have a reputation for having the best taste in men,
Lizzie.” She had a point there, but I let her continue, “Remember that bass
player you dated for a week before you realized he was in some weird
vampire cult?”
“I thought there was something off about his extra-sharp canines.”
“And what about that gay co-star you had the hots for?”
“So I don’t have gay-dar. What’s your point?”
“My point is, dear Lizzie, you don’t know what you want. And maybe
the right guy will be right there in your face, and you won’t even realize it.”
“One, you sound like my mother, and two, I don’t need a man to make
me happy when pizza will do the trick.”
She conceded, saying she couldn't argue with me about that as she liked
pizza well enough to give up chocolate if given the choice between the two.
We agreed enthusiastically and made a pact to use pizza as a code word if
one of us were to make any more dating mistakes. I told her I no longer had
any expectations as far as Jorge was concerned, and she seemed a little
relieved at the news, saying she was prepared to go ninja if she suspected
anything was going awry. We laughed a great deal over the course of the
next few hours as customers trickled in for the turkey buffet we offered as
the only option on the menu. As much as I resented working on
Thanksgiving, I was grateful to Charlotte’s dad for making it easier for us.
All we had to do was deliver drinks and check on the customers throughout
their meal. Best of all, the tip was included with the bill. It was a good day,
and Sir William Lucas had promised me a tray of yams, so I could have
something to take to my parents’ house later in the day.
I was getting a head start on my side work, looking forward to an early
departure if more customers didn’t decide to come in, when a half hour
before closing, I was surprised to see Colin flutter into the dining hall. He
was alone, and my first thought as he glided his way toward the bar was
that he must have had no family in L.A. to celebrate with. My second
thought came with more trepidation as I noticed him inquiring something of
Charlotte and turning to look for me as she nodded her head in my
direction. I hadn’t thought he knew where I worked, so it didn’t cross my
mind he’d be looking for me. What on earth could the man want with me?
That’s when I panicked. Had Will complained about me? What could
possibly be so pressing that couldn’t wait until Monday’s rehearsal? I
swallowed hard as he approached me, leaving his Shirley Temple at the bar.
His approach was stiff, and he wore a grave expression which made his
features appear even whiter than usual. Still, upon closer inspection, I was
convinced it was just the wrong shade of foundation. He smiled through
contorted looks of discomfort and greeted me awkwardly.
“Might I have a word with you in private?” he asked.
My shift was close to ending and save for a few tasks and a lingering
party in my section, I was free. A glance at Charlotte gave me leave to take
a few moments with Colin, so I directed him to a booth away from the few
stragglers still dining. I admit, I was nervous to hear what he had to say, and
I’d be lying if I said my palms weren’t sweaty. He spoke in a painfully
formal manner, laying out all my good qualities in an orderly but suspect
fashion. I’d been let down by directors before and that was usually the way
they did it. The difference was I was used to hearing the ‘You’re talented
but not what we’re looking for’ speech at auditions, not in the middle of a
run. Besides, he was the choreographer—not the director. Did
choreographers have the power to fire actors?
But after Colin listed the several attributes about me he found alluring,
the word ‘but’ didn’t follow. Nor did he make any mention of any
complaints by Will or any other company member. What he said next both
distressed and diverted me.
“I know I’ve been a little too obvious, but I can’t help it. I wear my
heart on my sleeve.” Here, he folded his hands around mine. “But almost
from the first moment I saw you, I said to myself, that girl is the one. We
have chemistry, you and me.”
He clasped my hands with renewed strength as his thumb drew circles
over my knuckles. Fortunately, the sweat on my palms gave me the
moisture needed to pull free from his grip, and I did so with confusion and
dread. I was still not entirely sure where he was going with this and not
wanting to jump to conclusions, I said, “I don’t understand.”
Almost immediately, his composure shifted from one of supplication to
haughty self-confidence, and he grinned.
“Oh, my dear Beth,” he said. “You little kitten. That’s one of the things I
love about you.”
Kitten? I was so occupied with the office of restraining my laughter, I
couldn’t find a moment to reply and so, he went on.
“I like a measure of modesty in a girl. I find it extremely attractive.”
“Whoa.” I stopped him right there. “I don’t know what you were
thinking, but I’m not that kind of actress.”
He was taken by surprise at my declaration, and he paused for a
moment to understand my words. He laughed. He cackled so hard he could
hardly breathe, and after a full minute, he composed himself the best he
could and said, “You are hilarious. You’re not only beautiful, you’ve got a
great sense of humor. You’re everything I’m looking for in a woman. And
let me tell you, there are lots of women who want to date me. Lots. But I
choose you, Pikachu.” He gave me a cheeky wink and sighed in relief
having said what he came to say. Confident enough to assume I’d accepted
his overtures, he added, “When can I meet the parents?”
I was so taken aback by his soliloquy, words were slow to form in my
addled brain. First, he wasn’t there to fire me. That was good. Second, he
wasn’t suggesting what I thought he was. That was also good. Third, he
was… was he… asking me out? That was unexpected. That was also
improbable since it was obvious to me and I’m sure everybody else that he
played for the other team. Which was perfectly fine. But I was in such a
shock, I didn't think before I blurted, “You’re gay.”
I immediately regretted my words, hoping I hadn’t offended him.
Unsure what the politically correct way to say it was, I apologized. Then I
questioned everything I thought I knew about people and stereotypes,
second-guessing my impression of him. Was he, or wasn’t he? Maybe he
was a swing hitter. Maybe he was in the closet. No. Not in the closet. Not
with a faux-fur collar and Lemondrop Rothy’s. Nothing in the world made
any sense. Charlotte was right. My gay-dar was screwy.
“Gay?” He laughed. “You’re adorable. I’ll admit, though—I get hit on
all the time. Can I help it if men find me attractive?”
He waved his hands over his chest with a flourish.
“I’m hot. As much as I like the attention, I have to be true to myself. I
love the ladies too much.”
I was so mortified I could hardly form words except, “Oh.”
He didn’t seem affected by it, however, as he continued his overtures
without much restraint. His spirits were animated as he pattered on about all
his remarkable attributes, most of which he attributed to his affiliation with
the Rosings Institute of Dance and its founder, Catherine de Bourgh. It was
as if he were on an interview for the position of being my boyfriend. His
long list of reasons why he was the best candidate for the job flowed from
his lips with such liberty and indulgence, I hardly could utter a sound in
edgewise. He was so sure of himself and in turn, sure of my approval, he
made plans for our future, notwithstanding as he put it, “Our cohabitation.”
He actually asked which side of the bed I preferred. Yeah. That was a hard
pass. Bed was my favorite place in the world. Why would I want to share it
with anybody?
I had to bring him round to reality somehow, but unable to get a word
in, I abruptly stood. This put a brief pause to his speech, which gave me a
succinct moment to say, “Look, I have to get back to work. You’re a really
nice guy, but you’ve got the wrong girl. I’m just not—”
Mr. Lucas cut my rejection short by his appearance tableside.
“Welcome, weary Knight,” he announced. “If it is sustenance you seek,
Lucas Lodge has a royal feast prepared. Come sup with us at our buffet
table, drink ale and make yourself known at court.”
He bowed low to Colin with dramatic flair.
 “I am Sir William Lucas. And what may we call you, good sir?”
Colin took about five seconds to take in the sight of Mr. Lucas in his
medieval costume and finding himself quite equal to a man as ridiculous as
he and fitting in magnificently, he returned the greeting with a bow of his
head.
“Colin Hunsford at your service.”
Nerd alert. If any two humans were ever so perfectly matched, it was
those two. I might have believed it if I were told we were teleported to
Renaissance Faire, but the turkey legs at our buffet weren’t big enough, and
the hippies at table five waved for their check.
Mr. Lucas, noticing the table void of a place setting and the condiment
tray, turned a severe eye to me and scolded, “Lady Elizabeth, what is the
meaning of these inhospitable accommodations? Where are the table
ornaments?”
The table ornaments, I would have liked to say, were put away because
the section was closed. My shift was also a mere ten minutes from ending. I
also wanted to add that the last time I checked I wasn’t on the menu, but
Colin ogled me like Wiley E. Coyote looked at the Roadrunner.
“Lady Elizabeth,” said Colin, “is all the ornament needed.”
He batted his eyes, fluttering them over his rosy cheeks. No human
could have eyelashes that long. He had to have been wearing falsies.
“I see that you’re a man of taste,” replied my boss.
Oh, brother.
Turning to me, he said, “Put in an order of York Buffalo Wings for our
guest. On the house.”
Should I have reminded him the cooks were gone for the day? Maybe.
I’m sure the dishwasher didn’t know how to operate the deep fryer. I didn’t
plan on sticking around long enough to get yelled at in Spanish. All I
wanted was to grab my yams and head for the door. The hippie table was
still waving for their check. Or ketchup. I couldn’t quite tell.
Get the Wizzer out of here before Colin starts wedding plans.
I booked it to the kitchen, hoping he’d get discouraged and leave.
Where the Fermin was Charlotte? Ugh! I was so distraught, I was mixing
up my musicals. Falsettos and Phantom weren’t even in the same genre!
A minute later, the kitchen door swung open, but instead of Charlotte or
even Mr. Lucas, Colin appeared bearing flowers he’d obviously stolen from
the cornucopia at the buffet.
 “Lady Elizabeth,” he said, wagging his brows. “I like the sound of it.”
No doubt he’d want to add the name Hunsford to my title. He hovered
in the doorway with such pathetic hope in his expression, I almost felt sorry
for him. He wasn’t a bad person. I just didn’t know how to get through to
him that I wasn’t interested. Also, I was sure his presence in the kitchen was
a violation of some health department code.
“We’re out of buffalo wings,” I lied.
“Why would I want the wings of a buffalo when I have an angel
standing before me?”
All righty then.
“Colin, you don’t know me. I don’t know you. And I am no angel.”
“Ah contrary, mademoiselle.”
“What I mean to say is, once you get to know me, you’ll find we
probably have almost nothing in common. For instance… I don’t wear
rouge.”
He continued to advance toward me, intruding into the kitchen.
“This is a restaurant employee only area. If the health inspector pays us
a surprise visit, he’ll shut us down.”
That did nothing to deter him. In fact, I think my rejection gave him
more encouragement. “I like a girl who plays hard to get. It’s part of your
charm, really.”
At this point, I was backing up so far, the small of my back collided
with one of the stainless-steel prep tables.
“I can promise you, Colin,” I said as I felt my way around the counter to
put a barrier between us, “I’m not playing hard to get. I’m not the kind of
girl that plays games. Ask my best friend Charlotte. She can make you
another Shirley Temple and tell you how NOT interested I am.”
“Maybe if I come back tomorrow—”
“No. Definitely do not come back tomorrow.”
“—you will change your mind.”
Seriously, it was like having a one-sided conversation, like when you
accidentally press the mute button on your cell phone and the other person
just keeps talking. Furthermore, he was inching his way around the prep
table I was using as my makeshift barricade. Beyond the Barricade lyrics
from Les Mis ran through my head in the worst possible way. The song
played in a loop as I shuffled behind the counter in a stand-off with Colin.
I’d scoot to the right and to the left like a basketball player, and he’d match
me step for step. You know that scene from the first Jurassic Park movie?
Yeah, it was like that. I was that brave little girl, and Colin was the
velociraptor.
We could have gone on like that for hours had I not found a distraction.
It wasn’t my finest moment, but I saw the opportunity, and I took it. The
cooks had left a half-used bottle of cooking wine on the counter. It was the
only defense I could find. I know what you’re thinking, but you’d be wrong
if you guessed I used the bottle as a weapon. No, I didn’t break the bottle on
the counter and point the jagged glass edges at Colin. That only works in
movies. All I did was uncork the wine and splash it in his direction. Some
got on his face, some on his furry collar. I didn’t stick around to see for
sure, because I ran out of there as fast as I could. I stopped at the bar to
retrieve my purse, grabbed the foil tray of yams I was saving and made my
way with brisk steps towards the door. Unfortunately, Sir William Lucas cut
me off at the pass.
“Where are you going?” he questioned. “We have customers.”
I glanced at the grandfather clock behind the bar. “My shift is over.”
He looked at the clock, looked at my yams, looked around the
restaurant, then looked back at me.
“You’re not going anywhere until you close the check at table five.”
Ugh! Table five. The hippies. I needed to get out of there before Colin
got it in his head to follow me home. I reached in my apron with my free
hand, marched over to the hippie table, retrieved the plastic check holder,
and placed it on their table.
“Thank you for dining at Lucas Lodge,” I said rapid-fire fast. “Our
bartender will collect your payment when you’re ready. Please take your
time.”
I exchanged a conspiring glance at Charlotte whose wide eyes betrayed
her confusion. I was sure she’d figure it out once I was gone. I was backing
away from the table when the hippie man stopped me. “I can pay right now.
Hang on a sec.” He reached into an overstuffed backpack, pulling random
items out to get to his wallet. He took forever. I shouldn’t have told him to
take his time. I tapped my foot with nervous glances toward the kitchen
when I caught the sight of Colin emerging with a damp towel in his hand.
The entire front of his shirt was wet with red wine diluted with water where
it looked like he’d tried to clean it but just made it worse.
Great.
 I wondered how small I could make myself and how long I could
effectively hide under the table—although the hippies might have had
something to say about that. Seriously, how much further did he have to dig
to find his wallet? Sir William appeared at my side with a plastic smile
plastered across his face.
“Allow me to relieve you of your load, My Lady,” he said, taking hold
of my tray of yams. I only clutched it tighter.
“No, thank you, Sir William Lucas,” I replied through my teeth. “It is no
burden to me.”
“Nonsense,” he said, tugging the foil edge of the tray. “I insist.”
“The lady doth protest,” I said curtly, tugging it back.
I’m sure you can see where this is going. I don’t know what his deal
was, but he continued to play tug of war with my yams until the flimsy
aluminum tray buckled under the strain and gave way to a shower of yams,
which flew in syrupy clumps into the air. It seemed to happen in slow
motion. The metallic crinkle of aluminum, the golden, sweet goodness
flying out of reach, the eyeballs bulging out of Sir William’s sockets. I
could have sworn someone cried Noooooooo Luke Skywalker style. It
might have been me.
But then time stopped, and everyone’s attention was fixed on the
hippies who had yams dripping down their faces and hair. My yams. My
beautiful yams.
This is why I hate working holidays. One year on Mother's Day, I
dropped an entire plate of Eggs Benedict on a woman’s lap. True story. I
was just a disaster magnet.
Sir William’s face went from white to fire-engine red in three seconds. I
swear he had steam shooting out of his ears. The hippies weren’t even as
angry as he was.
“Get. Out!” he growled.
Wonderful! I’d wanted to leave five minutes ago.
“I can clean this,” I said with an apologetic look towards the hippies.
They shrugged at me, licking the yams from their faces.
“No,” said Sir William with a bite. “Go home, Miss Bennet. Get out and
don’t return!”
I heard Charlotte audibly gasp from behind the bar. Miss Bennet? He
never called me Miss Bennet. No more Lady Elizabeth. He stripped me of
my title. He was…
 “Are you firing me?” I cried. “On Thanksgiving?”
I turned my eyes to Charlotte. She stared at the scene with her mouth
hanging open. Colin shrank back into the kitchen, and the hippies took
selfies. But Sir William stood his ground, breathing heavily and pointing to
the exit.
I took a moment to let that sink in and with as much pride as I could
muster, I adjusted the purse strap on my shoulder, snatched the horribly bent
aluminum tray from the floor, and walked out of Lucas Lodge. On the
bright side, Colin didn’t follow me.
Happy Thanksgiving, Mom. I could have come over with a new
flamboyant boyfriend and a tray of yams, but we’ll have to make do with
what we can scrape off this aluminum tray. Oh, and I’m unemployed.
Technically, I wasn’t unemployed. I still had my theatre job—for the
time being. Colin probably did have some say in that regard if he was
vindictive enough, but I held onto a sliver of hope he’d forgive me if I paid
for his dry cleaning.
I would have gone home if I hadn’t promised my parents I’d celebrate
with them. Dad liked to deep fry the turkey, and Mom made everyone
matching t-shirts every year. She’d paint cartoonish turkeys on yellow
shirts, and we’d all pose for a photo which made it into the annual
Christmas card ‘letter.’ She said the letter was to keep distant family
updated, but we all knew it was an excuse to brag about our
accomplishments—even if it meant she had to make some of them up. The
Lucas family always got one, and they lived a block away. Of course, Mrs.
Lucas was just as bad as Mom. She’d adopted the unorthodox custom of
sending a bi-yearly letter—one at Christmas and one in June. She’d include
xerox copies of her children’s report cards for good measure. It was the
competitive nature of their friendship. No biggie. They were the best of
friends, but once Mrs. Lucas would go home, the gossip train would pull
out of the station.
“It’s a good thing Charlotte has brains,” Mom would say. “Because she
won’t get far in life with the way she looks.”
I’m fairly certain Mrs. Lucas had a thing or two to say about me and my
sister, but Charlotte never said anything about it. Still, the Lucases were
practically family. All us kids grew up together, attended the same church,
went to the same elementary school. Mom and Mrs. Lucas would exchange
recipes and go to each other’s candle parties while Dad smoked cigars with
Mr. Lucas. We were the quintessential American neighbors. That’s why
when Mrs. Lucas knocked on the front door later in the evening while we
were having our pumpkin pie, nobody thought anything of it.
Trailing behind her as she walked into the dining room, was the doleful
Mr. Lucas. His head bowed low, we could tell he’d been the recipient of his
wife’s tongue lashing.
“Say what you came here to say, Bill.”
The tone Mrs. Lucas employed with her husband was more toddler
scolding than wifely. It was clearly evident who wore the pants in that
family.
Mr. Lucas hunched his shoulders and sighed and with a roll of his eyes
to the ceiling, reluctantly admitted, “I may have overreacted today.”
This wasn’t sufficient enough for his wife, and she prompted him
further. “Aaaand?” Her voice was severe.
Mr. Lucas slowly lifted his eyes to meet mine. “And I apologize.”
“Aaaand?”
“And I’d like you to come back to work at the lodge,” he said. And then
through gritted teeth, added, “Please.”
I wondered how much resistance Mr. Lucas gave his wife in agreeing to
leave his cozy armchair on Thanksgiving to beg me to return to work. What
did that woman have hanging over his head? I could imagine Mrs. Lucas
holding the spiced cider ransom until he gave in. It occurred to me Lucas
Lodge was his version of a man cave, and the Sir William Lucas persona
was the lord of that domain.
“Where’s Charlotte?” I asked.
“She stayed back at the house with that boy,” Mrs. Lucas said, waving
her hand around dismissively.
This piqued my mother’s interest. “What boy?”
Mrs. Lucas gestured over her face and bat her eyes dramatically. “The
Boy George.”
“Colin?” My brows raised so high, they practically meshed with my
hairline.
“Lizzie,” said Dad in his calm dad voice. “Do you mind telling us what
in the Sam Hill is going on?”
“That’s what I want to know,” chimed in my mother. My sister,
however, gave me a wide-eyed glare—the kind siblings gave one another
when one of them was in trouble. She grinned and quietly took small bites
from her pie, enjoying the entertainment. I had to explain, briefly, about the
unfortunate events earlier in the day, how that ‘Boy George fellow’ stalked
me at work, caused a scene, (well, caused me to cause a scene) and I was
subsequently fired. Mrs. Lucas completed the story by telling us her dear
Charlotte took pity on the poor man with his soiled suit and no one to spend
the holiday with and invited him to celebrate Thanksgiving with them. Mrs.
Lucas also informed us that Colin held no grudges whatsoever and in fact,
felt responsible for my present unemployment.
No kidding.
And so, here was Mr. Lucas in my house, asking me to come back to
work at the lodge while we ate pie. The sad part about the whole situation
was that holiday fiascos were a regular occurrence at my house. There was
that one time my cousin went vegan, and my grandma freaked out. Or the
time my uncle brought his own frozen dinner because he was afraid of my
mother’s cooking. (I actually didn’t blame him there.)
We were all beginning to wonder if we could pull this Thanksgiving off
without an incident. But, no. We were cursed. The usual dose of drama
descended upon the Bennet household, and everything was right in the
world.
I accepted Mr. Lucas’ offer, and he relaxed, grateful to get the whole
ordeal behind him. He and his wife stayed for coffee, and I quietly excused
myself to play Scrabble with Mary in the den. Of course, I lost
spectacularly. It was a metaphor for my life.
13
 TELENOVELAS AND CAP’N CRUNCH

Beth

AWKWARD DIDN’T EVEN BEGIN to describe rehearsal on Monday.

When did my life become a vaudeville show for psychopaths? I was already
accustomed to the dread of working with Will. Now I got to add Colin to
my list of people to avoid.
We were finally out of the rehearsal studio and blocking on the main
stage. The novelty of it alone put everyone in a state of awe. The set was far
from being finished, but what work Jorge and crew had done was
magnificent. The pirate ship nearly rivaled the one used in the Fantasmic
show at Disneyland. There was rigging for acrobatics to be performed from
the masts and several platforms and ropes for the actors to swing from bow
to stern. A stunt choreographer was due to arrive Wednesday to work
intensely with the pirates until Friday. So basically, I’d have three days off
for the second week in a row.
Jorge had returned from his no cell service jaunt and displayed the many
awesome features of the pirate ship. He was almost immediately mauled by
a flock of chorus girls led by Lydia and Mariah. They were of course
enamored by him and the infuriatingly beautiful shoulder muscles taunting
us all from beneath his Billabong surfer tank. I wanted to shoot a round of
shells out of my eyes through the girls and watch them flap away like a
gaggle of geese, so Jorge would notice I still existed. But alas, he seemed to
bask in the attention. Once Will arrived, Jorge disappeared backstage, I
didn’t catch a glimpse of him for the rest of the day. It annoyed me how
much Will’s presence repelled him, but surprisingly, I didn’t miss him when
he slipped into the shadows. I had more pressing concerns in the forefront
of my mind.
Caroline was the only female besides Stella in the cast not enamored by
Jorge. I couldn’t give her much credit for that, though, because she took the
first opportunity to tell me all about her opinion.
“Don’t be fooled by his good looks, Eliza,” she said when we were
alone. “I’ve heard some things about Jorge that weren’t very pretty.”
“Oh?” I said. “What things?”
“Just things.” She bristled at my question. “He was involved in some
crime against Will.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“I don’t remember exactly,” she huffed. “But I wouldn’t expect it was
very minor—considering his background. They should crack down harder
on illegal immigrants.”
Wow. Just wow. She was such a snob, I was almost speechless. Almost.
“So, you’re telling me he’s a criminal because he’s not white?
Unbelievable.”
Her jaw fell to her chin, and she made a spiteful guttural sound in her
throat.
“I was trying to be helpful, Eliza. Excuse me for being a friend.”
She flipped her hair and stomped away.
Friend. Yeah, right.
My true friend, Jane, was who I was most concerned about. She was
never a very chatty individual to begin with, but something of a melancholy
appeared to have overshadowed her. She was distant and closed off. What
was going on with her? I directed my gaze to Bing and noticed a stiffness in
his posture and a subdued remoteness in his demeanor. His back was turned
to her from the opposite side of the stage as he inspected every inch of the
pirate ship, giving it more interest than necessary. That wasn’t extraordinary
in itself as he would have to familiarize himself with every detail for safety
purposes. But as the day progressed, I watched him with a deeper level of
scrutiny and noted his aloof disregard toward Jane whenever they weren’t
acting on stage. As soon as a scene would end, they would break apart, and
he’d walk away from her, putting as much distance between them as
possible. I wanted to ask her what happened. I also wanted to kick him in
the shins. Had they been fighting? I was so caught up in everything I’d been
going through over the holiday weekend, I hadn’t noticed anything amiss. I
was working at the lodge all the time. After the Yam Incident, as Charlotte
merrily called it, Mr. Lucas had me working every day. I was a slave to
Lucas Lodge for the unforeseeable future, and as a result, I’d hardly been
home. I was also unable to carpool to rehearsals.
The moment rehearsal ended both Monday and Tuesday, Jane bolted out
of the theatre. By the time I arrived home after a crappy late shift, she was
locked in her room asleep. I couldn’t even talk to her during lunch breaks.
Whenever I had a tender moment to ask her how she was, she’d feign a
smile and give me a laconic reply. “I’m fine,” she’d say dismissively and
shut me out completely.
It was Friday afternoon when it became such a problem, Lydia
frantically interrupted my shift at the lodge.
“What time are you off?” she inquired anxiously, barging into the dining
room like a ferret on fire.
“Why? What’s wrong?”
Lydia was the type of girl who’d never set foot in a place like Lucas
Lodge. Yes, she was wild with a side of crazy. Yes, she was poorer than dirt.
Yes, she had her share of dancing on tables at sports bars. But she was also
overly vain with her hot girl image. I guess Lucas Lodge was below even
her low standards. Therefore, I knew there had to be some urgent business
for her to seek me out at work. A slew of images ran through my mind. Did
the landlord finally get fed up with her party girl antics and evict us?
“Did you go skinny dipping in the pool again?” I asked, bracing myself
for her answer. She stared at me for a second with her big Disney princess
eyes. I could almost hear the gears clicking away as she contemplated my
question.
“There were no children present this time,” she said defensively. “But
that’s nothing.”
Here we go.
“It’s Jane,” she said with a heavy exhale.
“Jane went skinny dipping?”
“No!” she cried. “She’s been watching Spanish soap operas on
marathon.”
 That was bad. That was really bad. Jane didn’t understand a word in
Spanish. She couldn’t pronounce taco correctly to save her life. The last
time she watched telenovelas, it took three people to peel her off the couch
and force her to take a cold shower.
“Is she eating?” I asked.
“Just dry cereal straight out of the box,” she said. “We’re out of Cap’n
Crunch.”
This was serious. More serious than last time. She needed some next
level intervention.
“You need to come home NOW,” Lydia continued. “I can’t even cross
the living room without her demon stare shooting hexes in my direction.
I’m this close to calling an exorcist.” She held up her thumb and forefinger
to illustrate.
I had another forty-five minutes before my meal break. If Charlotte
could cover my remaining tables, I might have time to check on Jane before
the dinner crowd. God bless her sweet freckled face, because she pulled
through for me without hesitation. I got the rest of the night off.
“Take the weekend,” she said with a smile. “You deserve it.”

I FOUND Jane in the darkened living room just as Lydia described her—
slouched on the sofa, staring mindlessly at an over-acting Latina bombshell
with rivers of mascara trailing down her cheeks. Her hairy chested love
interest had his chiseled jaw set in a scowl so fierce he could cut steel with
it. He was lustily saying something that had her wailing in a pool of tears
and when her manicured hand flew to slap him, he caught her wrist and
pulled her in for a forceful kiss. She melted in his arms, and they fell to the
floor. Fade to black. Then a commercial for Tide filled the screen. That was
my cue to open the blinds and force Jane to return to the human race.
Preferably the English-speaking variety. But when I reached for the remote,
she clawed it close to her chest and hissed.
“Give me the remote, Jane,” I warned.
“Go away.”
“I live here.”
She pouted in silence.
 “I paid for half of that TV.”
Oh yes. I went there.
She shifted on the couch, giving me more of her back.
“Okay,” I said, stomping towards our flat screen Visio. “You asked for
it.”
It was time for some tough love. I reached behind the TV, sifting
through the tangle of cables to where I could disconnect them randomly. I
didn’t know a thing about how to plug them back in, and neither did Jane. It
was a sabotage I was willing to make even though it meant I’d miss the next
few episodes of Outlander.
“No!” she cried in panic, almost flying off the couch. “Don’t do it.”
I turned slowly to her with my hand extended, bidding her to give me
the remote like in a hostage situation.
“Give me the remote.”
Her fingers were white around the little device, clinging onto it as a
lifeline. I’d never seen her so wild looking. Her face was so pale, it was
almost translucent, and there were bits of Cap'n Crunch in her disheveled
hair. Geez, whatever Bing did to her, he would pay big time—as soon as I
got the current situation under control. Lydia stood to the side of the couch
with her knees bent and her arms extended… ready for what? To catch Jane
in case she flew in her direction like a fly ball?
“Give me the remote, Jane,” I warned again. I felt like I was talking
Meg Giry down off the Coney Island Pier. (#spoilers)
Give me the hurt and the pain and the remote, Jane.
She shook her head in tiny protests, but I could tell her resolve was
crumbling. The commercials were almost over, and I had to act fast. With
careful steps, I inched closer to Jane, my palm outstretched in gentle
supplication. I was moments from my target when Lydia reached for the
spray bottle we used to mist the plants and squirted Jane in the ear,
momentarily distracting her. I grabbed the remote, and Jane dissolved into a
heap on the floor, bellowing like a tired toddler. I shut off the TV and flew
to her side, rubbing her back and pulling her sticky hair from her face.
Lydia joined us on the floor, and we group-hugged in a mess of wet tears,
sweaty pajamas, and sticky Cap'n Crunch hair for a full ten minutes.
At length, Jane allowed us to take her into the kitchen for a paper towel,
which she wiped her face and blew her nose with it as she sat at the table. I
gave her a minute before speaking, exchanging the dirty paper towels in her
hand for clean ones. Toilet paper would have been better, but the bathroom
was too far. I didn’t want to lose my patient.
“Are you ready to tell me what happened?” I asked.
“Did he cheat on you?” Lydia growled. Clearly, she was hungry for
blood. But Jane shook her beautiful, blonde head with a sniffle. Bing wasn’t
the cheating type.
“Did he break up with you?” I gently bid. She just shrugged.
“Does he have herpes?” chirped Lydia. I furrowed my brow at her
incredulously, but Jane released a minuscule laugh through the tears, a
small breakthrough in her woe.
“No,” she said softly.
“Tell us what happened,” I said, still stroking her back. My other hand
labored to shove the remote in my back pocket undetected. We didn’t want
any relapses here.
“I’ll break his pate across,” warned Lydia. Ah, how comforting a
Shakespearean threat is when one is brokenhearted.
“I don’t know what happened,” Jane feebly admitted. “He won’t talk to
me.”
“The fiend!”
“Thank you, Lydia,” I said, slicing her a pointed stare. “You can sheath
your rapier.”
And turning back to Jane, I whispered, “Tell it to us from the
beginning.”
Bing had gone with Will to New York for Thanksgiving. When his
phone went straight to voicemail, Jane assumed he’d run out of battery or
forgot to turn it back on after his flight. But the next day, it rang and rang
before her call was redirected to a new, more formal greeting for his
outgoing message. She knew he had heard her messages if not seen her
texts. She didn’t hear from him all weekend. No calls, no texts. Nothing.
“I tried to ignore my suspicions,” she said quietly. “He was in New
York, having fun. He didn’t need to check in with me.”
I wanted to tell her that a man in love like Bing was with her wouldn’t
let a day go by without calling. It didn’t make sense. Bing couldn’t keep his
hands off her before he left California. But I kept my mouth shut and let her
finish her story.
Then she told us that his social media was filled with photos of him all
over New York with a beautiful girl I could only assume was Georgia
Darcy. She was fresh faced with a brilliant smile—her shoulder-length,
chestnut hair blowing in the wind in front of Rockefeller Center, on the
Empire State Building, in Central Park—and Bing posed with her like a
silly tourist with rosy cheeks and bundled in scarves against the autumn
chill.
But he wasn’t a cheater. Jane was sure of that. Still…
“I wasn’t jealous,” she assured us. I believed her. She wasn’t the jealous
type. “But on Monday, Caroline took me aside and told me Bing was going
out with Will’s sister.”
Why that little busybody.
“I don’t buy that for one second,” I exclaimed. “Caroline just likes to
stick her fake nose where it doesn’t belong.”
“I’ll steal his phone,” offered Lydia. “I can check his call history to see
if he’s been calling her since he got back.”
“No,” said Jane. “I asked him if there was someone else. I wanted to
give him my blessing if there was. To give me closure. But all he said was,
‘There’s no one.’ Those are the only words he’s spoken to me since he
returned.”
Jane fell into a wash of fresh tears and covered her face with two full
sheets of Costco-brand paper towels. The stiff material stuck out like angel
wings on either side of her face, and all I could see was the nest of golden
locks from behind the white barricade and her thin hands scrunching the
towels in the middle.
I was determined to find out the truth somehow. I regretted not
befriending Bing earlier, so I could hear his thoughts on the subject. I
couldn’t exactly approach him in rehearsal and casually ask why he was
acting like a dirtbag. I refused to believe Bing would let himself become
influenced by the stellar way Will treated women.
14
 WHAT IS THIS FEELING?

Will

BING WAS PISSING ME OFF. The only reason I agreed to do this

ridiculous production was to help him in his career. He had the ‘It’ factor. I
could spot it the first time I saw him rehearse. He’d been an emergency
replacement the last month of the tour for a swing who took the old saying
‘break a leg’ a little too seriously. Bing auditioned and took his place
immediately. One would say he lucked out. But there was something special
about Bing. He was a talent you don’t see very often. He had all the
requirements for a successful Broadway career, but I knew, with the right
connections, he could make it in Hollywood. He was green and needed
some leading roles on his resume. The acting experience would be helpful
for when he auditioned for films. I could help him with that. And now I
regretted this whole stupid business. He was incredibly sulky all the time
and that affected his performance. I hoped his poor attitude didn’t reflect on
me. The musical director Fitz Hanlon and I were old friends. We’d known
each other forever. We were cool. Cole Forster was another story. I suppose
I only cared what he thought of me for Stella’s sake. Besides, Cole knew
everybody in the theatre world. He could make or break Bing’s Broadway
ambitions.
But Stella—she was special to me. She’d known me since I was a child,
having starred in a heist film with my father and later cast him as her first
guest star in the premiere of The Gardiner. She was more than a colleague.
She was almost family. So when she’d called me asking for help with her
charity event, I couldn’t refuse her. But I did have one condition. “Come see
this guy perform,” I’d said, “and if you like what you see, maybe you’ll
have a role for him in one of your plays.”
She agreed to fly out to Atlanta to watch the show, saying she wanted to
see it anyway, but I knew she was there to reciprocate my favor. Turned out
she did in fact have a part for Bing. In Pirates of Penzance. There was one
more caveat to the deal. I had to play The Pirate King. I protested at first,
arguing that I couldn’t possibly fit it in my schedule. My agent Tobias had
been badgering me to sign on to do another Fast and Dangerous film. It
was a twenty-million-dollar contract and rumor had it, Rick “The Brick”
Savage was attached to the project.
Tobias got in the habit of sending me texts twice a day. Didn’t that guy
have any other clients? I knew I was putting him and the studio off.
But something deep down inside had me dragging my feet. Something
about the theatre, I suppose—the immediate gratification of the audience’s
laughter and applause, the quickening in the stomach when the overture
began. Something Rotten was the only show I’d heard of to get a standing
ovation in the middle of the first act. Granted, I wasn’t in that particular
number, but it was a great feeling all the same. Just to be part of a
production like that—I’d have been happy just sweeping the floor. Nah,
who am I kidding? I loved being rock star Shakespeare.
Now I was playing a similar role. I’d traded in my codpiece for a pirate
hat. The quill for a sword. And leather-clad backup dancers were exchanged
for a rag-tag band of orphaned pirates. And maidens? There were always
maidens. But one in particular was a distraction I had to do something
about. I needed to get a grip—or a drink. Every few minutes, I felt my eyes
drawn to her like a five-car pile-up on the 405. I didn’t want to look, but I
couldn’t help it. And as much as I hated to admit it, she was funny. The part
of Edith was generally not a very prominent role. She had a couple of solo
lines and that’s it. But what Beth did with those few lines and limited
blocking was brilliant. She had a talent for filling every pause with natural,
physical comedy.
I told myself I only watched her for the entertainment factor. After all,
millions of people subscribed to the foolish artistry of entertainers such as
Miranda Sings and Carrot Head because they were funny. I fixed my eyes
on Beth because she was likewise funny—and not necessarily because I
ogled her curves in those tight leggings or admired how adorable she
looked in that vintage Star Wars t-shirt.
But the way she glared at me when she caught me watching her—the
admiration wasn’t mutual. What was it instead? Fear? Trepidation?
“Loathing.”
I was startled back into the present. She speaks!
“I’m sorry, what?”
Beth crossed her arms and glowered at me, raising her chin to level her
eyes on me the best she could from nearly a foot below in height.
“I’m sure you have better things to do, Your Majesty, but we have to run
this scene, so let’s just get this over with.”
What was wrong with me? We were in the middle of a song, and I had
been just going through the motions. And here she was, ready to go into the
lift.
“Oh, sorry, let’s try that again.”
“Fine. But I was thinking my character should display a little more
loathing towards you. You’re a mongrel and a scurvy pirate, after all.”
“Duly noted.”
“You’re also a self-absorbed, arrogant, haughty, conceited, proud,
spoiled, overbearing Judge Thurpin.
So today was her Sweeney Todd day.
“For the record,” I remarked, “the Pirate King may be a scallywag, but
he’s no Judge Thurpin.”
“And I don’t care if you’re a movie star. I don’t need to get to know you
before I form an opinion.” She used air quotes to punctuate the last three
words.
“Are we still talking about the dance lift?”
Her posture straightened, and she lifted one brow, inching toward me
with purpose. My mouth went as dry as the Atacama Desert.
“What do you think, Mr. Darcy?”
She was doing that thing that boxers do on pay-per-view ads when they
engage in an intense faceoff. I’d heard it described as the art of defying
your enemy with your eyes. It was supposed to be intimidating. But Beth,
staring me down from mere inches away was having an altogether different
effect on me.
 I was Judge Thurpin. Hopefully, she didn’t have a straight razor tucked
in those yoga pants.
“Hold please.”
I was never so relieved to hear Cole’s voice. All action ceased on stage,
the entire cast directing their attention on him. But he stared straight at me.
“Is there a problem, Will?” he said with a bored expression.
Oh yes. Several problems.
“We missed our lift, that’s all,” I replied.
“Well, if you miss it next time,” he remarked with a scowl, “just mark it
and fix it later.”
By fix it later, he meant more alone time with Beth. No, thank you. I
was already toast. I made sure I didn’t miss the lift again.
All I wanted to do after rehearsal was blow off some steam. There’d be
a party somewhere in Hollywood. I’d just have to make a few texts, and I’d
be in the midst of loose women and free-flowing booze by prime time. But
Stella had other plans for me. She’d scheduled the caterer to meet us at my
house to consult about the charity event. The last thing I wanted to do was
sample duck confit and essence of deconstructed foam. Couldn’t we just
order steak and call it a day?
To my surprise, Stella was waiting for me when I arrived home. I may
have taken the long way there to clear my head, so who knew how long
she’d been sitting in my vestibule. Los Angeles rush hour traffic wasn’t the
forest of zen one would hope for in seeking relaxation. However, I was
pleased to find Stella with a shopping bag filled with Chateau Mouton. I
considered it a peace offering.
“That nice man let me in,” she said without preamble. “Ephraim.” She
sat on my rustic entry bench, perched upright with a paper grocery bag at
her side. The bench had a couple of decorative throw pillows, but it wasn’t
a comfortable place to sit.
Next to her on the bench with her furry head in her lap, was Lady. My
English Cocker Spaniel. When she saw me, she jumped down, wagging the
little nub where her tail should be. I gave her a scratch behind her long ears
before inquiring after Stella with interest.
“Why are you sitting in here?” I asked, taking her bag. “You could have
made yourself at home.”
“I did,” she said. “But your dog insists on waiting at the door for you.”
 I laughed, kicking off my shoes. “Follow me to the den. My couch
misses me.”
I led her to the den where I invited her to sit. She chose my father’s
armchair. It was old and looked out of place, but I couldn’t bring myself to
get rid of it. Besides, Georgia would kill me.
“Are these for the tasting?” I asked, holding up the bag of wine.
She wrinkled her brows, “What tasting?”
“You told me the caterer was coming today.”
“Yes. I did,” she said with a nod. “They came hours ago.”
“Oh. How was the food?”
“My dear William.” She laughed. “They just wanted to see the kitchen
and make a plan for serving and such. It was nothing. But the owner is a
most fascinating man. He wants to interview me for his cooking show.”
If it was nothing, why did she make such a big fuss to make sure I
came? I decided not to ask.
“So did you pick the menu?” I chose to say, spreading my body across
the sofa. “Nothing pretentious, I hope.”
Lady placed herself in the strategic position where my hand fell over the
side of the couch. Her snout would make its way into my palm and if I
didn’t make a move to massage it, her soft paw would tap at my wrist. She
had me trained so well. Stella watched the transaction with interest and
answered my question with a smirk.
“Oh, you need not worry about that. I’ve chosen a proper English dish.”
“Why does that scare me?”
She laughed. “Oh, don’t get your pants in a twist. We’ll be serving
traditional roast with Yorkshire pudding. I figure since I’m choosing the
menu, I get to pick something that reminds me of home.”
Her eyes sparkled at the thought of good ‘ol England. I wondered if she
missed more than the food. I imagined she must visit often, but with a
theatre to run in Los Angeles, and an academy in New York, when would
she have the time?
She rose from the armchair, snatching one of the bottles of Chateau
Mouton and winked. “Shall we have a night cap?”
“How romantic, Stella,” I said, wagging my brows. “I didn’t realize you
cared so.”
“Somebody has to take care of you,” she said, looking behind my bar
for a corkscrew. “It might as well be me.”
 I joined her at the bar and uncorked the wine. She had two glasses ready
before it had a chance to breathe.
“Thank you, Stella.” I gave her a soft kiss on the cheek. “You’re the
loveliest date I have ever had.”
“Damn right,” she said. “That last girlfriend of yours wasn’t good
enough for you. You’d think she could afford clothing that fit properly.”
She was referring to Raquel. That woman was a walking ad for silicone.
She also had the personality of a lampshade. Albeit, more like the
lampshade in A Christmas Story, but a lampshade all the same. The clothing
Stella was referring to was probably that red little number she wore to
accompany me to the Globes. It barely covered her.
“Let’s change the subject, shall we?”
Stella sipped delicately at her wine. Her painted lips left a mark on her
glass, and she looked upon it as one would admire a painting in the Getty.
“All right,” she began. “We need to finalize the entertainment at the
gala, and I also have two seats to fill.”
“Let me guess. Emma and Jaxson aren’t going.”
I rolled my eyes to the ceiling. Emma Woods was Stella’s grand-niece, a
flighty little chit, and she happened to be the proud owner of one shiny
statue named Oscar, which was one more than I had in my collection. It
didn’t hurt that she was notoriously famous for starring in the coolest
movies of our generation, directed by Jaxson Knightly. Word on the street
was that he only cast her because he was sweet on her. It didn’t take a
genius to figure that one out. As far as I was concerned, Stella’s niece had it
too easy. All her success was handed to her on a diamond-studded platter.
All she had to do was ride on her aunt’s coattails and bat her pretty eyes at
Jaxson. But she was no Stella Gardiner. She didn’t have half her genius.
Still, the public went gaga over her—and so did the Academy.
Stella shrugged. It didn’t seem to bother her that her own niece snubbed
the gala banquet. Sure, she and Jaxson paid the expensive donation for the
dinner tickets, but the gesture would be better received if they bothered to
show. So now Stella had two empty seats to fill, free to whomever was in
her good graces.
“I was thinking,” she said, “I’d like to sing some songs for the gala with
you and Bing.”
Not a chance.
 In a sly move, she topped off my wine. “It would be good P.R. for the
show and for your friend. He and I could sing Oh, False One and from
there, you can enter the stage and we’ll go right into A Pair of Ducks.”
“It’s Paradox, Stella,” I corrected. “Not Pair of Ducks.”
I wasn’t sure if she sang the wrong lyric on purpose during rehearsal or
if she was being silly. As it was, the title of the song was When You Had
Left Our Pirate Fold, but everyone insisted on calling it A Paradox.
“Please tell me you don’t intend to be in costume,” I begged.
“No. Heavens!” Her laugh was a little too forced. She did intend to wear
costumes. I took another gulp of wine. I could’ve used something stronger.
Maybe opium.
“So, I’m guessing you want Bing to take Emma’s dinner. And what
about the other ticket?”
“Elizabeth Bennet.”
I almost spat out my wine.
“Whaaat? No.”
“And why on earth not?”
How was I to tell Stella all the reasons inviting Beth to my house for a
charity gala was a bad idea? How could I explain to her I crumbled all over
the carpet whenever Beth was in the same zip code, let alone in my house—
dressed in a sexy gown no less. No. That was a bad idea.
“Why Beth?” I protested. Even the thought of that little girl had my
tongue twisted in knots. Images of Beth flooded the forefront of my
thoughts. Beth on stage, Beth in the costume shop, Beth slung over my
shoulder so close to my face, I couldn’t sing properly. The brief kisses we
rehearsed for the show. I didn’t know what to do with this feeling. It
unraveled me, and I was lost without the confidence I prided myself on. I
swore not to let a woman destroy me. My father’s second wife almost
destroyed him. I wouldn’t let that happen to me.
A thick silence formed between us as Stella set down her glass. “I don’t
think you pay that man enough.”
I drew my brows together. “What man?”
“Ephraim.” She rolled her eyes as if we’d been discussing him all along,
and I was too thick to remember.
Ephraim was my personal assistant. I hired him to take care of tasks I
couldn’t do myself, like organize my calendar and pick up my dry cleaning.
I would have been content had he only performed the tasks I hired him for,
but he was a superstar and before I knew it, he handled all my business—
running my household, fixing things when the groundskeeper couldn’t be
reached. He even walked my dog. Yeah. I couldn’t live without Ephraim.
And I paid him handsomely. Stella was just being dramatic.
“Did you know he sends almost all his money to his mother in
Mexico?” she said. “He’s such a good son.”
“I agree.”
“He’s still driving that old Toyota. Poor fellow.”
Poor fellow indeed. The truth was, he made more than my accountant,
but Stella wouldn’t believe that. I imagine her tactic to change from one
uncomfortable subject to another was her way of bullying me to concede to
her insane idea to invite Beth to the gala. One guess who she’d be paired
with on the seating chart. Yours truly.
I pushed my wine glass away and leaned on the bar, bearing my eyes
into Stella. I had my father’s eyes, and they were my only defense against
that great woman.
“By all means,” I said, “let’s take Ephraim to the gala.”
“Why don’t you let me worry about that, William. I only need your
participation in the Pair of Ducks song. The committee will plan the rest of
the event.”
As far as she was concerned, all was settled. I provided my house, and
hundreds of strangers were invited to roam my lawns and peek in my
windows. I made a mental note to double security.
Stella stayed well past midnight. We were having such a good time, I
didn’t even realize the time. She refused my offer of one of the guest
bedrooms, joking it would tarnish her innocent reputation. I teased her I
was the one to be worried about appearances and pressed her to stay. But
she said she was perfectly fine to drive and sent me a text when she arrived
home. It wasn’t until I went through the house to check all the doors that I
noticed a note from Ephraim. He had a plane to catch and wouldn’t be
around to walk Lady for the rest of the week. Great. The PAW HOTEL
required reservations weeks in advance. I’d have to take Lady to the theatre
with me. The Pirate King would have a dog instead of a parrot.
REHEARSAL WAS GRUELING. We were in full run-throughs, and Cole
reminded us repeatedly how much of a disaster the show was in. Sadly, I
had to agree. His idiotic nephew didn’t know any of the lyrics, the rope
system on the pirate ship wasn’t working, and the ridiculous choreographer
continued to change major dance moves at whim. At one point, he added a
unicycle to which Stella firmly disapproved. To top it all off, once the first
run-through of the day began, all the weeks of rehearsal seemed to have
been tossed out the window. I was on stage, in the middle of the entire
company, and I could barely hear them sing. The only lyric anybody
seemed to know was Hail Poetry. Not the entire song, just the two words
Hail Poetry. Oh, and let’s not even talk about Modern Major General. Who
would have thought it could be such a novel idea to actually expect people
to dance and sing at the same time?
Shocking.
After lunch, we were individually called to get fitted in our costumes.
As I approached the costume shop, I heard the sound of a female voice
singing. But not just any singing—opera. I thought at first Ari was listening
to a recording, but as I got closer, I realized it was no recording. Ari sang a
perfect rendition of Mozart’s Queen of the Night. It wasn’t overdone as I
had heard before. It was lyrical and light. What’s more, she was hitting that
F note without any strain. I thought at first surely, she must be singing in a
lower key. My ears weren’t trained well enough to notice if she’d brought it
down a couple of steps. She was singing acapella, after all. But then I heard
the piano dole out the high note. She was checking herself. As I craned my
neck around the threshold to sneak a glance unnoticed, I saw her plunk out
the single note and resume singing. I saw that finger. It was the high F.
What could be the meaning of that, I wondered. She didn’t sound like a
casual opera aficionado. This girl knew music. I held back to listen, but the
clamoring of heavy steps approached, accompanied with a familiar shrill
nagging. Caroline was almost upon me, and the music stopped abruptly. My
private concert was prematurely interrupted.
“There you are, Will,” Caroline blurted. “Your dog is running wild all
over the place. I can’t believe Stella let her out.”
Lady! There was no reason Caroline or anyone else should have known
it was my own exclusive bring-your-dog-to-work day. Lady was a sweet
girl. If she’d stayed in the office, no one would have been keen to her
presence. It was also doubtful Stella left her door open out of negligence.
She knew how much Lady meant to me. There were too many dangers
around a working theatre. I imagined it was someone else—like maybe
Jorge.
I bolted up the stairs without a word to Caroline. As I ascended, I could
hear a faint huff in protest, but it didn’t faze me. I needed to find Lady.
A flurrying scan of all the top levels of the theatre, the rehearsal spaces,
entrance halls, and even bathrooms came up null. I searched the parking lot,
the dressing rooms—even the orchestra pit. Nothing. Everyone I asked said
they’d seen her briefly but didn’t notice which direction she’d gone.
If she got out into traffic…
No. It couldn’t be. I’d never known a more loyal animal. She would
never stray. Not unless she thought I’d gone. Then a horrible thought hit
me. What if she’d tried to head home?
“Is this your dog?”
I turned toward the voice behind me. Beth stood in the doorway to a
backstage passage barely used by anyone in the current company. She held
Lady in her arms and was gently rubbing her fur with the hand that cradled
her belly. My first thought was relief that Lady was safe. My second
thought was more of a reaction. The sight of my most precious companion
content in the arms of the woman who’d been vexing me for weeks sent me
all sorts of confused signals. My heart dropped to my stomach, and a
strange, queasy sensation took root. And then, just as quickly, I lost the
ability to breathe. It was a suffocating sensation. I’d never suffered from
asthma, but I imagined that was a similar feeling.
Beth placed Lady down on the floor and gave her a quick scratch before
straightening again, fixing her eyes on me beneath her dark, natural lashes. I
was transfixed for a long pause, but after a few moments, I gained my
faculties and bent to summon my dog.
“Lady. Come.”
Lady gazed at me with those large, doleful eyes, looked up at Beth, and
made up her mind to stay where she was, resting her snout on Beth’s feet.
Beth didn’t seem to mind this, instead, opting to cock her head to the side
and plant her hands on her hips.
“You named your Cocker Spaniel ‘Lady?’” She smirked. “How
original.”
I suppose I could have come up with some other clever name for a dog,
but ever since I was a child, I wanted a Cocker Spaniel named Lady. Call
me sentimental, but Lady and the Tramp was the movie my mother always
put on for me when I was sick. It offered a certain comfort and always
reminded me of Vicks Vapor Rub and Mom’s perfume. When I was finally
at a place in my life to care for a dog, my only desire was to have an
English Cocker just like in the movie. Yes, how original. So what if a little
pixie I hardly knew threw me some judgmental shade? I wasn’t put on this
earth to vie for her approval. I ignored her snarky remark and called for my
dog once again. She didn’t budge.
What had gotten into her? Was she cross with me for setting her in
Stella’s office?
Beth threw me a smug grin, arching her brow and digging her brown
eyes into my soul.
“Having trouble there, Mr. Darcy? It appears your dog is an excellent
judge of character.”
There was truth in that. Lady never could stand Jorge. Apparently, she
thought Beth was her new fur-baby mommy. What was it about her? Was it
her frank unstudied air? Her propensity to speak her mind even if her
opinions were unpopular? I had long considered her irreverent take-no-
prisoners attitude was her most confounding appeal. Of course I couldn’t let
on that I actually admired her spunk.
“And what would you know about that?” I accused. “Considering the
company you keep?”
Her jaw dropped with incredulity, and I heard a clipped breath from the
back of her throat.
“The company I keep?” She made that sound in the back of her throat
again. “You got a problem with my friends?”
Okaaaay. She was getting a little gangsta there. I could roll with that.
“They aren’t exactly model citizens,” I spat. “Unless potheads and
cradle robbers are what you’re going for.”
“Potheads and cradle robbers? What’s wrong with you? I suppose no
one in your circle of friends drinks or smokes, Mr. Hollywood.” She waved
her hand up and down, gesturing the length of my body. “Clearly, you’ve
got it all together.”
“I never said I have it all together. But as you try to convince people of
your impeccable judgement, in doing so, prove your assumptions come up
rather short. Much like your stature.”
 “That’s it,” she cried, sweeping Lady in her arms with one swift motion.
“I’m keeping the dog.”
Her back was turned to me in an instant, briskly putting distance
between us.
“Wait a minute.”
I followed her backstage and upstairs to where the dressing rooms were
located, calling after her as she retreated from me. “You can’t just take
someone’s dog!”
“She’s too good for you,” she exclaimed, briskly disappearing into the
shadows of the empty hallway, her words echoing off the concrete walls.
“Go get a chihuahua or some other animal with a size complex.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She stopped and turned.
“You tell me. Compensate much?”
“What are you talking about? Lady is a medium-sized dog. I don’t even
drive a truck. I’m not compensating.”
“Then why is your ego so big?”
What the…
“If I have a big ego, which I don’t,” I replied with rancor, “it’s only
because I’ve earned it. I’ve worked hard to get where I am in my career,
unlike some people who continue to do menial jobs instead of taking their
craft seriously.”
“Oh, yes. You’ve worked real hard riding on Daddy’s coattails.”
That was a low blow. It was particularly low because it was the same
thought I had toward Stella’s niece. Riding on her aunt’s coattails. Is that
what people saw in me? Generally, I didn’t care what people thought. I
didn’t navigate my way around Tinseltown by being a softie. This business
was a hell-hole of users and phonies. I decided long ago to keep my feelings
close to my chest and trust no one just to survive. I learned to grow a thick
hide when it came to other people’s opinions. If I read every review and
gossip column about me, I’d never leave the house.
Then why did it bother me so much what Beth thought about me? It was
infuriating. Riding on Dad’s coattails indeed! What did she know? Of
course, if I’d just calmed myself down and tempered my haunches, I would
have checked my anger before saying the most dirtbag thing I could come
up with.
 “And who are you?” I spat. “You’re a nobody waitress in a crappy, hole-
in-the-wall grease trap. You’re good at pretending, I’ll give you that. But
overacting and a holier-than-thou attitude won’t get you far in this business.
That’s why you’ll never make it as an actor.”
Dirtbag level: eleven out of ten. Yeah, I regretted the words as soon as
they came out of my mouth. When you throw a fist through a wall, your
knuckles hurt like hell, but it’s oh so satisfying. I was so bent out of shape
by this woman, punching through her walls felt good—for about five
seconds.
Almost immediately, her face dropped into a set gloom, and the edges
of her eyes were rimmed with the beginnings of tears. She worked hard to
suppress them, but I could detect a ruddiness in her cheeks and the rapid
rise and fall of her chest. She was broken. I did that. Me. This guy. And the
bloody cuts on my knuckles stung like hell.
Super.
She didn’t speak for an indeterminable length of time. It could have
been a few seconds. It could have been an hour. It felt like an eternity in
Hades. I let the words hang there without an apology or an explanation. It
was a character flaw. I never could back down from a fight. Even when I
knew I was wrong.
At length, she straightened her posture, lifted her chin, and softly
whispered, “I understand now why you named your dog Lady. It’s because
you don’t know how to be a gentleman to deserve one.”
She closed the length between us in tentative steps and stopped in front
of me, kissing the top of Lady’s little head.
“There’s a strict no pet policy in my rental agreement, so…”
She extended her arms toward me and placed Lady in my embrace. And
with a nod, brushed past me and returned downstairs.
Real smooth, Will. It takes a real tough guy to make a girl cry.
Especially a girl as spirited as Elizabeth Bennet. I could sense Lady giving
me the side eye. Even my dog was silently judging me. Happy Holidays.
15
 HE RAN INTO MY KNIFE TEN TIMES

Beth

I HAD three words to describe Will Darcy. Stink. Stank. Stunk. Okay,
maybe I was just listening to too many Christmas songs, but I really did
think he was a triple-decker toadstool sandwich.
After the confrontation from hell, I checked my appearance in the
bathroom mirror before emerging to the scrutiny of my fellow cast
members. Hold your head up high. Don’t let them see you down. Who said
I couldn’t act? I almost fooled myself. Not that anybody was paying
attention.
By the time I went in for my fitting, my eyes were dry as a California
riverbed. Ari had created a bundle of gorgeous Victorian dresses, accented
in pastel trim and satin ribbons. It was so incredibly perfect, I looked as if
I’d stepped right out of a painting. The only adjustments she needed to
make were a few inches off the hem.
Short in stature. Yeah, so what? I preferred to use the term petite. But
one thing Will didn’t realize—I was small but mighty. I wouldn’t let his
asinine remarks get me down.
“Are you all right?” Ari looked at me over her glasses with an
introspective glare. “You’re somewhere else, and it doesn’t look like a fun
place to be.”
 The word eclectic wasn’t dynamic enough to describe Ari. She
reminded me of equal parts Professor Trelawney, Audrey Hepburn, and a
fairy godmother secretly into 90s grunge bands. Corduroy was her material
of choice in bootleg pants, and she often sported red Doc Martins. Today,
she’d tossed her hair in a messy bun and slapped a scarf around her
forehead. And she hardly ever wore makeup. She didn’t need it. She was a
natural beauty, but I could tell she’d be a knockout if she ever got dressed
up.
I laughed, attempting to put on the mask I wore hiding from scrutiny,
but mostly hiding from myself. I was also retrospectively coming up with
several witty comebacks I should have jabbed at Will. Why did I always
come up with the good stuff when it’s too late?
“I’m just worried about a friend,” I said dismissively. It was a half-truth.
I was preoccupied about Jane, but the whole Bing debacle encroached on
my mental faculties. I wondered if roommate problems were cause enough
to plead temporary insanity. How much time would I have to serve if I got
all Cell Block Tango on Will?
“You probably have no drama in your life,” I said.
It was more of a question, but she struck me as a no-nonsense type of
gal. Like she’d been there, done that, and now she was a working
professional with a picket fence and a beautiful garden.
She shrugged. “I’ve had my share of drama.”
“Are you married?”
Her features shifted, eyes darkening like a car’s headlights shifting from
high beams to low.
“No.”
That was it. Just one word. No.
There was no way I would head down that tell me about your mother
rabbit hole. So I left it at that, thinking if Ari ever wanted to have a girl talk
bonding over costume fitting, I’d do my best to be a good listener. For now,
I’d have to listen to my own annoying thoughts.
Everything that came out of Will’s mouth put me in the mood for
sparring with sharp objects, but one thing in particular stuck with me—even
more so than his unfounded overacting comment. He said I was a nobody. A
nobody doomed to wait tables in questionable establishments all my life
with no one to share it with. In truth, I wouldn’t mind the spinster life. It’s
kind of like the thug life but with more baguettes. I even resigned myself to
the idea I might not have a career in acting. I knew it was a pipe dream.
Many people didn’t make it. I couldn’t say I blamed Will. If my dad were
Hollywood royalty, I’d ride his coattails too. If everything he said to me
were true, it wouldn’t bother me. But a nobody? I didn’t do that.
I arrived at Lucas Lodge a little early since my dinner comprised of
quick and dirty drive-thru Mexican food. Pro tip: use the extra drink holder
in your car for the nacho cheese cup. French fries fit nicely in there as well.
I’d mastered the art of driving while eating burritos, thus affording me lots
of extra time before my shift started to do stuff to actively avoid adulting.
Things like pouring the best years of my life into my smartphone. Honestly,
my world had turned into such a crazy town, even my waitress job was a
welcome distraction.
Charlotte was at the bar as usual, but when she saw me enter, her
features stiffened. I laughed because she seemed shocked I’d arrived early
rather than my usual ten minutes late, but then, I caught sight of the true
source of her deer in the headlights expression. Colin leaned into the bar,
drinking his Shirley Temple with extra cherries and a cocktail umbrella.
What on earth did this guy want now?
I was still considering the scenario whereby I tiptoed backwards to the
parking lot, undetected by Colin when he turned his head in my direction.
Oh, lucky day. I was stuck. My options were to smile and jog past the bar,
avoid eye contact and hope he disappeared, or suddenly come down with
pink eye and go home sick. Interacting with Colin wasn’t on the schedule.
We all knew what happened last time, and I wasn’t in the mood to get fired
again. But I didn’t have to do any of those things. Colin stood, sipped the
last of his drink, and reached for his man bag. But what happened next
almost did give me pink eye—if one could get eye diseases from seeing
things that shouldn’t be seen. Like your best friend kissing the guy who
only recently declared his unwavering love to you. They weren’t making
out, so that was a relief. In fact, the kiss was so brief, I thought I might have
imagined it. But Colin had the most stupid grin as he parted from her. I
think he whispered something to the effect of, “I’ll see you on the morrow,
my lamb.” He made for the exit with a bounce in his step, pausing briefly to
bid me a good evening, and rode off into the sunset—or at least to Sunset
Blvd.
My day had officially reached level one million on the crazy meter.
Charlotte and Colin? No, no, no, no, no. Where were the hidden cameras? If
this was some sort of messed up reality show, I wanted to be voted off
yesterday.
“Pizza!”
I closed the distance, sliding behind the bar so there would be no barrier
between us. She wrinkled her nose and narrowed her eyes.
“We only have pizza on Fridays,” she said innocently.
“Our code word, remember? When one of us is making a horrible dating
mistake, the other is supposed to say pizza. Colin? Really? You can’t be
serious.”
I was mentally face palming. What’s the point in a code word if you
have to explain it every time?
She blushed. “Actually, he’s kind of nice.”
“Kind of nice? Kittens are kind of nice. Hot tea on a rainy day is kind of
nice. Colin is ridiculous.”
She shrugged and smiled within herself while mindlessly wiping the bar
with a towel.
“Fries before guys, Charlotte. Remember when we were going to get
that on a tattoo?”
She laughed. “I’m glad we chickened out.”
“Yeah.” I nodded. “But it’s still our girl pact.”
She paused her busy nothings to look at me squarely in the eye.
“You know what, Beth? I’m not like you. I don’t need to go out with the
hottest guys in the world. I’m practical. Like Jessica Rabbit. I want
somebody who makes me laugh.”
I snorted. The kind of snort that would spew milk from my nose if I
were drinking milk.
“He’s laughable. That’s for sure.”
Charlotte’s daydreamy grin turned into a fiery scowl.
“I suppose nobody else has a valid opinion on that because you’ve
stamped your authority on it?”
“It doesn’t bother you how he jumps from one woman to the other in the
bat of an eye?” (A heavily mascara-caked eye.) “He was just in here last
week making a scene.”
“If I recall, you were the one making the scene. Or was it Colin spilling
yams all over the customers?”
“Okay. I own that. I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”
 “No. Don’t give me that. You just can’t stand the fact every man you
turn down isn’t wallowing in sorrow. You can’t wrap your head around the
idea of someone else liking him just because you don’t, that he could find a
date even though he wasn’t successful with you, or that he’s not crying into
a bottle of gin just because Elizabeth Bennet turned him down.”
I had no idea where this was coming from. She painted me to like some
sort of maneater.
She threw her towel down and stormed off somewhere in the back of
the house. What was going on? I didn’t even recognize her. I didn’t
recognize any of my friends anymore. Jane was, thank goodness, past the
grief stage but was now in a scary denial phase. She wore a perpetual
plastic smile and was always too busy with Pinterest-worthy tasks like an
over-achiever Barbie. Whenever I would ask how she was doing, her eyes
would glaze over, and she’d say something like, “I’m great. Couldn’t be
better.” Then she’d go off and organize her Kanban board and throw out
most of her possessions.
Newsflash: I was a minimalist’s second-worst roommate. First prize
was reserved for Lydia. I would find things under the couch and in the
bathroom, I wish I could unsee. I’d never met anyone quite as messy as
Lydia. She perfected a particular kind of messy. She was the Jackson
Pollock of messy. That in itself didn’t surprise me in her behavior. As long
as I’d known her, she’d washed her car a total of two times. One of those
times because the rain water ran in muddy streaks across her windshield,
rendering it unsafe to drive. She actually got a ticket for it. The other time
was because she was submitting her car, so she could drive for Uber. That
didn't work out so well.
But lately, Lydia had been uncharacteristically distant from me. Her
nightly partying was nothing new, and I really didn’t want to be invited to
go out with her and the girls to pick up random idiots in bars. But she would
usually chat my ear off about what they drank and who got asked to dance
and who got so plastered they had to be carried home. Sound familiar? Now
when I asked how her night was, she’d give me the old one-word blow off.
“Fine.” Then I’d be ignored in favor of baby goats in sweaters on YouTube.
My life had suddenly turned into a demented Lifetime movie. I was at
that point in the story where the protagonist was in a series of montages set
to inspirational music and discovered something profound about herself by
the end of the song. The best I could do to recreate that was take a drive
after work with the radio blasting. My old Volvo didn’t even have a CD
player. I had to plug my phone into a cassette tape auxiliary adapter to listen
to my playlist. It made a strange squeaking sound—like a dying chipmunk.
The buzzing in the speakers and commercial interruptions weren’t exactly
helping the makeshift movie soundtrack of my life either. The montage
sequence wasn’t any better, unless you consider a string of liquor stores,
taco shops, and homeless encampments incredibly enlightening.
But that’s LA for you. And so after deciding that hitting every all-night
donut shop in greater Los Angeles was a bad idea, I ended up at my parents’
house.
“What’s wrong? What happened now?”
My mother patted me down, making sure I wasn’t what? Bloody? Had
missing limbs? I didn’t even realize how late it was until Dad came out of
his study wearing his smoking coat and carrying his brandy snifter. It was
his nightly ritual right after the eleven o'clock news. A classic novel, usually
Dickens or Tolstoy, a dram of brandy, and a cigar. He’d abandoned the cigar
a few years ago—doctor’s orders—but replaced it with a monthly
subscription to See’s candy. Who knew that was a thing? I could see the
chocolate on the side of his mouth. When Mom confronted him about it,
he’d protested it was healthy for him because it was dark chocolate.
Another thing about his nightly routine was that he wasn’t to be disturbed
unless it was an emergency. I supposed my mother's hysterics were enough
cause for alarm because he ran into the living room upon my arrival.
“Nothing happened, Mom.” I shooed her hands away. “Can’t I come
visit my family?”
“At midnight?” Dad said.
“Sorry. I didn’t realize it was so late. Go back to War and Peace, and
I’ll make myself a sandwich.”
“You really shouldn’t eat this late, dear,” said my mother. “It will make
you fat.”
Dad narrowed his eyes and shook his head.
“Let’s go in the kitchen together, Lizzie. I’ve been craving that Italian
salami ever since your mother brought it home from Costco.”
Score! Mom made a Costco run. That meant there were giant value
packs of toilet paper, bottled water, instant mac and cheese, and all sorts of
snacks in the garage pantry. I’d have to raid their stash before I left for
home.
 As I followed Dad into the kitchen, Mom hollered after us, “Don’t eat
the kettle chips. Those are for Mary’s lunches.”
The salami was glorious. Dad pulled out the sourdough, provolone, and
brown mustard and made each of us a deli masterpiece. Then he opened two
ice-cold glass bottles of Coke, and we ate in heavenly silence for five
minutes, just enjoying the midnight snack. I may have moaned with
pleasure when the bread hit my lips. Sometimes it’s the simplest things that
taste the best.
I let out a breath I’d been holding the entire day and exhaled into the
afterglow of meat, bread, and liquid sugar. The bubbles from the Coke sat in
my chest, threatening to release the sting of carbonation through my nose
from drinking it too fast.
Dad wagged his brows. “Fancy some kettle chips?”
“Heck yeah!”
He reached into the cupboard while I retrieved two more bottles of
Coke. Mexicans made the best Coke, but it was too expensive in the
supermarkets. God bless Costco.
“So,” Dad began as he tore open the bag of kettle chips. I immediately
snatched a handful and bit into the crunchy goodness.
“So?” I shrugged.
Dad likewise gathered a handful of chips in his hand, popping two at a
time in his mouth.
“You just happened to be in the neighborhood?”
I wasn’t there for any particular reason. I didn’t need to go running
home every time something upset me. I just didn’t feel like going back to
the apartment. So I told him just that.
“Why not?” he asked, taking a long swig of his drink.
“My roommates. They’re driving me crazy.”
His chin folded back into his neck, and he blinked. “Even Jane? She
strikes me as the easiest person in the world to live with.”
“She is usually. But she broke up with her boyfriend and—”
“Jane broke up with Bing?” My little sister was at the kitchen door,
standing dumbstruck in her long flannel nightgown. “Why?”
“Mary, what are you doing up at this hour?” Dad wasn’t one to
reprimand either one of us, so his question came off as more of an “Oh, you
silly girl,” sort of remark, so she didn’t consider it necessary to answer.
“Bing was perfect for her,” she cried. “Why would she do that?”
 “He’s the one who broke it off, not her.”
This information changed her expression from confused to enraged in a
matter of seconds. “What? Why?”
I did my best at the twitter version of the story, trying to keep the
particulars at 280 characters or less. Subsequently, I left out a lot, but they
still got the gist of it.
“Well,” said my father, “Good for her.”
“How so?’
“Oh, everybody needs a little heartbreak at least once in their lives. It
provides a small distinction apart from their peers and gives them
something to talk about. Good she got it out of the way now.”
“Daddy!”
“When are you going to let some man come along and break your heart,
Lizzie? You can’t let Jane have the all the fun.”
“Very funny, but I have no such plans.”
“What about that young man you brought over for dinner?”
“Jorge,” Mary offered.
“Yes, Jorge,” he said with a grin. “He’d jilt you credibly.”
“I don’t think he’s capable of that,” I said. “He’s been jilted enough
himself.”
My father and Mary’s interest in the subject piqued. I knew Dad was
joking, but he did seem to like Jorge. And if I didn’t know Mary better, I’d
believe the little blushes on her face the few times he spoke directly to her
were indications of a little crush. Of course Mary, with her nose constantly
in Tony Robbins books, rarely took notice of anything else.
I didn’t know how much of Jorge’s story I wanted to tell my family. If
he were to visit again, how comfortable would he feel if they knew so
much. Still, I could give them another twitter version. In the end, the only
thing I’d left out was the particulars about his mom. I figured that was
sensitive material.
At length, my father sat back in his chair, shaking his head in disbelief.
“That’s an incredible story if it’s true.”
“Why wouldn’t it be true?”
“Have you heard both sides of the story?”
“You sound like Jane.”
“She might have a point there.”
 “Well, if you knew Will Darcy, you wouldn’t doubt it. He’s the most
arrogant, vain, prideful man I’ve ever had the displeasure of knowing.”
“Pride,” offered Mary, “is different from vanity. Pride can have a lot to
do with one’s accomplishments. For example, I’m proud of my grades.”
“And we’re all proud of you, dear,” Dad appeased with a nod.
“But vanity,” she continued, “that has more to do with one’s
preoccupation of what other people’s opinions of them are. So like I want
Mom and Dad to be proud of me, that’s fine. But I shouldn’t care what the
popular girls at school think about me. That’s vanity.”
“Thank you, Mary,” I deadpanned. “So very helpful.”
“Oh, yes,” my father winked at me. “Your sister is a young lady of deep
reflection.”
“And she quotes great books,” I agreed.
“In any case,” said Dad. “If Will Darcy really is the devil Jorge paints
him to be, there’s nothing we can very well do about it. Just don’t tell your
mother.”
“Don’t tell your mother what, exactly?” Mom had her phone in her hand
and entered the kitchen with her war face.
Mary, always seeking approval from either one of my parents, couldn’t
keep anything from them and blurted, “Will Darcy is a jerk-face.”
My mouth fell open. “Mary!”
Also—jerk-face? She was adorably juvenile.
“Oh, I knew that,” said my mother with a wave of her hand.
“Everybody knows that. Don’t you people read?”
That was an ironic statement coming from Mom because the only
reading she did was on gossip sites. Dad and I stared at her for a few
seconds because all this time we thought her celebrity crush on Martin
Darcy extended toward his son. I surmised by her candid dismissal of
Mary’s statement that Mom had found some dirt on Will in the tabloids, and
apparently, it didn’t bother her much.
“Then what are you so bent out of shape about?” Dad asked. “I know
you didn’t come in here for a cup of tea.”
Dad knew Mom so well, it was scary. Or rather, Mom was scary and
Dad knew that so well. Or something.
Mom held up her phone and shook it for emphasis. “You’ll never guess
what I saw on Facebook.”
“You’re right,” said Dad. “I’ll never guess.”
 “Well, don’t you want to know?”
“I know you want to tell me. And where am I to go at this time of night
to avoid hearing it?”
Her jaw dropped in furious indignation, and she waved her phone at
him. “You are impossible. You don’t even know about my stress.”
“That’s not true, my dear. I’ve lived with your stress for twenty-eight
years.”
“Fine,” she exclaimed. “I won’t even tell you.”
“If that’s what you want.” He smiled.
Mom huffed, stomped one foot, and turned toward the door but changed
her mind and immediately spun back around.
“It’s Mrs. Lucas. She had the nerve to post this on Facebook.”
She unlocked her screen and handed me the phone. I glanced at it with
amusement. It was a video of a monkey playing the accordion.
“That’s funny,” I said, laughing.
She bent her head to see what was so funny.
“Oh, wait.” She grabbed the phone from my hands and tapped around to
find what she was looking for. “Here.”
I accepted the phone, again assaulted by Mrs. Lucas’ newsfeed. It was
mostly political nonsense and photos of her garden. But one post in
particular stood out in bold lettering on a bright pink background.
“SO PROUD OF MY DAUGHTER AND HER NEW BOYFRIEND”
All caps. Somebody needed to inform that woman of internet etiquette.
I looked up at Mom. “So?”
“I did a little digging. That so-called new boyfriend is the same man
who wants to date you, Lizzie. That choreographer.”
My sister took her turn with the phone and scrolled to the comments
where there was a photo of Colin taken off the internet.
“I knew the Lucases were jealous of us, but I didn’t think they’d go so
far as to lie.” Mom paced the small space of the kitchen. “It makes me so
angry to have neighbors who only think about themselves.”
“What do you care who their daughter is dating?” Dad questioned.
“Because that famous choreographer is sweet on Lizzie!”
Mom was practically screaming by now. Any more excitement, and
we’d have to give her a paper bag to breathe.
“I don’t like him, Mom,” I said, trying to calm her. “I told you that.”
Her face morphed into a scowl that Maleficent would envy.
 “I didn’t put you through college so you can just throw every
opportunity out the window. You are going back there to tell that man
you’ve changed your mind.”
“What are you talking about?” I cried. “One, I don’t know where he is
right this second, and two, he’s dating Charlotte.”
“Lizzie, don’t you realize you are committing career suicide? Call him
on the phone and apologize. I’m sure you can salvage something out of this
fiasco.”
“What part of ‘he’s dating Charlotte’ don’t you understand?”
“I am still paying for your bachelor’s degree,” she growled. “I wanted
you to be a lawyer, but noooooo! You had to be an actress. You swore to me
that you would work hard and make it all worth it.”
“I am working hard.”
“This man could give you the push your career needs. Charlotte stole
him from you. So, go steal him back.”
“Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s boyfriend,” said Mary.
“Go to bed, Mary.” Mom was almost ready for that paper bag. “Tell her,
John. Tell her what she has to do.”
Dad arched his brow and let go of a deep breath. He glanced at me,
glanced back at Mom, and back at me again, and when he spoke, his calm,
soft voice was almost a whisper.
“Well, Lizzie, it seems your mother has some strong opinions about
this.”
“I’ll pay you back for college,” I said. I was so tired of Mom bringing it
up whenever she wanted to throw something in my face.
“Tell her she has to call that choreographer,” she demanded.
Dad looked from Mom to me. This was ridiculous.
“He’s not even that famous, Mom.”
“Tell her, John. If she doesn’t call that man…” She paused for a
moment to think of a good ultimatum. When I was sixteen, it took her an
entire weekend to decide my punishment for staying late at a party. Finally,
she grounded me—for the entire weekend. My sentence was over before it
began. I didn’t have that kind of time to hear what she had to say.
“If she doesn’t call him,” she decided. “I will never speak to her again.”
Whoa. That was harsh. A little melodramatic, maybe. Even for Mom.
“Hmmm.” Dad got up and cleared the empty Coke bottles. “You have a
tough choice, Lizzie. Your mom will never speak to you again if you don’t
call Charlotte’s boyfriend.” He put the bottles in the sink and rinsed them.
“And I will never speak to you again if you do.”
I couldn’t help but laugh a little. That was Dad for you: always the
pragmatic one in the family. Mom wasn’t happy about it, though. Dad blew
her a kiss, and she stormed out of the kitchen. She’d get over it eventually.
Mary, who hadn’t gone to bed as she was ordered, watched with eyes as
big as saucers while Mom left the room. I half-expected her to offer another
one of her insightful, philosophical extracts, but she waited until Mom was
completely gone and looked between me and Dad, silently asking if this
was all a bad joke. I just shrugged and picked up the plates to join Dad at
the sink, and that’s when Mary shouted at the top of her lungs, “You ate all
my kettle chips!?”
Oops.
16
 AT COMMON SENSE SHE GAILY
MOCKS

Beth

IF I WERE the type of person to hold a grudge like some people who will
remain anonymous (whose name rhymes with kill), my friendship with
Charlotte could have suffered damage of momentous proportions. But as I
wasn’t like a certain someone (whose name rhymes with kill), Charlotte and
I were on good terms by the following morning. I don’t remember who
called who, but I can tell you we both stretched out the proverbial olive
branch and laughed about it.
Over the course of our conversation, I gathered that she did indeed like
Colin, although I couldn’t imagine why. As far as I knew, he’d won her over
by a little tactic used by men called the wounded lover syndrome, or the old
but rather effective victim of unrequited love schtick.
After I left the lodge on Thanksgiving, a moment I care not to remember
as I was covered in yams and stripped of my pride, Sir William Lucas
offered Colin a meal on the house and an open invitation to return any time
he desired. Colin, being quite respectable and overly grateful, sat at the bar,
letting out all his woes to Charlotte, the receptive bartender—and we all
know bartenders were a poor man’s shrink. Charlotte listened intently,
poured him more Shirley Temples, and offered her sage advice as was her
Charlotte way. Then, as I already knew, he spent the evening at the Lucas
house, whereas Mrs. Lucas referred to him as Boy George.
 It must have had a profound effect on him because he returned the
following day, unbeknownst to me, to seek the company of Charlotte and
her serene ability to listen to hours of nonsensical yammering. And if there
was one thing Colin was good at, it was nonsensical yammering. In short, it
appeared to be a match made in heaven. He couldn’t stop talking, and she
had no reservations to listen all day.
And so, although I couldn’t understand the mystery that was
Colin/Charlotte, I was happy they both found a partner in this big, scary
world.
My mother would take a little more convincing, but for the time being, I
felt it was best to just avoid her calls and incessant Facebook messaging.
When I arrived home from my parents’ house, it was close to two in the
morning. Not that avoiding my roommates by staying away was successful
at all. After the drama with Mom, I could face anything. As it turned out,
Jane was awake, checking online trade magazines.
All I wanted to do was lie my weary body down on my bed, but my legs
betrayed me and sent me to the couch to sit by Jane. She smiled at me from
behind her laptop screen and asked me how my day went in the gentlest of
fashions. Her tone of voice was calm and… dare I say content. It was
almost as if her heart hadn’t been put through a meat grinder less than two
weeks before.
Although Charlotte had been my longest and dearest friend, Jane was
more like a sister. Someone I could confide in. I supposed by telling her all
about the Colin loves Charlotte story, it would bring her a welcome
distraction. I still couldn’t help but think she was sweeping her feelings
about Bing under the rug. Or had the telenovelas helped her cope? She’d
gone cold turkey, so I was a wee bit concerned.
When I was done blabbering about Colin and Charlotte and then Mom’s
reaction, she was able to find humor where I hadn’t before, and in seeing it
through her eyes, it made me laugh. It was quite ridiculous and silly when I
thought about it.
But then in a tone a little more somber, she said, “I don’t want you to
worry about me. I’ll be fine, and everything will be the same as before.”
She must have read the disbelief in my features because she added, “You
don’t believe me. I’ll always remember Bing as the nicest man I’d ever met,
but that’s all he’ll ever be to me. I read more into it than there was in the
relationship. I’ll get over it.”
 “Jane, I’d have to be blind to not see how much he liked you. You didn’t
‘read into’ anything he wasn’t writing all over the place. If there’s anyone to
blame, it’s him.”
“I don’t blame him for anything,” she said. “We were never official.”
“We’re not in high school. Guys don’t ask girls to go steady. Besides,
the whole theatre company was taking bets on the wedding date.”
A wash of pink spread over her face, and she shrunk behind a throw
pillow to hide it.
“Okay, maybe not a wedding date,” I amended, “but still. You just think
too well of people in general to let me say anything against them. But
you’re the only person I know that’s even close to perfect. It’s true. And as
you know, I don’t think well of anybody. Not even myself. The more I see
of the world, the more I think everyone in it are psychos.”
“You know, I don’t mind being the idiot,” she said as if in thought. “I
liked him. He didn’t return the feeling. End of story. If he liked me as much
as you think he did, we’d still be together. But he didn’t, and I’m fine with
that. I won’t hold him to any promises he never made.”
She was a better person than I, always seeing the best in people even
when they broke her heart. In the end, it wasn’t up to me to be offended for
her. It was her life, after all. Still, there was a tiny part of me that wanted to
squeeze Bing’s nipples with a vice grip. I wondered if Jorge could get me
one of those from the scene shop. If I actually thought it would work, I’d be
on it in an instant.
I couldn’t help but hope, however, that it was possible, even probable
that Bing might still come to his senses. That he would get over whatever
was keeping him from opening up to Jane. That he would give in to his
obvious attraction to her. I watched him every day at rehearsal. I was sure
he still had the hots for her, but something prevented him from admitting it.
Maybe the idea scared him? Maybe it was moving too fast. Guys tend to
freak out about these things. If only he had better influences. Someone like
Cole, who in his time of life saw what he wanted and took it. He never
displayed his affection for Holly at the theatre. He was a professional. But
every other nanosecond of his free time was spent with her, and in the
moments I’d witnessed, he was the most romantic person on the planet. He
made Romeo look like a schmuck. Actually, scratch that. Romeo was a
schmuck.
 If only Bing could recognize what he was missing.

PIRATES OF PENZANCE was on its feet. The magic truly began to form
at the sitzprobe—a fancy German term for rehearsing for the first time with
an orchestra. Fitz was brilliant, and from the first note of the show, I felt
shivers down my spine. That was the beauty of live theatre right there. That
was what I was talking about with Jorge the first day we met.
Cole had worked the cast to the nubs of our toes to get the show up and
running to the closest to perfection as possible. Truthfully, I was a little
worried there for a while. But most of the kinks were ironed out, and we
were ready to go. Tech rehearsals had been from hell, but other than that, it
was an exhilarating thing to behold. The show was awesome. It was better
than awesome—it was funny and energetic and beautiful.
I found myself enthralled by everyone’s performance. Even Will’s. He
was actually an excellent performer. Perhaps I hadn’t noticed it before
because I actively avoided him whenever I could. But now that the show
was in run-throughs, there were fewer opportunities to hide from him. It
was annoying, for once he began to sing, I couldn’t peel my eyes off him.
He commanded the stage. Bigger than life. It truly was a glorious thing to
see the Pirate King. His booming voice shook my center and tilted my
equilibrium.
Gah! Why did he have to be so talented? It made it so much harder to
dislike him.
Every concern I had in the weeks of toil were laid aside when we
completed our first dress rehearsal. It was magical. Earth stopped on its axis
to applaud. It was masterful. It was also weeks before we’d have an
audience because we had to break for the holidays.
The Gardiner Theatre had a Christmas tradition of hosting holiday
concerts with the local philharmonic. The house sold out every year, and it
was a major draw for the season. All the subscribing patrons looked forward
to a spread of holiday hors d’oeuvres on the terrace before the concerts.
During this time, the Gardiner was transformed into a winter wonderland.
This annual event was one of the reasons Stella scheduled our rehearsals to
end in mid-December. We would have to be completely ready to open after
the new year, and there was no time for rehearsals at Christmas. A schedule
like that was generally unheard of in a professional or even amateur theatre.
But Stella was determined for a January opening, and there was no other
way around it. Therefore, the company had a long break. Which meant no
Caroline and, best of all, no Will for three glorious weeks. What would I do
with all the excess sarcasm?
Jane booked the first flight out of California she could find. I hadn’t
even realized she’d been packed for days until I noticed her wear the same
three outfits in regular circulation. When she left, the apartment was so
quiet, I found myself tuning in to telenovelas just to see what the appeal
was. From what I gathered, there was a whole lotta cheatin’ going on. Those
characters were in serious need of a hobby. Or a chastity belt.
I was able to use my extra time to catch up with Charlotte over
pedicures and peppermint lattes. Everything was going swimmingly until
she invited me to a New Year's Eve party at Rosings.
That sounded like the opposite of a good time. Ring in the New Year
with Colin? Hard pass.
But Charlotte nearly pleaded with me. Moral support, I guess. I told her
I would think about it.
One event I was looking forward to was Cole’s Christmas party. He
invited the entire cast and crew. I was pleased as punch to find out Will
didn’t plan to attend. It gave me a sense of freedom to have the liberty to
enjoy the evening in the company of Jorge without looking over our
shoulders or checking for poison in our eggnog. Plus, Cole pulled out all the
stops for the festivities. It wasn’t an uppity Hollywood party although his
house was fabulous. He had a view of the valley from the hills. The
twinkling lights of the city on the horizon wrapped around his property in
an absolutely breathtaking, panoramic vista. He certainly had the perfect
house for one of those classy soirees with a fancy caterer and valet parking.
But Cole was a Jersey guy at heart, so his idea of an ideal party included a
mobile woodfired pizza truck and plenty of beer. Everybody was
encouraged to wear ugly sweaters, and we had a white elephant gift
exchange. Then, once everyone was warm with their innards full of spirits,
Stella stood by the fireplace and recited a poem with a line for each person
in the cast and crew. It was both poignant and hilarious. Mostly, it was just
cheeky, but every bit Stella. Nothing got past her.
 Jorge gave me a lot of his attention the entire night, but when he
stripped down to nothing but his boxers and jumped in the pool, he was on
his own. Lydia and Mariah got it all on video.
“That bloke is something else, isn’t he?” Stella poured herself a drink at
the bar a few feet away from where I was shamelessly ogling Jorge. “Care
for one of these?”
She held up a concoction that looked more like a science experiment
than a beverage. Interesting. I had her pegged as more of a rosé type.
I held up my wine cooler. “I’m good, thanks.”
She shrugged and slid closer to me, sipping on the rim of her glass and
casting her eyes in the direction of the pool. Jorge had convinced Lydia to
jump in fully clothed. I hoped the water was heated because they’d be
popsicles when they got out. They say California doesn’t have seasons.
Well, I'm here to tell you that for a local girl, sixty degrees Fahrenheit might
as well be sixty below. Californians are cold weather wimps and I have no
shame in that.
“Mr. Wickham is the type of man to make the most of any circumstance,
I gather,” she said with a smile. “If I had known it was a pool party, I would
have brought my suit.”
She winked at me and took another sip of her cocktail.
“I suppose you could say he’s an opportunist,” I said.
“He’s certainly taken the opportunity to catch your notice.”
“It’s a little hard not to notice.” I smiled.
“He’s an interesting creature, I’ll give him that,” she said over the rim of
her glass.
“That he is.”
“But if I may be so bold,” she added, “I must admit I thought you were
more sensible than to fancy a man that gets his attention by skinny dipping
in December.”
I chuckled to myself. The idea of getting carried away with a skinny-
dipping heartthrob wasn’t in my bag of tricks. That’s why Lydia would
catch a cold and not me.
“Well,” I said, “I’ve fallen for much stupider a fellow. It seems to be my
specialty. But if you must know, we’re just friends.”
“That’s good to know,” she said with a single nod. “You wouldn’t want
to let your fancy run away with you. I’d have to be seriously disappointed.”
 “I’ll do my best to avoid it, then.” I winked. “But I might have to tone
down my feminine arts if I want to keep shirtless men from falling madly in
love with me.”
I wiggled my hips and modeled the ugly Christmas sweater I wore. I’d
bought it at the Goodwill where some unfortunate grandma must have
reluctantly emptied her closets.
“Speaking of madly in love,” she said. “I hope you don’t find it
impertinent to ask, but I haven’t seen Jane all night. She isn’t avoiding a
certain someone, is she?”
“More like the other way around,” I said. The warmth of the alcohol
broke down my inhibitions. Stella was so easy to talk to.
“I’m sorry to hear it,” she replied. “Sometimes men can be like that dog
from Up. They fall in love with a pretty face for a few weeks but can so
easily get distracted by a squirrel.”
I laughed. “That has to be one of the most accurate analogies ever.”
I knew more than a few guys like that. But then my thoughts fled to my
father. As silly as my mother was sometimes, he never once had a
wandering eye. I had to believe there were more men in the world like him.
I’d stupidly thought Bing was one of them.
Total fail.
“I don’t know if that’s the case with Bing,” I continued. “I’ve never
seen a guy so infatuated with anyone like Bing was with Jane. It got to the
point where he ignored everybody else.
“Showmances!” she scoffed. “Well, I hope they can figure it out. Now
neither one of them are here.”
“Jane’s in New York,” I replied, feeling I had to defend Jane somehow.
“She said she had a few auditions.”
“Good for her.” Stella’s face brightened. “I have no doubt she’ll make a
good impression. I wish she would have told me, though. I could have put
in a word for her.”
“You’d do that?”
“Why yes. I’d do that for any of you. It’s what I do. I’m sure you’ve
heard of my academy in New York?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Well, we have our charity arts program here in Los Angeles.”
I knew a little about the work her charity did. It was a theatrical
program for underprivileged youth.
 “Not only is it an arts program, but we also offer full scholarships and
career advancement. The students don’t have to pursue the arts if they don’t
want to. We use theatre as a springboard into all areas of study. Theatre is a
dynamic discipline. It’s not just for us drama llamas.”
I giggled. I was feeling a buzz from the alcohol, but Stella’s dry British
delivery made everything she said sound humorous or poignant. Sometimes
both at the same time.
Stella smiled wistfully and took a sip of her science experiment. “But if
the students in our workshops want to be a doctor or computer engineer, our
scholarships will still give them a full ride. We just want them to be
successful.”
This was why I admired this woman. Yes, she was the best actor in my
acquaintance, she’d won awards too numerous to count, but it was her
philanthropy that set her apart from her peers.
“How many scholarships does your foundation award each year?”
“At first, it was only one. Now, we’re able to sponsor three graduates
from our youth program. I’m hoping to raise enough money this year to
send five students to college.”
“That’s incredible.”
“Who knows? Maybe in future years, we can sponsor ten or twenty. Or
thirty!”
“That should be something.”
“It would. Of course, there are some graduates who go straight into
auditioning. We don’t always recommend it, but if the actor is ready, we’ll
help them get headshots or an agent or whatever else they need and send
them off. And we put in a good word wherever they go—casting directors
seem to respect that. I get calls all the time. So I would have extended the
same for Jane. Not like she needs my help at all.”
“She’s amazing, isn’t she?” I said with a smile.
Stella agreed with an enthusiastic nod. “That she is. And so are you, my
dear.”
“Me? Nah.”
“Now don’t give me false modesty. I can always tell the ones who are
going to make it. And you’re one of them.”
“I… I don’t know what to say. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she said with a tipsy smile. “Don’t let it go to your
head. It’s still a very steep, uphill climb. There’s nothing worse than when a
talented person gets lazy. I just want to slap them and say, Hey, you could be
so much more if you’d only do the work to get there.”
“I will do my best to avoid a slapping.”
“I’m sure you will.”
“I think I’ll take you up on that drink,” I said, abandoning my wine
cooler on a table.
Her eyes sparkled mischievously. “You’re going to love it.”
I could tell the novelty of mixing cocktails was an entertainment to her.
She accented her every movement with a flourish as she poured the mixers
and added the condiments.
“By the way,” she said, “I would love for you to attend my charity event
as my plus one.” She splashed a piece of dry ice in the glass with a flourish.
“It’s a carnival theme this year. The festivities last all day, and you’ll get to
meet some of our recipients. One of our former students, Francesca, just
graduated from NYU. She’s coming to present the fellowship awards this
year. You would get along swimmingly.” She handed me the smoking
cocktail. “What sayeth thou?”
“Are you kidding?” I screeched loud enough to turn a few heads. Every
who’s who in Whoville attended that event. Visions of myself brushing
shoulders with A-list celebrities and powerful producers danced in my head.
Even if it was a carnival. I may not have been interested in working in film,
but I’d be crazy to pass that up. “I sayeth yes.”
“Good.” She clinked her glass with mine. “Now we better get that
friend of yours out of the pool before she recreates the love scene from
Shape of Water.”
17
 TWITTERPATED

Will

“WHAT HAS GOTTEN INTO YOU?”

Georgia threw a pillow at me, catching me off guard. I was so not
engaged in the game we were playing. I was messing up royally, using up
all my lives. My little sister didn’t like winning so easily. So, she threw the
pillow. Hmmm. I guess that’s why it was called a throw pillow. I’d never
thought if it like that before.
“Earth to Will,” she sing-songed. “I should have stayed in New York.”
“It’s cold in New York,” I said, propping the pillow under my arm.
Much better.
“You’re letting me win,” she pouted. “You never let me win.”
“I’m just tired.”
“Tired from shopping all day for my Christmas present?”
“I’m not telling you what I got you, so quit trying to get it out of me.”
“A girl’s gotta try.”
“Or you can wait ‘til Christmas like normal people.”
I loved my little sister, but her low tolerance for surprises was irritating.
One year she unwrapped all her presents when no one was looking. Then
she re-wrapped them and pretended to be surprised on Christmas morning.
She didn’t fool anyone. Ever since then I had to hide all her gifts in creative
places. Sometimes I got so creative even I forgot where I put them. It was
exhausting.
“Are you tired from hiding my Christmas present?”
“Okay, do you really want to know?”
She perked up and jumped to sit on her feet. “Yes.”
“I could just give it to you now and save the suspense.”
“That’s probably one of your better ideas. Especially since you never
found my present from three years ago.”
She’ll never let me live that down.
“Okay, I’m going to give it to you now. Are you absolutely sure you
don’t want to wait?”
“I’m sure, I’m sure.”
“All right. Here it is. This year, for your gift, I composed you a poem.”
Her face fell. I cleared my throat.
“Roses are red, violets aren’t blue. If you ask me about your present one
more time…I will cover your mouth with glue.”
“You are a terrible poet. Don’t quit your day job.” She threw another
pillow at me. This time I caught it as it came barreling toward my face.
“Thanks,” I said with a grin. “I needed one for the other arm.”
“Seriously though. You’ve been acting weird ever since I got off the
plane. You’re distant, quiet, most of the time you’re staring into space. I had
to repeat your name three times yesterday just to get you to pass the salad
dressing. And don’t tell me it’s work. You’ve always been a workaholic, but
you’ve never passed up movie night with me before. So spill.”
“There’s nothing to spill,” I replied. “Look at our house. It’s turned into
a circus. Literally. The carnival rides are sitting on our lawn, every day
another batch of vendors comes to set something up, we’ve got a petting
zoo, for crying out loud. A petting zoo!”
“They’ve brought the animals already?”
“No. But it’s here. On our property. With bales of hay everywhere.”
“Let me take care of the vendors,” she pleaded. “I like organizing
events. I could get one of those headsets like stage managers use.”
“It’s ruining Christmas.”
“Nothing’s going to ruin Christmas. Just chill.”
I huffed and rolled my eyes. “I’ll chill when Pirates closes.”
“Don’t tell me a romp with Gilbert and Sullivan is stressful. You’ve
always loved that show.”
 “Just some personality clashes, nothing to write home about.”
“What? Some overblown egos in the cast?”
“Something like that.” There were two strong personalities at the theatre
I wished to avoid. One was Jorge, but I was determined to never mention
his name in Georgia’s presence again. The other was Beth. Unfortunately,
nothing I did to avoid her did any good. She was still there in my thoughts
no matter how hard I tried to forget her. I sighed like the pathetic fool I was
and sank further into the pillows under my arms. It was actually pretty
comfortable.
“Wait a minute.” Georgia narrowed her eyes on me and put on her
Sherlock face. “It’s a girl, isn’t it? You’re twitterpated.”
“Twitterpated? Who says twitterpated anymore? Have we inadvertently
stepped into the Hundred Acre Wood?”
“Maybe,” she said, stroking her chin. “Or another Disney movie. The
one where you’re the Beast.”
“I’m not the Beast,” I said. “I’m the clock. Sensible. Practical. On
time.”
“I still think you should have been considered for that movie.”
“Can we change the subject?” I exclaimed impatiently.
She wiggled her brows and grinned fiercely.
“Are we circling back to the Christmas present conversation? Because
I’ve had my eye on a certain pair of shoes.”
I was almost tempted to give in to the idea. I didn’t want to think about
Beth anymore. And I certainly wasn’t twitterpated. I could simply tell
Georgia what I ordered her for Christmas, and the excitement alone would
render her speechless. Hint: It wasn’t a pair of shoes.
She batted her eyes while she waited for my reply. “I could send you the
link and act surprised when I open them.”
Her stare down wore on me. “Or…” She smirked. “You could tell me
her name.”
I hated this game. The mere fact she was my baby sister gave her an
unfair advantage. She was ahead of me from the cute factor alone. I was a
total wuss.
“Elizabeth,” I admitted with a sigh. It was impossible to keep secrets
from my sister, but I didn’t count on feeling such a relief in saying it aloud.
Elizabeth. It was just a name. One word. But it was a weight on my chest
that suddenly felt lighter with my sister sharing the load.
 A giant grin formed over Georgia’s face. I swore her teeth occupied her
entire head. She wasn’t making this easy for me.
“Elizabeth,” she repeated, taking the name out for a test drive.
“Elizabeth Darcy.”
“Whoa. Stop right there. Personality clashes. That’s all I admit to.”
“Yeah? Well, you can’t see your face right now. It’s bright red.”
I did have an overpowering sensation of heat on my head. A layer of
sweat formed on my scalp. I told myself it was only because Georgia
interrogated me. I’d perform horribly on a lie detector test. Yes, Officer. It
was a crime of passion. Guilty on account of trying to function in society
while twitterpated.
“You want to go out for ice cream?” I asked, trying to change the
subject.
“Does this Elizabeth live in an ice cream shop?”
“Not that I know of.”
“And what’s the natural habitat of this Elizabeth creature? If I were to
go looking for one. Asking for a friend.”
Where would one go looking for an Elizabeth if one were on the hunt?
Not that I was. The theatre company was on Christmas break. I should have
been happy about that. I had my sister with me. That was a good thing.
Then why was I making her visit miserable by my sour disposition? Maybe
if I did go into the wild jungles of Beth’s habitat (AKA Lucas Lodge) I
could get her out of my system. I just needed a reminder how much she
drove me crazy. A few days away from her snarky scowls and witty
repartee, and I was already forgetting that irrational desire to suddenly jump
off a cliff. I read somewhere the best way to discourage kids to smoke is to
expose them to too much of it, therefore giving them an aversion to it.
Maybe that would work for me.
“We could go to the Scoop Deck and take Lady with us,” I said, trying
to deflect her questioning. “She likes the strawberry gelato.”
“You’re going to get this dog sick.” She bent down and scooped Lady
from the rug at her feet. “Poor baby.”
She was overreacting. Lady was only allowed the drippings. But those
big, brown eyes would watch every movement of the ice cream cone with a
silent wish it would tumble out of my hands and into her waiting mouth.
“Suit yourself,” I said, getting up from the couch.
“Where are you going?”
 “To get some ice cream.”
I threw both pillows at her head, careful not to hit Lady, and padded
across the room towards the door. I wasn’t going for ice cream. Not unless
they served butter pecan at Lucas Lodge.
“We’re not done with this conversation, big brother,” Georgia hollered
to me as I retreated from the room. “I require answers.”
So did I, little sister, and that’s what I intended to get.

I FOUND myself once again at the one place I swore I’d never set foot in
again. The parking lot for Lucas Lodge was surprisingly full for its lunch
crowd. I knew it was a popular place among Hollywood types--I’d seen the
autographed photos on the wall--I just couldn’t imagine why. I scanned the
cars in the lot for Beth’s atrocious clunker. A part of me hoped I wouldn’t
find it, the other part of me, the sadistic part, was disappointed when I
didn’t. What was wrong with me? Pathetic.
But then, because I was an obsessed idiot, I got out of my car and
walked around the parking lot just to, you know, prove to myself I was
indeed an obsessed idiot. And that’s when I noticed the beat-up old Volvo
hiding behind a delivery truck. She’d parked near the back, away from
where the customers parked.
I must have stood there in the parking lot, staring at Beth’s car for
several minutes, deciding what to do next. Go in and face my demons or
peel out of there and stuff them in the back of my head where they could
torment me the rest of my days? Schrank.
Oh, fabulous. Now I had Musical Theatre Tourette’s. I had to get that
girl out of my headspace. She had set up residency there, and I didn’t like
the way she decorated it.
I was inside the lodge, getting seated by that same odd man before I
knew what I was doing.
“Here you are again, sir,” he groveled. “I knew it wouldn’t be long
before you were back. Come in and take the best seat in the house.”
There was a best seat in the house? The only seat I was concerned with
was the one where I could observe Beth surreptitiously. I wasn’t so lucky. I
hadn’t been hiding behind my menu for long before I saw her approach my
table. She wore the biggest frown I’d ever seen, and her eyes were set on
kill mode. She deposited a bottle of Bud Lite in front of me with a clunk.
No glass. No cocktail napkin. Then she walked away. That horrendous
costume she had to wear swooshed as she retreated, leaving lots to the
imagination. The way she swayed her hips made the skirt swing side to
side; it was the hottest thing I’d ever seen. I guess I’d always had an over-
active imagination. Did I have a weird obsession for medieval maidens?
Possibly.
She ignored me for the next hour. I would have been upset with any
other waitress in the same situation. But I was relieved. I let the beer sit in
front of me untouched. The condensation had long disappeared—it dripped
down the bottle and left a soaked ring on the table and now was likely flat
and warm. I glanced a few times at my menu whenever Beth was out of
sight. Nothing appealed to me. My stomach was in too many knots to eat
anything. She approached the bar a few times to chat with her co-worker.
The bartender, a twenty-something girl with thick-rimmed glasses and a
face full of freckles, would glance my way then whip her head back to
Beth. I knew they were talking about me. Probably conspiring to slip poison
in my next drink. But the next drink never came. The poison was delivered
in the occasional snide glances Beth condescended to give whenever she
passed to wait on another table.
This idea of mine was the most asinine thing to come out of the bowels
of my brain. Ever. It was worse than the time I thought it would be fun to
skydive. What was I doing there, stalking a woman like a scary clown? I
didn’t even have a plan beyond finding her car in the parking lot. I didn’t
know what I would say to her if she did decide to pay any attention to me.
All my faculties left me as I crossed the threshold to this fluffed-up elks
lodge. I’d bet my car they pumped opium through the vents. But Beth
worked without much apparent aggravation from the opium or me for that
matter. She did her job with swift efficiency, greeting customers with a
genuine smile never once bestowed upon myself since I’d known her. She
had an effervescent smile that reached her chocolate eyes with a small glint
of playfulness. There was an indulgent merriment behind them—like she
had a secret too fabulous to share. I wanted to know what it was. I wanted
to know everything.
No! This experiment wasn’t working. It was supposed to remind me
how much of a bad idea it was to obsess over Beth. I was perfectly content
with my career and my dog. I wanted my life back.
The faux leather portfolio holding my bill appeared on the table.
“Anything else?” Beth had her arms crossed, waiting for my reply. The
smile had been replaced once again with a scowl. I had to laugh at that
scowl. It was strange I found humor in it, but I realized in that moment the
sour-puss face she wore was reserved only for me. Everyone else was the
recipient of her smiles. But I was the only one to deserve her frowns. You
have to admit—that’s pretty funny and ironic. Especially since it dawned on
me that my grumpy attitude was likewise reserved for her.
I reached for the check itemizing my one beer. “Three dollars and fifty
cents?”
Beth ticked her head to the side. “Is there a problem?”
“How does this place stay in business?” I shook my head. “Never
mind.”
I slipped a credit card from my wallet and placed it in the bill holder.
But as she reached for it, I stopped her hand with mine and held it there flat
against the table for several moments, catching her eyes. Her hand was so
tiny and delicate. I could have devoured it in my grip and pulled her closer,
clashing her against me and claiming her soft lips. I could carry her away
like the Pirate King carries Edith. Steal her for my very own and sail away
on the high seas. From the corner of my eye, I could see the rise and fall of
her chest. Her heart raced as fast as mine. She had to sense the primal
attraction between us. It was heady and strong and if we weren’t in a
crowded restaurant, I would have taken her into my arms and kissed her
senseless. Forget the consequences.
“May I have my hand back, Your Majesty?” She tried to keep her calm,
speaking through gritted teeth.
I slowly lifted my hand from hers. A chill claimed my palm where her
warmth had been. She snatched the bill to her chest, putting distance
between us as swiftly as she could, but before she escaped completely, I
blurted, “Wait.”
She froze in her tracks. I was surprised at how effective that was. She
didn’t turn her body back towards me but shifted her eyes just enough for a
sideways glance.
“Elizabeth…” I said. I didn’t know where I was going with this, but I’d
opened my mouth, so I was committed to finishing the sentence. “…about
the other day. I realize I might have said some things that may have
offended you. But I don’t have the talent…” to what? To use my words
while conversing with infuriating women? To repress my inner cave man?
“…to act naturally in social situations.” It was the best I could do for an
apology. I mean, come on—the pixie wouldn’t give me back my dog.
“And?”
Oh. Was I supposed to keep talking? Because my mind went completely
blank. I fixed my eyes on the soft curve of her jawline. The way it yielded
to the gentle slope of her graceful neck, the rogue wisps of hair falling from
the confinement of her loose bun, caressing the skin above her collar bone.
Oh, to trail my fingers along the goose flesh there. Hail Poetry.
“Well?”
She grew impatient, likely set off her rails by the intense scrutiny of my
whacky stare.
“Uh, keep the card,” I blurted, sliding out from the booth. “To run a
tab.”
“Run a tab? This isn’t the Old West. We don’t run tabs here.”
I was done. I was so done. I didn’t care if I left my card behind. She
could rack up charges on all the fandom t-shirts in the world for all I cared.
I needed to leave before I let the Pirate King take over. As I left the
building, I decided my suspicions were correct. They definitely piped
something through the vents. But why did it affect only me?
18
 TACO WEDNESDAY

Beth

“WHY DO rich guys think they can impress women by throwing their
money around like glitter?” I plopped onto a barstool and slammed the
check holder on the counter. I didn’t care who saw me sitting on the job. I’d
had it.
“Did he leave you another hundred-dollar bill?” Charlotte gave me a
quick glance and continued chopping limes.
“Worse. He told me to keep his credit card and took off.”
“So charge it and give yourself a nice tip.”
“What’s twenty percent of three dollars and fifty cents?”
“Um… seventy cents.”
“Hmmm.” I slumped lower on the barstool. “That won’t even buy me a
nail polish at the dollar store. I hate him.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Why does he have to bother me at work and challenge me to a staring
contest?”
“It’s pretty obvious he’s into you.”
“No way. He’s a bully. He just came to flex his muscle in my face.”
“Exactly,” she nodded. “A very nice muscle.”
“Shut up.”
 A nice muscle. Lots of nice muscles. Everywhere. Ugh! I wondered if
washing that man right outta my hair was actually a thing. It was worth a
try. And what was that stupid little speech of his? I don’t have the talent to
act naturally in social situations. What kind of lame apology was that?
Will came back the next day. And the day after that. Each time he sat in
the same booth, and I brought him his Bud Lite, which he never drank. We
didn’t speak a word, and I happily charged his card with an added twenty
percent gratuity. I was rolling in the big bucks now. I almost had enough for
an iced americano at Starbucks. A few more visits, and I could afford a
cinnamon bun. Woo hoo!
I noticed a new addition to the autographed black and whites on Sir
William Lucas’ celebrity wall after Will’s third visit. It was signed “the best
service in Hollywood” next to a loopy signature in gold sharpie. Brilliant.
When a few days passed, I thought I’d be rid of him, but the day before
Christmas Eve, he came again, but this time he brought a guest. Why he
chose Lucas Lodge to have lunch with Fitz Hanlon was a mystery beyond
my understanding. Sir William Lucas was all over himself with joy,
imputing Will’s frequent visits as a compliment to himself. Charlotte had to
refrain him from creating a plaque that read William Darcy’s table.
I actually grew to like Fitz a lot. He still owed me a rematch in ping
pong after he beat me impressively at Cole’s party. I called him on having
an unfair advantage because he was stone-cold sober. He didn’t deny it. I
didn’t admit I was horrible at ping pong, either.
I brought Will his usual Bud Lite which he frowned at and then turning
to Fitz, I greeted him with a smile. His presence at the William Darcy table
rendered it impossible to ignore Will altogether, but I was willing to play
nice for Fitz’s sake. His features brightened when I approached the table,
followed by an amused perusal of my uniform.
“Oh em gee, Beth! Why are you dressed like a wench?” His smile was
contagious, and his energy was enough for the whole restaurant to run on
for a week. To say Fitz was like the energizer bunny was an understatement.
“This is my uniform, thank you.”
His jaw dropped, and he bounced his expression from me to Will and
back again. “You work here? I didn’t know that. Will, did you know that?”
“Yes,” was Will’s bored, laconic reply.
Fitz rolled his eyes. “Don’t mind Will. He’s in a mood.”
“A man of few words,” I agreed.
 “Come sit next to me,” he said, sliding over in the booth.
“I can’t,” I said. “I’m on the clock.”
“She can’t socialize while working.” Will had his face buried in the
menu but chanced a glance in my direction. “She hardly speaks to me at
all.”
“Well, I can’t say I blame her.” Fitz laughed. “So, what’s good here?”
“Order anything you want,” I said with a grin. “Will has a tab. Should I
start you with some oysters Rockefeller? The filet mignon is also an
excellent choice. It’s grass fed and wrapped in bacon.”
Will narrowed his eyes and offered me a thin-lipped smirk. Game on.
Fitz groaned appreciatively. “Mmmm. Sounds delicious. Medium rare
for me. Will?”
“Oh, Will likes his meat bloody,” I said with a devilish smirk. He just
nodded stupidly. “I recommend a bottle of Opus One to pair with your
meal.”
Will’s eyes popped out of his head. “That’s an eight-hundred-dollar
bottle of wine.”
At least I got some kind of reaction from him.
“Sorry, but that’s the best we have,” I said. “I hope it’s good enough for
you.”
“What does a place like this get off having eight-hundred-dollar bottles
of wine?”
“Is there a problem, Your Majesty?”
“The sign outside boasts of the best Taco Wednesday in all the realms.
Who does Taco Wednesdays? It doesn’t exactly scream fine dining.”
“Well, Your Majesty, perhaps if you got off your lofty perch, you’d see
how the other half lives.”
“Oh? Let’s see.” He ran his finger down the appetizer menu. “Does
Opus One pair well with the St. James Nachos, or do you recommend the
Regency Chili Fries?”
Actually, the chili fries should have come with a side of Pepto Bismol,
but I didn’t tell Will that. Instead, I contented myself with, “Tell me. How’s
the weather up there in your castle? Can you see Catalina on a good day?”
His eyes flashed over my atrocious costume. “Enjoying the view
immensely, thanks.”
“What are you two even talking about?” Fitz cut in. Will and I ceased
fire and turned our heads to him like synchronized swimmers. His eyes
volleyed between us. “You sound like an old married couple.”
Our heads whipped back to one another, my features cringing, his
flushed and bothered. The veins in his neck were protruding, bulging
tunnels ready to burst, reaching the surface of his skin. His jaw ticked and
set like stone on his somber face while his eyes pierced through the fog of
discord we’d created.
“The Opus One will be fine, thank you.” His eyes never left me, and I
could feel the weight of his stare as I walked to the bar to place the order.
“This is a far leap from the usual Bud Lite,” said Charlotte with dollar
signs in her eyes. “How did you manage this?”
“I got skillz.”
“What you got is an admirer.” She nodded in Will’s direction as she
polished two wine glasses. I casually glanced over my shoulder to find Fitz
chatting away to a very inattentive Will, who watched my interaction with
Charlotte with pointed interest. Was he worried I’d spit in his glass or
something?
“Why is he staring like that?” I groaned. “It’s creepy.”
Charlotte shot me a ‘girl, you cray cray’ look. “Creepy? Really? Are
you blind?”
I huffed. “Just because he’s good looking doesn’t give him the right to
ogle people at work. It’s making me uncomfortable, like he’s waiting for me
to make a mistake.”
Charlotte crawled into the cabinet behind the bar and emerged a
moment later with the Opus One.
“Whatever you say, Beth. I’m sure he’s moonlighting as a secret
shopper. Oh, look! He’s making his report now. You’re so busted.”
I admit, she made me look. He was still staring with his signature sour
expression, and Fitz was still talking his ear off.
I snatched the bottle of wine and one glass. “Give me another Bud
Lite.”
“Only one wine glass?” she asked.
I was about to confirm her question but thought better of it when Will
stepped outside to answer his phone.
“On second thought, I’ll take two glasses. And the Bud Lite.”
Charlotte shrugged and popped the top off the beer, which I happily
placed on my tray with the wine service and made my way back to Fitz. He
was taking in all the visual stimulus Lucas Lodge had to offer. There
certainly was no shortage of interesting things to occupy one’s eyeballs.
“That’s a real beaver,” I said, nodding to the shelf of taxidermic animals
as I uncorked the bottle. He chuckled.
“If I were a straight man, I’d have a joke for that.”
“If you were a straight man, I wouldn’t be talking to you right now.” I
winked, pouring a sampling of wine and offering him the glass for approval.
He nodded for me to fill the glass, and I poured two generous portions,
plopped onto Will’s side of the booth and took a long gulp.”
Fitz regarded me quizzically. “I thought you couldn’t sit on the job.”
“Oh. That was a lie.”
“I see.” He laughed. We clinked our glasses and sipped the Opus One in
silent appreciation for a long moment. It was the best wine I’d ever tasted.
I’m not sure if I’d say it was worth eight hundred dollars, but it was
definitely worth charging Will Darcy eight hundred dollars.
“What’s twenty percent of eight hundred?” I asked nonchalantly.
“One hundred sixty.”
I raised a brow. “Not bad for a day’s work.”
The wine, plus two filet mignon dinners—I was looking at a two-
hundred-dollar day. “Not bad at all.”
I wondered how long I could hold on to Will’s credit card and if I could
somehow strong-arm him into bringing a large party next time. Lobster for
everybody!
“May I ask why…” Fitz began tentatively.
“Well, we’re technically supposed to only add eighteen percent, but I
figure twenty is customary. Although, some people still only tip fifteen
percent…”
“No. Not that.” He shook his head. “Why do you work here? Aren't you
on equity contract?”
“You want to know why I still wait tables when it would seem I’ve
made a career in theatre.”
“Exactly.”
I shrugged. “What happens when the show closes? What happens when
I don’t book another gig for months? There’s no guarantee.”
“Okay.” He took another sip of his wine. “I have another ‘why’
question.”
“Why am I drinking on the job?”
 “Actually, I was going to ask why you wouldn't be talking to me if I
were a straight man, but the drinking question’s interesting, too.”
I let out a long sigh, somewhat warmed by the tannins in the wine. Fitz
didn’t really want to be bored with my feeling towards men. The fact was, I
had trust issues. I supposed part of it stemmed from my recent
disappointment in Bing. I seriously didn’t think there were any good men
these days. Except the gay ones. Why were all the good ones gay? It didn’t
seem fair.
Then there was Brett. I thought he was the one. But when Hollywood
called, he turned into someone I didn’t recognize. Breaking up with me
would have been a blessing. But he humiliated me at an important screen
test. If I’d gotten that job, it would have changed my life. Actually, it did
change my life because the next day, the video went viral on Brett’s
YouTube channel. He’d used my humiliation for personal gain. I vowed
never to trust another guy ever again. Especially Hollywood types.
“You know, Fitz,” I said after some thought, “I just don’t believe in
happily ever after. Men and women can’t be friends, and I’d rather not
waste my time.”
He gave me a small nod and was silent for a long time after that,
watching me sip my wine and pouring more for us to enjoy together. I was
probably drinking faster than I should have, especially considering I was
devouring Will’s portion. We had gone through three quarters of the bottle
when Fitz said thoughtfully, “You’re right. There are no guarantees.”
Interesting. Most people didn’t agree with me on anything, but I just
rolled with it.
“The entertainment business is fickle,” he continued. “You might not
get another gig for a while, that’s true, but you also might get carpal tunnel
or something and lose your ability to wait tables.”
“Okay, you have a point there.”
“And call me a Disney princess, but I believe in happily ever after. How
will you know if you don’t take a chance? Audition for more shows, put
yourself out there. Go on dates. The only guarantee is failure if you don’t
try.”
This was the first time I’d seen this side of Fitz. He was all business at
rehearsals, surprisingly fun at parties, but here he was getting all deep on
me. Maybe it was the wine, but my eyes welled up with moisture. I wanted
to return his sentiment, say something profound that would match his wise
words, but his features shifted like he had turned off some switch, and he
laughed. “And then the bartender says, ‘I’m sorry, we don’t serve breakfast
here.’”
“What?”
“Just laugh.” His eyes flickered behind me and sure enough, Will was
approaching the table. By the time he reached us, Fitz and I were laughing
our heads off. I had no idea why, but who cared?
“You are too much!” I portioned the last of the wine between us, and we
offered an air toast to one another.
“I’ll be here all week,” he quipped. “Tip your waitress.”
“I’ll do that,” I said. “Twenty percent.”
Will loomed over the table, looking between the empty wine bottle to
the two untouched Bud Lites, to Fitz, and then he let his eyes land on me
sitting in his seat.
“I have to get going,” he said with a frown. He turned his attention to
Fitz in a silent command to join him.
“Well, Beth,” Fitz said, rising from the booth. “It’s been fun, but my
Uber is leaving.”
“But your food should be coming out soon,” I protested. “At least wait a
few minutes so we can pack it to go.”
But Will was already out the door, so Fitz shrugged and gave me a quick
kiss on the cheek. “Sorry, love. Let me know how it tastes.”
As he retreated from view, all I could think of was how selfish Will’s
behavior was to expect his friends to give in to his demands. Even Fitz, who
I admired, was ordered around like a page boy. What was so important to
drive Will out of the lodge so quickly? He hadn’t even tried the chili fries.
19
 SOME DISENCHANTED EVENING

Beth

JANE WAS HOME FOR CHRISTMAS. It was all the present I needed,
although the whole cheesecake she brought from Junior’s was pretty
awesome, too.
After the obligatory celebrations with my family in which my father
made a fabulous prime rib, the Lucases came over for a cringeworthy gift
exchange where my mother drank too much, Charlotte accompanied me
back to the apartment where Lydia and Jane had games planned for the
whole night.
I’d never had so much fun playing poker and the arrival of Jorge,
Denny, Cole, and Holly made it even better. My little apartment could
hardly fit all those people, but that made it all the more hilarious and
memorable for our insane game of Guestures. You’d think a bunch of
performers would be good at a game where you have to pantomime
everything, but most of us were spectacularly horrible at it. Lydia beat us all
by a landslide, only because she had no inhibitions to make a complete fool
of herself.
We didn’t make a big deal over exchanging gifts, but Jorge took me
aside and gave me a vintage book he picked up in a boutique book store. It
was a first edition of The Hobbit, signed by J.R.R. Tolkien. It was one of the
most thoughtful gifts I had received in my life. Made me feel a little rotten
about the lame sweater I bought him. He hardly ever wore regular shirts. I
don't know what I was thinking when I bought it.
We were in the hallway to the bedrooms, partly secluded from the rest
of the party when he gave me the gift. I felt like he was ashamed for giving
me a used item and didn’t want the others to see, but I assured him how
much I loved it and gave him an appreciative hug. His eyes flickered over
me in unveiled carnality, and he leaned one arm over me against the wall to
the point of backing me up against it.
There was an intensity in him that unhinged me. He’d always been
comical in the little flirty innuendos that spilled from his lips, but this time,
his features claimed a deliberate intention, a heady, suggestive, potency in
his body language.
“I’d like to stay the night,” he whispered.
Not a chance, bucko.
First of all, he was drunk. I didn’t need an encore performance of Naked
Man in my shower. The last time he was in there he used my razor. I was a
strong supporter of guarding my personal sundries. Furthermore, I wasn’t
sure how I felt about Jorge, even if he had been sober. He projected so
many crossed signals, it was hard to keep up. I didn’t have time for that.
Nope. No sir.
I’d thought about the things Fitz had said to me. They made sense.
There were no guarantees. But I decided to concentrate on one ambition
outside my comfort zone at a time, and that was my career. After the show
closed, I would follow Jane’s example and go to New York. Maybe I’d even
move there if I could afford it. Who didn’t love sharing a two-bedroom
apartment with ten other girls for a small fortune? I could totally do it.
What I couldn’t do was Jorge. I convinced myself quite easily that he
couldn’t be all that serious, especially since his words were a little slurry.
“I’ll ask Denny to take you home,” I said, slipping out from under his
arm, but he grabbed my wrist and said, “Beth, I’m afraid.”
Ummmm.
“Afraid?” I asked. “What are you afraid of?”
He stared deeply into my eyes, suddenly grave. “Obscurity.”
“I don’t think you have to worry about that.” I laughed.
“I do,” he replied. “The Darcys will make sure of it.”
I was a little troubled as to why he would choose that moment to bring it
up. The Darcys. Plural. Not just Will, but his little sister, too. What were
these people up to now? I patted his hand and wiggled my wrist from his
grip.
“I won’t let that happen,” I said. “I promise.”
I was happy to send him off that night so I could be alone with my
thoughts.
What was the deal with Will Darcy that kept him constantly in my life?
I couldn’t very well avoid him at the theatre for obvious reasons, but then
he showed up at my work and now was making an appearance on
Christmas, even if it was only in conversing about him. It was like that
show Man in the High Castle where every film reel, every scenario in the
parallel universe involved the same woman. Will was that woman. He was
everywhere. And when I say everywhere, I mean everywhere.
I shouldn’t have been surprised to see him at the Rosings New Year’s
Eve Ball, but when I saw him, I wanted to run. His eyes met mine from
across the room, searing into me like a sniper’s target. I wondered if I had
one of those red laser dots on my forehead. He was at the bar, and without
letting his eyes lose focus on me, drained his drink, set the lowball glass on
the bar, and made the trek through the crowd towards where I stood. You’ve
heard the term deer in headlights? That was me, because although I knew
danger was approaching, I was unable to move. The T-Rex had his sights
set on his prey, and I had nowhere to turn.
“There you are.” Charlotte stepped in front of me, right within Will’s
path, and he halted. Thank goodness! “We were beginning to worry you
wouldn’t show.”
She looked absolutely radiant in a black sequin halter dress. Her hair
was in a loose French knot with tendrils of her auburn hair cascading down
onto her fair skin. I don’t think I’d ever seen her so dressed up. But her
smile was the most beautiful accessory she wore. Her arm looped around
Colin’s, and she absolutely beamed. She was truly and deeply happy.
Colin wore that same goofy smile on his face, happy as a clam to have a
woman on his arm as gorgeous as Charlotte. He looked so different.
Handsome. I tried to put my finger on the change I saw in him when I
realized he wasn’t wearing any makeup. He no longer looked like a
confused drag queen. Without layers of foundation and mascara caked on
his face, he appeared younger, with a boyish charm. He and Charlotte were
adorable together. She was good for him. I couldn’t say the same for his
choice of dress wear, though. He wore a light-pink tux with a ruffled shirt
and a matching pink top hat. Wisps of hair curled from under the brim and
framed his face, the fringe of his bangs almost covering his eyes. He had his
own style, that was for certain.
“How long have you been standing around all by yourself?” Charlotte
pulled me in with her other arm. What a trio we were. The egret, the swan,
and the flamingo. (I was the egret).
“Not long,” I lied.
In truth, I’d been looking for her for what seemed like forty-five
minutes. That place was huge. There was a main ballroom, where we were
currently conversing. Then there were several smaller rooms with gaming
tables and other interesting entertainment. And outside was an enormous
garden with a hedge labyrinth and secluded sitting areas surrounded by
conifer trees. I’d made a full circle around the property before ending back
at the ballroom.
“Beth.” Colin took my hand in his, so we were standing in a lopsided
circle. I would have protested had he began to dance the Horah. “I hope
there are no hard feelings between us. I actually want to thank you
because…”
He let go of my hand to rest his palm on Charlotte’s and gazed in her
eyes with a sappy expression. “…Charlotte has made me the happiest of
men.”
I didn't know how much of their sugary sweet exchanges I could handle,
but I didn’t know anyone else at the ball, unless you counted Will, which I
preferred not to. I’d put on a smile, support my friend, and make it home
before the ball dropped. Technically, the ball had already dropped on the
East Coast. Happy New Year! My idea of the perfect New Year’s
celebration included cozy pajamas, pizza, and Netflix.
I plastered on a thrilled expression which contained too many teeth and
respectfully slunk out of Charlotte’s vice grip. I think she was a little
nervous around all the industry big wigs and supermodels.
“No hard feelings here,” I said. “I’m happy for you both.”
“Excellent,” he said with a huge smile. “Because I want to introduce
you to the great Catherine de Bourgh, founder of Rosings Institute and
international ballet legend.”
With an introduction like that, no wonder the pressure was on for
Charlotte. She’d met her briefly once before and told me the woman was a
force to be reckoned with. I get that she wanted to make a good impression
on her boyfriend’s boss, but if the woman was so fierce, I didn’t see why
she couldn’t just avoid her company. It’s not like she was a dancer or
anything.
Colin led the way though the serpentine path beyond the crowded
ballroom, down a paved walkway and into an elaborate private room. There
was a password to enter, like a speakeasy. It was kind of cool. Catherine de
Bourgh sat on a wingback chair with her hands folded on her lap. Lots of
people mulled about, drinking and conversing in small groups, but there
were a few fortunate (or unfortunate however way you look at it) people
sitting in her circle holding court. When we approached her, I had to fight
the urge to bow or curtsy.
“And who is this you have here, Mr. Hunsford?” she said with a regal
air.
Colin removed his hat and introduced me, half prideful, and half
groveling. “May I introduce a member of my company at the Gardiner,
Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
He crowned the introduction with a flourish of his arm. His hat, a pink
beacon in my direction. I smiled, not entirely sure of the correct protocol.
After all, she was an international ballet legend. She narrowed her wrinkled
eyes on me and puckered her lips into a frown.
“Well?” she said after a short pause. “Do you talk?”
“What?” I was fought off guard by her sour disposition. Of course I
could talk.
She rolled her eyes. “I’ll forgive your unintentional incivility. You must
be quite overcome by the grandeur of Rosings.”
“She is,” exclaimed Colin. “Quite overcome.”
“I wasn’t speaking to you, Mr. Hunsford. You must let the lady answer
for herself.”
Alrighty then.
Now I had an idea why Charlotte clung so tightly to me earlier.
“Mr. Hunsford gets a little ahead of himself sometimes.” Catherine
shook her head. “But I’m sure you already knew that.”
“Yes,” I said with a nod. “I mean, yes to your earlier question. This
place is ginormous.”
She glanced over me in open assessment, starting from my not so fancy
footwear to the top of my hastily coiffed up-do. She shrugged her brows in
a she’ll do sort of expression.
 “You may sit.” She nodded in the direction of three recently vacant
chairs. Colin and Charlotte swiftly took her up on the invitation, which I
followed with more trepidation. I felt like I was on an interview for a job I
didn’t want.
“I see you’ve brought the heiress.” Her eyes cast briefly onto Charlotte.
Heiress?
Charlotte shot me don’t you dare glance. What exactly was that about?
“Yes,” said Colin. “My girlfriend Charlotte.”
“Thank you for the invitation.” Charlotte offered a genuine smile to the
imposing woman, which won her a glance of approval.
Then the woman’s eyes rested on me. “I hear you’re an actress.”
I laughed under my breath and said, “If you can call it that.”
That little quip earned me another sour frown. “Do you dance?” she
questioned.
“Does flossing count?”
Her frown became more pronounced. Apparently, they didn’t consider
flossing a serious dance move at Rosings.
“I’m more of a singer that moves well,” I amended.
“She's being modest,” said Charlotte. “She’s actually a triple threat.”
I was sure Charlotte was biased when it came to my talent. Plus, she
was about as proficient a judge of theatre as I was of impressionism. I knew
Monet was good, but I couldn’t tell you why.
Catherine de Bourgh disregarded Charlotte entirely and plowed through
my interrogation.
“If you practiced more, you’d improve. My granddaughter Anne was
such a frail little thing, but she grew stronger the more she practiced. You’d
hardly recognize her if you knew her before she took classes.”
Colin interjected, “Anne is one of the principal dancers in the company.
She was Clara in the Nutcracker.”
“You must be so proud,” I said with sincerity.
“I am,” she beamed. “But there’s always room for improvement. That’s
why I invite friends of Colin to use my small barre room to practice. If
you’d like to take advantage of my offer, I’m sure you won’t be in the way.”
“Um, thank you?”
“I would be able to find your deficiencies right away. There are very
few people with my eye for talent. And if I had taken up singing as well as
dancing, I would have excelled at it.”
 “I only wish I would have started dancing earlier,” I admitted.
“How old are you?”
“Old enough to know what to do with my young face.”
It amused me to find the astonishment on her face at not receiving a
direct answer. Also, I loved quoting Gene Kelly movies whenever
opportunity arose.
“You are a spunky one, aren't you? Well, you’ll never be a ballerina at
your age, but you could pick up a few moves that will help you in the
theatre.”
A fourth chair landed in place in our strange little pow wow, and Will
plopped down, straddling it, resting his arms on the back.
“What are you doing here?” cried the old woman.
“You invited me.” Will glanced briefly at us, his attention landing on
Colin’s pink suit for a few extra seconds.
“Well, I didn’t think you’d show up.” She was a little salty, but
something hinted to me that was the nature of their relationship. It certainly
didn’t seem to faze him. He just shrugged.
“If you’re looking for Anne,” she said, “you just missed her. You might
want to check the VIP room.”
Wasn’t this the VIP room?
Will shifted in his seat like he was trying to get comfortable but
couldn’t. “No,” he said. “I’m fine right here.”
A smirk overcame her face, and she flushed a little when she turned to
me and said, “These young people are so attached to me.”
Will stole a glance in my direction. Was I judging? Not at all.
“Why don’t you find Anne and ask her to dance?” Catherine was trying
to shoo Will away. Probably to drill me with more probing questions. She
winked at him. “You don’t want some other man to claim her for a New
Year’s kiss.”
Practically engaged to Catherine de Bourgh’s granddaughter. That’s
what Jorge told me. I didn’t know the girl, but I already felt sorry for her.
Will remained silent, casting his eyes towards me to gauge my reaction.
I was finding the exchange rather amusing and so, I made a joke.
“It’s bad luck if you don’t kiss someone at midnight.” I laughed. “You
might remain a frog forever.”
His eyes flickered to mine, alight as blue flames, and the corner of his
lips hitched into a crooked grin.
 “And what happens to the princess?” he said softly, almost coaxing.
My heart sputtered to a halt, dropping to my navel. There it was, ladies.
That devastating smile that earned him millions on the silver screen. I was
incredibly annoyed with myself for not having a stronger immunity to his
movie star charms. I swallowed unevenly and lifted my chin to regain some
semblance of control.
“Her carriage turns into a pumpkin,” I replied, practically croaking the
words. “So she bakes a pie.”
His eyes unapologetically dipped to my mouth. “It Only Takes a Taste,”
he said, deepening his wicked grin.
A warm flush washed over me. Way to quote a musical theatre song.
Bravo. His intense stares and double innuendos made the walls close in. I
had to get away from him. And now I had that song from Waitress stuck in
my head. Ugh! It was a good song, too.
“Are we talking about pies here?” Charlotte chimed in.
I abruptly stood, causing the chair to scrape on the floor.
“Where’s the bathroom?”
Catherine de Bourgh shot me an expression as if I offended her by
leaving. I didn't have to use the restroom, but she didn’t know that.
“Miss Bennet, I’m not done talking to you.”
Not done talking to me? What if I did have to go to the restroom?
I could hear her protests fade as I left the room, following me out the
door until they were only echoes into the ether. I felt bad for abandoning
Charlotte to the aftermath, but I needed to distance myself from Will. His
movie star charm was too much, and the last thing I wanted was to be his
fangirl. His eyes, though. They held an underlying magnetism that reached
too far inside my core. It made my heart drum so rapidly, it was almost
painful.
I decided after all that, a splash of cold water to my face would do me
good. The ladies room was bigger than my whole apartment and had a
separate sitting area for friends to wait. If there’s any mystery why girls go
to the restroom in groups, that sitting area would be the answer. The sofas
were so posh, I wouldn’t have been surprised if tea service suddenly
appeared, accompanied by a recording of God Save the Queen. I was
running my hands over the upholstery when Charlotte found me.
“I’m sorry I embarrassed you in front of your boyfriend’s boss.”
 “Don’t worry about it,” she said with a soft smile. “You should have
seen the look on her face, though. I’m sure nobody has ever walked out on
her like that.”
We shared a laugh. I wanted to tell her the reason I bolted out of there
wasn’t because of Catherine de Bourgh, but it was suffocating to be in the
same room as Will. Everything about him caused a hot lava reaction in my
veins. Whenever he was near me, I felt sick to my stomach, and my blood
would boil, causing my pulse to race. If he didn’t repel me so much, I’d
think I had a crush on the guy. Ridiculous. But I couldn’t tell Charlotte these
things because she’d read too much into it. I decided to keep the
conversation light.
“Well, when ya gotta go, ya gotta go.”
She laughed. “She’ll get over it. Colin’s in there doing damage control.
Like Men in Black.”
“Or Men in Pink.” I couldn’t resist. Only a guy like Colin could pull off
that outfit. It actually suited him well.
“So…” She wound up for the pitch. I could see it coming. She wanted
to talk about the elephant in the room. “I was surprised to see Will.”
There it was. I knew she was jonesing to bring it up. I shrugged, trying
to pretend it didn’t affect me.
“It’s not a huge stretch,” I said. “Catherine de Bourgh is a shareholder
of Will’s production company.” I remembered what Jorge had told me about
Will’s connection to Rosings. “And he’s got something going on with the
granddaughter. Engaged, I think.”
“Anne?” she snorted. “Not even. I know Anne. There’s no way.”
“Whatever.” I feigned a nonchalant eye roll. What did I care who Will
was or wasn’t dating? It was none of my business. Charlotte eyed me
speculatively, but thankfully kept her thoughts on the subject to herself. The
downside to her silence, however, was the empty space I had to fill with my
own thoughts. They were probably more annoying than anything she could
have said.
At length, I stood up, once again ready to triumph over my killer heels,
and led Charlotte out the door.
“Don’t let me keep you. I’m sure Colin is looking for his heiress
girlfriend.” I gave her a conspiring wink.
“Oh, that.” Her face flushed. “Catherine kind of assumed I was an
heiress when she found out my father owned a restaurant. I guess she just
thought it’s a big conglomerate restaurant chain.”
“And you didn’t bother to correct her,” I nodded.
She grinned. “It’s not like she’ll ever step foot inside Lucas Lodge.”
“That’s what I thought about Darcy.”
We parted with a promise to find each other later. She didn’t want to
leave me alone, feeling guilty she had to get back to Colin when she was
the reason I came in the first place. I let her know I was fine on my own for
a while and that I was hoping to try my chances on the roulette table. I
usually played red and black. I didn’t mind risking the fifty-fifty odds. I was
exchanging some cash into chips when I ran into Fitz.
“You clean up well.” He cat-whistled with an appreciative once-over.
“They should let you out more often.”
“Thanks.” I blushed. “But I have to return the glass slippers by
midnight.” My thoughts raced to the earlier Cinderella reference I
exchanged with Will. Why did I sabotage my own thoughts like that? I
blinked them away.
He grinned with his devastatingly swoony dimples. “I didn’t expect to
see you here. I must say, it’s a welcome surprise.”
“Ditto.”
“I’m bored out of my mind.” He scanned the crowd with a disappointed
air. “Will keeps taking off, and I don’t know a soul here.”
So they were there together? Great.
“I’m sorry, did you say Will?”
He nodded. “I regret ever agreeing to carpool. I’m not entirely sure
which one of us is the designated driver but if I meet Mr. Right, I’m out.”
“Well, I know I’m a poor substitute, but I’ll be your date until you find
what you’re looking for.”
“Girl, you’re anything but a poor substitute.” He took my arm in his.
“You are absolutely delicious. Let’s go gamble.”
Next to crawling into my pajamas with my subscription to the
Broadway Channel, I considered it the next best thing to spend the evening
with Fitz. I couldn’t think of a better person to laugh with while watching
the modern dance performances on the small stages scattered throughout
the property. The costumes were interesting to put it nicely (bubble wrap
anyone?), and the choreography was certainly something we’d never seen
before. I learned I didn’t know much about the Avant Garde, and I was
perfectly fine with that. Give me Fosse any day of the week. Fitz held my
hand and pulled me from one thing to another like children in an
amusement park. He taught me a few roulette tricks, cleaning out everyone
at the table before we were kicked out. We downed a few drinks (hooray for
the open bar) and danced like fools. At last, we found an unoccupied room
with a ping pong table and challenged each other to a duel, finally giving
me a chance for a rematch. But we were both so tipsy, the ball hardly
touched the table. The effects of the alcohol also broke down our
inhibitions, and I felt emboldened to ask, “Tell me about this Mr. Right
you’re waiting for. I could be your wingman.”
He grinned, allowing the thought to burrow deep in his fantasies. Dang,
this man was cute. He hit the ping pong ball with his paddle, sending it to
bounce off the table.
“My standards are too high,” he said. “I’m convinced he doesn’t exist.”
I retrieved the ball and clobbered it into the net.
“There’s nothing wrong with high standards.”
“What about you?” he asked. “What’s your idea of the perfect guy?”
I broke out into a show tune. “I’ll know when my love comes along.”
He threw down his paddle and ran to the upright piano against the wall
(because naturally all the rooms had pianos), gracing the keys with his
skilled fingers. “Ah, good ol’ Frank Loesser.” He ran into an ascending
arpeggio. “One of my favorites.”
He was an astounding pianist. He was playing the song by heart, most
likely in the correct key, probably not missing any notes even in his half-
inebriated state.
“You sing Sarah Brown, and I’ll do Sky Masterson’s part,” he said,
playing the tonic.
I fudged through the song, making stuff up as I went along. I didn’t
care. It was fun. Fitz, on the other hand, was born in the wrong decade. He
was so classy, I’m sure he would have given Frank Sinatra a run for his
money. And boy, the man could croon.
“You never answered my question. About Mr. Right,” I pressed.
“Did I say Mr. Right?” he said with a grin. “I meant Mr. Right Now.”
I craned my head to take a peek at the party guests through the door. So
many men and women dressed to the nines. Beautiful people any day of the
week, but tonight, the magic of a new year paired with extremely expensive
designer clothes made them look like they stepped out of The Great Gatsby.
 “How about that guy?” I said, pointing to a stylish man who favored a
red bowtie over the traditional black. He followed my gaze.
“Straight.”
I crinkled by brows. “How can you tell?”
“Honey, you learn to have a sixth sense about these things after too
many rejections.”
I frowned. “Oh.”
He tinkled a few notes on the piano, something romantic and lamentful.
“That’s pretty.”
“Thanks. I wrote it.”
He continued to play, the melody taking shape. “It’s a musical I’m
working on, but it’s far from finished.”
“You’re writing a musical? That’s amazing! What’s it about?”
“Oh, it’s a love story about a man who searches the world for his
destiny. Sounds kind of sappy saying aloud, but—”
“No! It doesn’t sound sappy at all. Imagine the guys that had to pitch
South Pacific. A man who falls in love with a woman across a crowded
room? Pah-lease.”
He gave me a blank look. Oh.
“You have one of those scenes in your play, don’t you?”
He shrugged. “Too cliché?”
“I’m sure yours is awesome.” I suddenly felt like a jerk.
He continued to play and smiled proudly. “It is, actually.”
Knowing Fitz, I didn’t doubt it.
He sighed, and I could see a shadow come over his expression.
Something that ran deep.
“Funny how art imitates life, huh?” I nudged him with my elbow. It was
probably a little more accurate than I realized. He stopped noodling his
finger over the keys and placed his hands on his lap, turning to face me.
“Have you ever heard the song Somebody by Depeche Mode?” he
asked.
“Uh… no.”
Wasn’t that some emo eighties band?
“It’s all about how he wants somebody to share the rest of his life with,
someone to confide his innermost thoughts, that knows him so well—all of
his faults—and loves him anyway. Somebody who will even convince him
to see things differently, and although they might disagree, they understand
each other… because…love!” He gently stroked the ivories. “I want that.”
He looked into my eyes, searching, wondering if he was the only silly
romantic in the room. It was a moment. It was heart bleeding share time.
Also we were tipsy.
“Aaaaanyway.” He shrugged it off and started playing a ragtime riff.
“Who needs that kind of salmagundi?” He smiled, losing himself in the
upbeat tempo. “Especially after what Will told me.”
Hold the phone.
“Will? What did Will tell you?”
“Oh, just something about a friend who almost threw his career down
the toilet over a girl.”
What the actual Tevye?
It couldn’t be he was talking about Bing? “What…what do you mean?
What friend?”
“I don’t know. He’s got lots of friends. Could be anyone.”
I didn’t want to come off as desperate, but I really needed this
information. I figured he would be more apt to tell me the details if I didn’t
act like some psycho beating answers about of him. Plus we’d had a
moment.
“Well,” I said, trying to remain calm, “what exactly did he say?”
He shook his head. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
I looked into his eyes. Those blue beautiful icicle eyes. “Fitz. Hey. It’s
me, here.”
He stopped playing his ragtime tune and twisted his body slightly on the
bench to conspire with me. “All he said was that he persuaded his friend to
think twice about this woman.” He held up his palms. “I don’t know what
was wrong with her. Probably some kind of harpy. But he did say it was a
close call and he was glad he could talk some sense into this guy.”
It was Bing. I knew it was Bing. Who else could it be? My blood was
beginning to boil again. It was so fierce my eyes started to water. It was
really feeling hot in there.
“What gave him the right to interfere like that?” I was on the verge of
tears. I had to blink them back because, for some stupid reason, I didn’t
want Fitz to see me cry. “I mean, can’t his friend think for himself?”
“Wouldn’t you do the same for a girlfriend if she was making a major
mistake with a guy?”
 My thoughts shot to my confrontation with Charlotte. How I tried to
keep her from Colin. It almost destroyed our friendship. And I was so very
wrong about them.
“If I did,” I said after a pause, “she wouldn’t listen to me anyway.”
He laughed. “People rarely do.”
An announcement by the DJ came from the main ballroom. Ten minutes
until midnight. Get your champagne for the countdown. Fitz grinned at me
and nodded his head toward the bar.
“Should I get us two glasses each? I say we double fist it into the new
year.”
Double fisting sounded great if it meant throwing said fists into Will’s
smug face. I nodded in acquiescence and Fitz hurried off to get the
champagne. My head was spinning, everything was suddenly unraveling
out of control. Everything, all Jane’s suffering, the heartbreak the
telenovelas! All of it was because of Will Darcy. Wasn’t the man miserable
enough without dragging his friend down his sick misogynistic path? How
dare he ruin the happiness of two of the nicest people ever. I knew Bing
couldn’t be so evil as to hurt Jane the way he did. He was just too easily
influenced—which admittedly wasn’t a very charming character trait. Still,
who knows what kinds of threats there might have been? In the end, it was
his arrogant and famous friend that was to blame for inflicting them both
with extreme sorrow. Okay, I was being melodramatic, but who does that
kind of thing? What did Will have to gain by influencing Bing to break up
with Jane? Jane! The most affectionate, generous person anyone could ever
hope to love. I wanted to scratch his eyeballs out. That horrid man! And to
have the gall to boast about how he tore them apart as if he was bragging
about his golf score. Anger washed over me with every perusal of it. I had
to get out of there.
Tall elegant forms in glitzy finery crushed against me as I bounded my
way against the tide in a sea of party guests. I could barely make it to the
nearest door into the courtyard before I imagined myself running out of
oxygen. I took a deep breath, inhaling the crisp air. It hit me with a frigid
blast, cleansing me from the fire burning between my ears. If there was
snow on the ground, I’d stick my head in it and watch steam rise like in
cartoons. The best I could do was lose myself in the gardens until I could
calm myself down enough to drive home. It was almost midnight and the
pumpkin was crashing down.
20
 COLD CIVILITY

Will

LET’S BE HONEST, here. If I had known Elizabeth was going to be at

Rosings, I still would have gone. But if I had known, I could have been
better prepared. It was serendipity. Just like in the cheesy romantic comedy
movies my sister made me watch with her, the crowd parted and there was
Beth. When our eyes met, a jolt of electricity shot through me, temporarily
stunning me in place. I couldn’t read her face. Was it surprise? Elation?
Indigestion? It’s hard to say. It took me almost a full minute to recover from
the stun-gun to my cortex—whichever cortex is responsible for gross motor
skills. If my mouth wasn’t suddenly dry, a dribbling of drool might have
formed on my chin. The way she looked in that dress. The word stunning
does not do it justice. Ethereal. Sublime. Me want. My IQ plummeted into
single digits.
As I drummed up the courage to approach her, Colin and Beth’s little
bartender friend blocked my path. What in the world was that man wearing?
I give him points for individuality.
I wasn’t interested in joining a group chat. That would entail being
sociable when clearly my motor functions were barely working. Beth did
that to me. The dress didn’t make it any easier. It was simply cut, straight
and flowy. No frills. And it was held in place by two thin straps over her
elegant shoulders. It was driving me loony. But then the trio disappeared
through the crowd, shrouded by faceless blobs obstructing my view. Where
were they going?
A few of the faceless blobs tried to strike up a conversation with me as I
pursued Beth and her friends. I honestly couldn’t tell you what I said to
brush them off or how rude I might have been. I didn’t want to lose sight of
Beth.
A streak of pink swept around a corner. Colin’s powder puff tuxedo. I
swear, he looked like bubble gum and cotton candy had a love child and
well-meaning friends would visit to congratulate them on their new baby
bliss but then snicker, saying, “It is unfortunate your baby is so ugly. Have
you tried hiding it in a tower?” My eyes were in actual physical pain. But
that didn’t matter because…Beth. The pink ruffles and top hat were like a
beacon that led me to her—like a very strange light house on a foggy night
when the captain of a ship at sea might be all “WTH?” As for myself, I was
only interested in hollering “Land ho!” To my chagrin, the land came in the
form of one Catherine de Bourgh. I should have known that clown was on
his way to seek her approval for whatever nonsense he was currently into.
Once he actually wasted a half hour of precious rehearsal time describing
his new closet organizer. Shelves! What a concept. I didn’t have the heart to
tell him he wasn’t really saving any space. Maybe if he wasn’t trying to
channel 1970s Elton John, his closets would have more room.
I followed the trail to learn where they were going, keeping my distance
like a stealthy love-sick James Bond. What was I doing? I was supposed to
get this girl out of my thoughts. She assaulted my dreams, stole my peace.
Kept me up at night. My trips to her workplace were supposed to fix that.
Newsflash: It didn’t help.
She’d deliver me tasteless beer and charge my credit card for the most
expensive items on the menu just to spite me. It was strangely alluring. Her
moxie. Then I got that phone call and had to leave the restaurant. My sister
wasn’t in any danger, but I couldn’t take the chance. It wasn’t the kind of
distraction I would have welcomed. But it took my thoughts away from
Beth—for a while. A quiet Christmas with my sister was perfectly adequate,
thank you. Over the course of a week, I only thought of Beth three times:
when I looked at the tree, when I looked at Christmas lights, and when I
heard Christmas music play. Only three times. Totally not obsessed with
her.
 But then there she was. A vision of watercolor on an acrylic backdrop.
All soft lines and diffused radiance. Everything else fell out of focus. Why?
Why was she there? Surely some demented Cupid had it in for me.
And then that comment she made. Pumpkin pie. She was taunting me.
Teasing me. I really loved pie.
I told myself I could keep my distance. Let Fitz show her a good time
while I sulked in the corner watching dancers do a lyrical rendition of
twister in plastic bodysuits. But then she bolted. Something upset her. What
the blazes did Fitz do?
She ran into the gardens, hiding away under the archway of star jasmine
vines. She looked like a sprite in a magical dream surrounded by moonlight
and white twinkle lights. My heart leapt to my throat.
When she saw me approach, her eyes widened, and she recoiled.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
She answered with cold civility. “Peachy.”
This was new territory for me. Her eyes were leaking. I had no idea how
to deal with that.
“Have you been crying?”
Real smooth.
She shot me a severe stare and walked away finding a small
amphitheater shaded by billowy canvas sails. It was a creative breezy place
to sit in the summer but now on a chilly winter night, it was quiet and still.
“Elizabeth,” I called softly. “Wait.”
She halted her steps but didn’t turn to face me, hugging her arms. She
was cold.
“Take my coat.” I rid myself of my tuxedo jacket and offered it to her,
but she shook her head vehemently.
“No,” she said in clipped tones. “Thank you.”
She wasn’t a shy woman. Until that moment, I’d never known her to be
short on words. Usually the words were laced with pithy and quick-witted
banter. Was this another side of Beth? Could it be she had the same
paralyzingly fears as I did, afraid to face this intense attraction? Did she feel
for me what I felt for her?
My whole body was charged with an unquenchable magnetic energy.
She was the central force drawing me in. I could hardly stand it. But I knew
my words were inadequate to share that with her. How could I? If I learned
anything over my encounters with her over the past few weeks, it was that I
was particularly adept in shoving my foot directly in my mouth. So I didn’t
speak at all. There was enough noise from the friction in the air between us.
It crackled. It popped. It snap, crackle, popped? Eh, okay, a little less
breakfast cereal and a little more lightning and thunder. We were in a
charged sphere. If we were in a sci-fi movie, you’d see a glowy dome
surround us, sparks flying around the edges, and possible levitation.
The far-off voices of party guests counting in unison down from ten
assaulted the electric cocoon Beth and I had formed. She turned her head
slightly toward the ballroom to listen to the countdown into the new year.
Ten seconds suspended in a single breath I was holding. Then she cast her
glistening eyes to meet mine. The goddess deigning to acknowledge me.
My pulse quickened as she opened her lovely mouth to speak.
“It’s midnight,” she whispered. “You’ll be a frog forever.”
A frog. Doomed to a curse without the kiss of his princess. It wouldn’t
do. There was mischief in her expression—a dare. She didn’t think I would
follow through. But I was never one to hold back on what I wanted. And I
wanted her. I’d wanted her for several weeks but was too full of myself to
accept it. Now I was done running from it.
I closed the gap between us, allowing my feet to carry me. I couldn’t
have resisted if I’d wanted to. Full disclosure: I didn’t want to. I cupped my
hand behind her head; she was so petite, my thumb could reach around to
graze her chin. She lifted her gaze to meet mine, hot and cold, and rimmed
with a question. I answered with the caress of my lips to hers, slow and
savoring. The skin of her lips was soft and pliant, so very dainty and tasted
slightly of salt from her tears. I wanted to erase all her tears with my kisses,
hold her and shield her from whatever grieved her. Everything within me
was charged and culminated in her. In that kiss. Her delicate hands traced
the edges of my collar, inching their way up to thread her fingers through
my hair.
And then—she yanked, severing her lips from mine, and probably
taking a few strands of my hair in her fists.
“Mother Abbess!” I cried reaching to the back of my head. It was
stinging from the attack. Her face was flushed with rage and, clenching her
teeth, she screamed, “What is wrong with you?”
Wrong with me? Wrong with me?
“You,” I snapped. “You are wrong with me.”
“Me?”
 “I have been fighting against my better judgement for weeks. I tell
myself that it’s a bad idea, me and you—but I keep coming back for more
in spite of myself.”
She stared at me, color rising in her cheeks and was silent. Was it doubt
in her expression? I found it excessively difficult to read.
“I shouldn’t let myself get involved with a girl like you, but I find
myself unable to stay away, despite the warning bells going off in my
head.”
She narrowed her eyes. “A girl like me? What exactly does that mean?”
Foot in mouth.
“A distraction,” I said. “A siren, crashing my ship into the rocks.”
She shook her head with astonishment—or maybe amusement. Crashing
my ship into the rocks? Even I thought I was a moron.
“Elizabeth,” I softly bade. I didn’t want to talk. I lost all cognitive
ability to speak around her. All I wanted was to kiss her again. One kiss
wasn’t enough. Twenty kisses wouldn’t be enough. My desire for her was
insatiable.
I reached for her, needing to convince her with a gesture I found lacking
in the encumbrance of words. Pesky words. But she recoiled hastily,
violently opposed to my touches.
“I can’t sleep at night. I can’t eat, can’t concentrate on anything,” I
pleaded, appealing the best I could to her sense of compassion.
Note to self: This is not an effective tactic when it comes to strong-
willed women. But I didn’t know better at the time.
“You are not the kind of woman I usually date,” I said. My foot was
halfway down my throat by this time, so why not shove it down further?
“But I’m willing to take a chance with you.”
She rolled her eyes. “Lucky me.”
This was going all wrong. Where were my lines? Where was the script?
Even so, I had the feeling if there was a script, this scene would go off-book
anyway.
“Should I be grateful the amazing Will Darcy has condescended to
bestow his glory upon me? I suppose you expect me thank you for the
unique honor of your attention, oh Great One.”
“I never said—”
“I’m not impressed by you,” she spat. “I never asked to be singled out
by you, and I don’t care what kind of girl you usually date. I’m obviously
not your type, and if you get over yourself for three seconds, you’ll realize
you’re not my type either. I’m sure after all the flattering and warmhearted
compliments you’ve paid me, you’ll survive. That last bit was sarcasm in
case you were wondering.”
She was putting up her dukes. It was war with this woman.
“May I ask,” I said as calmly as I could, “what is it you have against
me?”
“Oh, where should I begin? Ah, here’s one. After you basically insulted
me, you still want to go out with me, even if it goes against everything you
stand for. Charming. Real charming.”
She turned her back to me as if to walk away but thought better of it and
spun back around to point her forefinger into my chest.
“But that’s not even why I’m mad at you,” she snapped. “I have every
reason to be peeved with you right now—after what you did to separate
Bing from my friend.”
Ah snap.
“Nothing you can say will excuse you in my mind from what you did.”
Her finger was poking me repeatedly.
“The damage you have done in playing with Jane’s emotions, ruining
her happiness on a whim, just because you can—because it’s fun and easy
to impose your influence on impressionable men like Bing. And now
they’re both miserable. Congratulations. You must be so proud.”
A lump formed in the pit of my stomach. She had no idea what the truth
of it was. How could I explain it in such a way to prevent her from
strangling me?
She put her hands on her hips. “Are you going to deny what you did?”
I had to assume some sort of dignity and so I rolled my shoulders back
and proudly responded, “I have no desire to deny anything. Yes, I
convinced Bing to stay away from Jane. But he wouldn’t have done it if he
didn’t think I was right. Guess what? I was right. And I’m happy he ended it
before making the biggest mistake of his career.”
If only I could follow my own advice.
Bing was a stronger man than I. My attraction for Beth was too intense.
She didn’t seem to be listening, though. She went on.
“And what about Jorge?” she said. “What do you have to say about
what you did to him?”
 My ears rang at the mention of that name. I noticed my hands clench
into fists, and it took everything in me not to growl like one of those orcs
from Lord of the Rings.
“You,” I said through clenched teeth, “concern yourself too much with
Jorge Wickham.”
“Anybody with a heart would be concerned for that poor man.”
“That poor man?” I repeated with contempt. “Oh yeah. He’s poor, all
right.” It was such an absurd notion, it made me laugh.
“Because of you,” she cried. “You have taken away everything he had a
right to—reduced him to nothing, cut him off, turned people against him.
Ruined his career. You did all this. And you think it’s funny. It’s all a joke to
you.”
“Is that the way you see me?” I spat. “That’s your opinion of me?”
I paced the space like a caged lion. This wasn’t the New Year’s kiss I
imagined.
“I’m the bad guy according to you. But maybe, just maybe your skewed
opinion of me is clouded by your insecurity.”
“Whaaat?”
“You heard me.”
I was that caged lion. But I had a thorn in my paw, and the only thing I
knew to do was roar.
“You got your feelings hurt because I didn’t flatter you. Because I was
honest. Maybe if I sugarcoated things and puffed up your ego, you wouldn’t
be so offended. Maybe I should have congratulated myself for falling for
someone so far below me. Or if I had held back my true feelings leading
you to believe a relationship between us would be easy. But I didn’t because
I’m not a liar. I’m not ashamed of what I said to you. I meant it. Every.
Single. Word.”
Her jaw dropped about a thousand feet without a parachute. HA! Take
that.
She clenched her teeth and did that thing with her chin when trying to
appear taller.
“If you think for one second that nice words would make me forget
what you’ve done, you not only don’t have a soul, you don’t have a brain.
From the very first moment you walked into the theatre, your surly attitude,
your arrogance, your…”
She waved her hand in a circle in front of me.
 “…the way you walk.”
The way I walk? She nodded, like she was answering a question I didn’t
ask aloud.
“You are a misanthrope, Mr. Darcy.”
She said my name like it was a dirty word.
I winced. “A misanthrope?”
“Yes.” She smiled menacingly. “Look it up.”
“I know what a misanthrope is.”
“Good,” she exclaimed. “Because if you searched misanthrope on the
internet, your photo would be on the Wikipedia page.”
Her features were a glow of red-hot fury, but then something changed in
her eyes. It was a mixture of regret and extreme disappointment. When she
spoke again, it was hardly audible.
“And to think…” Her fingers touched her lips, tracing the delicate skin
where I branded her with my kiss. I instinctively took a step towards her.
“To think what?”
She shot her gaze into me and whatever tenderness had come over her,
it was gone.
“Nothing.” Her tone was clipped, laced with poison. It was super-hot.
“You like me,” I said, inching closer. Her eyes grew wide.
“No, I don’t.”
“Oh yes, you do.”
I wrapped my fingers over the tiny wrist of her left hand to draw her
into a kiss. She gasped, and her small form easily gave in to my gentle
coaxing. I could feel her warm breath through the thin fabric of my shirt.
“Admit it, Elizabeth. You want me to kiss you again.”
In my peripheral vision, I noticed her right palm swinging towards my
face. It happened in slow motion, like I had Jedi reflexes, and I caught her
other wrist before she could slap me.
“Admit it.”
She opened her mouth to refute my words, but as her beautiful lips
moved to form her reply, I claimed them, finding myself unable to resist
their allure a moment longer. Her breath hitched, and her eyes fluttered
shut. I wasn’t asking permission anymore. I was the Pirate King, virile and
magnificent. She melted into me like a marshmallow over the fire, and all I
wanted to do was wrap her into my arms forever. I loosened the hold on her
wrists and trailed my fingertips delicately up the length of her arms. But it
wasn’t enough. My thirst for her was insatiable, and I couldn’t get close
enough. Drawing her flush against me, I deepened the kiss. Desperate for
more. I demanded more.
Big mistake.
Because she bit me. A cold wetness throbbed from my lower lip, and the
metallic taste of blood reached my tongue. Mood ruined.
“Would it kill you to act like a gentleman?” she cried.
“Gentleman?” I huffed, dabbing the blood on my lips. “Honey, this is
real life, not Downton Abbey. If you want a book boyfriend, go look
somewhere else.”
“I don’t want any boyfriend at all, you egomaniac,” she screamed.
“Even if you were the last man on earth and the existence of the human race
was hinged upon my liking you, our poor species would fade quite
spectacularly into extinction.”
She was breathing heavily, and I feared if I didn’t leave her alone and
soon, I’d be strapped to a guillotine.
“Okay,” I said in a defeated whisper. “You’ve made yourself perfectly
clear.”
In a matter of minutes, I managed to make a complete fool of myself. I
felt so ashamed of my feelings, handing them to her so she could chop them
to bits. I wanted to sink into the ground. But I straightened, regarded her
with a nod and bade, “I hope you have a wonderful new year. Please drive
home safely.”
And then I left her, knowing it would be extremely awkward when we
returned to the theatre. I had to console myself with the idea that things
might boil over by then. Perhaps it would all be forgotten—at least mended.
So I went home determined to set the record straight with the girl who
rejected me.
21
 WILL WITH A QUILL

Beth

THAT WAS BANANAS. One minute, I was planning Will’s demise, the
next, his lips were on mine. Will Darcy was the type of guy to get what he
wanted. All the time. I just didn’t realize he wanted me. But he couldn’t
want me. Could he? That kiss. The way his lips encompassed my mouth,
the way his breath mingled with mine, the way he held me, making me lose
all thought. It seemed sincere. For that moment it didn’t matter.
But what was I doing? Kissing him back as though I wanted to. As
though everything he’d done wasn’t an abomination to me. I supposed I
wasn’t any different than those idiotic female leads who can’t seem to stay
away from the villain in the play. Mina came to mind. She had the funky
vampire hots for Dracula even though he was like a thousand years old and
ate babies. She couldn’t help herself. I think the sexy Transylvanian accent
had something to do with it. Maybe if I’d sung Please Don’t Make Me Love
You, Will would have stabbed himself with a stake. A girl can wish.
I went home immediately, without a word to Charlotte. Without a word
to Fitz. Text messages lit up my phone so much, it was like a nightclub in
my purse. So I shut it off. I had to process what happened with Will. I still
hadn’t fully comprehended all the things Fitz said before I was assaulted by
those confusing feelings when Will kissed me. I was playing with fire with
that one. Still, that pit of despair in my stomach entertained the butterflies
with a nightcap. No, no, no, no! The butterflies didn’t get to stay. The
butterflies weren’t welcome.
The house was (thankfully) quiet when I arrived. The last thing I wanted
to do was answer questions about how my evening went. Also, my head felt
like a lowrider’s subwoofer. The pounding was relentless. And lucky me. I
had the morning shift at the lodge.
When sleep finally came to me, I dreamt of Paris. Will was there
dressed in his Pirate King costume, but he was just out of reach. And he was
wet. Completely wet from head to toe. He was drowning. But right before I
could help him (I didn’t have a plan for that but just roll with it because it
was a dream) Caroline threw herself all over him. And I felt jealous.
Needless to say, I awoke furious with myself.
I frowned at my coffee maker. Nothing that could possibly have come
out of that ten-dollar Walmart appliance was strong enough for my needs. I
stopped for a triple americano at the drive-thru Coffee Bean, and I hoped
for an easy day at work. Charlotte had the day off. I didn’t even realize my
phone was still shut off until she called the restaurant after the breakfast
crowd dispersed. I made up some lame excuse for leaving the party,
imputing my swift departure to a headache—which was partially true. The
headache’s name was Will.
She was on her way to Disneyland with Colin when she called but said
she would have no fun at all if she didn’t check on me. I could just picture
Charlotte worrying herself sick while she watched the Holiday Parade. Not
even the tin soldiers would cheer her up. Poor Charlotte.
I wished I could go to Disneyland. Only a couple more hours until my
shift was over. I’d have to content myself with watching videos when I got
home. That would do for a mediocre substitute.
I was deciding upon a comforting stack of carbolicious pancakes to
soothe my woes when the air around me was suddenly disturbed by the
arrival of Will Darcy. He looked horrible. Like he hadn’t slept. In fact, I
don’t think he had slept. His eyes were bloodshot, and his hair looked like
small birds could make it their home. I gave him kudos for changing out of
his tux at least. He didn’t go to his usual table. Instead, he made a straight
line in my direction and stopped an arm’s length from where I stood. He
looked at me with his sad eyes and unshaven face like a deflated balloon. It
was depressing.
 I didn’t say anything to him. What do you say to a guy who, less than
twenty-four hours ago, kissed you like you’ve never been kissed before but
there was that little caveat of swearing to hate him forever? Yeah. There
were no words.
He held out an envelope, handing it to me without an explanation.
“Will you please read this?”
That’s all he said. Nothing more. Then he walked out the door, leaving
me astonished and bristled. He was such a drama llama, making an exit like
that. Clearly, he watched too many black and white movies. That thought
upset me because I loved black and white movies, too. Ugh!
The envelope burned at my curiosity for the next few hours until my
shift ended. I was acutely aware of its presence in my apron pocket as I set
about my chores. Filling the salt shakers, wiping down the menus, doing
fifty roll-ups. All those menial tasks gave me ample time to contemplate
what might be in that envelope. It was kind of thick. If it was a letter, it was
a long one. Who wrote letters in the twenty-first century? I pictured Will at
an old writing desk with a quill and ink. It was the best I could do to lighten
my mood until I could have some privacy to read whatever it was he
couldn’t put in an email. Maybe he knew I’d delete it without opening it.
Once I left the lodge for the day, I decided to pull into a Home Depot
parking lot to open the letter in my car. If it exploded in my face, I’d be able
to use their fire hydrant. I gingerly opened the seal and retrieved four sheets
of stationary filled with scribblings front and back. A word here and there
was crossed out, and since there were no lines, the sentences curved down
in a slant and weren’t uniform in size.
The letterhead was personalized, like he actually wrote letters on a
regular basis. Maybe he did use a quill. Will with a quill. The words he
used, careful in execution and somewhat formal were as follows:

From the desk of William Martin Darcy

Miss Elizabeth Bennet,

Please don’t think this letter is a repeat of my advances. I suppose by
writing you, it would seem that I’m not giving up the hopes and wishes I
expressed to you last night. Believe me, I’d rather not drag this out longer
than is comfortable for either one of us, but as a matter of principle, I felt I
needed to clear the air of a few misunderstandings. I can almost see you
roll your eyes as I write this, but please bear with me.

Last night, you made two incriminating accusations against me. One, I
convinced Bing to detach himself from Jane—to put it in your words—
played with their emotions and made them miserable. The other grievance
you expressed concerned Jorge Wickham. According to your accounts, I
stripped him of his dignity and ruined his life, casting him out into the
world to live out his days in poverty and obscurity. You make me out as a
tyrant.

Well, if the shoe fits…

To cast out a childhood friend who was practically family, someone my

father loved like a son, who lived with us as a brother would be a pretty
crappy thing to do, but it’s not even in the same ballpark as keeping two
people apart who hardly know each other. By the way you rained down your
fury last night, one would think I was some kind of mustache-twirling super
villain with a secret vendetta on all that’s good. I hope after you read this,
you’ll understand the truth enough to put this behind us. I’m sorry if what I
have to say offends you, but I have to get this off my chest. As far as I’m
concerned, it’s pointless to apologize.

You would think that, you arrogant Caiaphas.

As you’re probably aware, Bing and I came to the Gardiner straight from a
national tour. What you don’t know, however, is that I was responsible for
introducing him to Stella, which got him the lead role in Pirates. I promised
I would guide him in his career—to steer him in the right direction so he
could enjoy some success. I did this selflessly, taking a job in a venue far
below my skill level all as a favor to him. (I won’t get into the particulars of
my arrangement with Stella that came with the deal.) Because I felt so
protective of Bing’s success, I grew increasingly concerned with the amount
of time he was spending with Jane versus his craft. He’s a talented actor,
but he has a lot to learn, and in this business, it takes tireless dedication
and hard work. Having a girlfriend is just a distraction. Even so, if I
thought there was any true affection, I wouldn’t have said anything. But I
watched them. I took advantage of every opportunity I had to observe the
way they acted in private—away from the theatre. Bing was like a docile
puppy dog; he’d follow her around anywhere. But I didn’t sense she felt the
same for him. She was aloof—she almost seemed bored around him. That’s
when I knew it wasn’t worth it.

If I didn’t intervene, he would have lived the rest of his life with regret. I’ve
seen too much pain because of unequal relationships. I don’t think I did
anything wrong in pointing out to him the consequences of making a big
mistake like that. If Jane’s feelings were hurt in the process, I’m sorry. I
didn’t intend for anyone to get hurt. I’m sure you’ll probably disagree with
me about everything. But that’s how I saw the situation, and I stand by my
decision to protect my friend.

At this point, I didn’t want to read any further. I was tempted to rip that
letter to shreds. I wanted to douse it in gasoline and set it on fire. Just the
fact that he touched the paper grated on my nerves. Typical Hollywood
actor, so wrapped up in his own ego, he couldn’t see how much two people
loved each other. Unbelievable. Jane wasn’t the type to act like an imbecile
when she liked a guy. That was Lydia’s department. What did he expect? A
soliloquy? And how dare he? How dare he make assumptions based on a
few fleeting observations? Ugh! I could have punched somebody. I exerted
my anger by laying my fist down hard on the horn. A guy getting out of his
Ford whipped his head around, looking for the culprit. He was out for blood
over such an offense.
I decided to head home, lest I do something rendering me a public
nuisance. All throughout the drive, my thoughts simmered on the haughty
words in that letter. Dating Jane wasn’t worth it? He would have lived the
rest of his life with regret? Who gave Will the authority to interpret those
signals for Bing? What was even in it for him? One would imagine, by the
tone of his words and the half-baked excuses he made, his reputation was
hinged on Bing’s life choices. News flash: Will didn’t have much of a
reputation to uphold. He took his shirt off and ran from explosions to make
box office millions. Who cared about his little escapade at a venue below
his skill level. What a Judas. I’m sure none of his fans had even heard of
Gilbert and Sullivan, much less Pirates of Penzance.
 By the time I arrived at the apartment, my knuckles were white. I didn’t
even realize how tight I gripped the steering wheel. It was rather painful to
pry them loose. I had my sights set on a B.L.T. and the whole bag of kettle
chips I stole from my parents’ house. Then I would lock myself in my room
and decide if I wanted to give Will’s letter any more of my time, or if I
wanted to flush it down the toilet. After some thought, I decided the letter
didn’t deserve the honor of clogging up my plumbing, so it sat in my purse,
taunting me as I made my sandwich.
Jane and Lydia were still in their pajamas and messy buns. I envied
them. Why was I the only one with a crappy job? An Equity paycheck was
good enough for them. It should have been more than adequate for me too. I
truly considered the advice Fitz gave me. There are no guarantees. Take a
chance. Put yourself out there. I made a mental note to call him later to
apologize. There were no messages from him on my phone. Maybe he saw
me talking to Will. Ugh! Will. My eyes drifted to my purse—like if I stared
at it hard enough, my x-ray vision might kick in.
To add to the noise level in my little apartment, Holly was visiting. She
and Lydia made plans that sounded rather ominous.
“Don’t take any expensive jewelry—and if you want fireworks, Cole
knows a guy.” Holly perused internet articles on her phone, exchanging
advice with Lydia. “We’ll be on the boat most of the time, but if we go
anywhere, stash a roll of toilet paper in your purse. I guess they don’t
provide toilet paper in public restrooms.”
“B.Y.O.T.P.,” Lydia quipped.
“Oh!” Holly frowned at her phone. “This article doesn’t recommend
carrying a purse at all.”
“How about a beach bag?” Lydia suggested.
Holly shook her head solemnly. “Nope. A friend of mine had her beach
bag stolen when she was distracted by a good-looking guy who pointed out
a mustard stain on her shoulder. Apparently, it’s a big scam. One guy squirts
condiments on your back and steals anything you set on the floor while the
other guy distracts you with his bedroom, Latin-lover eyes.”
Lydia laughed. “The only thing they’ll steal from me is a roll of toilet
paper and some sunscreen. I plan on putting my pesos in my bathing suit.”
She grabbed her boobs and wiggled them, shaking her butt for extra
flavor.
 “What are you two talking about?” I asked with a trace of annoyance in
my tone.
Lydia spread her palms, pumping her party-girl arms over her head.
“We’re going to Mex-i-co!”
Then she hooted like she was already at some Tijuana nightclub doing
shots. She hadn’t even left the living room and already, she was acting like
a dingbat.
“We’re going on Cole’s boat,” Holly explained. “Definitely Ensenada,
but maybe we’ll make it as far as Cabo.”
Lydia rocked her head in agreement. “Papas and Beer!”
“And fishing,” Holly added. “Cole loves to fish.”
Lydia winced, offended by the imaginary fish smell.
“Are you sure you should be going to Mexico?” I asked Lydia. “You got
Montezuma’s Revenge when you went to lunch in Chula Vista. Besides, I
don’t think Mexico’s quite ready for you.”
“She’ll be fine,” Holly said. “We’ll eat on the boat and won’t drink the
water.”
“Don’t drink the water, señorita,” Lydia said, rolling her Rs. “Only
tequila.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I said.
Lydia and tequila were a bad combo. Lydia and tequila plus Mexican
nightclubs were a recipe for disaster. I spent one Spring Break in Ensenada
a few years back. The way some girls were going on, I felt a tinge of shame
for all my fellow gringos. I could only imagine the kinds of conversations
the bartenders shared with one another. Estupidos would be one of the
milder descriptions used to describe the border-hopping party seekers.
“Just be careful,” I warned.
The noise Holly and Lydia made didn’t seem to bother Jane at all. I
envied how she could sit at the kitchen table and type away on her laptop as
if no one else were in the room. I couldn’t even make a sandwich without
being annoyed by the girls gone wild preview in my living room. Even the
clicking of Jane’s fingers over her keyboard grated on my pounding
headache. I decided to take my B.L.T. into my room and just shut everyone
out.
“What are you doing?” Holly asked, glancing at Jane.
“Oh, just some creative writing.”
“My sister’s a writer,” said Lydia, sounding bored.
 Jane looked up for the first time since I arrived. “I didn’t know you had
a sister.”
Lydia shrugged as if Jane had said I didn’t know you had red shoes.
“Yeah.”
“How is it we’ve never met her?” asked Holly. “I don’t think you’ve
ever mentioned her.”
Lydia pulled a bikini top from the Trader Joe's bag she kept by the
couch and put it on over her clothes.
“She doesn’t live in California,” she said, checking out her own boobs
under the bikini top. “She’s got her own thing going on at Harvard.”
Harvard?
Everyone stared at her incredulously. She had a sister at Harvard? We
all spoke with overlapping questions.
“You have a sister at Harvard?”
“How did we not know this?”
“Is she related to you?”
Lydia laughed. Her free, irreverent laugh that was so Lydia.
“Of course she’s related to me. She’s my sister.”
“One of you could be adopted,” I offered. Or somehow the smart gene
ran out before it got to Lydia. I was just assuming her sister was older, here.
“Why would you think that?” she asked innocently.
I motioned up and down her body, still holding the mayo knife. She
looked down over her body, which was clad only in emoji pajama shorts
and a barely there cotton cami, covered by the recent addition of a bikini
top. She flipped her head back up, the messy bun flopping on her head.
“What?”
Holly, Jane, and I exchanged a look.
“Nothing,” I said, returning to my sandwich building.
“What kinds of things does your sister write?” asked Jane.
“Well,” answered Lydia with a sigh, “her dream is to write for SNL, but
her stuff is too angsty. She sent me a video of her undergraduate program
doing one of her plays, and it was weird. She said it was a think piece. I
couldn’t make it through the second act.”
Of course, anything that required thinking turned Lydia off. In a way, I
admired her for that. She just didn’t care enough to use her bandwidth on
anything not related to fun. She was carefree. If an arrogant movie star had
given her an earth-jolting kiss last night, she wouldn’t be dwelling on it like
I was. She’d probably just laugh and brag about it on Snapchat.
I let the conversation between my three friends fade as I took my
sandwich and potato chips into my room, shutting the chatter out of my ears
so I could pay attention to the monologue in my head. Will Darcy kissed me
last night. And I didn’t hate it. My lips tingled at the memory.
I should have hated it. I should have fled for the hills. But when his
imposing form hovered over me, taking my head in his elegant hands, I let
the nearness of him capture me, and I melted into the kiss. The ground
reeled, taking my insides for a ride. I’d never been kissed like that. He was
definitely an expert kisser. But it felt real. The way he cradled my head,
running a thumb over my jawline. The way his breath hitched, and his
entire body committed itself to mine. It felt real. But it couldn’t have been. I
was there. He was there. And he wanted what he couldn’t have like a bratty
kid on the playground. Hey Beth, how does it feel to be the toy du jour?
Pretty crappy with a side of fist-bumping glee. My sensical side buttoned it
up while my inner jezebel went for high fives. Traitors.
I sat on my bed eating my B.L.T. with the offending letter taunting me
to finish reading it. I gave it my best mad dog stare down with each bite of
bacon, lettuce, and tomato goodness. Each crunch of kettle chip crumbling
under my teeth was an exclamation point.
I won’t read you. Crunch.
You’re nothing but junk mail. Crunch.
But the letter stared back at me like a mobster with a Brooklyn accent.
You lookin’ at me? You can’t handle the truth.
Me: Oh yeah?
Letter: Yeah.
I don’t know why I gave it a Brooklyn accent. It just seemed
appropriate.
I set my empty plate on my side table and snatched the gangster letter in
my fist. I could handle the truth. I totally could. They were words on a page.
Nothing more. And after Will admitted his shameful participation in Bing
and Jane’s breakup, those words were empty ramblings. I perused to where
I had left off.

I stand by my decision to protect my friend.

 Arrogant Herod.

Now for the other accusation you charged me with. A far more serious
offense, if it were true. I don’t know how much Jorge told you about his
history with my family, but I will try to give you a brief sketch. Jorge’s dad
and my own father had a close working relationship. Greg Wickham was my
godfather. Practically family. I remember when Jorge first came to live with
him. His mother had died and all of a sudden, Greg had a son. I didn’t
understand it at the time, but I was happy to have another kid my age at
Fourth of July picnics and pool parties. We’d hide and get into all sorts of
mischief when we were young. Boy stuff. But then Greg died, and Jorge
came to live with us. He became a brother I never had. I know that sounds
lame, but that’s how I saw it. But there was always something off with him,
like he wanted the world to feel sorry for him. So, he’d do stuff to get
attention. At first, it was pretending to have a sore throat all the time or a
belly ache. Then it turned into self-harm and petty theft. I get it. He didn’t
have his parents. He was hurting. But my father did everything he could to
make him feel welcome. When we grew up, Jorge became rebellious. He’d
often leave for weeks at a time without telling anyone where he was going. I
suspected drugs.

When my father passed away, Jorge inherited a small production house.

None of us knew about it. It’s a long story, but basically, my stepmom took
my dad for almost all his cash. No prenup. The production house was a
fledgling project she didn't know about. It was all he could offer Jorge. But
Jorge didn’t want it. Said it was an insult. He wanted money. So I made a
deal with him. I bought the company with some of the earnings I had made
from my first feature film. The rest of the money came from investors.
Catherine De Bourgh is one of them. I paid Jorge a generous sum, and he
took off. I didn’t see him for two years. But then he came back. Strapped for
cash. Demanding more. He didn’t understand Dad lost everything in the
divorce. He died penniless. The only thing he could leave for my sister and
me was the house. Even that was in danger of foreclosing had I not had
some success with my movies. The responsibility of caring for my home and
my sister was left on my shoulders. I’m not complaining. I’d do it again. But
I had nothing of my father’s left to offer Jorge.
 I set the letter on my lap, trying to piece together Jorge’s story to
compare it to Will’s. There were some parallels, but from completely
polarizing points of view. Which one was an accurate depiction of the true
facts? My head spun. I didn’t know what to think.
I was startled from my thoughts by the abrupt bang of my bedroom
door. The thunderous entrance of Lydia and Holly flung it open. Had I
forgotten to lock it?
“Just borrowing a suitcase. Okay?” Lydia was already rummaging
through my closet. Holly offered me a silly grin as if to say crazy Lydia and
then ran to my dresser when she noticed my collection of Fan Pop dolls.
“You have the limited edition Elphaba doll?” she exclaimed. “Wicked.
Ha! No pun intended.”
She laughed at her little quip, turning over the dolls to read the edition
number on the bottom. I did have an impressive collection. Jane wandered
in and sat on my bed, watching the girls go through my belongings. No
biggie. The party was now in my room. Lucky me.
“Can I borrow your sequined mini skirt?” Lydia was going through my
dresser now.
“That’s a costume,” I replied.
She just shrugged and continued to search my drawers. Holly helped
her.
“What are you reading?” Jane nodded to the letter on my lap, which I
snatched up and held to my chest, so she couldn’t take a peek.
“Nothing,” I said, so not sounding suspicious. “Just some notes I made
for myself. Acting notes.”
Her eyes narrowed. She was on to me.
“Carry on,” she said. “Don’t let us interrupt you.”
She slid off my bed and knelt on the floor to help Lydia with the
suitcase. The girls pulled globs of clothes from the black trash bag Lydia
kept in the corner of my room, along with tattered boxes filled with Lord
knows what. This was the sum of her existence. A couple of trash bags and
some boxes. But she was fine with this arrangement for the time being.
While the girls busied themselves with the job of selecting what items
to pile in the suitcase, the letter burned into my palms. What was the truth?
I could handle the truth. I couldn’t resist the pull of it. My eyes instinctively
drew themselves to the letters on the page. I wiggled onto my side to turn
my back on my friends and continued to read in silence.
One day, I found Jorge ransacking the house. He’d shoved some items in
boxes. I really didn’t know what he took exactly—some valuable stuff, I
guess. Some of Dad’s books and knickknacks from the study. I confronted
him, and that’s when he lost it. He threw every insult imaginable in my
direction. It had to be drugs. Why else would someone lash out like that on
family? When he left that day, I thought I’d never see him again. It was both
heartbreaking and a relief. It’s extremely difficult when someone you care
for becomes someone you no longer recognize. But that’s what addiction
does to people. I couldn’t let that touch my little sister. Unfortunately, I was
too late.

I settled into my pillows, both enthralled at what I was to discover next

and disappointed in my morbid curiosity. This was all too strange. Jorge
didn’t seem like a drug addict to me. He was a hot surfer. Hot surfers don’t
do drugs. Do they?

After the course of a few months, I noticed a long thread of text messages
from Jorge on Georgia’s phone. Most of them stupid small talk like an
exchange of photos of what they ate for lunch. Sometimes, he’d ask her
about her day, what she learned in school that day, what she bought at the
mall. For about three seconds, I felt sorry she was growing up without her
adopted brother. Then the texts got into personal territory. Send me a
picture of yourself. She’d send a pouty snapshot of her face. What are you
wearing? She’d reply with poop emoji. A tight coil wrenched in my gut. He
preyed on her. Then a few texts later, he’d say how much he enjoyed seeing
her at a friend’s party. At the beach. At the coffee house she studied at most
afternoons. All that time I wasn’t present in her life because I was working
long hours on set. Sometimes out of the country. I blamed myself. If I’d only
been there. So I took away her phone and made sure she came straight
home from school. When I couldn’t pick her up, I’d send a car. She hated
that. Hated being the movie star’s sister. In retrospect, I realize I could have
handled it better. I didn’t know how to deal with a teenager.

I put impossible restrictions on her freedom. Forbade her to go to parties or

out with friends. I think it made her a little rebellious. All I wanted was to
protect her, but my efforts seemed to push her away. I told myself I didn’t
care if she hated me. As long as she was safe. And she was. For a time.

One night, I was up late, long after she was supposed to be asleep. I was on
the other side of the house, and I wouldn’t have heard anything if it weren’t
for Lady. Her ears perked up, and she started growling in the direction of
the bedrooms. I followed her up the stairs, and that’s when I heard voices.
When I forced open the door, I saw a sight I will never unsee. Jorge had my
sister pinned down. The expression of fear on her face was conviction
enough that his advances weren’t welcome. She was sixteen.

“Shut the front door!” I didn’t realize I had said that aloud until three
heads swooshed in my direction, everyone with various degrees of shock in
their eyes.
“Beth, what the?”
“Are you okay?”
“I’ve never heard you cuss before.”
I shoved the letter under my comforter and turned my head to
acknowledge them. I smiled on one side of my mouth, dismissing their
concern.
“I didn’t cuss.”
Lydia nodded vehemently. “Knowing you, that was close enough.”
Jane came to sit on the edge of my bed and looked at me in the eyes.
She put a soft hand on my arm.
“What’s wrong?”
She knew I wasn’t reading show notes.
“I’ll tell you later,” I whispered, nodding in the other girl’s direction.
She understood. I couldn’t say anything in front of Holly and Lydia. They
didn’t take anything seriously. But Jane gave me a reassuring smile and
quietly left the room. I glanced over at Holly and Lydia, happily oblivious
to the world’s woes while they threw various clothing into piles. They made
a huge mess of my room. I told myself it was only a reflection of my life at
the moment. Just piles of stuff everywhere. No real direction. No plan.
In a last-ditch effort to read the rest of the letter in peace, I took a stroll
down to the community pool and claimed one of many unoccupied lounge
chairs. The gated-in area was perfect for a reprieve from the noise in my
apartment. The breeze made little ripples in the pool water, which glistened
with the orange glow from the setting sun. Soon, it would be too chilly to sit
there without a sweater, but only one page remained of the thick stack of
papers Will gave me. I didn’t think I’d care to read this far, but now I was
invested in learning all he had to say. I couldn't escape it now, no matter
how crazy his story was. I didn’t want to believe him. I couldn’t imagine
Jorge doing those things. But Will’s account of things was too horrific to be
made up. He wouldn’t involve his sister in the story if it weren’t true.

Thankfully, I caught him before anything happened, but because of that, and
the trail of text messages they’d been exchanging, the authorities shrugged
it off. They didn’t believe her. He got off scot-free. But my sister didn’t
recover so easily. She became more and more distant. Counseling did little,
and she became rebellious.

Beth, I’m only telling you these things so you will know the truth about
Jorge. Whatever he said about me and my family could only be half-truths
at best.

Very few people know about what my sister went through. Could you
imagine what it would do to her if the media got ahold of this story?
Keeping it hidden was the last thing I could do. I failed her. But I hope I can
at least keep you from being one of Jorge’s victims.

I know he must have given you some sob story. Maybe even told you I had
something to do with his failure in the business. But the truth is Jorge is
extremely unreliable and difficult to work with. If he can’t get a job in
Hollywood, he has no one to blame but himself. The only reason Stella took
him on at the Gardiner was to honor my father’s memory. She knows how
much Dad loved him.

I sincerely hope he is a changed man. From what I’ve seen, he appears to

be sober now. Maybe I should deal with my trust issues. But I’ve been
burned by a lot of people in my life, and I can never forgive Jorge for what
he did to my sister. I’ve told you before that I hold grudges. Now you know
one of the reasons why.
 I shook my head, trying to un-jumble it all. I hope I can at least keep
you from being one of Jorge’s victims? Melodramatic much? Still, if Will’s
story were true, and he wasn’t embellishing it at all, those were some
mighty bad things Jorge was guilty of.

I understand if you’re having a hard time believing all this. We haven’t been
stellar communicators, you and I. Fitz is one of the few people who knows
the details of what happened. He had given Georgia piano lessons while
these events took place and was with me at Lucas Lodge the other night
when I got a phone call from my sister telling me Jorge paid her a visit at
our house. I’m sure Fitz would be happy to answer any questions you may
have.

Perhaps, this will give you some idea where I'm coming from and why I act
upon my instincts in the way I’ve done recently. You and I still have to work
together once the show opens. My desire is that we come to an
understanding and can at least bury the hatchet until we part ways. Not for
my sake, but for the sake of the show.

Sincerely,
Will

I let the words sink in for a long time. It was a lot to take in, and I
wasn’t sure how to process it. I didn’t know what to think. I swore to loathe
Will for all eternity. How I wished to go back to those simple times. I
reminisced fondly of the good ol’ days when Will was just a common jerk.
Now, I felt sorry for the man, which was incredibly inconvenient. I was still
angry about the whole Bing and Jane thing.
I went back to the first page and read the letter again with the
knowledge I now had. I had a better sense of him, where his motives came
from. On my third reading, I could almost read between the lines, running
over every detail. I scanned the letter over and over until it was too dark to
read. I reclined my head and gazed at the night sky. The palm treetops
swayed in the soft breeze against the smoggy backdrop above. The rustle of
palm fronds caressed in lulling gentle waves while the roar of engines and
swooshing of tires against pavement provided a counter rhythm. The tumult
of my thoughts fell in line with the ambient sounds of Los Angeles
apartment living. Every now and then, voices and clanging dishes would
carry on the wind from beyond someone’s window. Iron bars would cast
dancing shadows over the pool whenever headlights shone in passing.
Sounds of footfall and sundry conversation whizzed by when families and
couples took the path from the parking lot to their units. A dog would bark.
Someone was watching TV. A guy spoke on the phone obnoxiously loud in
Spanish. I must have been there for a couple hours when I decided it was
time to go back inside.
The apartment was dark when I returned. Lydia left a drawing of herself
drinking margaritas on the dry-erase board we used for grocery lists. Her
eyes were bulgy and words inside a speech bubble said, Look out, Mexico.
Here comes Lettuce. Under that, Jane’s fine handwriting stated BRB: gone
to Hobby Lobby.
I was glad for the silence, but it was maybe a little too silent. I plopped
on the couch, flipping through the thousands of channels the guy next door
hacked for us. Nothing was on but reruns of the Rose Parade. I usually liked
the Rose Parade, but all the smiling faces on the floats, waving cowgirls on
horses, and marching bands made my misery even more acute by
comparison. I returned to the letter and read it again. By this time, I almost
had it memorized. I was a glutton for punishment. Looking back on my
memories with Jorge only confirmed Will’s account of his character. Where
I once saw a young, hot, fun surfer, I realized there was no redeeming
quality in Jorge. He was just a party guy and a flirt. From the first moment I
met him, it was all double entendres and stripping himself of his shirt at
every opportunity. The attention he got from the chorus girls at the theatre
—he was all over that. He was in his element. And then there was
Caroline’s warning. As much as I hated to admit it, she was right about him
—in her own bigoted, Caroline way.
I always suspected he was a player. That was no newsflash. But now
that I’d read Will’s letter, things made sense. Jorge was so worried all the
time. Could it be he thought Will might expose him?
Suddenly, I felt like an idiot. Jorge had me eating right out of his hands
with his bedroom eyes and sad story about his childhood—how much he
suffered because of the Darcys. Then I remembered how friendly he was to
my sister—all the times he encouraged me to invite her along with us
places. She was only seventeen—one year older than Georgia had been. I
shuddered to think what might have happened if I’d included her as Jorge
so often suggested. What was wrong with me? I’d always been proud of my
excellent judge of character. But I was wrong about Colin and now, so
detrimentally wrong about Jorge. I was even wrong about Will.
Every time I turned it over in my head, Jorge’s charm faded more and
more. But the most disturbing thing of all was that I saw Will in a
completely different light. It had been so fun to direct all my abhorrence
toward him. Now what was I supposed to do? I couldn’t exactly join the
Will Darcy fan club. That would involve attending weekly meetings with
Caroline. It would majorly suck beans. I decided to let all this new
information percolate for a while. In a week, I’d go to Stella’s charity
carnival and after that, there’d be a few days before I had to face Will at the
theatre. It would be awkward but doable and certainly not the end of the
world.
I opened my laptop and clicked through the trades. It was time to take
Fitz’s advice. There are no guarantees. Only regrets.
22
 THE WINTER OF OUR DISCONTENT

Will

THE FEDEX DRIVER came to my house for the ten millionth time in a
week. Today, Stella briskly swooshed away one rather large, flat box from
my hands.
“I’ll take that, thank you,” she chirped merrily.
Stella had been a permanent fixture at my house since the day after
Christmas. She was a spry force to be reckoned with in her winter years.
The round-the-clock preparations for her charity event seemed to magically
float into place by her tireless orchestration. A constant movement of
elegant rental tables, tents, booths, stages, and rides were erected all over
my house and lawns. I couldn’t tell you where most of my furniture had
gone, only that my living room was transformed into a ballroom at the Ritz
Carlton. A great tent extended beyond the back deck, and the front lawn was
littered with carnival rides and even more tents and stages. Why did I ever
agree to this? I supposed it was the sweet charm spread across Stella’s face
when she asked me. Her organization had outgrown the venue from prior
years, and I couldn’t resist those pleading, soft eyes. That woman could con
a con artist with those baby blues. It made me wonder how many hearts
she’d broken as a young woman.
“Wait a minute.” I caught the corner of the box to make sure my eyes
weren’t playing tricks on me but after reading the address label, I let go as if
it scorched my skin.
“Why is Elizabeth Bennet getting Bloomingdale’s deliveries at my
house?”
Stella shrugged with her arms stretched around the edges of the package
and smiled wryly.
“For the gala, of course. You wouldn’t expect the poor child to carry an
evening gown in a knapsack all day. She’ll have to change into it before
dinner.”
Why could I not escape this pixie girl? She was everywhere. Now, she
was having evening gowns delivered to my house?
“Couldn’t you have found someone else to take Emma’s ticket?” I said
with more aggravation than I cared to display. I would have preferred to
avoid Beth for as long as possible before preview night at the Gardiner. She
hated my guts. Plus, I couldn’t control my manners around her. My intellect
reverted to caveman status whenever she was within a hundred feet from
me. Her feisty wit and scrappy obstinacy were all that refrained me from
clubbing her over the head and throwing her over my shoulder. The thought
of her in my home, touching my furniture, using a guest room to slip into a
slinky dress—at least I hoped it was a slinky dress—oh hell, I lost my train
of thought.
Get a grip.
I stared at the offending box and willed it to contain a burlap sack. A
burlap sack from Bloomingdale’s. That didn’t help. It just brought on more
caveman scenarios.
Stella didn’t answer my question. She just grinned with a twinkle in her
eyes and winked. This was all her fault. She flittered away with Beth’s
seduction-in-a-box with a bounce in her step just as my cell phone went off
in my back pocket. The caller ID displayed contact info for Catherine de
Bourgh. Oh, how wonderful. Was this my day to be harassed by elderly
women?
“William Martin Darcy,” she snapped without preamble, “I want to be
sure I have a place for Anne and myself at the head table.”
She never did have patience for pleasantries, even over the phone.
“Hello to you, Catherine.” I, on the other hand, wasn’t above a cordial
yet pointless greeting. “How may I help you?”
I learned long ago that the way to grate on her nerves was to either
ignore her completely or be so sugary sweet, it would offend a dentist.
 “I have donated a large sum for the honor of attending the gala, and I
intend to be seated at your table.”
I decided to channel my inner customer care representative who doesn’t
give a fig about your first world problems.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “You’ll have to take that up with Stella. She’s in
charge of the seating chart.”
“That woman doesn’t answer her phone.”
“She’s been a little busy.”
I could hear a frustrated sigh on her end of the line.
“At least tell me who you have at your table,” she demanded.
My thoughts raced to Beth. Lovely Beth in a burlap sack from
Bloomingdale’s. Stella already placed her name card next to mine at the
VIP table. At first, I was livid, but now with Catherine yelping in my ear,
Beth at my side sounded like a superior alternative to the De Bourghs.
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, ma'am,” The customer service rep was
getting cheeky.
Catherine was silent for a long while. For a moment, I thought she’d
hung up. But then she said with resignation, “You’ll take Anne around to
meet your colleagues. Wear a blue bowtie to match her dress.”
“I’ll make sure Anne has a wonderful time,” I promised. Honestly, I
didn’t anticipate I would have time to show anybody around. The jobs
Stella had for me to make sure the gala ran smoothly wouldn’t allow for it.
But Stella assured me Anne would hit it off with a certain gentleman on the
guest list. Maybe he’d wear a blue bowtie.
Once Catherine was done giving me sufficient instructions—from her
preferred dinner music to the foods she had an aversion to—she hung up,
and I looked all around me to make sure no other old ladies were in line to
torment me. But there were none. The only tormenting going on was in my
head. I wasn’t exactly heartbroken. That would imply Beth had accepted
my heart long enough to shatter it. Downtrodden was more the right word. I
was a miserable mess. I naively thought that if I could explain my feelings
in a letter, she’d be at my doorstep, aching to kiss me again. Or at least a
text. But five days had passed without a whisper. Had she even read it?
Couldn’t she see I was in torment?
It was probably too forward of me to kiss her on New Year’s Eve. But
the look in her eyes seemed an invitation. They flashed with a challenge,
provoking my concession. For one glorious instant, the universe exploded
around us. It was everything. She was everything. Her beautiful body gave
in to my touch, and a little moan escaped her throat. She had to feel it too.
That was no ordinary kiss. I never knew it could be like that.
But then she pulled my hair and bit my lip. Who does that? A feisty,
scrappy pixie who hated my guts, that’s who.
To top it all off, I was being a terrible brother. Georgia only had a
couple more weeks before she had to go back to New York. I dreaded her
absence, but at the same time, I must have been the worst companion
imaginable. Thoughts of Beth occupied my every thought to the point of
causing physical pain. A constant tightening in my chest felt as though it
was caught between the jaws of a nutcracker. And I felt queasy all the time.
I’d lost my appetite completely.
It wasn’t hard for Georgia to figure out something was wrong. She’d
baked Mexican Wedding Cookies—my favorite. She made a royal mess of
the kitchen, but the gesture was adorable. I knew she tried to get me out of
my slump, but I couldn’t bring myself to eat more than one small bite.
“Wow!” she said. “You got it bad.”
“What? No, I don’t.”
Yes, I do.
“I knew you were twitterpated, but this goes way beyond. You never eat
less than a dozen of these cookies in one sitting.”
Her little face was scrunched up in a know-it-all smirk, and she nodded
smugly.
“Has it perhaps occurred to you I’m just stressed? I have a show
opening soon, Tobias has been badgering me to sign on to another
Dangerous film and look at the state of our house.”
I waved around erratically to accentuate the chaos.
“And stop using that word twitterpated,” I added. “It makes me feel like
Bambi, and that just gets me depressed.”
“Okay, all right,” she huffed. “Not twitterpated. In love. Better?”
Whoa, whoa, whoa! I never said I was in love. I only thought about
Beth all my waking moments. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t
have daydreams without her popping into them like a zealous photo-
bomber.
Was this what love was? More than ever, I wished Dad was there. He
was crazy in love with Mom. He’d know if that’s what I was feeling for
Beth.
 “No,” I replied. “Not better. But thanks for the cookies all the same.”
Georgia rolled her eyes and gave me one of those head shakes mothers
often do when their small child makes a mess.
“Don’t worry, big brother.” She slapped a hand on my back and patted it
a few times. “Everything will turn out. We got this.”
She shot me a wink and scurried away without an explanation as to
what ‘we got this’ meant. What did she mean? Who was ‘we?’ Even as I sat
there with a tin of Mexican Wedding Cookies on my lap, I had a sinking
feeling exactly what she meant, and that delivery for Beth had everything to
do with it.
23
 THE GIRL WITH THE LANYARD

Beth

THE CHARITY CARNIVAL was a day away, and I was alone. Lydia was
still in Mexico with Cole and Holly, and Jane got a callback for a show in
New York. I’d never seen someone bolt to the airport so quickly. I was so
incredibly happy for her, but it made me a little sad. I knew our days as
roommates were numbered, and even though we promised to always keep
in touch, it would never be the same. I guess that’s life. Welcome to
adulting. Things change. Get over it.
But Jane being Jane was a little bit worried to leave me. She said she
was worried I might eat my weight in ice cream. Pshh. As if. (I totally
would do that.)
Jane knew me well enough to know that when faced with cruddy life
situations, my coping mechanism was to stuff my face with copious
amounts of sugar. Usually Nutella or ice cream. Or Nutella with ice cream. I
assured her the sugar would remain at normal levels and waved off her
concern with an “I’ll be fine.” Then I gave her a tight squeeze and ushered
her out the door where her Uber waited. What she didn’t know was that I’d
recently traded in sweets for French fries on top of pizza. I figured I’d get a
head start on the carnival food.
There was no reason for her to worry, though. I didn’t tell her
everything in the letter. I left out a few of the more sordid details and opted
not to go into too much where it concerned Bing. Jane was just starting to
get her life back. I didn’t need her to revert back into Cap’n Crunch hair and
telenovelas. Bing was a big boy and when it came down to it, he made his
own decisions. He’d come around if that’s what he wanted in the end. If he
truly deserved Jane, even Will’s influence over him couldn’t hold him back.
True love always wins. At least that’s what I learned from watching
Princess Bride a thousand times. Then I got angry because Princess Bride
reminded me of Will. Admittedly, everything reminded me of Will, but that
was another can of worms. So what if I left out certain details for her own
good?
Besides, Jane was too fixated on Will kissing me to hear much else. Her
grin couldn’t have been much bigger if I’d told her I won the lottery and
was elected president on the same day. Her reaction didn’t help my efforts
to dampen the little leprechaun doing cartwheels in my tummy. It was a
female leprechaun, and she liked to perform gymnastics whenever I thought
of the kiss. So I resorted to the French fries on pizza tactic to squeeze her
out.
“Are you upset I pushed him away?” I asked. She looked horrified when
I told her I stopped the kiss by pulling his hair. I didn’t mention the biting.
Even I thought that went too far.
“Upset? No! Not if you really don’t like him. Maybe you could have
been a little less violent, but hey. These things do happen.”
She threw on a little Italian inflection with the last sentence.
“But you think I shouldn’t have brought up Jorge?”
“No. You spoke your mind, that’s all.”
“You might change your mind once I tell you what happened the next
day.”
I told her how Will brought me the letter at work on New Year's Day
and his explanation of his history with Jorge without mentioning Georgia.
That alone was enough to give her pause. Jane had a hard time recognizing
the bad in anybody and could hardly believe someone could be so selfish.
She kept asking questions, trying to find a way for both Jorge and Will to be
in the right. She was sure there must be some mistake. That perhaps it was
just a big misunderstanding like every single episode of Three’s Company.
Somehow, she still held out for that final scene where the truth was revealed
and everyone laughed about it.
 “I’m afraid we’re going to have to choose which man to believe,” I said
as though I was Morpheus with a blue pill in one hand and a red pill in the
other. “There’s only enough virtue between them to make one good guy and
as far as I’m concerned, the needle had been swaying more toward Will
lately.”
I saw her start at that, so I quickly added, “And it has nothing to do with
that kiss.”
Or did it?
After a few moments of thought, she shook her head.
“Poor Will. He must have been upset after you told him off. It was
probably hard to trudge up painful memories in writing you that letter.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“I’m sorry,” she said with sincerity. “I’m sure it’s upsetting for you,
too.”
“Nope. Not at all.” I put on my big girl grin. “I’ll let you be upset for
the both of us.”
“And poor Jorge,” she went on. “He seemed like such a nice guy.”
“Well, you know what they say about books and their covers.”
“Jorge has a really nice cover.” She nodded enthusiastically.
“Yep. But Will is the better book.”
She sighed and shook her head even more. “That’s enough metaphors
for me.”
I agreed. “What do you think I should do? Should I say something to
Stella?”
“No,” she said seriously. “Will would have told her if he wanted her to
know.”
She was right. The story of Georgia’s encounter with Jorge wasn’t my
secret to tell. It was a personal matter Will told me in confidence. Besides,
now that the set was finished, I didn’t think Jorge had a reason to return to
the theatre.
Jane watched me for the next few days, periodically checking the
freezer for a stash of Chunky Monkey. When she didn’t think I was looking,
she rummaged my usual hiding places for candy bars like an obsessed
parole officer. I came up clean every time. If she were clever, however,
she’d have searched my car for discarded pizza receipts. Since she left for
New York, the house was quiet, and I rebelliously let the fast food evidence
pile up in my garbage can.
 I looked at my underwear-clad figure in my closet door’s full-length
mirror. Had I put on some pizza weight? Even though the charity event was
casual dress, I didn’t want to look bloated. I decided to go for a loose,
flowery Mod Cloth dress and a denim jacket. The ensemble was very
forgiving around the middle, but it made my legs look awesome—
especially in strappy sandals. I wore that dress to auditions a lot. It had cap
sleeves, a low, gathered, scoop neckline and empire waist that made my
girls appear more perky. Believe me, those poor little pebbles needed all the
help they could get.
As much as Stella’s charity event was a welcome distraction, my
thoughts would often wander back to Will. I was so harsh on him and
frankly was a little embarrassed how much I pigeonholed him into a
stereotype. He wasn’t Brett. He wasn’t even the same species as Brett.
The silence in the apartment only made that voice in my head seem
louder. Plus, I was convinced that little leprechaun in my belly was drunk.
I turned in my two weeks’ notice to Sir William Lucas with a quiver in
my voice. Oddly, it was one of the hardest things I’d ever done. The look on
his face alone made me feel like I’d just dashed a child’s dreams by telling
him there’s no such thing as Santa Claus. But Charlotte was supportive,
proud even. Mom was angry it took me so long. I could hear her chattering
on about it in the background when I called Dad. He only laughed and
whispered into the phone, “If you need money, I have a bit stashed away.”
I assured him it wouldn't come to that.
I had to admit, after several weeks of the tiring schedule of two jobs, I
was at a loss for something. I had far too many quiet hours alone to pine
over Will. I had to stop myself a few times when I tried to define what I felt.
I wasn’t pining. Definitely not.
To prove my point, I did what any perfectly indifferent person would
do. Stream all his movies and have a binge-watching marathon. With
popcorn. I was fully prepared to hate every single one of them. But I didn’t.
I was actually really invested in the storyline and sympathized with the
characters. I just had to know what would happen to them in the next
installment.
What had gotten into me? Had I somehow lowered my standards for
entertainment? Was it only because Will looked certifiably gorgeous? He
was certainly good at jumping on rooftops and hanging one-handed from
helicopters. But his ability to pull off the quiet moments were enthralling.
The raw emotion and gut-wrenching agony in his performance in the third
movie when his character’s wife died got me right in the heartstrings. I
wondered what experience he pulled from when he shed those tears. Maybe
he was thinking about his sister. Or his parents. Suddenly, I felt a deep
connection with him. Then I kicked myself because that was exactly what
delusional fan girls did. Which led me to wonder how much fan mail he got
from adoring women. It made me rage with jealousy.
That made me the most pathetic fan girl in all the land.

WHEN STELLA TOLD me not to worry about transportation, I thought

she meant we’d carpool. That was just one example of how incredibly
ignorant I was of the lifestyle of the rich and famous. People like Stella
didn’t carpool. People like Stella sent limos. The driver who picked me up
at my front door regarded me from under the brim of his chauffeur hat. I
couldn’t help but notice a three-day stubble and dimples for days. He
flashed his pearly whites and offered to assist me down the concrete stairs
from my second-floor apartment. I declined gratefully but did take him up
on the hand he offered to help me in the car; he was totally the swooniest
limo driver I’d ever seen. Not like I had much experience.
I scanned the beautiful interior and found it fitted up with a mini bar,
stocked with bottled water and soft drinks and a complete entertainment
system. Also, I was the only passenger. I figured I must have been his first
stop, and we’d pick up Stella along the way—kind of like the way airport
shuttle drivers operated. But when I asked him how long it would take to
get to Stella’s house, he informed me she was already at ‘Pemberley.’ I
thought he said Pepperdine at first, so naturally, I expected to arrive at a
university, but when we climbed the hill in a super-fancy, residential
neighborhood, I realized Pemberley was something else entirely. We passed
beautiful houses that cost more than I would likely make in a lifetime. They
were all unique and grandiose with green, stately lawns, and many of them
were still decked in elegant Christmas decorations more glorious than any
mall. As we made our ascent, the houses were spread apart by larger areas
of land, and each one was even more magnificent than the last. I tried to
look for street signs. Was Pemberley the name of a street or perhaps a bed
and breakfast nestled amongst these great houses? But then we came upon
it. The news vans lining the streets were a good indicator we were close. We
were at the utmost top of the hill.
The name Pemberley Estate was cast in wrought-iron arches over grand
gates that would give Buckingham Palace a run for its money. We crossed
under it and navigated down a long driveway lined with jacaranda trees on
either side. I loved jacaranda trees because they reminded me of spring and
even though it was still early in the year, the lavender blooms already
covered the branches. We journeyed a great distance before the house itself
came into view. Rounding a corner, my breath quite escaped me as my eyes
took in the vision of a majestic French chateau-style mansion situated like a
sentinel above the neighborhood.
I wanted to laugh. Was this place for real? Surely, it had to be a hotel. It
was stark white with a slate-gray roof and several arches in the front entry.
And were those turrets on the far end of the house? This was bananas.
But although the place was ridiculously huge, it also had a cozy
atmosphere. Maybe because it was hedged in with rows of evergreen trees
or rose bushes lining the edge of a small vineyard. Or maybe it was just the
Disney-esque Christmas decorations or carnival tents scattered throughout
the property. All I knew was that whoever lived here had taste. Hashtag
rich-people-goals.
“Pemberley was built in 1934 at the height of the Great Depression for a
department store executive,” the driver cheerily chirped through the
window.
I chuckled. “That’s pretty ironic.”
“I know, right?” He laughed. “Anyway, it recently went through some
major renovations to give it a contemporary update. Pretty cool, huh?”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “It’s gorgeous. The maintenance alone probably costs
more in a month than I make in a year.”
I could see him shrug in the rear-view mirror reflection. “I guess,” he
said with a dimpled grin. “The Darcys spared no expense to bring this
charity event here.”
My little heart did a flip at the mention of the name Darcy. Then it sank
to my feet like a weighted yoga ball. This was Will’s house? As in he lived
here? Honestly, I didn’t know what I pictured his home to be like. I guess I
never gave the idea of Will living anywhere much thought. He was kind of
a wandering soul—floating somewhere in the cinema firmament.
 “Take me home,” I blurted.
“What?”
“Turn around. Take me home. Please.”
“But we just got here.”
I was suddenly extremely dizzy and lightheaded, not to mention the
ringing sensation in my ears. It was either the effect of Will Darcy’s
massive house or a nuclear bomb had just hit L.A.
“I’m going to be sick.”
The driver’s face went white. He was probably concerned I’d hurl all
over the upholstery.
“Let me just get through this traffic,” he said.
Oh, but that wouldn’t do. Stella was a few cars ahead of us, greeting
people as they disembarked.
“Oh, Bard,” I cried. “Go, go, go!”
“All right, all right.” He swiftly put the car in reverse and did his best
Knight Rider skid, burning rubber away from the line of Bentleys and
Lamborghinis. The screech of tires turned Stella’s head and as we raced
backwards, I could see her chasing after us on foot, calling, “Wait. Where
are you going?”
It was a hilarious sight to see an elderly Englishwoman who’d been
knighted by the queen running down the driveway in pursuit of a retreating
limo with her arms flailing. The look on her face was priceless. She slowed
down when we were forced to stop, having been blocked by a catering
truck.
“Sorry, Miss Bennet,” the driver apologized. “I tried.”
A tap sounded on the glass, and he rolled down his window to reveal a
heated, out of breath Dame Stella.
“What on earth are you doing?” she huffed. “I’m old and wearing Dior.
Not a good combination for calisthenics. Are you trying to kill me,
Enrique?”
Enrique!
She poked her silver head all the way inside the driver’s window,
causing Enrique to lean dramatically to his right.
“Beth,” she chirped with an enormous grin. “Don’t you look lovely.”
I’d lost my opportunity for escape. Enrique cut the engine and escorted
me out of the limo as though I was decked out for the Oscars instead of a
hoedown. I felt so underdressed. Fancy houses will do that to you. Stella
was ravishing in a nautical navy and white pants set with gold buttons in the
shape of anchors. It was casual in a way that made a statement that said I’m
here amongst you peons, but I’d rather be on my yacht, daaahling. Stella
wouldn’t talk like that, but her outfit certainly did.
“I’m in a bit of a quandary,” she said, taking my arm. She swiftly
whisked me towards the great house—I trotted along, glancing wistfully
back at Enrique and my last hope of escape. He stood in front of the limo
with his hands clasped in fig leaf position and shrugged as he watched me
go to the gallows. The sun reflected with a sparkle off his aviator glasses,
and he flashed me a toothy grin.
“Umm…” I said, trying to keep the pace, “what kind of quandary?”
She led me around the front drive and down a path to a great, open area
which looked like the perfect place to play croquet or golf—or some other
rich person sport—but was now transformed into colorful fairgrounds. I
first noticed white tents with flags on the pointed tops and as we ventured
further into the throng of families with children of all ages, the rides came
into view. A giant Viking ship swing, spinning rides, a zipper—even a
Ferris wheel. How did I not see the Ferris wheel before?
“We need to find my niece,” said Stella over the noise of the crowd.
“She’s got to be here somewhere.”
By her niece, she could only mean one of the most famous actresses
working in Hollywood—Emma Woods. I’d seen almost all her movies and
unabashedly bought whatever line of cosmetics she endorsed in those chic
commercials that went viral on the internet. For a commercial to go viral, it
had to be something special.
“Why don’t you just call her?” I asked sheepishly. It seemed like an
obvious solution to me, but you never know.
“I don’t remember where I set my mobile,” she said. “She’ll be easier to
find if we follow the flashing camera bulbs.”
“Hang on.” I stopped in the shade of a game booth to navigate the
search engine on my phone and typed in hashtag gardinerartscharity. I
smiled at Stella and wiggled my phone in the air. “Good ‘ol internet,” I
quipped.
She raised a silver brow. “Indeed.”
It didn’t take long. The number of reporters, entertainment bloggers,
and YouTubers was at level ludicrous. You couldn’t take five steps in any
direction without running into some kind of media dynamo, and every
single one of them would want to be first to post candid celebrity shots.
“This one looks recent,” I said, showing the image to Stella.
She squinted at the screen, examining the photo of Emma Woods on the
arm of an incredibly handsome man who had his head thrown back in a fit
of laughter. If that was her date, they made an adorable couple.
“I know where that is,” remarked Stella. “Come along.”
She led me through the grounds with purpose and filled me in on the
situation as I fell into step with her. Apparently, Bing was supposed to sing
a couple of songs, and he bailed at the last minute.
“We’ll need to find a replacement,” explained Stella. “And then there’s
the little matter of filling his dinner seat at the gala tonight. I put his place
card next to yours.”
Place card? I had a place card?
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t follow.”
“Dinner, my dear,” she said with a heavy sigh, weary of my ignorance.
“Didn’t I mention you and Bing would be sitting at my table?”
No. No, she did not. I shook my head.
“Well, no matter,” she went on, still walking briskly. “Bing’s not
coming and now, we have to find someone to replace him.”
She leaned into me with a conspiratorial tone. “We planned to sing O
False One and the Pair of Ducks number. Neither one of those songs will
work without him.”
I was flummoxed. “Oh.”
Yep. That’s all I could say. Just oh. Like Oh, there’s lipstick on my teeth,
or Oh, it’s shamrock shake season. Not hold the phone, what is this gala you
speak of? Or even hang on now, is this dinner a casual thing, like maybe a
barbecue?
She was so flippant about it, I was fairly certain dinner was barbecue.
Or giant turkey legs like at Ren Faire. Or maybe a six-foot sub. I had my
heart set on raiding the corn on the cob booth.
We reached an open-air tent with auction items on display. My inner
bad girl took a leap at the sight of a sweet Harley Davidson with a side car.
How much would that go for? I fell a little behind as the items on display
caught my attention, and I slowed my pace. Stella stayed her course and
made a beeline to two people bent over an auction table. When they turned
to greet her, I recognized Emma Woods immediately. She was so
effervescent. The man from the photo kissed Stella on the hand. Such a
gentleman. I did a quick glance at the caption under the internet article on
my phone. Apparently, he was a big-time director. Jaxson Knightly. The
name sounded familiar. I was so out of touch, it was ridiculous.
“I’d like you to meet my friend Beth,” Stella announced as I approached
the trio. “She’s the best Edith I’ve ever seen on stage.”
I was officially going to lose it. Dame Stella Gardiner tooted my horn in
front of Hollywood’s sweetheart and her A-list director boyfriend. Great. I
wanted to laugh like a valley girl and say, “I’m so totally sure,” but I held in
my fangirl glee and said dismissively, “I’m sure that’s an exaggeration.”
“My aunt is a great exaggerator,” she said, shaking my hand. “But never
about theatre, and never about talent. I’m Emma.”
“Yes, I know.” Ohmigosh, ohmigosh, I was shaking hands with Emma
Woods!
Keep it together, Beth.
Her charming companion then took my hand and gave it a little squeeze.
“A pleasure,” he said with a slight nod.
Good Heavens, he was Australian. I was so out of my element, but here
were these people, just people doing people things, shaking hands with new
acquaintances. No biggie.
Like an idiot, I held up my phone, showing the search results that led us
to them.
“Beth has been helping me find our guests on the twit-box,” remarked
Stella. “What did Emma say to you that was so amusing, Jaxson?”
Emma peeked at the screen and winced.
“I just followed the hashtag gardinerartscharity,” I squeaked in my
mousy voice. “I swear I’m not a stalker.”
That was probably the kind of statement stalkers would make. But
Emma smiled warmly and said something about her mom. I didn’t quite
hear everything because my ears were still ringing from the shock of being
at Will’s house. There were hordes of people. It was probable I might not
even cross paths with him. He was probably busy sharpening his quill and
smoking a pipe. Stella was going on about Bing going MIA.
“I need you two to sing something from your new musical,” she
demanded.
“What?” Mr. Dreamypants and Emma exclaimed in unison.
 “We haven’t started rehearsals,” said the man. “We don’t even have the
finished score.”
“Surely you can sing something,” groaned Stella, then quickly added,
“Do you know anything from Pirates of Penzance? We need someone to
sing Frederic’s part.”
She wagged her brows at him.
“I’m afraid I don’t,” he said.
“Besides,” added Emma, “we’re not planning on staying for the dinner.”
“Oh, my dear Emma,” returned Stella. “I was quite prepared for that.
You lot never stay for dinner, although heaven knows why. I invited Beth
and the other actor to fill your seats, but now that he had to cancel, I have to
give away Jaxson’s place at the table again. Oh Lord! This messes up my
seating chart completely.”
“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” replied Emma.
They were so much alike. I imagined Stella much the same way when
she was in her twenties. I watched Jaxson cross his arms and smile, shaking
his head while the two British women squabbled back and forth. I surmised
it was a regular occurrence. Stella said something that must have displeased
the younger woman because she blurted, “You’re going to give Jaxson’s
seat away to Clay Tilney? A fifty-thousand-dollar dinner?”
“Fifty thousand dollars?” I cried then quickly covered my mouth.
Whoa. What kind of barbecue was this?
Stella huffed. “Well, you didn’t want it. It’s kind of you to donate to the
fundraiser, but I can’t very well have empty seats at my table.”
“But Clay?” Emma protested.
“What difference does it make to you, Emma?” Jaxson interceded. “We
gave up our seats, so leave it be.”
Did she seriously say fifty thousand dollars? Maybe they were talking
about another dinner.
“In any case,” said Stella, “I’ve got to take care of this quandary. Come
now, Beth. Let’s find Will.”
Will? Fifty-thousand-dollar dinner? Oh, heck no. I tried to protest as we
left Emma and Jaxson behind. We didn’t even say a proper goodbye. I
didn’t have a chance to fit in a thanks for giving me your dinner seat. I
made a mental reminder to write her a letter of appreciation. I could borrow
Will’s quill.
 “Where are we going?” I tried to slow Stella’s pace, but she was a
determined woman. It didn’t help that I had to pee. I eyeballed the port-a-
potty in the distance with repugnance. I was sensitive to smells.
“I need to speak with William,” she said. “Can you find him on the
tweet box?”
“Uh…”
Finding Will on the tweet box or by any other means wasn’t on my top
one hundred wish list. I didn’t know what I would say to him once we came
face to face. We hadn’t exactly parted on friendly terms. I said some pretty
horrible things. I was probably on his famous Burnt List.
“Aha!” Stella stopped in her tracks. “I know where to look.”
She reached into the deep pockets of her baggy sailing pants and pulled
out something plastic wrapped in a slender chain.
“I almost forgot to give this to you,” she said as she placed it in my
hand. It was a hard, plastic card with gilded lettering that spelled out my
name under a bold VIP stamp. A lanyard. For me. I officially belonged.
“This will give you access to the house if you need it and other
backstage areas,” she explained. “And if you’re hungry, there’s seventy-five
dollars loaded on the card. Just swipe at any food booth. Not alcohol—just
food.”
I stared at the lanyard in my hands, marveling at it like it was a glowing
key to the TARDIS.
“Thank you,” I marveled at the wonder bestowed on me. Such a dork.
Stella narrowed her eyes over me with an amused grin.
“You don’t mind if I leave you for a time,” she stated rather than asked.
“Try the artichoke hearts. I hear they’re heavenly.”
Then she happily bounded off, leaving me in the midst of laughing
families, balloon-bearing children, and clouds of cotton candy in every
direction. The glorious aroma of popcorn and funnel cake drifted in the
breeze, and I followed the wafting trail to a line of food booths and linen-
covered tables shaded by navy umbrellas. It was a carnival but with a
snazzy makeover. Even the game booths were covered in stark-white
draperies. Live New Orleans jazz reached my ears from a nearby stage.
There were stages like that all over the property. We’d passed a mariachi
trio in our rush to find Emma.
I draped the lanyard around my neck. No flimsy plastic or cheap ribbon
here. This lanyard was practically jewelry. I held onto the thick plastic of
the VIP card. Just scan it, she said. She didn’t have to tell me twice.
Mayonnaise-smothered corn on the cob called my name. But I really had to
pee. After a brief argument with myself whether I should risk the port-a-
potty or test the validity of the VIP pass, I decided to venture towards the
house. If it didn’t work, no harm no foul. There were plenty of bushes if I
couldn’t make it back in time to use the port-a-potty. The robust jazz and
sounds of screaming passengers on rides faded as I reached the main
entrance of the house. Two imposing men in dark shades flanked the
doorway. Their black polo shirts had the word security printed over the
pocket. I flashed my lanyard as I approached them, feeling much like my
uncle at the U2 concert. I was ready for them to kick me to the curb. But
they smiled and opened the double doors. The taller of the two (which was
really saying something because they were both giants), regarded the gold
print on my VIP card and gave me a warm greeting. “Good afternoon, Miss
Bennet.”
“Uh, good afternoon.” It was all I could manage. The two men watched
as I fumbled into the house, peeking at me as the doors closed them outside.
I actually made it in. But whoa! This house. If it was impressive from the
outside, it was absolutely heart stopping from the inside. The entryway
alone was bigger than my whole apartment. The ceiling reached the height
of three stories. The floor was a rich, dark-brown wood, and a beautifully
adorned Christmas tree that had to be at least twenty-five feet tall stood
proudly in the center of the foyer. The scent of pine needles reached my
senses and found my happy place. Fresh garland swags were draped on the
banisters all around. I was glad he still had his decorations up. It made me
feel warm all over, like everything was right in the world just because I
stepped into a Christmas wonderland.
I tiptoed around the tree and into what I assumed was the main room by
the looks of it. Tall cocktail tables were scattered throughout, draped in
floor-length, black linens. A few workers scurried about making final
preparations for the evening festivities, placing centerpieces on the tables,
large flower arrangements at every entryway, and candelabras on every
available surface. Notably on and around a glorious, shiny, pink grand
piano. Pink. I hadn’t pegged Will as a pink kind of guy. It was light—just a
dusting of color, but undeniably pink. Maybe Mary Kay gave out pianos
instead of Cadillacs.
 Everything looked so elegant. This was no barbecue. I looked around at
all the possible passageways. Where the Nigel was the bathroom? My
badder protested with urgency. Ugh! I tried a few doors. No luck. There had
to be a bathroom or ten somewhere in this castle. It was getting harder and
harder to keep it in with every passing second. Finally, I found a corridor
that looked like it led somewhere, but it was more like a labyrinth that went
deeper and deeper into the house. Where the heck was I? There were some
doors, but the ones not locked opened up to closets or weird rooms like one
that looked like a microbrewery. At last, I reached a narrow stairwell. There
had to be a bathroom upstairs. Did my VIP pass allow me access up there?
It darn well should if they didn’t want a puddle on the floor. My eyeballs
were about to bulge out of my head with the pressure. I had to relieve
myself and soon. The stairwell was kind of dank for such an opulent
mansion. It was just a simple flight of stairs like one would find in a regular
house, perhaps leading up from a basement. Framed black and white photos
lined the walls, but I didn’t have any time to look. I was on borrowed time
here. A single door stood at the top. I prayed for it not to be locked. To my
intense joy, it opened, and I found myself in a living area. Possibly
bedrooms. Thank the Lord. Bedrooms meant bathrooms.
I made it just in time. I ran in there so fast, I didn’t have time to notice
anything about my surroundings except where to find the toilet. It was
while I was washing my hands that I was able to take in the gorgeous
fixtures, the perfectly organized soaps and lotions and a neatly stacked
tower of washcloths rolled up like egg rolls on a tray. A simple vase
adorned the counter with fragrant gardenias perched on the rim and a photo
frame sat right next to it, just far enough away from the sink to not get wet.
It held a candid photo of Will, maybe five years younger with his hair
caught in the wind. It looked like it was taken at the beach, and he smiled
irreverently and carefree with a teenaged girl at his side. Georgia, if I could
guess. The family resemblance was uncanny.
Panic struck in my chest. This was no guest bathroom. Family used this.
I spun around to take in the rest of the space. A bath towel on the floor. Flip
flops in the corner. A discarded shampoo box in the wastebasket. I needed
to get out of there before I was caught. They’d probably think I was
snooping around. Then I’d really be on his Burnt List. But as I snuck out
into the hallway, I heard a sad, high-pitched whine. It was a constant and
persistent yelping and as I followed the sound, I heard the accompanying
scratch, scratch, scratch on wood. The dog was just beyond the double
doors of what was probably the master suite. Or a library, judging by the
doors which were heavy and imposing. I told myself to go. Just find the
way back and sneak away. But I couldn’t stand the cry of an animal.
Especially a sweet, brown and gold Cocker Spaniel with eyes like shiny
buttons. Besides, who could know how long her human would be too busy
to take her out. Maybe she had to do her business. I could totally relate to
that. My heart just broke in two for the poor dear.
Maybe I’d leave a note. Took Lady for a walk. BRB. In all probability,
I’d have her back before he even noticed. When I opened the doors, she
jumped repeatedly with sheer excitement.
“Who’s a good girl?” I crooned, getting on my hands and knees to
scratch her ears. “Who’s a good girl?”
She rolled onto her back for a belly rub, and her little tongue hung out
of the side of her mouth. The skin on the corners of her snout sagged with
gravity, and it appeared like she was smiling. Maybe she was smiling. I
believed dogs could do that. Especially a smart, lovely dog like Lady.
24
 THE WOMAN WHO STOLE MY
HEART AND MY DOG

Will

“NO. ABSOLUTELY NOT.”

I sliced my hand through the air between Stella and me, drawing the
line on her crazy idea. Her sweet, soft face scrunched into a fierce, wrinkled
scowl.
“Why on earth not?”
“Because…” I began but turned my head and decided to draw her away
from the line of patrons waiting to be served. My sister and I had been
pouring libations at the beer garden. Georgia thought it would be fun to get
our hands sticky with volunteer hours. The press went wild for it, but that’s
not why I did it. The smile it put on my sister’s face to work together for a
good cause was all the reason I needed. We had a rhythm going until Stella
sprang her news on me. I crouched to meet her ear in the corner of the
booth, away from listening ears.
“Because,” I continued with a whisper, “one, we haven’t rehearsed this.
Two, Beth would never agree to it, and three…” I counted on my fingers,
the third digit hanging there waiting for an excellent excuse to spring forth
from my earnest and level-headed brain. But said brain was inundated with
thoughts of Beth. She was somewhere close—on my property. Probably
only a few hundred feet away. She’d seen my home in the wild state it was
in. I wondered what she thought of it—how much of it reflected me. And I
ached for her to see it on a quiet evening when it was just me and Lady by
the pool or on the balcony overlooking the hills.
My thoughts also turned to her every time I looked at that blasted keg. I
made a point to serve mostly boutique beers for the event, but Stella’s board
of directors insisted on a couple of mainstream brands for those who might
want it. And so they added a keg of Bud Lite, and I laughed inwardly
whenever it caught my eye. Oh, Beth.
And now, Stella tried to convince me to sing a duet with Beth for the
banquet. Like it was no big deal to pick up Bing’s role at a moment’s notice.
She stared at me and my third finger. Waiting. I had nothin’.
“Well?” she said, raising a brow. “Is that all?”
“How do you know Beth knows Mabel’s part?” I sputtered. There. My
third excuse. Sort of.
She laughed, waving a hand like she was swatting flies. “My dear boy,”
she exclaimed. “Every girl in the cast knows Mabel’s part. Besides, I
happen to know Beth played Mabel in college. She’s got the chops for it.”
Oh, I knew she had the chops for it. That’s what I was afraid of. There
was something extremely attractive in a woman who could sing, and to
perform a love song with her would be the end of me.
“I think you should do it,” Georgia piped in, smiling ear to ear. She
winked at Stella, sharing a conspiring look. What were these women up to?
I turned around to face her eye to eye. “Georgia, what if I were to ask
you to perform Franz Liszt’s La Campanella with little to no practice
time?”
She crossed her arms and peeked at me under her lashes. “I would give
it a try. For love,” she said that last bit under her breath.
“For what?” I asked. We weren’t having this conversation again. Not
here.
“For love of the theatre,” she said with a smile. “Sheesh!”
Grrr. These women in my life. I needed to do some guy stuff—like
watching football and maybe some masculine grunting while blowing
things up.
“William Martin Darcy.”
Uh oh. Stella meant business when she used my middle name.
“I’ve been looking forward to this gala for months, and I will be
damned if I don’t get to perform tonight.” Her hands were on her hips. “I
need you to sing Frederic’s part in Oh, False One. I know you can do it.”
 “I can do that, Stella,” I conceded, cowering under her glare. How could
anyone say no to this lady? She was knighted. It would be like sticking it to
the Queen herself.
“And while you’re at it…” She grinned. “You can do the duet with
Beth.”
She had it all figured out, didn’t she? Duet with Stella followed by a
duet with Beth. A duet in which Frederic and Mabel kiss.
Stella rolled her shoulders back and pulled at the hem of her shirt.
“Well,” she said, “I’m off to tell her the news.”
“Where is she?” I didn’t want to sound too anxious, but it was killing
me to no end.
“How in heaven should I know?”
“So, you’re just going to search aimlessly for her in the crowd?” I said.
“There must be a few thousand people here.”
She waved her hand around in a circle like she was conjuring something
out of the air. Expecto Elizabethum.
“Find her on the tweet box.”
“I don’t have a tweet box.” I sighed. Did she think cell phones were
some sort of magical tracking device? “Can’t you call her?”
She smiled wryly and wagged her brows. “That’s exactly what Beth
would say. Fancy that.”
Uh uh. Fancy that. It’s only common sense.
“Oh, Stella,” said Georgia. “You left your phone on my bedroom
dresser. It was charging when I came down. Do you want me to run up and
get it?”
“Oh, would you, love?” Stella reached out and touched her arm with
gratitude. “Too much walking back and forth for these old bones.”
“I’ll go,” I said. Some breathing room away from these women would
do me good. Stella threw me a sweeter-than-honey grin and as I walked
away, I could hear her say to my sister, “Pour me a Guinness, poppet.”
I stormed through the crowd. Sing a duet with Beth! Really! We’d have
to spend the afternoon rehearsing, and we all know how that went between
Beth and me. Why did I ever agree to this debacle? A flock of screaming
children blew past me. A warmth bubbled in my chest at the sound of their
flittering giggles. I sighed. That was my answer. It was all for them. Ugh! I
was starting to sound like a Whitney Houston song.
 Twelve hours. I just had to last twelve more hours. I could do this. I
steeled myself and strode inside the house. I gave a nod to the security
detail we’d hired and was about to run up the grand staircase when
something disturbing caught my eye.
“What the…? Who put this here?” Candles and flower arrangements
littered the surface of my sister’s brand-new piano. I ran to the instrument
and threw off the offending objects, cursing without restraint. I was so
angry my words were more like a fierce growl. Maybe my sister was right. I
wasn’t the clock. I was the Beast.
“I’m so, so sorry, sir.” An attendant was at my side in a moment,
gingerly removing the items from the piano. “We’ll take care of it right
away.”
I rounded on him, poor guy. He was the closest person in my vicinity
and therefore received the brunt of all my rage.
“This is a two-hundred-thousand-dollar Fazioli Concert Grand,” I spat.
The man cowered as I pointed menacingly with my index finger.
“Fix this.” My finger now jabbed at his chest. “There better not be the
slightest scratch or water ring.”
I left him to do his work and stormed up the stairs. My head burned like
the Heatmiser from that old animated Christmas movie. I needed to get a
grip. Over the course of a week, I’d slept a total of ten or twelve hours. I
was delirious and grumpy, the women in my life were driving me over the
edge, and now, I was yelling at the vendors. I’m sure the piano was fine.
They’d taken the precaution to use felt to protect the surface, but anyone
with a brain knows not to put anything on a piano. How would you open the
lid to play if it was covered in crap? Music-hating idiots.
Fury embedded itself in my bones. What had gotten into me? As I
ascended to my sister’s room, I marveled at how my life had taken such a
wild turn. I wouldn’t say I was happy. Happy was an illusion sold to the
masses on a thirty-second time slot between pharmaceutical commercials
and the Progressive ad. But it was fine. I didn’t need happy. I was content. I
made bucket loads of money on the royalties of my movies alone, and a
nice sum for each new project. I was set for life if I wanted to call it quits.
The house was paid off. My sister was finally in a secure place. What more
could I want? Then Beth came along and kicked sand around, messing up
my perfectly formed sandcastles. She was the tide eroding at my comfort
zone. But what was the shore without water crashing on land? A desert. Ah
crap. I could have been fine with a desert. Deserts are awesome. The Space
Shuttle used to land in the desert. Vegas is in the desert. Palm Springs!
Maybe once the run was over, I’d get a room at the Bellagio and sleep
away my days by the pool and throw money at the blackjack table at night.
I could do the desert fine.
Stella’s phone was exactly where Georgia said it was, and I was just
resolving to mend the head of that vendor I’d bit off downstairs—I’d find
that poor guy and give him a nice tip. Maybe even apologize. It could be the
new me. A contrite, penitent Will Darcy. I could try it on for size. For Beth.
But irritability rose anew at the sight of my bedroom doors ajar. A fresh
bout of anger boiled through my veins as I pounded my feet on the floor to
cross over and lock the door. I shouldn’t have to lock a bedroom door in my
own house. The workers were explicitly instructed that access to the upper
floors was strictly prohibited. I hoped the intruder was still in there, so I
could make a proper complaint. But no event staff worker was to be found.
That would have been infinitely more desirable. Unless my eyes deceived
me. Which admittedly wasn’t a far-flung possibility because they took in
the sight of Beth in my bedroom, on the floor, with my dog in her arms. I
had to be dreaming. She was a vision of artless beauty—blithe and joyful
under the onslaught of doggie kisses. Her hair cascaded in a tousled wave
on the rug and her dress, a flouncy white number with a flowered print,
gathered adrift along her thigh, revealing just a pittance more leg than was
appropriate. It was a hallucination. Definitely a mirage brought on by
immense stress and lack of sleep.
I blinked three times. One. Two. Three. Nope. Still there. Moments
ticked by, suspended in a bubble. I was either in a demented manifestation
of purgatory or the heavens had opened up and bestowed my deepest
desires upon me. I looked back on my life. Had I done anything good to
deserve this? Nada. Zip. Zilch. This was definitely purgatory.
I cleared my throat—not to startle her or anything—but because a solid
lump was lodged in it. She shot up to her feet, adjusting her dress, and ran a
hand over her hair.
“I uh… I was just…” she stuttered. “This isn’t what it looks like.”
I hooked my thumbs in my pockets to try to retain some semblance of
control. My lips curled at the corners, and I gave her an unveiled once-over
from her toes to the top of her head.
 “What do you suppose it looks like?” I teased, my voice thick and
velvety all the while my pre-prepubescent self cracked his vowels
underneath the veneer. Only one girl had ever made me nervous. Jennifer
Greene in sixth grade. It took all the courage I could muster to ask her if she
planned to go to the middle school dance, but her face turned white, and she
ran away to her huddle of friends. I was so humiliated, I decided to skip the
dance altogether. For the next few weeks, I was the subject of pointed stares
and giggles from a clique of eleven-year-old mean girls. I swore I’d never
let a girl get to me that way again. But here was this pixie in a white
flowered dress in my bedroom, and I was once again that twelve-year-old
boy drawing pencil portraits of my crush.
I was toast.
She hesitated before answering, eyes wide like a kid caught with a chin
full of cookie crumbles.
“It looks like I’m stealing your dog?” she said.
Interesting.
“Are you?”
“No!” she cried. “I swear.”
I took a step towards her. “Cross your heart?”
“Yes.”
I took another step.
“Hope to die?”
“Yes, yes.”
One more large stride, and I’d be right up against her.
“Stick a needle in your eye?”
An obstinate huff stuck in her throat, and she grunted. She was a
spitfire, this one. She was determined to confuse the heck out of me and
then clobber me with a blunt object, or so I presumed.
“Lady has to pee,” she said, crossing her arms. “I was just looking for a
leash to take her out, but if you’d rather, I could go—”
“No.” I wouldn't let her walk away. Not now. Not ever. She couldn’t just
waltz into my life, into my dreams and into my home just to run away.
There was still so much to resolve between us. So many things I still
wanted to say that I refrained myself from doing so in the letter. How I felt
about her, how she drove me to the brink of madness, distracting me,
turning my world inside out. How I… loved her. A warmth spread over my
chest with this sudden awareness. I loved her. Every infuriating inch of her.
I wanted to act upon it. To kiss her, to gather her in my arms and tell her the
truth of it. To make retribution for the pain I caused her. But not now. Now,
we’d walk the dog.
“The leash is downstairs,” I said softly. “I’ll show you her favorite
places to go.”
She nodded, acknowledging the heady trepidation that still lingered
between us. It was raw and tender but on the mend. She wanted a truce as
much as I did. But it would take time. Anything that was worth it took time.
Lady wagged her little nub of a tail and scurried under our feet as we
descended the grand staircase. Beth paused at the top and blinked.
“Holy William. How did I not see these before?”
What was that? Now, she was using my name as a curse word? When
did this new development arise? What happened to musical theatre
Tourette’s?
“What do you mean, not see these before?” I asked. “How did you get
upstairs?”
A soft pink blush overspread her features. “Never mind.”
I chuckled knowingly. She must have gone up the service stairwell.
Only Beth. My thoughts drifted to the narrow stairway in the bowels of the
theatre. It seemed so long ago that we were locked in the costume shop. So
much had changed since then. Namely, me.
We took a side exit into a small garden Lady particularly liked. I
frowned at the stacks of boxes and miscellaneous decor. They were using it
as a staging area for the party prep. I decided to be peeved for Lady’s sake.
A big, plastic bin sat right on the patch of grass she used as a bathroom. She
sniffed the intruding object and did her business as close as she could get to
her usual spot.
Beth laughed. I loved her laugh, the way her voice lightly bubbled over
our heads, the curve of her lips as the sound came out, the dots of pink on
her cheeks. Lady was unabashedly smitten with her. To be honest, Lady was
friendly with everyone, but there was a weird cosmic connection she found
in Beth. It was as if everyone else was hamburger and Beth was filet
mignon. Hamburgers are awesome, but filet was the best ever. Or maybe I
was just projecting my own feelings on my dog. Hard to tell. Beth was good
with her.
“Have you had her since she was a puppy?” she asked.
 “Yes. Got her from the breeder.” I wiped sweat off my brow in
anticipation to her censure. I was so used to getting slack for not adopting.
Adopt, don’t shop people would say. But I wanted an English Cocker.
They’re not easy to find in California. I gauged Beth’s reaction. There was
no judgment whatsoever in her features. Still, I felt the need to tell her my
story.
“I was in Spain,” I explained. “I’d met some cool guys the production
company hired while we were on location. They do that to save money—
take on local talent for gaffer jobs and stuff.”
She nodded, showing she understood and maybe that I was boring her.
But she listened intently so I went on.
“We’d go out a couple of nights a week for tapas and the best wine I’d
ever had. Sometimes, one of the guys would host a casual cena at their
house.”
She grinned. “Cena? You speak Spanish?”
“Muy mal,” I said. “Very badly.”
We laughed. I could have added that I learned quite a few Spanish curse
words from Jorge, but I didn’t want to ruin the moment.
“So anyway,” I continued, “one party we went to ended up being a
birthday celebration for one of the guy’s nephews. The kid was like six or
something. But somebody got him a puppy. A cocker with the most perfect
coils of fur on his long, floppy ears. I lost it. It was like everything I’d ever
wanted was summed up in that little dog.”
Kind of the way I felt about Beth.
She gasped. “You didn’t take the puppy, did you?”
“No. Sheesh, you think I’m that horrible?”
She batted her lashes once and regarded me innocently with those wide,
coffee eyes.
“I don’t think you’re horrible at all,” she said simply.
I was dead. A spark lit the air between us and killed me on the spot. It
was the Fourth of July, the Super Bowl, and the World Series all at once,
and I’d stumbled upon the secret stash of fireworks. I couldn’t breathe. All
the woman said was that she didn’t think I was horrible, not that she’d have
my children. I was pathetic.
I shook it off and let go of the air held captive in my lungs.
“Are you hungry?” I asked, my voice two octaves too high.
 “Was my growling stomach upstaging your monologue?” she said with
a grin.
“Stella keeps going on about the artichoke hearts,” I said. “You think we
should trust her?”
She smiled and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “It could taste like
cardboard for all I care. I’m starved.”
I liked that. It was so refreshing to spend time with a woman who
actually ate. Unlike the slew of body-shaming phonies Hollywood had to
offer.
The line for the artichoke hearts was ridiculously long. I offered to use
my clout to cut the wait and grab an order from behind the booth. But she
insisted we stand in line like everyone else. I didn't mind at all. Her
captivating company made the time pass by in a heartbeat. It was also
adorable how much she was determined to pay. I think it was just the
novelty of scanning her VIP card. She let out a squeak when it made the
bleeping sound. The modern equivalent of cha-ching.
We devoured the artichoke hearts (which were insanely good) and
completed a gastronomical tour of the entire carnival, eating our way from
booth to booth. Lady went wild with the cornucopia of smells. When Beth
didn’t think I was looking, she’d sneak bits of her food to Lady’s grateful
mouth. Every so often, she caught me staring at her, and a soft smile would
spread across her features. Then she’d do something awesome like shove
half a funnel cake in her mouth. I figured it was her filter.
“You’re good at that,” I said, using my thumb to wipe stray powdered
sugar from her chin. It was a feather-light touch, but it seared my skin.
She smirked through the doughy sweetness. “I’ve been practicing.”
I was coming undone. I’d never wished so earnestly for the rest of the
world to fall away so I could wrap her in my arms and keep her forever.
“So,” she said, licking her fingers. “You didn’t finish telling me how
you got Lady.”
Oh, hail poetry. Did she really have to lick her fingers? I was going to
hell in a hand basket.
“There’s not much else to the story,” I replied. “My friend helped me
find out where the puppy came from and the next day, we were at the
breeder’s house.” I smiled at the memory. “There were four more puppies in
the litter, but I knew her the moment I saw her.”
“Love at first sight.”
 “Yeah.” I gave Lady a scratch on her delicate, little head. “She’s my
cocker-a Espanish girl.”
She laughed and tried on her best Italian accent. “Hey, Butch! Haow
about a espaghetti especiale heavy on the meat-a-balle.”
“What’s-a matter you?” I bellowed. “Dogs don’t talk.”
“He’s-a talkin’ to me.”
We roared with laughter.
“That’s my favorite scene,” I said, smiling way too much.
“Me too.”
The laughter tapered off as our eyes met in a sobering glow. She got me.
This woman who was so determined to bury me, put down her shovel for
just a long enough moment to see me. The real me.
A weight of silence descended in a fog of electrons moving through a
magnetic field. Charged particles spiraled around us. I felt like I was in the
time vortex. If I were a braver man, I would have moved through that
quantum space of rotational dynamics and kissed her. It would have been
epic. But I didn’t. I let fear grip at my feet, cementing them on my popcorn-
littered lawn. Then I reminded myself of the last time I couldn’t control my
urges. She’d pulled my hair and bit me.
“Do you want to go into the Maze of Mirrors?” she said, clearing her
throat. It was the slap in the face I needed. Get back to reality—the one
where I had no chance with her. The one where I would fight tooth and nail
just to get to a common ground with her—where we could be civil enough
to be something almost like friends.
I nodded. This was civil. This was friendly. The Maze of Mirrors could
be fun—something friends would do. I pushed down my inner Austin
Powers and told him to shut his groovy self up. I could be friends with
Elizabeth Bennet.
25
 FIRST-RATE OPPORTUNITY

Beth

THE MAZE of Mirrors was just a distraction. I was having too much fun
with Will. He was funny and charming, and we liked the same things. I
didn’t know what to do with this information. Also, if I were being honest
with myself, I wanted him to kiss me again. Just for research purposes, of
course.
It would be the perfect place for it, dark corridors, private alcoves,
secret doors. An experiment to theorize if the whole world would tilt again
like it did on New Year’s Eve. But once inside, I think we both immediately
regretted it. Instead of a mysterious, dimly lit tunnel of love, it was a loud,
obnoxious scream prison. A Punjab lasso would have capped the experience
quite nicely. Lady freaked out and squirmed out of my arms, almost landing
on a boisterous kid with a buzz cut. The little brat ran through the maze,
hollering and grunting to scare the smaller children. The effect was an echo
chamber of high-pitched screams and the faint smell of vomit somewhere
nearby. Will caught Lady just in time and stroked her snout. That seemed to
calm her down.
“Watch your step,” he said to me. “There might be puddles of
questionable body fluids on the floor.”
Yuck.
“I’d carry you,” he said with a grin, “but I’ve got the dog.”
 How romantic.
“How do we get out of here?” I exclaimed over the ear-splitting
screams.
“Death by madness?” he quipped.
“There’s only one way,” I said with the most serious expression I could
give. “Kill or be killed.”
He nodded gravely. “It’s a war zone. I got your back.”
We gave each other the knowing look soldiers made while in the
trenches and then made a run for it. We barreled past children and covertly
inched around corners. At one point, Will cried, “Land mine! Nine o’clock.”
We averted disaster and gave each other high fives. Lady lifted her
snout, wanting in on the action so we high-fived her paw. Little bodies
blurred by like explosions in slow motion, and we ducked, zigged, and
zagged as we narrowly escaped within an inch of our lives.
“You okay?” he said, catching his breath.
“Yeah. You? Missing any limbs?”
He dabbed a finger on his tear duct. “I got shrapnel in my eye, but I
think I’ll survive.”
We’d made it with no casualties. It was exhilarating. But I may have
made my victory dance a little too soon because, just as it would seem we
were clear of danger, I took a fatal hit.
A passing teenager with a cherry slushy crashed into me while rough-
housing with his friends. Ice-cold red slush gushed onto my chest, dripping
down the front of my white flowered dress.
“Nostradamus!” I cried.
The teenager offered me a half-hearted apology with a stifled snicker
and ran off. I could sense Will trying to suppress his own laughter.
“Be brave, soldier,” he said. “Walk toward the light.”
“Save yourself,” I cried dramatically. “Leave me and save yourself.”
Red syrup seeped into the fabric of my dress, leaving a wet, sticky stain.
I looked like a hot mess but all I could do was laugh. Here I was next to
Hollywood’s hottest heartthrob, and I could be typecast as the sticky, drippy
swamp monster. He ran to grab some napkins but before he returned, a little
girl with honey-blond pigtails and the biggest green eyes I’d ever seen
handed me a single tissue. She didn’t say a word—just stared up at me with
those enormous eyes. If I had to guess, I’d say she was about five.
 I accepted the tissue and thanked her—mostly for restoring my faith in
humanity than the little gift. When Will approached with the napkins, he
bent down to her level and whispered something I couldn’t hear above the
carnival noise. He then reached in his pocket and handed her a long string
of ride tickets. Her face lit up, and she hugged him around the neck. Her
mother, a few feet away smiled gratefully and led her daughter away by the
hand.
My ovaries went zing! The way Will interacted with that little girl, the
tender way he crouched to her level, the soft expression on his face when he
whispered to her, the sweet reaction she made to his kindness. He was full
of surprises.
He handed me the napkins. “Do you want to return to the house to clean
up?”
He had the thoughtfulness to dampen them with water. I suddenly felt
shy.
“No, I’m good,” I said, wiping myself down. “There’s no getting this
stain out.”
“Maybe you could borrow something of my sister’s,” he offered. “She’s
about your size. Maybe an inch or two taller.”
Huh. That would be just a little awkward. I’d never met his sister, but if
he told her anything about my erstwhile friendship with Jorge, I didn’t think
I could look her in the eye.
“Um, no, thank you,” I said. “I should probably head home.”
I had a lovely time. Too lovely. But if I were smart, getting out before it
turned ugly again was the best course of action. Now, how was I to get
ahold of Enrique? Or did L.A.’s fine public transportation system extend to
the reaches of Will’s fairytale castle?
His expression dimmed, and he stood looking at me like he wanted to
say something but couldn’t. My chest hurt at the idea of leaving, wishing
this day could last. But I didn’t want to play the fool. I’d already done a
good job at that so far.
“Well…” I sighed. “I’m just going to say goodbye to Stella—”
His hand flew to his forehead. “Stella! I almost forgot.”
He wrapped his strong fingers around mine and pulled me along with
him, rushing through the crowd. The contact of his skin melted me from my
palm, up the length of my arm, and straight to my heart. If I weren’t careful,
I could fall hard. And that would just set me up to get hurt.
 Lady pattered along beside his feet, happily trotting in step with her
human. They kind of looked alike. The golden streaks in Will’s brown locks
whooshed in the breeze while her silky fur bounced with every spring in her
step. And there I was, running along on the other side of him, bounding past
people with huge stuffed animals and balloons, people of all different
backgrounds. I could have sworn I almost bumped into Lady Gaga.
When we reached Stella, she and a pretty, button-nosed girl were
laughing brightly, drinking beer. By the looks of it, and her ruddy cheeks,
they’d been at it a while. Actually, it took them about a minute before they
realized Will was right next to them. It was rather cute to see him apologize
profusely, passing her a phone from his pocket. She looked at him with
glassy eyes, then back at the girl, and they both spat in a burst of laughter.
“I’d completely forgotten about you, William.”
He combed a hand through his hair, giving it a deliberate tousled look.
Lady broke free of his grip on her leash and perched her front legs on the
pretty girl’s lap. It was then that Stella noticed me.
“Here you are, Beth,” she slurred. “I was just about to call you.”
“How many beers have you had, Stella?” Will stared down at the
woman with his hands on his waist. The girl was the one to answer.
“One and a half,” she said with a bright smile and stood from her
folding chair to shake my hand. “I’m Georgia.”
Georgia. I should have known. She looked more mature than the photo
I’d seen in the bathroom and her bright, easy personality caught me off
guard. I guess Jorge had tainted my expectations.
“Nice to meet you,” I said, taking her hand. “My name’s Beth.”
“Oh, I know.” She wagged her brows and winked at Will. Stella laughed
again.
“One and a half?” Will asked incredulously. “Cups or gallons?”
Georgia shrugged. “She’s a lightweight.”
“Good heavens!” cried Stella, openly assessing my appearance. “What
happened to you?”
“She got caught in the line of fire,” Will said, wrapping an arm around
my shoulder. “Saved my life.”
Stella volleyed her eyes between us. “Indeed.”
Will’s arm on my shoulder gave me heart palpitations. Couldn’t he feel
it pounding out of my chest? Trying to conceal it was akin to holding in gas.
I think I made one of those vein-popping squishy faces that accompanies
extreme discomfort. Whether he noticed it, I couldn’t tell, but his arm
dropped from my shoulder, and he stepped away awkwardly. He crossed his
arms, then put his hands in his pockets, then crossed his arms again. My
shoulder already missed his touch.
“I best be going,” I said, gesturing to the stain on my dress. If this were
a regular carnival, I wouldn’t care so much, but I knew it was an important
affair for Stella, and she didn’t need a ragamuffin like me hanging around.
“Nonsense,” she cried. “We need you at dinner. Who will sing the duet
with Will?”
“What duet?”
Will shifted on his feet. “I haven’t told her yet.”
Haven’t told me what exactly?
“You haven't told her?” Stella bleated. “What have you two been doing
all this time?”
Well… should we start with getting caught in his bedroom or jump to
sparks flying in our orbit?
“Eating,” said Will.
Yeah, that too.
“Can we back up here?” I said. “What duet?”
The two women exchanged a conspiring glance. Will sighed with
resignation.
“Stella wants us to sing Mabel and Frederic’s duet from the second act,”
he said with a shifty sideways glance. “For tonight’s gala.”
My jaw dropped just enough for sound to escape in a squeak. “Me? I
thought you were looking for a replacement for Bing.”
Stella grinned, and her eyes sparkled. I wasn’t sure if that was the effect
of the alcohol or the ideas going off in her head.
“Will is the replacement for Bing,” she said, nodding her head at Will.
“But that means we can’t do the Pair of Ducks song, and we have to do at
least two numbers.”
Will bristled. “For the last time, It’s Paradox. Not Pair of Ducks.”
“Well…” I had to find at a way out of this. Anything to spare me the
pressure of singing in front of some of the most influential people in the
business. “I don’t think I could do that. I don’t know the song, and I—”
“Don’t play coy with me.” Stella’s eyes suddenly became steely. Also,
I’m sure she was far more sober than she let on. “You know the song. You
were Mabel in college.”
 How did she know that? I left that credit off my resume when it started
getting too fat. Which was a good problem to have as far as resumes go.
“Well… um…” I looked at Will. Did he know the song? If I were
honest, singing with him made me more nervous than singing in front of
Hollywood’s powerhouses. Performing was what I lived for. That was the
kind of opportunity one didn’t pass up. He turned his head towards me,
silently asking the same questions. A week ago, I loathed the man. Could I
pull this off? Could he? Would he want to?
Stella snapped us out of our little moment by the clapping of her palms.
“It’s settled then,” she said with finality. “Let’s get to work.”
Get to work, indeed. We had a few short hours to rehearse the music,
learn the blocking, and commit to memory the songs we were to perform
for the gala. Will’s load was double my own because he was in two
numbers. It was fascinating to watch his process. He relied on the sheet
music for only the first couple of run-throughs, and from then on out, strode
through the rest of rehearsal with confidence, dedicating his focus on
technique. He was an incredible scene partner, and I was somewhat bristled
by the fact I’d only reluctantly admitted he was a good Pirate King, when in
fact he could play any role. This, I thought to myself, was a true
professional. I momentarily relapsed into imposter syndrome, and then
reminded myself that I was the girl with the lanyard. My presence was
requested at this thing—even if that meant they were temporarily insane in
bestowing me the honor.
We were in a sweeping, glorious tent situated on the back lawn of the
house. A baby grand piano sat on a rented stage, and we rehearsed while the
event coordinators made quality checks on the round banquet tables.
Colored lights lined the draped tent walls and trellis held the stage lighting
in place. Georgia played the accompanying score until Fitz arrived. She was
an astounding pianist. She apologized a few times when she missed a note
or two, but I didn’t even notice. She explained she wasn’t used to
accompanying singers. She was a concert soloist, trained at Juilliard, and
far surpassed the piano teacher of her youth. Fitz was the first to admit it.
Of course, when you get to that level of excellence, the difference between
magnificent and outstanding is a difference with blurred lines. Especially
for the untrained ear.
Fitz was all hugs and air kisses. It was good to see him. When he saw
my stained dress, he said, “Darling, is this what kids are wearing these
days?”
I giggled. “Apparently, a teenager with a slushy thought it would be a
good look for me.”
I didn’t care my dress was ruined. Once it dried off, the red splotch was
hardly noticeable. Still, I couldn’t perform like that. Stella assured me not to
worry. I figured she probably had my maiden costume sent over from the
theatre.
When evening came and there was no more we could do to perfect our
scenes, Stella and Georgia ushered me into the house to get ready. I was
given the use of a guest bedroom down the hall from the bathroom I’d used
earlier and was encouraged to enjoy a bubble bath. When I saw the Roman
tub and jacuzzi jets, I didn’t need much convincing.
It felt sublime to wash off the craziness of the day. Many parts of it
would stay with me, but the dust from the carnival, the sticky syrup on my
skin, and my rattling nerves could just melt away with the body soap, thank
you very much.
When I emerged from the bath wearing the provided terry cloth robe
and slippers, four people were waiting for me in my room. Stella, half ready
with a fresh face of makeup and curlers in her hair, Georgia, looking very
much the same as earlier, and two other women introduced to me as Julie
the makeup artist, and Sierra who would be doing my hair.
Makeup and hair! Wow. We didn’t even get that kind of treatment at the
theatre.
Julie and Sierra turned out to be two of the funniest ladies ever. Any
sentence one would begin, the other would finish, and usually, it was more
of a punchline than anything else. Then they’d giggle and do a little shimmy
while they set about their work. They were hilarious. At one point, Julie had
to force a frown on her face to stop me from laughing just so she could
apply my lip stain.
“It’s color-stay,” she said. “For all the kissing.”
Then she and Sierra burst in peals of laughter and didn't come down
from it the rest of the evening.
They did a fabulous job. I never really liked having my makeup done by
other people. In my opinion, professional was a term loosely given to the
mall employees whom I’d previously entrusted. This was a whole other
ballgame.
 “It helps to have a beautiful face to work on,” said Julie, deflecting the
compliment I paid her.
By this time, Georgia was growing impatient. She jumped off the bed
where she had been tapping away at her phone and said, “So, are you ready
for your dress yet?”
Ah yes, my Pirates of Penzance costume. I looked around the room.
Where was it?
“Sure,” I said. “Did Ari bring the costume yet?”
“Costume?” Her brows shot up. “Why would you be wearing a
costume?”
“Um… for the show?”
She and Stella shared a laugh. What was so funny? Was I supposed to
wear my stained dress? That poor scrap of cloth was currently in the
bathroom sink. Stella stood behind me, fixed her eyes on my reflection, and
smiled warmly.
“You can call it a costume if you like,” she said with a wink. “But you
should probably try it on before you decide.”
She grinned with a twinkle that hinted she had a special kind of secret—
a secret Georgia was evidently in on because she wore the same grin as
Stella and skipped to the closet, emerging with a magnificent gold gown in
her arms. She could hardly contain her excitement when she brought it to
me. Fluffy socks covered her feet as they danced on the floor. She looked
like a little girl who had to pee really bad, except I knew the bouncing she
was doing had nothing to do with the state of her bladder. It was cute, how
thrilled she was to see my reaction. I was sure not to disappoint her. My
eyes went wide, and I couldn’t speak for a full minute while they swept
over the golden offering. The dress was breathtakingly elegant.
It was made from a light chiffon, the torso a ruched V-neck with
gathered straps and a tulle, floor-length skirt draping from a high waist. The
entire dress was covered in golden lace appliqués. On closer inspection, I
noticed a sprinkling of Swarovski crystals and a small tag on the interior by
Ivonne D Mon Cheri. In other words, that dress didn’t come from Target.
“Well…” chirped Georgia. “What do you think?”
“It’s gorgeous.” I didn’t have a more creative reaction than that. I was
too busy being tongue tied. “Are you sure you want to let me borrow this?
I’m good at bumping into people with dark liquids. Obviously.”
 It was meant as a joke, but there was some truth to my words. I didn’t
want to be responsible for Georgia’s beautiful gown. I’d be afraid to eat
without a bib—or drink red wine. Or stand next to anyone else drinking red
wine. I could think of a whole lot of things that could go horribly wrong. At
least I’d ruled out the possibility of barbecue sauce being on the menu. I
hoped.
Georgia scrunched her nose in an adorable chipmunk-with-a-donut sort
of way. “I’m not letting you borrow anything,” she said. “Not like I
wouldn’t—you can borrow anything you want—but this is yours. Stella got
it for you.”
She beamed with her whole face to deliver that little piece of news. She
must have expected it to be welcome intelligence, but I couldn’t process it
that way. It was too much. I looked to Stella, whose proud expression
confirmed it.
“You did this for me?”
“And shoes,” added Georgia while Stella retrieved a shoe box from
beneath the bed. “And a clutch to match.”
“We got your size from Ari,” said Stella. “Six and a half?”
I was gobsmacked. How did they get all this in a matter of hours? Was it
a rental?
I could only stutter. “How… when?”
“Never mind that,” replied Stella. “Put it on before we miss cocktail
hour. The seared ahi is always the first to go.”
26
 STAY

Will

I GAVE Lady one last scratch of the snout and thanked Ephraim for staying
late. He’d been up at the crack of dawn, not to mention a week of
instructing vendors where and how to set up. He singlehandedly was
responsible for any troubleshooting that arose with the facility. He liked to
call my house the facility. It made it seem official. So here he was, fourteen
hours in, taking care of Lady. I suggested he take her to his home, so he
could relax and most likely spoil her with his famous carne asada, but he
insisted on staying close, just in case a problem arose in the facility. I told
him the screening room would be the best place to stay low, but I wanted
him to put his feet up, maybe stream a movie. He’d be set up quite nicely
with the leather recliners and fully stocked snack bar. I made a mental note
to have some of the roast sent down to him later.
The formal living room in our house, which we used primarily for
absolutely nothing except to showcase Georgia’s new piano, was filled with
the most interesting hodgepodge of weirdos. Most of them were
moneymakers in the entertainment industry, but there were some politicians
and Silicone Valley types who made a fortune in the dot-com era. Every
single one of them were sickeningly wealthy and were primarily interested
in being seen throwing their money at a good cause. Stella was an
incredibly savvy woman and knew how to use this to her advantage. She
didn’t care (for the most part) where the funds came from, she just wanted
arts education for the underprivileged. So, she made sure to stroke the egos
of those with the deepest pockets.
I mingled with those folks for longer than I would have liked before
Stella and Georgia finally came down to rescue me. The whole business
made me feel like Captain Von Trapp forced to make small talk with
Vienna’s high society. The only things missing were Nazi sympathizers
(although one can never be certain) and singing children requesting
champagne. My Maria was somewhere getting ready, and I hoped she
wouldn’t change her mind and run off to the Abbey.
“Where’s Beth?” I tried not to sound too anxious by keeping my voice
low, but it ended up more like a sad Barry White impression. Georgia shot
me a what the what face and scrunched her nose.
“Twitterpated,” was all she said.
As I rounded the bend towards the grand staircase, a vision in gold
almost blinded me, and my heart stopped. Beth descended with tentative
steps from the top of the stairs as radiant as the sun.
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon.
Her hair was gathered atop her head and held there by some sort of
magic. A few loose strands cascaded down her elegant neck, the column of
which could boast of smooth buttermilk skin and graceful lines to the bare
shoulder.
Each step down the stair was the blessing of the heavens come to take
me from the misery of the intolerable guests drinking expensive wine and
exchanging pleasantries with people they could hardly stand. All the world
fell away, and her sublime face was fixed solely on me.
I never knew until that moment how your future could flash before your
eyes. But that’s exactly what happened. I’d once seen an episode of Doctor
Who where John Smith and his love interest could look into their possible
future through the aid of a fob watch. In an instant, they saw a vision of a
happy marriage, having children, and John on his death bed. Seeing Beth
with her hand on the same banister I slid down as a child was something
like that, sans the death bed part. All of it was in her eyes. Did she see it
too? Her smile was only a hint. I wanted to ask somehow.
But even if I were the real William Shakespeare and not some idiot who
portrayed him in a musical, any words I could have said couldn’t have done
justice to that moment suspended in time. Beth at the end of my stairs—
maybe seeing the future. But if I didn’t open my mouth to speak, I might
have carried her off and groveled at her feet for all eternity. So, like a
novice screenwriter regurgitating every cliché in dialogue, I said, “You look
beautiful.”
No, I wasn’t about to win an Oscar for that brilliant one-liner, but Beth
only blushed and bit at her bottom lip.
“I feel kind of silly,” she said.
“Why?”
“This dress costs more than my car.”
I wanted to reply with something witty and charming, but my tongue
felt like it had been injected with Novocain.
“Um…” was all I could manage.
I took her hand to escort her into the party and as her little fingers
settled into my palm, I was acutely aware of every ridge, every pore, every
skin cell where her touch seared into mine. I held on for as long as I could
without becoming awkward, but even as I let go, her brand remained etched
on my fingertips.
I had to soberly remind myself that she wasn’t my date. She wasn’t
interested. She’d made that perfectly clear.
Stella appeared at my side, accompanied by a pretty Latina young
woman in black sequins.
“I see you’ve found our stunning princess,” she said with a wink.
A princess indeed. The Beauty to my Beast.
She caught Beth’s arm before she was lost in the crowd.
“My dear, don’t go running away just yet.”
“Oh, I didn’t see you,” said Beth, rolling her eyes at a rather large man
next to her. “Short people problems.”
“I hear ya.” The girl in black held her hand out to Beth. “I’m
Francesca.”
“Francesca Precio is the graduate from NYU I was telling you about,”
said Stella as the two girls shook hands. Awareness lit Beth’s expression,
and she shook her hand with more enthusiasm.
“Yes, yes,” she said. “You’re presenting tonight. Such an honor to meet
you.”
Beth and her new B.F.F. Francesca seemed to hit it off immediately.
There was so much girl power in the air, I felt invisible. But Stella, ever the
diplomat, gave me the proper introduction to her young Latina friend, then
linked arms with both ladies.
“I’m afraid I have to steal Beth from you, Will,” she said, already
turning away from me. “You don’t mind, do you?”
I guessed that wasn’t the kind of question she expected an answer to
since she was gone before she finished her sentence, taking my date that
wasn’t really a date with her.
I was suddenly so incredibly alone in this crowd. Where the heck was
my sister?
“I expect a little more hospitality from you.”
An icy voice from behind pierced into the last of my warmth. As I
turned toward the owner, I took every one of those seconds to shrug on the
Hollywood schmooze face.
“Catherine.” I feigned a smile. “So glad you could make it.”
“We’ve been here a half hour, and you haven’t so much as brought a
glass of champagne to Anne.”
Aaaand there went my last drop of joy.
“Oh, is Anne here?” I replied. “I hadn’t realized.”
She scowled. “Oh, please. There’s a guest list at the door.”
I shrugged. “I have no control over those things. I just live here. Where
is Anne?”
I actually got along well with Anne. Her grandmother was a pain, but
she was pretty cool.
“She was looking for you,” she clipped. “Now I’ve lost her.”
“Leave it to me,” I said. “I got this.”
I gave her hand a squeeze because that’s what a gentleman does, and I
left her to harass some other poor soul.
I kind of felt sorry for her though. Clearly, she had designs to set her
granddaughter up with me, but Anne was just as interested in me
romantically as a peanut butter sandwich. And since she had a severe peanut
allergy, I was off the menu. Catherine would be so salty once she found out.
After a few polite interactions in the crowd, I finally found Anne way
too interested in the contents of her beverage.
“All the food is allergy friendly tonight, well, except the Yorkshire
pudding,” I said with a smirk. “No nuts, no gluten, no soy, no shellfish…
and some other dietary restriction I forgot. It’s a mystery why we bother to
serve food at all.”
 Her face lit up at the sight of a friendly face, and she threw her arms
around my neck.
“I’m glad I found you before my grandmother did,” she said. “She’s got
the Evil Queen theme song following her around.”
“I know. Apparently, I have to get you a glass of champagne, or she’ll
cut out my heart.”
She lifted her beverage. “I’m good.”
“What is that?” I asked. “Looks terrible.”
“It’s a Bloody Richard.”
“Such a delightful name.”
“It’s named after King Richard. War of the Roses?”
“Okay.”
“It’s like a Bloody Mary, but with bacon instead of celery.”
“I take back my earlier comment. It’s vile.”
“Oh, man,” she said. “Don’t look now. My grandmother spotted us.”
“Do you think she’ll come over?”
“What else does she have to do? We’re her favorite victims.”
“Well, it was kind of her to donate to the charity.”
She laughed. “Ha. Don’t you know Rosings cuts a profit from these
things? It’s an Arts Fellowship. The money goes to art schools. And
Rosings is a top school on that list.”
Whoa. That woman really did have her fingers in dozens of different
pies. I wouldn’t be surprised if she ran her own ballerina mafia ring.
I shook my head in disbelief. “I don’t think the Evil Queen theme song
is right for her.”
“No?” Her eyebrows arched curiously. “What’s her theme song, then?”
“I’m thinking more Don Corleone.”
She laughed a bright, flittery laugh like a finch. I wondered if she really
loved dancing or if it was her grandmother’s influence. I’d seen how hard
she worked, rehearsing until her feet bled. And she was so thin. Did she
dance because it was her passion? Or did she not have a choice? Sort of
how young Michael Corleone didn’t want to have anything to do with the
family business but ended up becoming the mob boss. Anne was a free
spirit. I didn’t see her as a future mob boss.
The ambient music ceased, and the crowd hushed as Stella made a few
sound check noises into a microphone. I could see the silver of her hair
beyond the heads of the people in front of me. She was standing next to my
sister’s new piano.
“Thank you all for coming,” she announced. “I’d say something cheeky
like you’re only here for the hosted bar, but we all know that isn’t true. Your
very generous donations are what made this happen.”
There were some scattered applauses and she smiled, nodding she’d like
to continue.
“But don’t worry. You’ll find your tax write-off receipts in your goody
bags along with Chipotle coupons and a shirt that says I donated to the
Gardiner Arts Foundation and all I got was this dumb t-shirt.”
Soft laughter waved through the room. She was joking about the
Chipotle coupons of course, but the t-shirts were a real thing. And the
goody bags were filled with sponsored items like Bluetooth headphones and
designer golf balls. My dining room table had been an assembly line of gift
bags and tissue paper the week before.
“We will all convene for dinner in a few minutes, but first, I wanted to
acknowledge the Darcy family for opening up their home and letting us ruin
their grass with the carnival rides.”
She was spot on with that.
“Where’s Will?”
I raised my hand, and a few heads turned my way. When Stella spotted
me, she raised her glass and said, “We promise to have your lawn fixed in
time to ruin it again next year.”
A few chuckles ensued, and I bellowed across the room, “Not on your
life.”
The energy was light and breezy, and everyone smiled, which was
exactly what Stella wanted. She planned one last pitch for higher levels of
sponsorship. She wanted the guests relaxed and tipsy before she made her
plea. It would come after dinner but before dessert. She told me she planned
to hold the poached pears ransom until she raised a few extra million
dollars.
“You heard the man, ladies and gentlemen,” she said. “It looks like
we’ve already worn out our welcome, so enjoy the Darcy house while you
can and steal whatever ashtrays you find.”
That was a little inside joke. I was one of the few people alive that knew
Stella was a bit of a kleptomaniac. Before California banned smoking in
public places, it was ashtrays. Now, she liked to nab ramekins from
restaurants.
“Our staff will escort you out into the grand tent and help you find your
tables. Meanwhile, the lovely Georgia Darcy will play for us while we
transition out of cocktail hour.”
As my sister began a melody, I ushered Anne to the side of the room
away from migrating guests, but most importantly from view of her
grandmother. It was for purely selfish reasons, though. I wanted to find
Beth, and as much as I was looking forward to singing the duet with her, all
I wanted was some more alone time, so we could converse freely as we’d
done earlier in the day.
When we found her, she was chatting with Francesca by the piano. She
and Anne hit it off like I knew they would, but there was something in her
eyes I couldn’t put my finger on when I introduced them. What was it?
Could it be a hint of jealousy? God, I hoped so. I’d be ugly jealous if Beth
hung around some dude. I didn’t even have the right, but that didn’t stop my
inner caveman.
Woman. Mine. Ug.
Eventually, we migrated to the dining tent, and Anne joined her
grandmother. It didn’t take long before Catherine found us to complain she
didn’t have a seat at the head table with Stella and me. She was particularly
salty when the “entertainment,” as she put it, had better seats than she. Then
she scowled at Beth and Francesca as she returned to her table, which was
situated as far away from ours as Stella could have planned.
“I know you can’t exactly separate the two,” said Georgia, “but I
wouldn’t have minded Anne’s company at our table if we could exclude the
grandmother.”
“Oh, indeed,” replied Stella, wagging her brows. “But I have my
reasons.”
I chuckled softly to myself because I knew exactly what kind of reasons
Stella had. She loved playing matchmaker any chance she got. She couldn’t
help herself, really. I had to love her for it; she was responsible for mine and
Georgia’s existence. Dad probably wouldn’t have had a chance with my
mother if Stella didn’t have her hand in the whole business.
“Who’s the lucky fellow?” I asked.
She was super glad I asked because her face lit up and put her whole
body into it as she pointed with her chin.
 “See that bloke sitting next to Anne?”
I glanced over, trying not to appear obvious. “I’m taking a chance here
by assuming you don’t mean the older gentleman to her left.”
“Oh, I am more strategic than that, young padawan,” she chirped with a
wide grin. “The position to her right is much better situated for an
unobstructed view of her features.”
The gentleman to her right was presently engaged in a conversation
with the previously mentioned gentleman to her left. Anne was stuck in the
middle of whatever robust conversation they might be having and smiling
timidly with her Bloody Richard. The young man, likewise, had the same
hideous drink. He was a broad, tall man who reminded me of a young
Denzel Washington, and he practically towered over Anne’s tiny, delicate
form. Also, he wore a blue bowtie almost the exact shade of Anne’s dress.
“His name is Garret Townsend,” said Stella, “and he is someone to keep
an eye on.”
“Oh? How so?”
“He’s a genius,” added Georgia. “He’s developing groundbreaking
advancements in artificial intelligence. Plus, he’s righthanded.”
Great. Not my sister, too. Was Stella running some kind of
matchmaking apprenticeship?
“What does being righthanded have to do with anything?” Beth asked
innocently. She’d just joined the conversation after talking to Francesca for
a while.
“Anne is lefthanded,” answered Georgia. “They’ll be practically facing
each other all throughout dinner.”
Stella nodded vehemently. “That’s true, and she’s sitting right between
his line of sight and the stage.”
“You think of everything,” I said, silently noting Beth’s position in
relation to mine. To my left. In my line of sight to the stage. She wasn’t
lefthanded as far as I knew. But I didn’t need any of those tricks to notice
her. A man would have to be blind not to notice her. She lit up the room
with her glowing luminosity.
“We haven’t told you the best part,” said Georgia, bubbling over with
excitement.
I exchanged a look with Beth. She was just as amused as I was, but
much more tolerant.
 “Oh?” I said. I wished this silly conversation could be over already.
Actually, I wished the whole night could fast forward to when I could give
Beth a goodnight kiss.
Goals.
“Garret’s brother has a peanut allergy,” replied Stella.
Beth’s little nose scrunched up, and she asked, “How is that the best
part?”
I answered her with a soft reply in her ear, “Anne is highly allergic.”
Her beautiful mouth formed an O, and she nodded silently.
“Garret, out of habit, won’t come within a ten-mile radius of a tree nut,”
said Stella. “But since he’s adopted, he doesn’t share his brother’s DNA, so
there’s a good chance the allergy won’t be passed down to any potential
offspring.”
Francesca, who silently listened next to Beth, almost did a spit-take with
her water and coughed. Georgia got up and rubbed her back, which does
absolutely nothing for a choking person, but she likely didn’t know what
else to do to be helpful.
“I’m okay.” Francesca held up a hand in the universal sign that means
‘chill.’ “Went down the wrong pipe, that’s all.”
When she had recovered, Beth asked, “Is that sort of thing passed
down? Peanut allergies?”
“Oh yes,” replied Stella with energy. “There’s research that pinpoints a
region in the human genome associated with allergies. It’s like anything else
—hair color, artistic talent, terrible taste in fashion…”
“Wow,” Beth replied. “You certainly have done your research.”
“I always do.”
Stella grinned and took a long pull of her wine, volleying her eyes
between Beth and me. She’d done her research, all right. This whole thing
with Beth was no accident. It was highly orchestrated. Somehow, I had the
suspicion my sister was in on it, too.
“Sorry I’m late.” Clay Tilney pulled out the sixth chair at our table and
slid into it, smiling apologetically. “I had to run home and change, and
traffic was… well, you know. It’s L.A.”
Stella assured him there were no apologies needed and introduced him
to everyone at the table. Clay Tilney was the heir to Northanger
Productions, a famous but has-been film company. I honestly couldn’t tell
you what they’d done in the past ten years. In Hollywood, that was an
eternity.
But Clay was a cool-enough guy. I wondered what Stella had planned
for that poor soul. Currently, he sat where Bing would have, had he not left
us hanging.
Dinner turned out to be good—what I ate of it. My stomach was tied up
in knots with the proximity of Beth quietly nibbling at her meal. It was a
traditional English roast. I noted with some amusement the Yorkshire
pudding was way off the dietary restriction wagon. Not a tree nut in sight,
though, which was good. I was so distracted with my own thoughts, I didn’t
notice until halfway through dinner that neither Clay nor Francesca ate any
meat. Vegetarians. That was the one I’d forgotten on my list earlier. I stole a
glance at Stella and my sister to gauge their involvement in this particular
seating arrangement. But they were watching Clay and Francesca all
throughout dinner, conspiring and shaking their heads as if to say, No, this
will never work.
Hmmm. So there was a vetting process? What on earth did Beth and I
have in common? Nothing—except pride and prejudice. And those weren’t
good virtues with which to begin a relationship. Still… perhaps we were
beyond all that.
I had to kick myself for thinking in those terms. This was no
relationship. Whatever it was between Beth and me was anything but. I’d be
wise to remember that.
Coffee and tea were served, a few people had aperitifs sent from the bar,
a few speeches were made, and Francesca announced the Hershel Gardiner
Endowment awards. I didn’t even notice when she got up from the table. It
was all a blur. All my attention was focused on the woman to my left, the
exquisite creature in gold.
At one point, we were ushered off backstage, and Francesca sang a song
about hair. ‘Hair, hair, hair’ were all the lyrics that registered to me. It must
have been a comedic piece because the audience laughed throughout the
song, and when she hit a ridiculously high note at the end, the room erupted
in thunderous applause. Beth certainly was impressed, watching from the
wings and smiling brightly at the performance. My hands were too sweaty
to pay attention to much of anything beyond my breathing. What had gotten
into me? I never had stage fright. Never had I been nervous before a
performance in my entire life until now. I told myself it was the material. It
wasn’t exactly opera, but the score from Pirates of Penzance was way more
legit than contemporary musicals. I’d only learned the song a few hours
ago. Also, my dinner was still digesting. I preferred to sing on an empty
stomach. And that there were colleagues in the audience that didn’t see me
as a song and dance man. To them, I was an action star and nothing more.
I told myself those things, but none of them were true. The woman
within an arm’s reach, a woman with whom I was about to sing a love duet,
caused my disquiet.
Stella gave her sales pitch now. Fitz came backstage to get a sip of
water and hang out with us while we waited for Stella to finish. If he spoke
to me, I don’t remember. I probably nodded and laughed at a joke I didn’t
hear. My eyes must have glazed over and maybe lost consciousness (if
that’s possible while standing), because Fitz snapped his fingers in my face
amidst the distant sound of applause. The kind of applause that’s a cue to go
on stage. Stella was in the spotlight, waiting like the timeless star she was,
and suddenly, I snapped into performance mode.
The piano clanged into the fierce intro to Oh! False One, and I sprang
upon those operatic notes without looking back. Stella, of course, was
brilliant in her usual Stella way. She got a few laughs from the comedic
moments in the song. Clearly, her character stole the show. I much preferred
playing a gullible pirate than a male ingenue. A… mangenue? Bing was
better suited for the role of Frederic. In many ways, he shared some of the
same qualities. Young. Wholesome. Naive.
And easily influenced by the Pirate King. Me. It was right there in the
lyrics. You have deceived me. I who trusted so.
Yep. I royally messed with things I shouldn’t have. Bing wasn’t my
sister or my father. I didn’t need to protect him. And I had no place to
interfere.
I was a dirtbag.
The song ended with robust applause, and Stella did her little bit where
she ran in circles before making her dramatic exit. And there I was alone on
the stage, feeling crappy. But it was the perfect emotion for the recitative
Beth sang as she entered. “My Frederic in tears? It cannot be that lion-
heart quails at the coming conflict.”
Yes. A terrible disclosure has just been made. I’m a dirtbag.
I did my best to struggle the music out of my lungs through the sting of
that damning epiphany. Even Beth’s lines echoed the sentiment.
 “Oh, horrible! Catastrophe appalling.”
It wasn’t a far cry from the things she had said on New Year’s Eve. But
her voice was bright and lyrical, and she took my hands in hers and sang,
“Stay.”
Stay. No shadow of a shame will fall upon thy name. Stay.
And her eyes! It was as though she secretly told me nothing mattered
anymore because she knew me now. And even though I deserved the
painful hair pulling and all those names she’d called me, she realized I had
good intentions. Albeit in a messed-up, egotistical way, but good intentions,
nonetheless.
And then, like a nightingale, she softened her tone and let her voice
linger in light, flittering notes. “Ah, leave me not to pine alone and
desolate.” It was mesmerizing. I almost forgot to sing my part when the
time came. But never before were lyrics so apt when I echoed, “He loves
thee.”
At that point, once we had sung our gentle harmonies, there was a lull in
the music. Usually during this time, the pause allowed the audience to
applause and the actors transitioned into the next section of music. We’d
rehearsed it holding hands as we now were, and I was supposed to plant a
soft kiss on her knuckles before bravely declaring my long-suffering fidelity
while serving the Pirate King until 1940. It was a funny line because the
show took place during the Victorian era. But I wasn’t ready to go there yet.
I couldn’t bring myself to let go of her hands. Our eyes were locked in a
heavy-lidded gaze—and let’s be real here—it was probably not as long as it
seemed. Fitz embellished the accompaniment tastefully and effortlessly.
The audience most likely didn’t notice the few extra seconds at all, but
Beth’s expression was pure tenderness and longing, and I could have stared
at her forever. My chest swelled with an overwhelming desire to care for
something outside my self—beyond the duty of family or even my name. It
was every cheesy fairytale, the heartbeat in every single novel—even
horror, a common theme in all the classics…
‘A love of the most exquisite kind. The kind of which people do not
admit even to themselves.’
So with a quick caress of the lips, I covered her mouth with mine and let
the music play its sweet melody into the next scene. The kiss was slow and
tentative, asking permission. Asking she not pull my hair. Asking for this to
be real. Beth was a superb actress. And a superb kisser. If this kiss was an
act, she had me fooled. Her performance was flawless in every other way.
Why should this kiss be any different? I kept telling myself to get in line
with reality. We were in the middle of a scene. She was acting. Right?
But I ignored the pesky voice in my head that so annoyingly reminded
me she wouldn’t pull my hair in front of an audience of Hollywood
gatekeepers—no matter how much she wanted to. At least, I hoped she
didn’t want to. And maybe I was a fool to believe it for the few short
moments we had to transition into the next sequence. If this were the only
chance I would ever have to feel her lips on mine, I would take it and
chance the consequences. I wasn’t all that attached to my hair anyway. The
Hair Song wasn’t even in my vocal range.
27
 LIGHTS, COOKIES, SNOOPY

Beth

OH. My. Bard.

All I could think was wow. We didn’t rehearse the song this way. And
even if we’d rehearsed the kiss a thousand times, it wouldn’t have been half
as good. The applause echoed around us and lingered into the next part of
the scene. My little heart (let’s call her Kitty) clapped too, probably giving
the performance a standing ovation. “Bravo!” Kitty exclaimed
enthusiastically. “Encore.”
An encore would be nice actually. Good idea, Kitty. I’ll speak with the
management.
In the meantime, we had work to do, and Will was singing the recitative
into Oh Here is Love. Kitty was still applauding, and I had to tell her to pipe
down, so I could sing the next part with some breath left for the high notes.
There I was, playing Mabel, declaring my love to the man playing opposite
me. I didn’t loathe him anymore—far from it. But were the lyrics so close
to home?
Here is love, here is truth.
Was it though? I didn’t know what the truth was anymore. That kiss
sure was a zinger. I knew that. But… was I falling for Will? It had to be the
wine, or the Yorkshire pudding, or the love song we sang. A love song that
was a campy comedy. Story of my life. The audience laughed because it
was rather funny—and also because I liked to milk the comedy whenever I
had the opportunity. Leading roles were usually quite boring, so if I could
spice it up a little and get a few laughs, I called it a win. But even without
the laughs, getting to kiss Will, even though it was make believe—I called
that a definite win. And so did Kitty.
My inner critic (let’s call him Jeff) was the one heckling and throwing
tomatoes and ruining it for everybody like the two old men on the Muppet
Show. He’d say, “It’s a stage kiss. Get over it.” or “He does this for a living,
you moron.”
At which point, I thought to myself, ‘A falling chandelier would come in
handy right about now.’
Anyway. The show must go on regardless of hecklers or standing
ovations or falling chandeliers because Will was brilliant. By the look in his
eyes, I wasn’t too shabby either. Our voices just melded well. It was a good
blend. Who said oil and vinegar didn’t mix? What the heck was salad
dressing made out of for crying out loud? All it needed was a binding agent
like honey and voila! Magic.
So what was the binding agent Will and I had? Music? Theatre? The ‘L’
word? (Laughter).
Here is food for joyous laughter. He will be faithful to his sooth ‘til we
are wed and even after.
Such a silly song. Such a silly show. And so much fun. We faced each
other, holding hands and singing our hearts out. Will’s face shone. He was
in his element. Don’t get me wrong—he was mighty hot on the big screen,
but I could tell he really loved the stage. “I love it too.” I tried to express
with my eyes. “This is what I live for.”
Maybe he understood me, or maybe we were just caught up in the
moment, but at the climax of the song, when the high notes rang out, and
every emotion was at a heightened state, his lips crashed into mine. And my
racing pulse and the crescendo of the piano and the applause of the
audience rang out in one final chord.
I mentally gave Kitty a high five because she got her encore. I wasn’t
complaining either. It was the opposite of complaining, in fact. It was two
thumbs up. Five stars. One hundred and ten percent on Rotten Tomatoes. It
was the Oscars and the Tonys and the Golden Globes all rolled into one. It
won all the awards. Take that, Jeff.
 I almost forgot there was an audience at all until the swell of hands
clapping died down, and Will reluctantly broke the kiss. His eyes flashed to
mine, and he spoke a thousand words in a single smile before disengaging
from our embrace to bow gratefully for the crowd. He gestured to me, and I
also bowed. Then we drew the attention to Fitz who stood from the piano
bench and gave a nod. More applause. Then Stella returned to the stage, and
that’s when everyone stood. A few hoots and whistles echoed before Stella
took the handheld mic and hushed the audience. It was more of the same
speech about the Arts Fellowship and to come see Pirates of Penzance in a
week, show dates, etcetera. But Will and I didn’t stick around to listen to
any more. He squeezed my hand, which he had yet to let go of, and pulled
me backstage. We ran through the back, out of the tent and away from the
stuffy party. The winter air was cool, but the stage lights and the song made
us so warm, the crisp air was refreshing, and we laughed all the way to the
tennis courts. It was a wild, exhilarating experience. Like we’d just crashed
a party and took over the entertainment but had to make a run for it before
getting caught. I couldn’t wipe off the smile plastered to my face.
“So,” I said, out of breath. “That just happened.”
“Yeah. It did, didn’t it?”
His features were lit with an enchantment. Were we talking about the
performance? Or the kiss? Scratch that. Two kisses. He was still holding my
hand. Gah!
“Yeah,” I replied. “You were really good.”
“So were you,” he said softly. His voice was laced with desire—gentle,
coaxing. And I panicked. If he were to kiss me again, it was about to get
real. And that scared me a little. I couldn’t rationalize why. It just did.
“Everybody was good,” I blurted, slipping my hand from his grasp.
“Stella, Fitz… and did you hear Francesca hit that E six? Incredible.”
He stepped away, just one tiny step, but it might as well have been a
mile. Something akin to disappointment washed over his features, but he
remained smiling.
“Was that an E six?” he said. “I’ll bet you could hit that note.”
“Ehhh, I can work up to it on a good day,” I admitted. “But not like
Jane. She owns that note.”
I smiled at the thought of Jane with her coloratura voice. But Will’s
brow furrowed, and he seemed deep in thought when he asked, “How is
Jane?”
 “She’s fine,” I said. “Better than fine. She’s in New York, actually.
Probably impressing the socks off all of Broadway’s casting directors.”
“So she’s auditioning?” he said. “Glad to hear it.” He nodded to himself
and returned silently to whatever thought lived behind those dark brows, his
expression far away and inaccessible. I supposed that was where the magic
ended. At any moment, he would go back into that big house of his, and I’d
have to look for Enrique to take me home. Was Enrique even around
anymore? I couldn’t imagine he’d hang out waiting in that limo just to give
me a ride. Maybe it was a one-way trip, and I’d have to Uber it back to my
apartment. I’d have to get my little backpack purse which was still inside
the guest room. My TJ Maxx special. The little golden clutch that matched
my dress was currently next to Georgia’s piano where I set it before dinner.
My cell phone was in there, along with the lip stain for touchups. I didn’t
need any touchups, though. Julie was right about that. I blushed at the
thought. The color-stay did come in handy—for all the kissing.
There was a length of silence that could have been awkward, but
remarkably, it wasn’t. Then he suggested we take a ‘tour of the grounds,’ as
he put it. I laughed inwardly because that was an incredibly posh thing to
say, but it came out so casually, like he was asking if I’d like a beer or to
watch TV. With an offer like that, how could a girl refuse? So, he led me
past the tennis courts, down a stone path, and to a crest overlooking the city
lights. He had some avocado and citrus trees and a few quiet places to sit
along the way that I fantasized would be great places to read a book or
maybe do something creative like draw. I wondered if he did stuff like that.
I would if I lived in a house like that.
As we meandered the ‘grounds,’ we talked about nothing in particular,
laughing at the light and breezy banter we exchanged so easily. He gave me
his coat when the warmth of our adrenaline wore off and told me about
things like his first film. I admitted I’d seen it. Then I unabashedly admitted
I kind of sort of binge watched his Fast and Dangerous movies, imputing it
to research or some other nonsense. He raised one brow.
“Research, huh?”
“Yeah. Whatever.”
He asked about my family, and I told him about my practical father, my
overbearing mother, and my holier-than-thou but somewhat shy little sister.
We discussed things like my college experience, shows I’d done, the long
hours of his youth spent on set with his dad, or getting into trouble snooping
around backstage at the Gardiner. I was surprised to learn how familiar he
was to the ins and outs of the theatre. He was practically brought up there.
As we trailed the perimeter and found the path back to the house, I
made an off-the-cuff comment about the size of his property.
“This is a lot of house for one and a half residents,” I said brightly.
I didn’t mean to imply anything, just a joke really. But a shadow
overcame his features, and his tone grew serious.
“It was my dad’s intention to fill this house with a large family.” He
slowed his pace and snapped a twig from a bush. “But after my sister was
born, my mom got ovarian cancer. So that was that.”
“I’m sorry,” I whispered even though I knew it was a lame reaction. I’m
sure he’d heard it all in the sympathy department. Who knows why he was
even telling me all this but once he began, it was like he couldn’t stop.
He told me about how hard his dad took it when his mother died. He
was so lost without her, he remarried a few, short years later. Blindly.
Everybody, including Stella, advised him against it. And for good reason,
too. The woman was a gold digger, and Martin Darcy didn’t believe in a
prenup.
“The house was in my mother’s name, but she got everything else,” he
said with a trace of regret. He shrugged it off and smiled brightly. “We
probably missed dessert.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “I’m more of a savory treat kind of gal.”
“Like pork rinds?”
“Eww. No.”
“I’m just kidding.” He laughed. His laugh was contagious. I decided I
could probably laugh myself silly over nothing at all as long as he was
laughing too. I think we were a little slap happy to own the truth. I was so
lost in the mirth of it all, I lost my footing, and the heel of the ludicrously
expensive shoes I wore, wobbled under my weight, and I tumbled over,
nearly falling on my face. Will’s arms swiftly broke my fall. The warmth of
his body enveloped me as he caught me around the waist, but not before my
ankle did something wonky, and a tearing sensation shot through my
ligaments.
“Brother Jeremiah!” I cried. I could already feel the swelling. But the
dull pain was nothing compared to the embarrassment of injuring myself in
front of Will—again. I lifted my eyes to his with the intention of sucking it
up to save face. Like it was no big deal. I guess I expected him to at least
pretend to be concerned. But his eyes were stunned wide, and he had the
goofiest grin frozen on his face.
“Why am I getting a crazy clown vibe from you?” I asked suspiciously.
“Are you okay?”
He should have been asking me if I was okay. I was the one with a
gimpy ankle. But his grin widened, and he shook his head.
“It’s your Something Rotten day.”
“Ummm… yeah?”
“Something Rotten,” he repeated as if it was a wonderful thing. “That’s
why…”
His words tapered off into internal thoughts.
“That’s why what?” I questioned. Unfinished sentences were one of my
pet peeves.
“Nothing.” He shrugged and made a meh face. “Never mind.”
Grrr. A meh face. Impossible! I was poised to pounce—figuratively. But
he remembered to be a gentleman and carried me into the house and got me
some ice from his wet bar, so I overlooked the offense.
“Are you comfortable?” he asked with genuine concern. “Can I get you
anything else?”
I was more than comfortable. I could happily die on the sofa I was
lounging on, like floating on clouds. And no wonder. It wasn’t a new fancy,
designer sofa. This particular piece of furniture, like the rest in the room,
had character and was worn with age.
We were in the den by the looks of it. This room had Will’s signature
written all over it. A big-screen TV with video game consoles attached
haphazardly, books on every surface, strewn about in a way that proved
they weren’t just for show. The wet bar where he’d gotten ice for my ankle
and a cozy fireplace he lit while I rested.
“Actually,” I replied, “I wouldn’t mind if you’d bring me my clutch.” I
gave him my pretty please face and told him where to find it. I didn’t think
anyone would be interested in my stuff in this place, but I still felt more
comfortable having it near me. I remember being so swept away with
Georgia’s performance, I forgot to take it with me into dinner. No wonder
she was at Juilliard. The piano was a Christmas gift from Will. She said
something about it being the finest piano manufacturer in the world and was
custom crafted in Italy. That was some Christmas present.
 Will swiftly left my side like a man on an urgent mission. I thought I
heard quick footsteps, like he was running. With the room to myself, I had
an opportunity to take in my surroundings a little better.
This was probably where he spent most of his time. A large, fluffy dog
bed caught my eye next to a ratty recliner. I imagined Will reading one of
those books with his feet up and his free hand hanging over the side of the
chair while Lady was the happy recipient of his scratches.
A pair of tennis shoes was strewn under the coffee table, and countless
framed photos covered the mantel, side tables, and shelves.
But the most striking thing of all was a quaint (normal sized) Douglas
Fir adorned with crafty decorations made by a child’s hands. I got up too
admire it up close. My ice compress gave me some comfort, enough to
hobble over through the dull pain. There wasn’t a designer ornament in
sight. Every single piece hanging from that tree must have held some kind
of sentimental value. Most of them looked homemade. And all of them had
a year printed on them, either etched or written in permanent marker.
Baby’s first Christmas, Will in second grade, Georgia’s little face cut out of
a photo and glued to a clay gingerbread figure adorned with beads and
glitter. Some of the beads had fallen off. She must have been in preschool or
kindergarten at the time. A few of the year bulbs were dated over thirty
years ago. It was the most colorful hodgepodge of Christmas ornaments and
mismatched ribbons and lights I’d ever seen. A far cry from the fancy tree
in the foyer.
“Your bag has been buzzing non-stop since I picked it up.”
Will held my bag over his head as he entered the room but halted when
he saw me by the tree. “How’s your ankle?”
“A little better, thanks.”
He joined me by the tree and handed me my clutch. The entire thing
buzzed relentlessly.
“See what I mean?” he said.
“It’s probably my notifications,” I said dismissively. “I’ll check on them
later.” I waved the little, gold bag like a glitzy maraca. “I probably should
have left it upstairs.”
I put my phone in the clutch because I’d wanted to take some pictures,
but with the excitement of the evening, I totally forgot. Maybe I was just
nervous about the duet.
 “Well, it matches the dress,” he said. “I have to admit, when the
packages came in for you last week, I didn’t know what Stella was up to.
But I have to say, I really like the results.”
His eyes swept over me in open assessment, and the heat from his stare
could have melted down the gold from my dress. I could almost feel it
dripping hot and molten on my skin. It took me a moment to register what
he’d said.
“Wait, what?” I said. “Last week?”
“Yeah. Imagine my reaction when I saw your name on those delivery
boxes.”
“You mean this isn’t a rental?”
My thoughts raced to dinner, and the carefully planned-out seating
arrangement with Anne and the super-hot, non-peanut-eating African-
American man. Then to all the little comments Stella had been making
lately, discouraging me from getting too close to Jorge, inviting me to the
charity, the limo, the dress, the duet.
“Is this all part of some elaborate machination? The dress, the shoes, the
bag, Bing cancelling tonight…” I used air quotes on the word cancelling.
“the teenager with the slushy…?”
Will laughed from somewhere deep inside. It was a belly laugh.
“Stella’s pretty ambitious, but I think that’s a stretch even for her.”
“Okay, maybe not the slushy.” I had to admit it was hilarious, and Will’s
laugh, as I mentioned earlier, was unavoidably contagious.
“I’ll tell you what I do think,” he said with mirth. “Once Stella has it in
her head she wants to do something, she’ll take every opportunity to make
it happen. And the funny thing is, she’s one of those rare individuals that the
stars align for. It’s her special kind of magic.”
“And what do you suppose she has in her head now?”
His eyes flashed over my features with awareness. There was an answer
hanging in the air, just lingering there, perched on his lips. He opened his
mouth to speak, or maybe for some other useful occupation that involved
my lips, too. But then he froze like he just realized he’d been duped into
eating mind-altering lotus flowers and turned his attention to the tree.
The tree.
The most interesting tree in the world with a trunk and branches and
pine needles in a particular shade of green, some on the verge of turning
brown and brittle.
 “Which one’s your favorite?” I asked.
His face lit up at the mention of it. He made a contented hum, stroking
through the branches in search of the one ornament he liked best. “I think
this one.”
He cupped a simple glass bulb with his palm and lovingly stroked his
thumb over the etched numbers. It was completely clear with a frosted
etching of only four numbers. A year. And it was before he was born. A
frayed red ribbon made a flat bow on the top that had seen better days.
I inched to see it closer. He didn’t take it off the branch, just cradled it in
his palm.
“This was the year my parents met,” he said. “My mom bought it at a
craft fair, and she continued to buy one bulb a year to put on the tree.”
I could see a few of them from where I stood. Some were elegant or
hand-painted masterpieces and others were simple, like one that just looked
like the slice of a tree trunk.
“Georgia and I never gave up the tradition. She brought this one from
New York this year.”
He tapped at a tin Statue of Liberty with a holly crown and the current
year in raised metallic red.
“It’s a tree of memories, I guess.” He smiled as he took in the sight of
all those memories. Some happy and others not so much, I supposed.
“I love it,” I said. “We’ve always had a fake tree because the branches
make my dad itch because of allergies. And my mom isn’t sentimental
enough to decorate it with crafts we made in school. She has to color
coordinate. One year, all her decorations were purple. Even the presents
were wrapped in purple paper.”
“Ouch.” He laughed.
“Yeah,” I said, remembering. “That was the year my dad mysteriously
had a lot of extra work at the office. They’re funny like that in a passive
aggressive way.”
“They sound charming.”
“Oh, they are. It’s almost scary how charming they are.”
“Thanks for the warning,” he said with the most devastating smile. It
made my heart gallop to know I was the only one in the room and Will
Darcy was still smiling.
“Do you have a fake tree in your house?” he asked. “You’re not allergic,
are you?”
 “Me? Nah. I’m almost certain my dad made up the tree allergy, so he
wouldn’t have to do the whole tree lot thing.”
“What’s Christmas without the tree lot thing?”
“I know, right?” I agreed enthusiastically. “It’s an integral part of
Christmas. Like baking cookies.”
“Or going to those neighborhoods to see the lights,” he added.
“Or singing Christmas carols.”
“Or watching the Charlie Brown Special.”
The energy between us was palatable. Who knew this misanthrope of a
man could be so much fun? Misanthropes don’t care for things like
Christmas lights or cookies or Snoopy. Maybe his grinch heart grew three
sizes, or maybe three ghosts had visited him. Or maybe I was wrong about
him all along.
Will held my gaze for a long moment, sharing the same heady air
particles and probably having his own epiphany about cookies and lights
and Snoopy. Then he bent down, reaching for something under the tree
branches and came back up with a box wrapped in embossed red paper with
a gold bow.
“Merry Christmas, Elizabeth.”
His words were softly spoken and he held out the box in front of me. I
stared at it. What the…?
“You got me a present?” I couldn’t imagine he’d actually thought to get
me a present. Maybe it was one of those generic gifts that wealthy people
keep under their tree for unexpected guests. Like lotion. Or salt and pepper
shakers.
“I didn’t get you anything,” I said.
“It’s not a quid pro quo kind of thing,” he said, urging me to take the
box. “It’s a gift. Please. Open it before I feel like a complete idiot.”
I laughed, taking the box from him. “I’m sure you have zero experience
feeling like an idiot.”
“Not until I met you, Elizabeth Bennet.”
“What?”
His lips curled into a devilish grin. “Just open it.”
I placed my buzzing clutch at my feet, so I could use both hands to
carefully loosen the paper without ripping it. For some reason, I wanted to
savor every moment like it was the only gift I would ever have in my entire
life. I wanted to make it count.
 “Are you one of those never-rip-the-paper kind of people?” he said with
annoyance laced in his tone.
“Not until I met you, William Darcy.” I gave him a wink, and I swear he
turned into butter. Then I savagely ripped at the paper, crumbled it into a
ball and threw it at him.
“A bit of my family tradition,” I said with a laugh. “California
snowballs.”
My family wasn’t just boring fake trees and purple decorations. We had
fun. Every year, after we unwrapped all the gifts, we’d have a snowball
fight with crumpled up wrapping paper. We called them California
snowballs.
Will gave me his best you’re on, sister expression and tossed the paper
in the tree. When I opened the box, my heart stopped. It was beautiful.
Nestled in a cushioned bed of silk was a blown-glass bulb with a hand-
painted scene of a pirate and a maiden. The pirate looked very much like
the Pirate King, and the maiden wore the same dress as I did in the show.
What’s more, was that the face bore a striking resemblance to me. At the
bottom of the hand-painted image was the year. He got me a year bulb. Not
just any year bulb, but a custom-made art piece he likely ordered weeks
before. I didn’t know if I wanted to implode spectacularly or throw my arms
around him to rival any wonderfully sappy Hallmark movie. It was too
much. Why couldn’t it be soaps or lotions?
At length, when I hadn’t spoken for some time, he asked, “Do you like
it? Too weird? I’m not good at painting faces.”
Hang on now. He painted this? Now, I really wanted to implode.
“It’s… it’s… amazing.”
Good one. Here I was standing next to Michelangelo, and all I could
come up with was amazing.
He shifted on his feet and shrugged in a school-boy-with-an-art-project
sort of way and grinned at the floor.
“Something to remember me by,” he said shyly. “Or not. Whatever.”
“Thank you,” I whispered. I wasn’t sure I wanted something to
remember him by if it meant needing an object to have a piece of him in my
life. You don’t need to remember someone if they’re right there next to you.
And so I looked up at him through my lashes and smiled. “I choose
whatever.”
 He lifted his eyes to meet my gaze and studied my face, reading the
meaning behind my words. He drew closer to me, gently trailing a feather-
light touch over my hands holding the box. It had to be an enchantment. It
was all there in the air between us, in front of a colorful memory tree.
Magic Christmas dust descended on our heads, a chorus of angels
serenaded us, a harp sounded from somewhere, and the earth vibrated
where we stood.
No.
The earth wasn’t vibrating. That was my phone, which was in my
clutch, currently on my feet. I read somewhere that one should never put
their purse on the floor because it hurts your finances. I didn’t consider
myself superstitious, but I wasn’t about to take my chances. So I’d placed it
on my toes.
“Maybe you should get that,” he said, swallowing hard.
“Huh?” I was still somewhere in lala land.
“Or…” his eyes dipped to my mouth. “Shut it off.”
Right. My phone. Shut it off.
I snatched the clutch from my feet and pulled out my phone. Such a
remarkable little device. It was capable of so many useful things. The world
at your fingertips. But presently, it was nothing but annoying. What the
Bottom couldn’t wait long enough to—
“Whoa.” My eyes went wide at the sight of the little red notification
icon. My phone never saw that much action on my birthday, let alone a
Saturday in January. “Holly called me seventeen times. And she left fifty-
eight text messages.”
Will took the box from beneath my arm and ushered me to the sofa.
There were also several texts and calls from Cole and Jane. My heart sank
to my gut. My first thought was for my sister or my parents. My brain
didn’t have the rationale to think there was no connection between Holly
and my family. But they were all I could think about.
“Is everything okay?” Will asked tentatively.
“I hope so. And then I’ll kill my friends.”
I hesitated before reading the texts. I didn’t know what to expect, but I
knew I wouldn’t like it. It wasn’t good. The most recent text from Holly
was the first one I saw. It simply read Beth, I’m serious. Please call ASAP.
I scrolled to the top. My heart sank even more. Words flashed before my
eyes.
 Lydia. Worried. Missing. Jorge.
I went through every text, trying to make sense of her shorthand. It was
one big blur. The room started to spin, and I suddenly felt the color drain
from my face in a clammy sort of way. The phone slipped from my fingers
and dropped to the floor.
“Oh, no, no, no, no.” I let my head fall between my knees, which wasn’t
easy considering my dress was in the way.
“Beth?” Will’s voice sounded far away. “Don’t faint. Can I get you
some water?”
I nodded with my face still in my dress. All I saw was a blur of gold
fabric.
“Okay,” he said in a crisis negotiator tone of voice. “I don’t want you to
faint while I’m getting you some water. I’m going to lie you down.”
“I’m fine,” I lied. “I just need to throw up. Totally fine.”
“What happened?”
“It’s all my fault.”
My thoughts ran a mile a minute. What would I do? Will ran to get me a
bottle of water, and I took a few sips before frantically pacing the floor.
“Stupid Lydia. It’s all my fault.”
Will stopped me, holding me in place by the shoulders. He leveled his
eyes to mine and spoke slowly and gravely.
“Stop right there. Whatever happened, we’ll figure it out. But you need
to stop blaming yourself.”
Stop blaming myself. No. Not possible. What was Jorge doing on the
Mexico trip anyway? I nodded for him to pick up the phone off the floor.
“You won’t say that once you read the texts.”
He slowly stepped away from me and picked up the phone. He showed
no expression in his face save for a tick in his jaw. He would understand the
story soon enough. How Lydia and Jorge left Cole’s boat and went into
town. How they never returned. How Holly thought they’d partied too hard
to come back, but then she noticed Lydia’s phone—and all her things—in
the cabin.
Lydia never left her phone behind. Another day passed and by the
evening, they were worried. Jorge didn’t answer his calls. A search in town
came up null. They weren’t in the usual places. Then by some wild
coincidence, a taxi driver saw them inquiring at all the hotels. He’d given
Jorge and Lydia a ride out of the tourist side of town and to the outskirts. He
didn’t think it was strange until he saw Jorge walking the streets the next
day. Lydia wasn’t with him, but he looked chummy with two dangerous-
looking men.
“Jorge,” he said in a whisper. A sad, regretful whisper.
“I didn’t warn Lydia,” I cried. “I’m the one who befriended him. I’m the
one who invited him to our house. He wouldn’t have even noticed Lydia if
it wasn’t for me. It’s my fault.”
Will didn’t speak to refute my self-flagellation. He didn’t confirm or
deny it.
He didn’t say anything at all. It was as if he calculated how best to get
rid of the problem—AKA, me. He didn’t need the publicity this would
bring to his career, and any association with Lydia or her roommate was bad
press. If it got out, he could shrug it off and call it an unfortunate situation,
that she was just an acquaintance. But me, her friend and roommate, would
be asked countless questions.
At length, he said, “I won’t keep you any longer. I suggest you listen to
the voicemail messages while I get you a car.”
And that was that. He walked out of the room and, although I knew I’d
see him again in the show, he likewise walked out of my life. I didn’t blame
him. Who in their right mind would want the kind of drama that followed
me around?
A thorough examination of the rest of my texts and several voicemails
said little else, more of the same information in varying degrees of detail
and hysteria. Jane would return home the next day, and Lydia’s sister was
notified. I hoped they were all overreacting. Lydia was a grown woman and
didn’t exactly have the best reputation for reliability. But a pestering voice
deep inside kept telling me bad things happen to people when they’re too
reckless. Especially in foreign countries.
Will returned in a whirlwind with Stella in his wake. She carried my
backpack purse and sandals, and they both looked like they meant business.
“I’ve been looking for you for twenty-five minutes,” she said, ushering
me quickly from the room. “Cole got ahold of me through Fitz and told me
everything.”
“I didn’t know Jorge was going with them on the trip,” I explained. “I
could have warned them.”
“Nonsense,” she said. “There’s nothing you could have done.”
 “Do you think Lydia is in some kind of danger?” I asked, hobbling
along while she and Will whisked me toward the front door.
“I don’t doubt it, knowing Jorge,” answered Will.
“Nora’s flying in right now,” said Stella. “She’ll be coming to your
house.”
“Nora?”
“Lydia’s sister.”
“Oh. Okay.” The smart sister.
When we arrived at the front, a car was waiting to take me home. It
wasn’t Enrique, but a guy I didn’t know. I was unceremoniously deposited
in the backseat, along with my things and bid good luck by Stella.
“Listen,” she said. “Georgia doesn’t know what’s going on. I think it
best we keep it that way.”
I nodded in complete agreement, but also in such a haze, I would have
agreed to shave my head. It was happening too fast. Once the car door was
shut, I saw Will run into his house.
Run.
Apparently, he couldn’t get away from me fast enough. No goodbye, no
sentiments of concern, no encore to that kiss. Kitty wasn’t amused. And
let’s not even talk about the hundred different ways to say I told you so.
Because Jeff wouldn’t shut up about it the whole ride home.
28
 HOLD, MONSTERS!

Beth

“SO,” said Holly in the most uncouth manner. “You’re the smart one.”
Lydia’s sister Nora had been in my apartment all of one hour when
Holly arrived. I stayed up to wait for her, believing she’d come straight to
my apartment from the airport as Stella had said. But Nora was far too
polite, as I soon discovered, so she spent the night at the airport hotel. She
made up some kind of excuse that it was too late, that she was so tired and
couldn’t possibly stand a thirty-minute cab ride. But I could tell she was
way too prissy to crash on a stranger’s couch. Especially a friend of her
sister, and remembering her previous roommates, I didn’t blame her. No
doubt she expected Lydia to hang with the unrefined crowd. If so, Holly just
proved it.
The poor girl didn’t seem to know how to answer Holly. Was it a
question or a statement?
“Lydia tells us you’re studying at Harvard,” I said in an effort to smooth
over Holly’s indelicate ice breaker.
“Uh… yes,” Nora answered distractedly. Her thoughts were in a galaxy
far, far away. Who knows what was going through her mind. She was
probably fearing the worst. I reached over the kitchen table and cupped my
hand over hers. She hadn’t touched the peppermint tea I gave her. No doubt
it was too cold by now. Probably tasted like toothpaste.
 “We’ll find her,” I said in the most reassuring voice I could muster.
“Holly’s boyfriend is in close contact with the US Consulate, and our friend
Denny is searching all of Jorge’s usual hang outs.”
She slumped in her chair. “I feel so helpless. I’m not making any more
progress here than I would have in Cambridge.”
“I know it feels that way, but it’s better you’re here,” I said. “For when
she comes home.”
“We’re really glad you came,” agreed Holly.
Nora reluctantly nodded and sipped her cold tea.
“Do you want me to get you a warm cup?” I offered.
She shook her head and declared it was fine.
“Maybe you’d like to look through Lydia’s things for a clue.” That was
a feeble suggestion on Holly’s part, but Nora agreed to it, if nothing other
than to have some useful occupation to pass the time.
Most of the day was spent in the same manner. Nora quietly searching
for answers in Lydia’s messy belongings, on crumbled receipts and post-it
notes. She must have checked Lydia’s social media accounts every five
minutes. She was restless. I totally got it. I’d be much worse off if
something ever happened to my sister. As it was, I felt completely
responsible, irrationally so or not.
By late afternoon, Jane came home. She wouldn’t answer my inquiries
about how her audition went. Her only concern was for Lydia and tending
to Nora’s comfort. Somehow, Jane was able to relate to her better than
Holly or I. It was a special kind of talent. And it was so Jane.
My mother, on the other hand, had her own special kind of talent.
Gossip. She’d gotten wind of the news through the mysterious grapevine in
which she lived. Her timing was impeccable as usual. She called while
Nora was telling us a tearful story about Lydia getting lost in the super mall
when they were little. I didn’t want to be rude, but I felt I had to answer
Mom’s call. It was one of those ‘hug your loved ones’ moments. I’d have
felt guilty to ignore her call.
“Oh, that poor girl,” she cried. “I liked her so much.”
“You met her once, Mom.” I paired my Bluetooth earbuds, so I could be
hands-free. Doing stuff like cleaning or organizing my bookshelf while on
the phone relaxed me. It helped ease the hour away.
“I know I met her once, but I felt we really bonded in that time. Like a
daughter I never had.”
 “Except for the two you did have?”
“In addition to. Like a third daughter I never had.” She sighed. “I
wanted five or six, but your dad wouldn’t think of it.”
“Okay.” I absentmindedly broke down some gift boxes leftover from
Christmas.
“It’s not what you think, dear.”
“I’m not thinking anything at all, Mom.”
“He didn’t get a… you know. He’s good at math.”
“You don’t have to explain.” The last thing I needed to hear was stories
about my mother’s cycles and the measures Dad took to avoid impregnating
her. I crumbled some wrapping paper and threw it in the wastebasket. Post-
Christmas organizing was a fun and tedious job. I’d have to find new homes
for the various gifts I’d received. And then I noticed a particular gift. The
book Jorge gave me. I didn’t even want to look at it. I was so disgusted. If I
weren’t such a nerd, I’d have thrown it away. But it was a first-edition
Hobbit. It had to be incredibly valuable. The thrift shop or wherever he got
it from didn’t know the gem they had sold him. Maybe I could sell it on
eBay.
Mom had moved on to her local gossip train. Something about a
neighbor’s daughter getting married and how all she wanted now was
grandkids. Truthfully, I kind of tuned her out because I found something in
the book I hadn’t noticed before. Tolkien’s signature. It was personalized.
Why didn’t I catch on to that before?
To Martin. A small boy with big dreams. JRR Tolkien
Martin. Martin Darcy?
“Mom, I gotta go.”
“But I haven't finished telling you about—”
“Sorry, bye.” I hit the end call button and immediately pulled up a
search for Tolkien’s date of death. 1973. It was possible Will’s father met
him as a young boy. Then again, there could be any number of people with
the name Martin who happened to know the famous novelist. More
realistically, someone from England. But then I remembered Will’s letter.
He said Jorge had taken some of his father’s books. Was he really so stupid
as to give one of them to me for Christmas?
I gingerly filed through the aged pages for annotations or notes perhaps.
Something that could give me more answers. And then I found it. Tucked
deep in the pages where it was sure not to fall out, was a strand of hair
enfolded in a scrap of waxed paper. And next to that was a small
photograph of Will’s mom.

IT WAS EVENING when Cole finally called. They were on to some lead,
but that’s all he could say. Even he didn’t have the details. All we could do
was wait. One last thing he said before he hung up. “Go to the theatre
tomorrow and do your best. I’ll be home Tuesday.”
None of us wanted to sit like hens and wait, and we certainly didn’t
want to do our final dress rehearsals while poor Lydia might be lying in a
ditch somewhere. But Cole was right. It was all we could do. Wait, hope,
and rehearse. Opening night was less than a week away.
And so off we went on Monday to the theatre, morbid and sad. I felt like
a jerk, singing and dancing and doing comedic bits. It was weird without
Lydia there. But Nora tagged along to claim a small piece of her sister
through the osmosis of the art.
“I’ll feel close to her just being there,” she said. So we brought her with
us. The other absences in the cast were deeply felt. We knew Cole was still
in Mexico, but our stage manager did a perfectly fine job at running the
show. Stella cut out early, but Will didn’t show up at all. After all the new
insights I had about his character, how I was now sure he was a man of
virtue, he didn’t bother coming to one of the last rehearsals before opening
night. I was Lydia’s oldest friend in the cast. We were practically sisters. So
were Holly and Jane. We were heartbroken and worried. But we came to
rehearsal. Where the heck was Will? Did he want to wash his hands of this
whole mess? Would the actor that played Samuel have to step up last
minute to do Will’s part? Those thoughts did nothing but stress me out. But
then I had another thought, and I became incredibly depressed. What if I
never saw Will again? What if he was gone from my life forever? I mean, I
knew it was inevitable. We’d part ways after the run. But now that I was
faced with the reality of it, and with the possibility of it being sooner than
expected, the idea of it was unbearable. I’d gotten so used to his presence,
now that he was gone, I wasn’t whole.
My heart galloped in my chest, and all those rocks in my stomach (the
ones I’d been entertaining for weeks as the ingredients for my loathe pie)
turned to fairy dust, and I felt lighter than air. Oh. My. Hamilton. I was in
love with Will Darcy.
How incredibly inconvenient.
Why me? Why was I the stupid girl in the movie that didn’t realize until
it was too late that the perfect guy had been right in front of her all along? I
wanted to throw popcorn at myself.
There was one good thing that came of the whole day. Bing and Jane
were on speaking terms again. They weren’t quite back to the same old
smooching in the dressing room antics, but the mutual affection was written
all over their faces. It was a sliver of light in an otherwise gloomy day and
only a matter of time before we could ship their names together. Jing got
my vote.
“Did Bing tell you why he skipped out on Stella’s charity?” I asked as
we hung up our costumes for the day. The corners of her lips hitched in the
silent grin of someone with a secret and a flush of pink dotted her cheeks.
But I was having none of that. There would be no more secrets.
“Spill,” I demanded. I even did the Wonder Woman pose.
After a few moments, she burst at the seams and said, “He was in New
York!”
And I knew immediately that Bing in New York at the same time as
Jane was no coincidence. As it turned out, he learned she was there through
friends. I guess the theatre world really was that small. He followed her
there in a grand romantic gesture just to apologize. Like he couldn’t do that
in California. Nope. Had to go to the Big Apple.
But I was happy for her. If anyone deserved a second chance, it was her.
“I hope you can find a good guy too.” Her eyes were rimmed with
happy tears as she gave me a gentle hug. “There’s someone out there who’s
perfect for you.”
“You mean someone who’ll put up with my snark?” I laughed.
“It’s not snark,” she said. “It’s intelligence.”
Wonderful. Now she would get me crying.
“Well…” I said with a wink. “Maybe someday I’ll come across another
guy like Colin.”
“That will make your mom happy at least.”
I know I said no secrets. Perhaps I should have told her all the details of
the gala, how we walked the dog and sang and almost kissed in front of the
tree.
 “Oh no!” I cried.
“What?”
My ornament. The beautiful year bulb Will gave me. I left it behind in
my haste to get home. I would tell her eventually, but it wasn’t the right
time. I sighed and shook my head slowly.
“Oh, I just remembered something I lost.”
Wasn’t that the understatement of the year? It was more than the
ornament I’d lost. So much more. I’d lost love.
“They found her!”
Jane and I shot our heads to the sound of the approaching voice. Holly
burst through the dressing room, waving her phone in the air. “She’s okay.”
“Lydia?” Jane exclaimed. “How did they find her?”
“No time,” she answered. “Nora’s already in my car. Let’s go.”
Jane and I dropped what we were doing and ran out with Holly. She
filled us in as best she could in the car.
“Cole got her across the border,” she said, speeding down the 101
freeway. “She’s in a Chula Vista hospital.”
“Is that where we’re going now?” I asked.
She nodded.
“Where’s Chula Vista?” asked Nora.
“A two-hour drive, honey,” said Holly. “But I can make it in one-forty-
five.”
She was right. She had a lead foot, but she was right. One hour and
forty-seven minutes later, we pulled into the parking lot of Chula Vista
Memorial.
I hated the smell of hospitals. It always reminded me of band-aids and
sadness. But all that disappeared when I saw Lydia in her hospital bed,
surrounded by plush toys and balloons. Cole and Stella were at her side, and
although I wanted to be the first to throw my arms around her, I held back
enough to let Nora have that distinction.
The reunion between the two sisters was beautiful and gave us all the
feels. Lydia gave my hand a squeeze when it was my turn to approach the
bed. I noticed several bruises on her face and arms. Probably more where
the hospital gown covered. Her left eye was swollen, and a bandaged cut
trailed across her eyebrow.
“Hey,” I joked. “You look great for a boxer.”
 “Yeah.” She smiled, trying not to laugh. Laughing looked like a painful
endeavor. “Lightweight champion of Penzance.”
“Maybe we’ll make you a pirate now,” said Cole.
Lydia nodded and cupped a hand over her injured eye.
“An eye patch can be arranged,” said Stella. “Would you like a parrot to
go with it?”
“A foul-mouthed parrot,” Lydia said feebly.
“Consider it done,” replied Stella. “But in the meantime, how about
some hot chocolate from the coffee cart? Cole and I will leave you to visit
with the girls for a while.”
Lydia smiled and said yes to the hot chocolate. “Extra marshmallows,”
she said as Cole and Stella left the room.
Nora sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed Lydia’s feet. “When can you
go home?”
“Maybe tomorrow,” she answered.
“Then I’ll stay the night.”
Despite Lydia’s protests, Nora insisted she’d be perfectly comfortable in
the visitor’s chair.
“I’ve slept in worse conditions,” she said.
She wasn’t fooling anyone.
Lydia was in good spirits considering what she’d gone through. I
wanted to ask her how she got those cuts and bruises. Did Jorge do that to
her? Holly had told us everything she knew from Cole’s phone
conversations, which wasn’t much. She had a fractured rib cage, head
injuries, and several skin abrasions. Holly guessed from rope or wire. It was
disheartening to see Lydia like this. Still, I was grateful to see her alive.
We joked about the five-star resort she was currently staying at, asking
about the quality of the room service and spa amenities. We all laughed
when a nurse came in to check her IV. Lydia jokingly asked her if she could
change the drip from a cava to a brut. She rolled her eyes. She’d probably
heard that one before.
We all did our best to keep the conversation light. None of us wanted to
ask Lydia what had happened. Eventually, she was the one to bring it up.
The way she told it, one would think she was pitching a movie. She even
winked at her sister and said, “Are you getting this down? This is Oscar
material.”
 I imagined some of the more spectacular moments in her story were
elaborated for dramatic purposes, and most likely, the version she would
someday tell her grandchildren would be completely outrageous, but for
now, she basked in the warmth of being the center of attention and played
off our pitiful expressions. She was scarce on the details. But her entire
narrative was embellished with sounds and smells and how scared she was,
but also brave when faced with the possibility of death.
Long story short. Jorge Wickham: bad, bad guy. Apparently, he had
some connections in the Mexican Mafia where someone could make a lot of
money in human trafficking. Especially with blond-haired, blue-eyed girls.
Like Lydia.
A knot formed in my belly at the memory of Jorge, and how he was
always concerned about his finances. The things he had said to me when he
had dinner at my parents’ house. And Christmas. What did he mean when
he said he was afraid of obscurity? At the time, I blamed it on the Darcys.
But now, I knew better. If only I hadn’t been so blind, I could have
prevented this. Lydia would be safe at home, and Will and I could…
No. There was no Will and me.
Lydia finished her story by saying she was dropped off in a field
blindfolded, and Cole came to her rescue like a knight in shining armor.
“Okay, now tell me something happy.” She was so over The Adventures
of Lydia and the Mob and was ready to change the subject. She reached out
her hand to Jane. “I heard you got a callback in New York. Tell me about
that.”
Jane looked warmly upon Lydia, braving it through the pain like a
trooper. It was obvious to me that Jane didn’t want to draw attention to
herself. She wouldn’t let anyone ask her about her audition since she
returned. Maybe it wasn’t the happy news Lydia asked for. But she took
Lydia’s hand and sat on the edge of the bed.
“Well,” she began. “New York is cold this time of year. But it’s pretty.
Some Christmas decorations were still up when I arrived, so that was nice
to see.” Then she turned to Nora. “It’s probably colder in Massachusetts.”
“Oh, yeah,” agreed Nora. “Manhattan is more temperate.”
“Especially,” I added, “if you have a special visitor to keep you warm.”
Jane shot me a knowing glare and went on at Lydia’s insistence.
“Just tell us about the audition already,” Lydia said with a wince at the
pain in her ribs.
 “The producers at The Majestic were so nice,” said Jane. “Everyone
was, really.”
“Aaaand?”
“And,” Jane said, blushing and reigning in a silly grin, “I don’t know
how to say it.”
“Just say it!” we all cried in unison.
“They offered me alternate Christine Daaé. I start right after Pirates
closes.”
This was big news. Huge!
The congratulations poured forth from all of us in varied expressions
and exclamations.
“Why didn’t you tell us?” asked Holly.
“Now I’ll know someone famous,” said Nora.
“You’ll get to do those Instagram story takeovers,” said Lydia excitedly.
“I’m going to totally follow you.”
Jane tried her best to answer all their questions and comments. Lydia
and Holly could hardly contain their joy, Nora seemed impressed in her
own mellow demeanor, and I couldn’t be prouder for my friend. Something
inside me knew she’d get the job. I’d been expecting it. And I was so happy
for her. Still, a small part of me mourned our friendship because no matter
how much we vowed to keep in touch, it was about to change in a big way.
“Well, Beth,” Jane looked directly at me. “What do you think? Want to
move to New York with me?”
“What?” How did this conversation get turned towards me? Oh yeah.
That was so Jane. She loved to perform for a crowd as long as it was in a
theatre, but she couldn’t handle too much personal attention. It was doubtful
she’d do any Instagram story takeovers.
“You don’t have to answer right now,” she said. “Just think about it.”
“I don’t see what there would be to think about,” said Lydia. “Just do it.
Like Nike.” Then she made the swoosh sound.
Actually, there was a lot to think about. My family. The lease on our
apartment. William. Or not William. And when did I start calling him
William?
At length, I said, “I’ll think about it. And congratulations. You’re made
of star-stuff. You belong on Broadway.”
Tears formed in Jane’s eyes, and she reached over the bed and clamped
her hand over mine. “Ditto.”
 “All right,” exclaimed Lydia. “Enough sappy talk. Where’s my hot
chocolate? Stella’s been gone forever.”
“I’ll find her,” said Jane, getting up to go. Holly joined her. “I’ll come
with. Maybe they have muffins. Anybody want a muffin?”
I declined the offer. We hadn’t had dinner, so I hoped we could stop at
Plant Power on the way home.
“Since we’re all getting up, I’m going to track down a nurse to see when
you can go home,” said Nora.
The three of them were gone in a parade of yoga pants and messy buns.
Watch out, Chula Vista Memorial, musical theatre girls were taking over.
“So,” I said, looking around at all the stuffed bears and balloons. “You
got a moving van for all these presents?”
Her room was seriously filled with them. Huge flower arrangements, a
bouquet of helium ‘Get Well Soon’ balloons, a giant teddy bear occupying a
corner of the room. Somebody went to Costco.
She grinned as she swept her eyes over it all. “Isn’t it great? I should get
abducted more often.”
“Not even funny,” I warned. “Were they having a sale at the gift shop?”
She shrugged. “I dunno. Most of it’s from Will.”
Hold the phone.
“Will?” I questioned. “Darcy?”
She nodded and scrolled through her phone. Holly had brought it for
her, along with some other items.
My jaw almost fell off its hinges. “Why would Will Darcy buy you your
own Hallmark store?”
She looked up from her phone and blinked at me with those blue doll
eyes. “He was there when Cole rescued me,” she said plainly. Then she
went back to her phone.
“He was there?” I cried. “In Mexico?”
Lydia’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh no,” she said. “I wasn’t supposed
to tell anyone. Just forget I said that.”
“I can’t forget you said that. It’s like trying to put toothpaste back in the
tube.”
“Well, I don’t know why he was there. Just that he was.”
It floored me how Lydia could be so cavalier about this whole thing.
She barely got out of there with her life. A guy we were all smitten with
betrayed her. She was dumped in a field blindfolded. But whatever—a
movie star came to her rescue and filled her room with get well wishes. So
what?
My fingers itched to call Will. I had to know what his involvement was
in Lydia’s rescue. How did they do it? Did they have an altercation with El
Chapo? Was he hurt? What happened to Jorge? Did he get away?
But I couldn’t bring myself to call him. He didn’t want anything to do
with me. That was clear. Cole must have called him for help. That’s why he
was there. Did Will speak Spanish or something? Ugh! I had to stop asking
questions to the air. I’d just drive myself bonkers.
“Dang, girl, I look hot in this pic.” Lydia had gone back to scrolling
through her phone. From what I could see, she was deleting the photos with
Jorge, but her lighthearted commentary was her coping mechanism.
Stella and Cole returned a few minutes later with the hot chocolate and
some cookies for Lydia. Jane and Holly followed soon after with muffins.
By the time Nora came into the room, the noise level had gotten so high, we
were gently reminded that visiting hours were over, and they’d appreciate it
if we took the party elsewhere. We tried to protest that there’d be no party
without Lydia, but our quips didn’t work on the night nursing staff. So we
left Nora behind and took our turns hugging Lydia goodbye.
“So, what did the doctor say?” Jane whispered to Cole as we walked
through the hospital corridors towards the exit. We were told to hush more
than a few times, so Jane exaggerated a stage whisper.
“She’ll be fine. She suffered a few blows, broken ribs, first-degree
burns. But there’s no organ damage, which is good. She’ll get to go home
tomorrow, but she’ll need to rest for the next six weeks.”
“So, she can’t do the show?” asked Holly.
“No.” Cole shook his head with extreme disappointment. “You girls will
have to fill in the gaps in the choreography. It’ll work out.”
Lydia didn’t have any solos, so the most negative effect her absence
would toll on the show would be an imbalance in the pirate to maiden ratio.
Poor Denny would be the single pirate.
“Should we finish this conversation over dinner?” I asked the group. It
was way past dinnertime, and I was fairly certain Plant Power was closed,
but I was getting hangry. I wanted an opportunity to ask more questions of
Cole. Like where did Will fit into the whole scheme of things kinds of
questions.
 “Cole and I had something resembling food at the cafe,” said Stella.
“So, we’ll pass. Which reminds me, I should use the loo before that long car
ride back to L.A.”
She broke off from the group to find a bathroom, and I joined her in the
search. I didn’t have to go. I hadn’t eaten in hours, so there was nothing
there. But I wanted to talk to her alone. I needed answers. My questions
were really for Cole, but I figured Stella might be more straightforward
with me than he would, especially after our little bonding time at the gala.
I waited until she was washing her hands, so it wouldn’t be too
awkward. I didn't want to discuss this through a bathroom stall door.
“Thank you for all you’ve done for Lydia,” I said. “You’re a good
friend.”
“You’re the good friend,” she said. “I’m just tagging along.”
“And Cole’s gone above and beyond,” I added.
“That he has,” she agreed.
She was drying her hands. Once we left the bathroom, I’d miss my
opportunity to talk to her alone. I didn’t want to sound too eager in bringing
up Will, but it was now or never.
“Lydia said something,” I hinted. “I thought it might have been the pain
killers or maybe she wasn’t in her right mind when Cole found her, but she
mentioned Will. Was he there? In Mexico?”
Stella stared at me blankly for a long moment and then responded, “You
don’t know?”
“Is this something everybody knows but me?”
And if so, why was I the last to find out?
“Not necessarily,” she said. “Not if William didn’t want it known.”
“Why wouldn't he want it known?”
Stella took my arm and led me out of the bathroom and around a corner
where we wouldn’t be seen by our friends.
“I’m going to tell you this,” she said in a whisper, “but if William
wanted it to be a secret, you have to honor that and tell no one.”
“Okay,” I said feebly.
“All right.”
She took a deep breath like she was about to settle into a long campfire
tale.
“We wouldn’t have been able to find Lydia without him,” she said.
“What?”
 “And even if we had, none of us could have negotiated her release the
way he did.”
“What do you mean?’
“Those guys never release anyone,” she replied. “They’re not some
small fry operation. They have international ties with who knows which
human trafficking rings. Lydia was going to be shipped off the continent.
Like cattle.”
My head was spinning. I was still confused.
“So what did Will do?”
“I’m not entirely sure. All I know, is that he tracked down Jorge. If
anyone knows Jorge’s hideouts, it’s Will. Then he paid to get her out.”
“Will paid the bad guys.”
“Oh, yes. They’re businessmen at the end of the day. Money talks.”
“How much?”
“I really couldn’t begin to guess. But I’ll tell you this. Whatever they
paid Jorge, they’d be stupid to accept less than ten times that amount.”
My stomach dropped to my knees. Any appetite I had was now
obliterated.
“And what about Jorge?”
“Don’t worry. He won’t bother us again.”
“Is he? You know…” I ran my forefinger across my neck.
“No, heavens no.” She laughed. “He’s in custody. But let’s not dwell on
these things. What’s done is done.”
She started towards the hospital exit to join our friends but stopped
abruptly. “Don’t tell Will I told you this.”
I promised I wouldn’t with a vigorous nod.
“If you must bring it up, blame it on Lydia’s big mouth. It will be more
believable.”
29
 T MINUS ONE DAY

Will

IF ANYONE WERE to ask me what my ideal Mexican getaway would

entail, I would probably wax poetic about the white, sandy beaches of
Cozumel or the rich culture of the Teotihuacan pyramids. Mexico, with its
deep history, unique flavors, and humble citizens has always been a favorite
destination of mine. And not just the tourist traps. I spent two weeks on
location in Durango for one of my Fast and Dangerous films. I loved it
there so much, I stayed on for an extra week, meeting the locals and
exploring the best places to get street tacos or homemade ice cream. I did
the same thing in Zihuantanejo and Mexico City. I even caught on to a little
bit of Spanish. I’d choose a Mexican vacation any day of the week.
But crossing the border to negotiate with a human trafficking cartel sits
almost at the bottom of my bucket list. Almost. Adding Jorge Wickham to
the itinerary claimed the prize for last place. Yet, off I went like Steve
Martin in Three Amigos to face El Guapo. Because of course, he was in-
famous. I was only regular, run-of-the-mill famous. What I found out was
that it was nothing like the movies. It was almost like making a transaction
on Wall Street with the added edge of fearing for my life. I got to throw my
celebrity status around, which was oddly exciting. One of the guys asked
for an autograph, repeating his favorite lines from my movies. Who knew
we reached that demographic with the Fast and Dangerous franchise?
Then, once he had his autograph and selfie, he made some vague threat on
my family jewels if I dared to tell anyone. Those guys mean business.
In short, I wasn’t completely confident we’d get out of there alive, but
we did. We only stopped looking over our shoulders when we reached
Chula Vista Memorial.
Ah, good times.
After that experience, any or all theatre drama or Hollywood intrigue
thrown at me was like a trip to Disneyland. It helped me see things in a new
light. What was I doing? I’d gotten so caught up in work, I had forgotten
why I got into acting in the first place. I didn’t realize until I stepped away
from churning out one movie after another that I was more than a box office
cash cow. Months on the road with the national tour taught me that. Pirates
of Penzance confirmed it. Staring down the barrel of a gun put it all into
perspective. If things had gone downhill in Mexico, the news programs
announcing my death would report, ‘Will Darcy made really bad movies
and died a sad bachelor. The last girl he kissed turned him down flat. He’ll
be easily forgotten.’
It played in my head like a recurring nightmare. I didn’t want to make
terrible movies for the rest of my life. I also didn’t want to be a sad bachelor
anymore. There was nothing I could do to change Beth’s mind, but I could
change the direction of my career.
I sent my agent Tobias a text as I arrived at the Gardiner Tuesday
morning and waited for the fury of Hades to rain down on me.
I’m going to pass on the next Dangerous film. We’ll chat later.
I was sure my phone would start buzzing with salty replies. So I
switched it to airplane mode. I’d deal with Tobias later. For now, I had to
focus on Pirates. Opening night was in two days, but our invitational
preview was on Wednesday. That was the performance for the press, VIP
guests, entertainment bloggers, and industry professionals. I heard a rumor
Rita Moreno would be in the audience. It was an important night at the
Gardiner. And we only had one full day of rehearsals to get the show up.
With the bustle of getting in costume, warm-ups, fight call, and tests
with the rope swings, I didn’t see Beth until we were on stage singing
‘Here’s a first-rate opportunity’ and she was slung over my shoulder. Not
really an ideal time to catch up on current events. Cole was relentless with
every second of our rehearsal time. We ran the show four times in quick
succession with only a half hour to devour a quick lunch. Stella had pizza
delivered. I waited in the green room to catch a few words with Beth, but
she never came for a slice. At the five-minute call, I found her coming back
from the stage door. She was frowning at her phone.
“Hey,” I called to her. “Is everything okay?”
Her eyes betrayed surprise at my appearance. Or maybe horror.
“Yeah, sure,” she answered with a strained giggle. “They really need
better hold music at Chula Vista Memorial.”
She’d been on hold with the hospital the entire lunch break.
“You need to eat something.”
“I’ve been snacking on trail mix all day,” she said. “You do not want to
throw me over your shoulder with an angry belly full of pizza.”
She laughed adorably and artlessly. I loved her laugh. It was sunshine
and summer vacation and frozen bananas on Balboa Island. I was addicted
to her laugh, and all I could think about was how I could get her to do it
again and again. Maybe she’d have dinner with me. There’s only so much
trail mix one can eat.
“What about dinner?” I asked. “After rehearsal.”
I probably should have specified it was an invitation to have dinner with
me. Darn words getting in the way of what I really wanted to say.
“Great advice.” She snapped with both hands and shot me finger guns.
Good old friend zone finger guns. “I’ll pick up some tacos on the way
home.”
“Right,” I said. “It’s Taco Tuesday.”
“Yep.”
“Not to be confused by Taco Wednesday.”
She laughed again. Oh, my heart!
“Definitely not.” Her little nose crinkled in concert with a bright,
effervescent smile. “There’s no comparison.”
A soft blush claimed her features, and I let my eyes rest on them like a
weary traveler would look upon his home. I could have stayed there the rest
of the day had the overture not begun to play. We were late.
“You should probably get into places,” she said with a warm smile.
“Oh, no,” I cried. “I’m not in costume.”
I didn't have time to ask if we could chat later. I had to run. On the plus
side, I got on stage in record time. If only quick changes were an Olympic
sport. Bing gave me the wild eye. The one that says ‘Where the heck were
you? You almost gave us all a heart attack.’ Admittedly, I barely made it
through that number with a spare breath. I was used to running in chase
scenes but singing long notes while out of breath is something I wouldn’t
recommend. Be prepared for your entrances, folks. That’s your public
service announcement for the day.
Fortunately, I knew my part so well after all those continuous run-
throughs, I could use my time off-stage to observe Beth from the wings.
She was radiant under the lights. She belonged on the stage. A star in the
night sky. A golden orb at dusk.
At the top of the second act, as I was lost in the vision of Beth dancing
with a lantern in the moonlight, Bing made a comment in my ear.
“She is simply sublime.”
“That she is,” I agreed, never taking my eyes off Beth. Somewhere, it
registered he was speaking about Jane. Her delicate solo in Oh, Dry the
Glist’ning Tear was pleasantly lulling. But I only saw Beth. Simply sublime
Beth.
“Will,” said Bing when the song ended. “I’ve been doing some soul
searching lately.”
That makes two of us.
“I think that’s very wise, Bing.”
“You do?” he said in a surprised tone.
“I do.”
“Oh. Me too.”
“What did you find?” I asked. “When you searched your soul?”
He let out a long sigh, one he’d kept buried deep in his lungs for weeks.
“My parents divorced as soon as I moved out,” he said. “They only
stayed together for my sake. They never loved each other.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.” I turned to look at him with sincerity.
“Can you imagine living your life like that?” His voice quivered
slightly.
I shook my head. “That would suck.”
“It would totally suck.”
He turned his attention back to the action on stage. He’d have an
entrance soon. I observed his face as he watched the object of his affection.
He looked so boyish in his goody two shoes sailor costume. He wasn’t a
boy, though. And he certainly didn’t need my misguided opinions.
“You won’t let that happen to you,” I observed.
 “No.” He puffed up his chest and grabbed his prop to enter the scene. “I
won’t. Although I almost did.”
“I’m sorry for that,” I said. “I shouldn’t have interfered at all.”
A short laugh jumped from his throat. “You give yourself too much
credit. I’m responsible for my own decisions.”
“If you say so.”
He smiled at me and for the first time in our acquaintance, we both felt
the bond of a true friendship.
“I say so,” he said. “Hug it out?”
I slapped him on the back and reached out for a handshake.
“Maybe we can work up to that.”
“Gotcha,” he said, shaking my hand. “See you on stage.”
I watched him make his entrance and join Jane on the stage. He was
following his heart. If only I had that same luxury.
30
 SOMETHING ELSE

Beth

I SHOULD HAVE INVITED WILL OVER for tacos. There were more
than enough to go around; I picked up a party pack at Taco Bell. He
probably didn’t eat tacos anyway, washboard stomach and all. Not that I
was obsessing over it or anything.
Bing rode with Jane to my apartment, pulling into the parking lot at the
same time. I waited at the curb, so we could walk in together, but they
weren’t getting out of the car.
“Hey, you guys coming?” I knocked on the hood of Jane’s car. “Nobody
likes cold mystery meat.”
Jane waved her hand out the driver’s window. It was dark, but I could
swear her eyes glistened with tears.
“Go on ahead,” she said. “We’ll be right in.”
What was going on with these two now? Why was that man always
making her cry? I wanted to tap on his window and get some answers. But
it was getting chilly, and I knew Jane would tell me eventually. Hopefully,
without telenovelas or Cap’n Crunch hair. I made a mental note to hide the
remote.
The front door to my apartment was unlocked and as I entered, Lydia’s
balloons, flowers, and stuffed animals assaulted my eyes. Was it my
imagination, or were there more gifts than before? They took up every spare
inch of my apartment.
Lydia lounged on the sofa, propped up with copious amounts of pillows
and blankets. Her sister sat next to her on the floor, tenderly stroking her
hair.
“Finally,” Lydia exclaimed. “I’m starved.”
Nora had sent me a text an hour before rehearsal ended saying they’d
arrived at home, and Lydia was jonesing for bar food. I responded with a
taco emoji and she responded, with impeccable grammar, that they would
await my arrival. I was so relieved to hear the good news and left the
theatre the second Cole finished giving notes.
“Shall I bring your dinner to you and feed you by hand, Cleopatra?” I
joked while unpacking the party pack on the breakfast nook.
“Har har,” Lydia grunted as she tried to lift herself from the couch. Nora
shot up from the floor to assist her.
“Take it slow, Lydia. I’ll bring you a plate.”
“My butt hurts from sitting on it for two days straight,” replied Lydia. “I
think I can manage a few steps to the kitchen.”
Nora wrapped her arm around her sister’s back and helped her
maneuver to the kitchen table.
“Should we wait for Jane?” she asked.
“She’s in the parking lot with Bing,” I said resentfully. “Who knows
how long they’ll be.”
Nora’s eyebrows arched with curiosity, but she didn’t know us well
enough to press for details. All she said was, “Oh.”
“So, are they back together or what?” Lydia asked with a mouth full of
crunchy taco.
I shrugged and filled three glasses with water. “Who knows? I can’t
keep track anymore.”
I decided I was done worrying about it. I could hardly keep track of my
own life.
“Oh, I almost forgot.” Nora abandoned her taco to retrieve a smallish
box from among the plethora of Lydia’s gifts. “This came for you.”
She handed me the package and sat down to her meal.
It was a simple brown box weighing hardly anything. I looked at the
shipping label. One day express. No return address. Curious. I didn’t order
anything online. I ran the edge of the kitchen shears over the packing tape
and gingerly unfolded the flaps. Packing peanuts spilled on the counter as I
reached in to find a smaller box with intricate designs embossed in gold. I
recognized it immediately. The year bulb I left behind at Will’s house.
“What is it?” questioned Lydia impatiently. She was a sucker for
delivered packages. Even when it was just vitamins.
“Oh,” I said absently. “Just something I accidentally left at a friend’s
house.” I took the shipping box off the kitchen counter, careful to sweep the
packing peanuts back into it, and headed to my bedroom.
“I’m just going to put it in a safe place. Be right back.”
Closing the door behind me, I sat on my bed and stared at the little box.
Why did Will send it FedEx? Why couldn’t he hand it to me directly? Was
this his way of cutting ties with me? We still had a six-week run ahead of
us.
I opened the lid and ran my fingers over the silk lining. I was almost
afraid to take the ornament out of its snug little bed. It had to be so fragile.
Like me. How did I get to this point in life? Delicate and so easily broken—
in love with a man completely out of my league.
Something caught my eye amidst the packing peanuts. A small, red
envelope with the initials W.M.D. gilded in a script font. How many types
of stationary did that man have?
Will with a quill strikes again.
With a measure of trepidation, I opened the envelope. I feared the words
inside. What would they say?
Have a nice life? Goodbye and good riddance? The lyrics to I Don’t
Ever Want to See You Again from the musical Dance a Little Closer? Or We
Do Not Belong Together from Sunday in the Park with George?
I took a brave breath and let my eyes fall over the handwritten lettering.
Straight and precise. All neatly written caps except his signature.

SOMETHING ELSE YOU LEFT BEHIND.

-Will

SOMETHING ELSE? What else did I leave there? My soiled dress? Was
he upset I left it soaking in the bathroom sink? He could throw it away if it
bothered him. I didn’t even realize my eyes were wet until the salt from a
single tear reached the corner of my mouth. Gross.
I closed the box and shoved all the contents of the package under my
bed. There was no sense in letting it bother me at this point. Also, tacos. My
tummy hurt from hunger.
I was a new Beth with a new life, I decided. A life brimming with
possibilities and opportunities. A life in New York with my bestie. What did
I have to lose? I would take Jane up on her offer to share an overpriced
studio apartment in Manhattan while she dazzled the audiences of
Broadway, and I hit the pavement at four in the morning to stand in audition
lines. It doesn’t get much more glamorous than that.
When I returned to the kitchen, Jane and Bing were sitting at the table,
feeding each other nachos.
Gag me.
Ten minutes ago, they were having a cry-fest in the parking lot. I was so
over the whole world.
“So, did you guys finally figure it out?” I realized my tone came off as
jaded. I didn’t care. Soon, we’d be rid of this drama. And I was determined
to finally get my taco. Jane shared a conspiring glance at Bing as I leaned
over them to grab my share of the meal. They giggled, looked from one
another’s glowing faces to me, and blurted, “We’re getting married.”
31
 TAKE HEART, TAKE MINE

Beth

PERHAPS IT WAS OPENING-NIGHT JITTERS. Or maybe it was the

hailstorm of insanity my life had become. One minute, it was Jane and Beth
take on Manhattan. The next minute, she was setting up her engagement
website. Her theme was white gothic. Whatever that meant. But as I walked
into the stage door Wednesday afternoon, I knew it was neither the opening-
night jitters nor Jane that had me in knots. It was five words.
Something else you left behind.
It made me sad and confused and frustrated. And frankly, a little angry.
Why so cryptic? I knocked on Will’s dressing room door, but he didn’t
answer. I must have arrived before him, so I took The Hobbit out of my bag
and placed it on his vanity. I thought about leaving my own cryptic note but
decided it was too much effort. So, I left without getting to say, ‘thanks for
sending the ornament’ or ‘break a leg’ or ‘what the heck did you mean by
something else?’
I took my time getting ready, applying my makeup just right, pinning
my hair for the wig cap, steaming my voice. As more cast arrived, the
dressing rooms became more clamorous. A few cast members pranked one
another in various ways, so there were lots of screaming and laughing. It
was hard for me to find my pre-show zen.
 At least I was lucky to share a dressing room with Jane. Not only was
she a lot more mellow than the ensemble, she got ready in record time, so
she could spend as much time as possible with Bing prior to curtain.
The assistant stage manager passed all the dressing rooms, tapping on
the doors.
“Fifteen minutes.” His voice boomed through the hallways.
“Thank you, fifteen,” I responded. I looked in the mirror and silently
gave myself a pep talk.
You’re the girl with the lanyard.
Another knock sounded on my door. Maybe the ASM didn’t hear my
response.
“Thank you, fifteen!” I bellowed.
“Is that the proper way to greet your guests?”
The image of Catherine de Bourgh filled the reflection of my vanity
mirror. She stood in the threshold of my dressing room, having clearly let
herself in.
“Oh. Hello,” I stammered, turning to face her. “I thought you were
someone else.”
“Evidently.” Her eyes did a once-over of the room. Whatever she
expected my dressing room to look like, she clearly didn't approve.
Well, this was awkward.
“Um… if you’re looking for Stella—”
“I’m not.”
“—or Will…”
She closed the door with a soft thud and took three steps into the center
of the room.
“I’m here to see you, Miss Bennet.”
I blinked once and watched her stare me down. Her severe eyes burned
white hot, and she lifted her chin, so she could narrow them on me down
the bridge of her nose.
At length, she said, “Are you not curious why I’m here?”
“Um… candy gram?”
“I’m not interested in your jokes, Miss Bennet. I’m here because I heard
something rather disturbing about you.”
Something rather disturbing? It couldn’t have to do with the dress I left
soaking in the sink. Could it? Maybe she knew about the Jorge fiasco.
 “Do you have any idea what that might be?” she questioned. She needed
to get on with it if she wanted to see the top of the show.
“No,” I replied. “Enlighten me.”
She bristled at my remark but went on anyway.
“I’ve heard through less than reputable sources, that you’re in a serious
relationship with Will Darcy. Considering the validity of the source, I must
say I could hardly believe it. Even so, despite it being ridiculously
impossible, I decided to hear it straight from you.”
I stared at her for a long moment, incredulity clouding my
understanding. Was she seriously confronting me about my love life?
“Why don’t you ask Will?”
“I intend to,” she snapped. “But right now, I’m talking to you.”
“If you’re having such a hard time believing these rumors, I wonder
why you bothered to come backstage to see me.”
“So,” she scowled. “You admit someone is spreading rumors. Perhaps it
was you and your friends.”
“Why on earth would I do that?”
“May I ask you now if these rumors are false?”
“You can ask me anything you like, but that doesn’t mean I have to
answer.”
She threw up her hands. “I can’t believe this.”
“That seems to be a recurring problem with you.”
“I just want to know if there’s anything going on between you and Will
Darcy.”
Oh, boy. Wasn’t that the question of the century.
“You just said that would be ridiculously impossible,” I cried.
“It ought to be impossible if he were level headed. But you’re a pretty
girl. I’ll give you that. If you were smart, you’d stay away from him.”
“And why is that?”
“Do you know who I am?” she said calmly. “I am a major stockholder
in Pemberley Pictures. I’m entitled to know his business.”
“Actually, no. Not his personal life. And not mine either.”
If I didn’t get her out and soon, I’d miss Will’s entrance. I didn’t want to
miss Will’s entrance.
“Listen to me, young lady,” she spat. “When I die, my granddaughter
will inherit all but five of my shares in the company. I was obliged to leave
the rest to my sister’s good-for-nothing son. With only forty-six percent,
Anne won’t be the controlling board member as I am now. That is why it’s
so imperative she join her stock with his. Through marriage.”
Ummm…
“That’s actually kind of creepy and archaic.”
“What a brassy, impolite girl you are. Is this how you thank me for the
hospitality I showed you at the New Year’s Eve ball?”
Right. That was a night I couldn’t soon forget. But not because of her
hospitality.
“I can pull the plug on his funding at any time, you know,” she
threatened. “Sell the stocks and dissolve the company. Is that what you
want?”
I shook my head. “That really has nothing to do with me.”
“Oh, it doesn’t?” she hissed. “Then tell me once and for all. Are you or
are you not dating Will Darcy?”
I really didn’t want to satisfy her with an answer, but after a long
moment to consider if I would, I decided it would be better to get her out of
my dressing room before the show started and so I replied, “No, I’m not.”
She shut her eyes in evident relief and slowly exhaled. “And do you
promise you never will?”
“No.”
Her eyes shot open. “What?” She shook her head with apparent disgust
and spat, “I am not leaving until you make me that promise.”
“Well, then you are going to be standing here a long time.”
At that moment, the ASM made another pass with a tap on the door.
“Five minutes.”
“Thank you, five.” I shrugged and reached for my parasol. “Gotta go.
Five minutes to curtain.”
I brushed past her to leave, but she maneuvered around to block my
exit. She was fast for her age, that was something. All those years dancing. I
silently noted she reminded me of a mixture of Madame Giry and Professor
Umbridge.
“I’m not done talking to you,” she said with a vice grip on my arm.
“Too bad. Because I stopped listening. Now I have to get on stage.”
“You’re not in the opening number,” she snapped.
“And neither are you,” I replied as sweetly as possible. “So, please take
your seat in the audience.”
 I wrenched free of her grip and mentally gave her the bird as I walked
away.
“Enjoy the show.”
Ugh! That infuriating woman. Where did she get off poking her nose in
my personal life? How did she get backstage? It wasn't like she was the
only VIP in the house. The audience was full of them. Imagine if every
single performance artist in the audience felt entitled to wander into the
dressing rooms. It would turn out to be a study in narcissism.
I tiptoed to the crossover, where even if that woman had followed me,
she’d have to remain silent unless she was hell bent on ruining the show.
The audience hushed as the orchestra eased into the first notes of the
overture. There was a spark backstage that could only be attributed to the
special kind of energy of opening night. Everyone in the cast and crew
mouthed the words ‘break a leg.’ Some made a twig-breaking gesture with
their hands that meant the same sentiment. Everyone looked fabulous and
colorful in the costumes Ari designed. No matter how many shows I’d
done, this moment never got old. I could imagine skydivers and Olympians
felt a similar rush right before performing death-defying feats. It was
electric, and I felt like hugging everybody.
I made my way past the rigging, sliding set pieces, and black-clad crew
on headsets to claim a spot in the wings to watch the acrobatic entrance of
the pirates. The way they swung from the ropes and transitioned into
backflips off the ship and across the stage was like Cirque de Soleil meets
La Bohème. A roar of applause thundered throughout the house. But my
favorite sight was the Pirate Captain riding in on the mast with a spyglass to
his eye. I always had a thing for billowy shirts and tight leather trousers, but
Will brought swanky swashbuckling pirate to a whole new level. And those
boots! Heaven help me. The man knew how to wear boots.
He was in his element, flying down the mast on a rope, dueling with one
of the pirates on the gangplank, and falling off the deck backwards into the
linked arms of waiting pirates all while singing Pour Oh Pour the Pirate
Sherry.
Everything about the production was amazing. And I was part of it. My
tribe. I felt a pang in my heart for Lydia. If only she could be with us as she
should have been. She promised to see the show as soon as she could, and
we made a promise to her we’d have a place for her backstage anytime she
wanted to be close to her friends. The same invitation extended to Nora.
 All through the first act, I ached to talk to Will. Things needed to be
said, and although I knew we couldn’t very well have a heart-to-heart
during a performance, I felt a little off-kilter without so much as a ‘break a
leg’ before curtain. When we weren’t on stage, we were at opposite wings.
It was actually quite convenient all those times I tried to avoid him. Now it
was just annoying. The first contact I had with him all day was during our
lift sequence. He caught me in his arms with the same movement and
choreography we rehearsed, but his touch was more sincere. Reverent. His
eyes reflected the stage lights with a spark as he looked over my features
while he sang with a swoony grin, “Here’s a first-rate opportunity to get
married with impunity…”
Meanwhile, my baby-making parts were doing an impromptu conga line
and in the midst of the little shakers and maracas, I may have forgotten to
sing my part. But the moment was over as swiftly as it began when we took
our places for I Am the Very Model of a Modern Major General on opposite
ends of the stage. I was once again separated from Will for the rest of the
act.
Intermission found me in the midst of excited cast and crew. Anyone not
hugging and squeezing with joy was changing into their act-two costume. I
had to change from my beautiful bustle dress into the frompiest nightgown
imaginable which guaranteed the opposite effect I hoped to achieve with
Will. Maybe I was being pathetic, but if I didn’t find him at intermission for
a quick chat, I’d go nuts. Luckily, he was waiting outside my dressing room
to do just that.
“Elizabeth,” he bade. “Do you have a moment?”
Did I have a moment? I had the rest of my life. But I played it cool.
“Sure.”
He gently placed his hand at the small of my back and led me to the
stairwell. For a second there, it seemed talking wasn’t on his agenda, but he
paused at the middle landing and backed away from me to give me space.
His expression was soft as he regarded me thoughtfully.
“Thank you for returning my father’s book to me. I thought it was gone
forever.”
“How did you know it was me?” I hadn’t written a note, and I didn’t
think he saw me go in his dressing room.
“Jane told me,” he said. “She came in with Bing when I found it.”
 “Oh.” Even though it wasn’t my fault, I still felt rotten about having the
book in my possession. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? Why? I owe you a debt of gratitude.”
“You owe me? More like the total opposite.”
What was retuning a book compared to saving someone’s life?
“How can I ever repay you for what you did for Lydia?”
He knit his brows together with a question in his eyes.
“Even if my friends and I saved up for a year—”
“I don’t want to be repaid,” he said softly. “That’s not why I did it.”
I narrowed my eyes on him intently, trying to figure out this enigma of a
man.
“Why would you do that? Risk your life for someone you hardly
know?”
He was silent for a long moment as though he was trying to form his
words.
“I… felt responsible,” he said tentatively. “Even though Jorge isn’t my
brother by blood, I felt I had to atone for whatever led him down this path.”
“His behavior isn’t your fault.”
He shrugged and blinked back what looked like the beginning of tears.
“Maybe not. But that’s not why I went down to Mexico.”
“Then why?”
He parted his lips ever so slightly and looked deep inside my eyes. His
voice, barely a whisper, resonated through my being.
“Elizabeth,” he breathed. “Don’t you know?”
Zing! I was a goner. Did he seriously imply he risked his life deep in the
bowels of dangertown and paid a king’s ransom to free my dim-witted
friend… for me? I wasn’t sure if I wanted to throw my arms around him or
run away and hide. Most guys gave girls chocolates or made a lame mix
tape. This guy decided to channel his inner James Bond. I didn’t want to be
the one to break it to him, but he was setting the bar a little too high for
himself. What would his next grand gesture be? Eradicate world hunger?
Save the rainforests?
The distinct footfall of boots sounded on the stairwell. It was Stella, and
she was dressed and ready in her act-two costume—a proper pirate wench,
complete with a belt three inches thick.
“Do either of you two know how Catherine de Bourgh got backstage? I
had to have her thrown out.”
 Will and I exchanged a wide-eyed glance. That skinny old hag lurked
backstage after I dissed her to tell him off. I just knew it.
“Well, anyway,” Stella said, passing us to descend the remaining stairs,
“carry on. But don’t dawdle too long.”
She wagged her brows and grinned a little too knowingly before
disappearing into the shadows.
“Will,” I said awkwardly. “I’m sorry I pulled your hair.”
Fluency of speech had never been my forte, especially when it came to
apologies. I don’t think I was wired for it. But there I was, blunt as ever,
blurting what was at the forefront of my thoughts. He seemed to like that
about me, though, as a smile spread across his face, reaching his beautiful
eyes.
“I deserved it,” he replied. “I was a Jack-as-the-beanstalk.”
I burst in a peel of laughter. “I see what you did there.”
“Well, you’re beginning to rub off on me,” he said with a wink.
“I certainly hope so,” I exclaimed. “I mean…”
I was a blubbering idiot. Why couldn’t I just shut up? Blushing
furiously, I noticed Will’s eyes flash over my frame with fascination—and a
sprinkling of amusement.
I was saved—sort of—by the A.S.M. calling places, and Will shot me a
smile as I rushed to the crossover.
Real smooth, Beth.
I joined my stage sisters in the wings and reflected wistfully on our
short conversation.
‘Don’t you know?’ he’d said.
Actually, I preferred people to spell it out for me. I was always rather
blunt in my communication and expected the same from others. Will,
however, was too cryptic. The note, the little comments he made at the gala,
the sideways glances.
I could almost feel his eyes on me during the first two numbers of act
two. Not that I was any less obvious. I was rubbernecking big time during
his Paradox scene with Bing and Stella. I was on the stage-left wing, which
was better for watching the performance unobstructed by set pieces, but
unfortunate because Will’s exit was on stage right. When he disappeared
behind the legs, I thought he’d gone to the back of the house to prepare for
his next entrance. Cole was all about audience interaction and placed actors
in the aisles whenever he could. He called it the Lion King entrance. The
pirates played up With Cat-like Tread hilariously during rehearsals, and I
could only imagine what they’d do once an audience occupied the seats.
As Jane and Bing began their scene, the same one I’d performed with
Will at the gala, I drifted as close to the stage as possible without being
seen. Using the heavy, black curtains as a shield, I silently listened,
remembering the beautiful night I spent in a fairytale. The night I danced
one last time with a man I’d thought was a beast, but was really a prince,
only to run away to aid a friend trapped by Gaston. Admittedly, I watched
too many Disney movies.
I sighed at Jane’s execution of the soft part of the song. She had a
quality of voice which floated lightly above reality and yet there was so
much feeling beneath the surface. As my lips silently sang along, I
perceived a white billowy shirt emerge from the shadows. Will stood on the
opposite side of the stage from me, mirroring my position behind one of the
legs, and watching the movement of my mouth. I observed a deep breath fill
his chest (which was partially exposed, by the way), and my lips curled in
response, still singing along. And then we locked eyes with knowledge of
each other's thoughts. He was remembering the gala, too—the whole of his
features betraying his feelings.
When Bing took over on the second verse, Will’s lips moved with the
lyrics…
He loves thee, he is here…
…and his gaze never fell from mine. He wasn’t being cryptic anymore.
This was as straightforward as it got. I understood now what he meant in his
note.
Something else you left behind.
That something else was him.
He was something else.
Oh, yes, I thought to myself. He certainly was.
I was hyper-aware of every quickening sensation—the tingling in my
fingers, the lightheaded dizziness, the relentless hammering of my heart. I
parted my lips, focusing on him, beaming the sentiment right back at him
and sang along.
Fa la la la la la.
The final notes sung in duet hung in harmony between us, suspended for
a long moment once the applause died down. It was the part where the
characters kissed, and I could see the memory play on his own lips as he
curled his mouth into a smile meant only for me.
Kitty, meanwhile, was back in business, and she was doing the happy
dance.
I had to go to him. Perhaps if I used the crossover quickly enough, I
could reach him before he had to go. He nodded as if to say, ‘Yes, let’s meet
in the middle and totally make out backstage for five seconds.’ But an arm
reached to him from behind, prompting him to move into places so he
wouldn’t miss his cue. ‘Later,’ his eyes communicated. And he was gone.
“Beth.” A breath of a voice whispered behind me. “Come here.”
Holly motioned furiously for me to join her and the rest of the Stanley
Sisters. They were all huddled behind the metal stairs leading to the
catwalks. It was a vision of long, white night dresses and mop caps against
the darkness. Only a beam of a blue stage light spilled into the corners
where they stood, making them appear like a frolicking band of ghostly
figures.
As I joined them, I was greeted by hugs and smiles, even from the girls
I didn’t get to know as well as others. Even from Caroline and Mariah.
“I want you to know,” said Holly in hushed tones, “that Lydia felt so sad
she couldn’t be here tonight to see us perform.”
A general wave of disappointed sighs ensued, and a few nods of
understanding were communicated. She went on.
“But she promises to come as soon as she’s well enough to laugh
without too much pain.”
A few of the girls whispered encouraging words.
“We’ll wait for her to get better.”
“Tonight is for Lydia.”
“She’s here in spirit.”
Holly nodded. “Yes, she is. That’s why she wanted to make sure I give
you these.”
She dipped her hand in a paper gift bag and pulled out small satchels
tied with a satin ribbon. Attached to the ribbons were little tags, which
Caroline helped Holly read as she passed them out to each of the girls.
“I knew we wouldn’t see much of Jane backstage, so I made sure she
got hers before curtain.”
As she handed me the small gift, she said, “Cole gave us permission to
use these in the final number.”
 I looked at the little tag attached to the ribbon and smiled.
To, Edith. Love, Lettuce.
She must have made these before the boat trip. Funny, I never knew
what she did in her free time except party. Now I knew she was crafty, too.
Pulling the string, the fabric opened up into a beautiful, embroidered
handkerchief with a single piece of saltwater taffy inside. It was decorated
with a Guipure lace trim and in one corner were the initials E.S. for Edith
Stanley.
“Cole told the pirates and police to expect us to drop them in the final
song,” she said.
Caroline stuffed her handkerchief down her bodice and grinned. “Denny
knows where to find mine.”
Denny?
My eyes shot to Holly for confirmation, and she nodded emphatically.
That’s right. Caroline and Denny.
I didn’t see that coming.
Glancing back to the action on stage, I caught a glimpse at Denny
tiptoeing behind General Stanley in Sighing Softly to the River. His silly
face making comical contortions behind heavily applied guy-liner, that false
gold tooth he spiritedly wore, and his tall, lanky figure were the most
bizarre combination of nerdy and dashing imaginable. I could see the
appeal.
Jane appeared to my left and gave me a side hug. The smile between us
spoke volumes in its own silence. These are the days, my friend. Let’s do
this.
I wrapped my arm around her waist and pulled her in for a squeeze. Our
mop-capped heads tapped in a brief toasting to our friendship as if to say
we would be BFFs forever. And if that didn’t mean she wanted me for her
maid of honor, I was prepared to get all Bridesmaids Best-Friend-Speech on
her. Because, yeah—that’s what friends are for.
I tucked my saltwater taffy safely in my corset (because who doesn’t
like gooey, sticky confections in their cleavage) and joined the throng of
Stanley Sisters flutter on stage for the finale.
I’d always thought Pirates of Penzance had a hilariously bizarre and
quickly resolved ending. The pirates draw their swords on General Stanley.
Mabel intervenes and calls for help. The police arrive and a quickie sword
fight ensues where the pirates win far too easily. But then the police captain
calls upon their honor in the name of Queen Victoria. That was one of my
favorite parts because in our production, a giant painting of Queen Victoria
was lowered from the fly system, and all the pirates covered their hearts and
knelt reverently.
Will was down center stage, and his expression was the stuff of which
campy musical gold was made. Also, he was beautiful—if you could call a
man of his virility beautiful. I decided to keep my commentary to myself.
But who cared? We were at the point of the show where I could get away
with ogling Will until bows. It was in my blocking—sort of.
He shifted his focus to glance at me in his peripheral vision and found
me watching him unabashedly.
Busted.
His eyes flickered to mine, and I caught the hint of a smile. Anticipation
shot through me with an electric blast. I could sense the same energy in his
posture, like a runner at the starting line, just waiting for the moment in the
scene where the Major General sang ‘take my daughters, all of whom are
beauties,’ so he could finally claim me.
The first thing I noticed was that he carelessly threw all our blocking
and choreography out the window. He took my hand and ushered me
upstage behind the waltzing pirates, police, and maidens. In fact, he
completely abandoned the notion we were in the scene at all, favoring
whispered words to me instead of singing the finale with the rest of the cast.
“I have been selfish all my life,” he said in hushed tones. “I was just a
spoiled kid that grew into an arrogant adult.”
Okaaaay…
“My point is… I’ve changed. Because of you. Because you make me
want to be so much better than what I am.”
The entire company was singing the reprise to Poor Wandering One by
now. We were supposed to be next to Jane and Bing singing take heart, take
mine, but there we were, hiding behind the ensemble, talking about life
choices. Like it couldn’t wait—he had to tell me those things in that
moment.
But it was also perfect. So incredibly perfect, because the stage was the
one place we always had a common ground. It was the one love we both
held dear when we were so convinced we loathed each other. And maybe he
wanted to get this confession off his chest before the really good stuff—like
a kiss, for instance. So I didn’t speak as to let him finish whatever he
wanted to say before the lights dimmed.
“You’re too generous to play games with me,” he said softly. “If you
still feel the same way you did on New Year’s Eve, just say the word, and
I’ll let you go.”
His hands, which clasped mine, rose to my arms instinctively as he said
those words.
I’ll let you go.
It certainly didn’t feel like he wanted that. And neither did I. His fingers
gently squeezed by arms just above the elbows. Anyone watching would
think he was just the Pirate King claiming Edith as his bride. At any
moment, the song would end, and we’d make our bows. The cast would
disperse to greet the people who came particularly to see them. And then
the theatre would empty in preparation for tomorrow’s performance. Now
was the time to let him go or hold onto him forever. My eyelashes fluttered
to his heavy-lidded gaze, and he swept his eyes over my features as if to
cherish my image in his memory, just in case. He was so close to me, I
could feel the trembling in his chest, and my heart galloped in response. I
lifted my chin to study him. His gaze was ravenous yet tempered with equal
parts uncertainty and hope. I wondered if I could perhaps communicate my
feelings through a mere look because I didn’t think I could form the words.
Take heart. Take mine.
Would that suffice? Would he know I wasn’t only singing for the
crowd? My delayed response must have been a small torment because he
then said with a sliver of urgency, “I don’t want to let you go, dearest,
loveliest Elizabeth.”
Aaaand he just closed the deal right there. Signed, sealed, delivered.
“Then don’t,” I said like it was the simplest thing in the world.
I breathed the words. There wasn’t enough air in my lungs to do more
than that, let alone sing. The final note of the song was upon us, and the
orchestra accelerated the tempo towards the grand conclusion. I could see
Fitz waving his arms in exaggerated gestures behind a blur of dancing
couples. It was the culmination of all our effort and struggles over the past
two months. All the drama on and off stage.
Will relaxed his hold on me just enough to brush one palm to my waist
and the other to the nape of my neck as his thumb grazed tenderly over my
cheek. My pulse raced with the tingling sensation of his touch, each
molecule of his skin on mine a tiny pinprick straight to my heart.
He dipped his head so our foreheads touched. The bridge of his nose
flush against my own, and despite the extreme proximity, I could see the
blurred outline of his moist eyelashes—the beginnings of soft, joyful
weeping. As though suspended in time, he closed the gap between our lips
and crashed into me with the most ardent of kisses.
He was rocking my world. Not just because he was kissing me
senseless, but he poured his entire soul into mine. Or maybe I was hoarding
it. Nevertheless, he felt it. I could tell by the way his body quivered. Or
maybe by the way he slid his arm around the small of my back and pulled
me flush against him with an urgency that said, ‘I will never ever let go.’
He needn't have worried. I wasn’t going anywhere.
32
 POUR, OH POUR, THE PIRATE
SHERRY

Beth

“LET ME GET THIS STRAIGHT,” said Jane as we rushed to get out of

costume. “You don’t hate Will Darcy?”
“No.”
“But you used to hate him?”
“Hate is a strong word,” I corrected. “Maybe more of an extremely
pointed dislike.”
“Aaaand?” she prompted.
I shrugged nonchalantly. “He’s nice.”
“Hmmm,” she harrumphed. “Nice enough to kiss all through the bows.”
She was exaggerating. It was true we hadn’t noticed when the lights
went down, but Bing snapped us out of it as the bows began. So yeah, we
were kind of oblivious, but not more than a handful of people noticed. Then
again, Will wouldn’t let go of me for his solo bow and stole another kiss
before the end. In fact, when we made our way backstage, I had to promise
I’d meet him in no more than five minutes just to keep him from following
me in the dressing room.
I didn’t bother removing my stage makeup. Charlotte and Colin were
waiting to congratulate us, and I knew Will wouldn’t wait much longer.
“See you at home?” I asked, slipping into a hoodie.
 “Sure,” she replied. “I’ll chill the prosecco, and you will tell me all the
details.”
“Deal. Better make it two bottles.”
I slipped out while she was still unpinning her hair and caught sight of
Will leaning on the wall opposite my door. He had his arms and legs
crossed casually, and his messenger bag slung across his chest. He looked
like an Anthropologie billboard.
“You ready to get out of here?” he coaxed.
“Where are we going?” I asked coyly.
He reached out without taking his back off the wall and pulled me close.
So close, the tip of our noses almost touched. The scent of his spearmint
gum reached my senses; he’d lodged it between his molars to give me a
giant grin.
“Anywhere,” he growled softly. “As long as we’re together.”
I was still reeling from the kiss of a lifetime, and now the man was
playing for keeps. This was really happening.
“Hmmm… how about we start with the Patrons of the Arts reception
and sneak out when no one’s looking?”
He sighed because he knew he was expected to make an appearance in
the lobby. A small cocktail party was on the agenda for the most generous
of patrons to meet the cast and drink overpriced champagne.
“Stay close to me?” he bade, his eyes sweeping over my features with a
wishful plea. How could a girl say no to that? Not that I would.
“I will be the mongoose to your warthog,” I said with a grin.
Did I watch too much National Geographic? Maybe. Did I care if he
found that odd? No. Turned out he didn’t because he smiled warmly and led
me by the hand to the front of the house where tall tables draped in black
linen dotted much of the lobby area. Wood carved in the shape of pirate
ships served as centerpieces, and a small line formed in front of a sea scene
painted on a canvas backdrop for photo ops. Stella was still in costume,
posing with a glamorous couple sporting tri-corn hats and the provided
pirate-themed props. Champagne flute in one hand and a cutlass in the
other.
“Well, we came,” Will said. “Can I have you to myself now?”
“Not so fast, lover boy,” Charlotte interjected.
Lover boy?
 She was stunning in a one-shoulder jumpsuit and Colin—proudly at her
side with a mouthful of whatever hors d'oeuvres they were serving. It made
me remember how hungry I was.
I gave Charlotte and Colin hugs which were followed by gushing and
congratulations. Will shook hands with Colin and praised his contribution,
in which Colin blushed, feigned modesty, then said, “The choreography was
pretty good, wasn’t it?”
“We couldn’t have done it without you,” I said. “Although… I’d be
surprised if your boss will let you work here again.”
“I’m afraid that was my fault,” added Will.
Charlotte tilted her head to the side and squeezed her eyes to inquisitive
slits. Colin had a similar expression but quickly amended it with the
realization of what we were referring to.
“If you’re talking about the scene Catherine de Bourgh made when she
stormed out of the theatre,” he said, “I wouldn’t worry.”
“You know about that, huh?” I asked.
“Everybody knows about that.” He laughed. “She made a fool of herself
in front of a lot of important people.”
“I’m so sorry,” I sympathized. “If you lose your job because of me—”
“Ha! I left the studio last week. Charlotte convinced me to start my own
business.”
He squeezed Charlotte’s arm and scrunched his nose, making pucker
lips at her. It was disturbing and adorable at the same time. Charlotte was
on board, so that was all that mattered.
“Colin’s teaching tango classes at the lodge every Thursday,” she said
proudly. “Dad’s not charging him, so he can save up for his own studio.”
“That’s fantastic news,” I exclaimed. “Congratulations.”
“Yes,” Will echoed. “Congratulations.”
“You’ll have to come one Thursday after the show closes,” said
Charlotte.
I glanced up at Will with a questioning look. Would he be up to that sort
of thing?
He shrugged and shot me that devastating smile. “I said anywhere.”
He did indeed. As long as we were together.
We exchanged more hugs and handshakes with Charlotte and Colin
before they took leave of us. I could tell Will was itching to call it a night—
at least where this party was concerned. The anticipation played on his
features like a child expecting birthday cake.
“Why did you say the whole Catherine de Bourgh drama was your
fault? I’m the one that ticked her off.”
Will, who hadn’t let go of my hand since I exited my dressing room,
lifted his free hand to my chin.
“She waited backstage for me and chewed my head off after my solo.
She told me everything. All your responses to her threats. And I laughed.”
“That must have really chapped her hide.”
“Yeah,” he said with a grin. “But it gave me hope. You could have said
anything to appease her. But instead, you refused to promise not to be with
me. I didn’t think I had a chance with you until then.”
His eyes searched mine, and softly brushing his lips to kiss me,
punctuated his sincere declaration. And for anyone in our vicinity who
might have witnessed that, my inner fan girl was fist-pumping in their
faces.
Oh yeah. Who’s with this hunk? This girl!
Satisfied we’d done our duty to make an appearance, we resolved to get
to wherever anywhere was. We almost made it, too. But Stella caught us
and made a desperate plea for us to stay for a moment longer.
“I won’t keep you for very long,” she said with the hint of a slur. She
wasn’t drinking champagne, I could tell that much. By the oaky aroma
wafting from her snifter, my guess was tequila. She winked. “We’ll make
this quick.”
She led us into a supply closet off the ticket booth where programs and
those velvet stanchion ropes were kept. As we stuffed ourselves in there, I
noticed it was already occupied by two other people. Her grand-niece
Emma and her director friend Jaxson. They giggled like teenagers, probably
at some joke, but most likely aided by the bottle of Pyrate Rum on the shelf.
Not tequila, then. When she saw me, Emma threw her arms around my neck
and gave me a huge smack on the cheek.
“You, mate, are brilliant. Why didn’t you tell me she was brilliant?”
Stella rolled her eyes. “I did.” She held out her tumbler to Jaxson who
took the bottle off the shelf and gave her a refill.
“Ummm…” I responded. “Thank you?”
I didn’t want to argue or anything, but I hardly thought my performance
was brilliant. I only had five lines.
 Jaxson held up the bottle of rum to offer us a glass. Will and I both
declined respectfully. Alcohol wasn’t a good idea on an empty stomach.
“We really enjoyed the show,” said Jaxson, toasting his glass in the air.
“Congratulations on your success.”
Will returned the sentiment with a sincere smile and tipped an
imaginary hat. “Thank you. That means a lot.”
Emma broadened her eyes at Will in surprise. I knew that look. It was
the expression of someone who had the same opinion of him than I did and
was maybe softened by the idea she misjudged him. Then her eyes drifted
to my hand in his, and she raised a brow at Stella who returned the eyebrow
wiggle with a triumphant smirk.
“So, Beth, what does your schedule look like for the next few months?”
Jaxson asked.
“My schedule?”
Other than reconsidering my whole life?
Jaxson went on. “We have a project in the works, and we begin
rehearsals in a week. One of the actresses we cast broke her leg. Literally.”
“Ski accident,” chimed in Emma.
“We were wondering if you’d consider doing a screen test.” Jaxson
reached in his inside breast pocket and handed me a business card. “It’s a
small part, but she has a power ballad.”
“Think Another Suitcase in Another Hall,” said Emma. “A minor role
with an iconic song.”
“This is a musical?”
“Isn’t this exciting?” Emma bounced on her toes, wildly clapping her
hands. “The world would be a better place if only there were more movie
musicals.”
“Just doing my civic duty,” said Jaxson with a wink.
“Okay,” I beamed. “Thank you.”
“All right, now that’s settled…” Stella poked at mine and Will’s
shoulders and ushered us toward the door. “Beth and William have to go.
We’ve taken up enough of their time.”
As she hastily pushed us out, I glanced over my shoulder at Emma, who
had collapsed into Jaxson with more giggles giving me a slaphappy wave.
Then Will and I were shoved out the door and the last thing I saw through
the closing threshold was the wild, animated look in Stella’s eyes. The door
closed with a thump, and we could hear the muffled sound of bubbling
laughter seep through the wood.
“Can we go now?” pleaded Will.
“Yes!”
We’d dillydallied long enough, and although I would have liked to catch
a glimpse of Rita Moreno, I was so over the interruptions. Will skirted the
lobby perimeter in an effort to avoid more people and we were able to tuck
backstage without notice.
“That was a nice offer from Jaxson Knightly,” he said as we reached the
stage door. “If you get the part, your life will change.”
“My life has already changed,” I whispered.
Will drank me in with his gaze with an expression filled with wonder, as
though I was something entirely new.
“I have a confession to make,” he said tentatively. He seemed suddenly
nervous, like, whatever it was he had to confess gave him more
apprehension than everything leading up to it. After the whole business we
put ourselves through over the course of the previous months, anything else
he had to say would be like a walk in the park.
“Bring it on.”
“Elizabeth Bennet,” he said, “I… I…”
“Spit it out, Darcy.”
“I… hate Bud Lite.”
The contagious outburst of giggles finally made its way from the box
office supply closet, where rum flowed like a river to my lips, and in a glow
of admiration, I wrapped my arms around Will and hummed, “I know.”
He drew me in with a squeeze.
“But,” he posed, “I love you.”
“I know.”
He pulled away just enough to focus on my face with speculation.
“Did you seriously just quote Star Wars on me?”
“Not seriously,” I replied. “Very un-seriously.”
“Okay.” He nodded once and fished in his jeans pocket for his car keys.
I could see, even in the dim light, his Adam's apple catch in his throat as he
gave me a small disheartened smile. It wasn’t my intention in the least.
“Will?” I said, stopping him from turning to the door. “Three little
words seem woefully insufficient to tell you how much I truly love you.”
His face brightened immediately.
 “Especially,” I continued, “after all the wasted energy I spent trying to
convince myself I felt the opposite. I said some dreadful things to you, and I
don’t know how many thousands of I love yous it will take to make up for
that.”
I wasn’t the type to get emotional, but I was at such a loss for the right
words (which was also unusual) that I could feel the beginnings of tears
form in my eyes. Will leaned in and kissed me softly, several reverent pecks
on my lips, each one stronger in intensity, and he embraced me in a fervid
hug.
“I deserved everything you said to me that night,” he whispered into my
hair. “It makes me sick to think about how I treated you and your friends.
What a jerk you must have thought I was.”
“I think we both needed a lot of improvement.”
“No, Elizabeth,” he replied. “I was rude and assuming. I had to do a lot
of soul searching after you accused me of acting like a misanthrope. You
have no idea how much I beat myself up over what you said. And still, it
was a long time before I could come to terms with it.”
“I would have chosen my words more carefully had I known the impact
they made.”
“You probably thought I wasn’t listening to anything at all. How did
you put it? ‘Even if you were the last man on earth and the existence of the
human race was hinged upon my liking you, our poor species would fade
quite spectacularly into extinction.’”
“Can you please forget I said that?”
“Nope.” He broke away from the hug just enough to speak eye to eye.
“I cherish every word because it humbled me. I was so full of myself. I
thought you’d be into me just because I deigned to pay attention to you. But
I was so clueless that it would take a lot more than money and fame to
impress a woman worthy to be impressed.”
“Well, you succeeded. In the end.”
“Oh?” He arched his brows expectantly. “So, you’re impressed, Miss
Bennet?”
“More like… in love, Mr. Darcy.”
“In love.” He repeated my words with reverence. “That is infinitely
better.”
He tangled his fingers in my hair and claimed my lips with more
affection than I had ever experienced in a kiss. This man, who I misjudged
in my finite understanding of the human existence, was now an intricate
part of me I could no longer deny. I fused into him with every pass of skin,
every breath, and every sigh. It was a truth reluctantly acknowledged yet
forever avowed—how love born from loathing could be the deepest of all.
 EPILOGUE
TWO YEARS LATER

Will

“MERRY CHRISTMAS, MRS. DARCY.”

I waited until we were alone, and the carnage of our California snowball
fight was under control before I joined Beth and Lady on the sofa with one
last present. I made sure to hide it beneath the folds of the tree skirt where
nobody would easily find it.
“Another gift, Mr. Darcy?” she cooed. “You shouldn’t have.”
She liked to act surprised, but she knew exactly what was in that box. It
had become our tradition as was with my own parents. I’d given her the
same gift for two years now. Still, she feigned a delighted gasp and tucked
her finger under the tape, savoring the anticipatory thrill of opening a gift.
The year bulb was similar to the two previous ones. She was so in love
with the blown glass and hand-painted design of the ornament I gave her
the night of the gala, I made it a point to match the same aesthetic. She’d be
happy with cardboard—that was the way she was—but her reaction to the
glass bulb was guaranteed to ignite a special kind of gratitude. I’ll admit—I
was unabashedly selfish.
“What on earth?” Beth freed the round ornament from its little silk bed
and turned it in her hand to examine it on all sides. I could tell by her
genuine surprise, I had outdone myself this year.
“Why is there an Oscar on our year bulb?” She winced.
 “A little prediction for the year,” I replied with a big grin.
She wasn’t grinning.
“You don’t like it?” I couldn’t believe she didn’t like it. Did that mean
she wouldn’t reciprocate with my special gift?
She leveled her eyes to mine and relinquished a playful smirk.
“Which one of us will win an Oscar next year?” she said.
Now she was just fishing. We both knew she was the Oscar contender in
the family. I’d done some projects I was proud of, but she had already been
nominated for a Golden Globe.
“Everybody knows the Globes are a predictor of the Oscars,” I said.
“And if you don’t win, they’re all idiots.”
“You know that’s not how it works,” she objected. “But thank you for
your faith. And thank you for the gift. It’s beautiful.”
She kissed me tenderly—her warm, soft lips tasting of peppermint from
the candy cane she liked to dip in her hot cocoa.
“Are you ready for your present?” she coaxed.
“Mmmm, Mrs. Darcy,” I growled. “I can barely wait another minute.”
Slipping the box from her fingers, I set her gift on the coffee table and
adjusted myself on the sofa for a more intimate position with my wife. I
took my time to toss each of her shoes to the floor, dotting hungry kisses
along her neck. I would never tire of loving my wife in every expression of
it. Loving my wife bathed in the warm glow of Christmas lights serenaded
by soft instrumental carols was an exceptional enjoyment.
“Ummm…” I groaned at something furry supplanting my position.
“Lady has to go.”
Beth laughed and scratched Lady behind the ear. “She’s fine where she
is.”
She scooted a little closer to the arm of the couch and resolutely placed
her legs on my lap. Then she reached behind the overly large throw pillow
she was leaning on and retrieved a square box wrapped in silver paper.
“What’s this?” I asked, bewildered.
“Your present.”
“You are my present,” I protested.
She had already spoiled me beyond reason. She’d gotten me so many
gifts, I’d lost count. She insisted on celebrating the twelve days of
Christmas as well as Hanukkah. Practically every day in December I found
something in my shoe or on my breakfast plate. Most of the gifts were
practical things I didn’t buy often enough for myself. Things like socks and
razors and dental floss. But the one big gift she’d given me was the most
thoughtful and beautiful present imaginable. She commissioned a painting
of my parents from samples of different photographs. It was an uncanny
likeness and a brilliant work of art.
But what could be in that square box, I couldn’t guess. Maybe it was
that watch I’d been looking at—the one made of reclaimed whisky barrels.
Or maybe it was the pair of TARDIS cuff links I saw online.
I ripped the paper, and as was our tradition, crumbled it in a ball and
playfully threw it at her.
She scrunched her adorable nose and grinned expectantly. She loved
giving gifts. Especially Christmas gifts. She always said her favorite part
was watching the expression of the person opening something she
thoughtfully and carefully picked out. The way she bounced her legs on my
lap, I could tell this was something she was particularly excited about.
It was a midnight-blue, hinged box with a small, gold latch. I flipped it
open, watching her watch me. It seemed this part of the experience was
mutually entertaining. What I saw in the box, however, perplexed me. It
was a year bulb similar to the one I'd gifted her, but the hand-painted
number was a year ahead. Was she trying to beat me to it for next
Christmas? Or did the artist make a mistake?
Beth didn't seem fazed by my confused expression. She smiled
mischievously and continued to stroke Lady like an adorable Dr. Evil.
“Turn it over.”
With curiosity bubbling at the surface, I obeyed, carefully taking the
ornament out of its case. I cradled it in my palm, appreciating the fine
artisan details. It was a brushed gold with burgundy accents and lettering.
Gorgeous, really. But as I examined it more closely, I noticed the
embellishments weren’t the usual holiday designs. And the three words in a
script font were definitely not what I expected. In fact, I was in such a state
of surprise, I forgot to breathe.
Baby's first Christmas.
I couldn't tell if I was having an outer-body experience or if my heart
stopped completely. All I remember was Beth shaking me until I came to.
“Will?” she said, poking me. “Are you okay?”
No. There was a good chance I was dead.
 My eyes glazed over, and I stared at my wife wide eyed and speechless.
When I did finally gain my ability to speak, I could only stutter.
“Is this your way of telling me you… wa-want to try?”
She shook her head. “No, William.”
She usually reserved William for when she was serious. Also when she
was amorous. At this point, it could be both.
“Then…” I said, “is this your way of telling me you're… that I'm…”
“That we're,” she corrected, “going to be parents.”
Lady instinctively placed a paw on my arm and regarded me with her
big, brown eyes.
“Parents of a human,” Beth amended. “No Siamese cats allowed.”
I gave Lady a loving scratch and leaned over her to kiss my wife. Then I
kissed her again just to make sure I wasn't dreaming.
“What have I ever done to deserve this?” I said between kisses.
“Well, first of all, it was your irresistible charm when we first met,” she
quipped. “Then it was chivalry in the way you wooed me.”
“Is that so?”
“Mmhmm. But it could also have something to do with the way you
loved me despite my snark.”
“Don't you mean spunk?”
“You were patient and long suffering, and you believed in love when I
couldn't see past my own prejudice.”
“That was probably just my abominable pride,” I said with a laugh.
Beth smiled warmly and stroked my cheek reverently.
“With your pride and my prejudice, we were a match made in heaven,
weren't we?”
“No, Mrs. Darcy,” I replied. “We were a match made by Stella.”
“I don't know,” she said thoughtfully. “We’re so stubborn, you and me.
I'd like to think we would have found our way to one another anyway.”
I clasped the hand she had on my cheek and kissed her palm. She was
radiant, even more so than the day I married her. I guided her hand down
and cupped it over her belly. In a few months, it would be swollen from the
life inside. The thought of it made me feel possessive and a little macho.
“Thank you, Elizabeth,” I whispered. “This is the most perfect gift.”
“Ha! Just wait until I tell you off in the delivery room.”
I hitched the corner of my mouth in a sly grin.
“I’m looking forward to it.” I laughed. “Do your worst.”
THE END
 LOVE ROMANTIC COMEDY?

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 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A million thanks to the following beta readers for helping me whip this
book into shape:
Rachel John – This book is better because of you, and that’s all there is
to it. I am astounded by the generosity you have shown me. Actually, I’m
floored that a busy author would come to the aid of a complete newbie and
give the gift of time and insight. I didn’t know where I belonged in this
world of romance authors before. Now I’m the girl with the lanyard. I’m
eternally grateful.
KG Fletcher – My musical theatre sister from another mister. I am so
blessed by your friendship and all the golden advice you’ve offered me in
this journey. I could always count on you to guide me and answer any
ridiculous questions I had. Thank you for critiquing this book when it was a
hot mess, especially over the holidays while you were on tour with your
band. You rock.
Cinnamon Worth – Thank you for the wealth of information you have
shared with me. There are so many nuggets of writerly wisdom in your
feedback of this book and the correspondence we’ve enjoyed. You opened
my eyes to see revising a manuscript with renewed awareness.
Brenda St John Brown – I am humbled and thankful for the time you
took to offer your expertise through your comments and suggestions. Your
knowledge and experience in the romantic comedy genre are an invaluable
resource I will return to in all my writing endeavors.
 ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Gigi is a hopeless Musical Theatre nerd far too obsessed with Phantom of the Opera.
Former professional wedding singer turned wordslinger, Gigi lives in Southern California with a
husband who cooks all the meals, a bookworm teenage son, and a theatre-loving teenage daughter
(wonder where she got that from?).
When Gigi's not writing like a crazy woman or hanging out with other authors on Instagram, she
likes to binge watch Doctor Who and spend all her free cash on Broadway shows.

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 ALSO BY BLUME

Confessions of a Hollywood Matchmaker

Lights. Camera. Fall in love.
Hollywood’s sweetheart Emma Woods is perfectly content without a boyfriend, thank you very
much. But what’s a girl to do when she’s a romantic at heart?
Play Cupid, of course!
She’ll do whatever it takes to set her makeup artist up on a date with the studio’s gorgeous set
designer. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.
But when her swoony BFF Jaxson Knightly disapproves, her matchmaking scheme comes at a higher
price than she’d bargained for. He may be the nicest man in showbiz, but he’s about to get downright
icy if Emma can’t prove her antics won’t end in disaster. Again.
How can she win other people’s happily-ever-after without losing the friendship of the one man that
matters most?

A modern Austen-Inspired romantic comedy novella and a prequel to the Backstage Romance
Book Series.