by Jane Tara
“It’s a piece of history I don’t want to dredge up,” he’d said.
“You let Annabelle rent it.”
“And what a shambles that turned out to be. It’s better off left alone.”
“But it’s prime real estate just sitting there rotting.” Annie was an estate agent to the core.
“Dad died there.”
“I know honey, but ‘died’ is the key word. He’s not there. I think it’s time to let it go.” Annie had given him a hug. “Have you ever thought that he’d like this?”
Tad looked at Tye, who shrugged. “It’s exactly what he tried to do, Tad. He came to town to do this. Let this woman complete his dream.”
“His dream? She might be opening a burlesque theater, for all I know.”
Annie burst out laughing. “From what I’ve heard, Uncle Kip would’ve loved that. But I can assure you, that’s not her thing. She really does want to open a theater here. Just like he did.”
He thought about this for a moment. “Fine, do it. Rent it cheap. It’s not about the money. And leave me out of it.”
“I’m telling you, this woman Rhi is perfect,” Annie said. “You’ll love her.”
Tad squirmed at the memory. Love her? Rhi seemed to be ten cents short of a dollar. But hell, he was attracted to her. He’d seen her across the bar and it had been like a punch to the guts. He’d never felt that before. Talking to her made him feel like an inarticulate fool. Her scent! Damn, he could still smell the faint vanilla in his car. And those flashing eyes as she slammed the car door. What a woman.
A confused one admittedly. She must have him mixed up with someone else. One thing was for certain, if he had ever met Rhiannon Dee before, he’d have remembered her.
Chapter 14
Brigid Dee looked composed, but inside she was a wound coil. She glanced at the clock on the wall. The audience would be seated now.
Her assistant Kenneth entered the room and pulled up a stool beside her. “Your publisher called and asked where the first draft is.”
“Did you tell him I have more pressing matters to deal with right now than chasing up my ghost writer?”
“I’ll do it for you.” He looked a little apprehensive, and then pulled a folder out of his bag and handed it to Brigid. “The report you wanted.”
Brigid looked surprised. “That was quick.”
“It’s called the internet.” Kenneth gave Brigid a peck on the cheek and headed out of the room. “I’ll call you in fifteen.
Brigid opened the report in front of her, hands shaking. Her heart was in her throat. No turning back now. She read through it. It wasn’t long, but Kenneth had detailed everything she’d asked for.
Tad Daniels, a composer, owned the Hamlet Majestic but recently leased it to one Rhiannon Wall. Tad spent some of his early childhood in Hamlet, until his father’s death, when he returned to New York to live with his mother, actress Collette Kelly. Growing up, he lived with family friend Crystal Hemmingway for chunks of time. When Crystal and her daughter Tye moved back to Hamlet five years ago, Tad also returned to the area.
The report turned her insides to ice. Brigid looked into the mirror. Her face was a picture of calm, but inside she was screaming. She wouldn’t allow this. She couldn’t. She had to find a way to bring Rhiannon home.
*
Brigid Dee ran up the four flights of stairs to her apartment two at a time. She clutched the New York Times in one hand and her key in the other. This was it, the moment everything was going to change. And she’d never been so excited in her life.
It was the 80s and New York City was the center of the world. At least it seemed that way to Brigid. She’d moved here from London knowing that this was the city where she would make a name for herself. In London she was simply one of a long line of witches, most who practiced the craft in private. She felt stifled there. But in New York her big dreams and aspirations would come to fruition.
Brigid wasn’t particularly good at anything except self-promotion, which of course worked to her advantage in New York. Londoners hated that shit, but here, you were admired for it. People supported a go-getter. Especially a beautiful one. She was gorgeous, with intense violet eyes, endless golden limbs and waves of chestnut curls. She was a showstopper, a fact she used to her advantage daily.
She modeled, which paid the rent.
She said yes to a lot of dates. That kept her fed.
But it wasn’t enough to make her famous. She was determined to make a name for herself, but so were countless other stunning girls out there. She needed to stand out from the pack. She needed to be different. And with no real education, talents, or gifts (she couldn’t sing or dance) she decided to use the one thing that did set her apart from everyone else.
Brigid was a witch.
Not a hideous Disney-style witch, but a sexy, smart Samantha Montgomery–type witch. It was time witchcraft came out of the broom closet. So she wrote a piece for the New York Times…and they published it.
“My Life as a Witch: the Truth about Witchcraft,” by Brigid Dee.
Brigid fumbled the key and opened the door. The apartment was silent. A dump, filled with revamped second-hand furniture. Colorful rugs covered broken floorboards. Movie posters disguised peeling paint. There was nothing redeeming about this Lower East Side walk-up, and yet it was home, and had been for two years. The apartment was spotless too. Not her doing. Housework had never been her thing. The lovely décor and squeaky clean rooms were all thanks to her roommate.
Brigid decided then and there that when she upgraded to a more suitable apartment, she’d take her roomie with her. Not just to clean, although that was certainly a bonus, but because she was actually a good friend. Her only friend, really.
“Anyone home?”
Perhaps she’d gone to work.
Brigid laid the newspaper flat on the kitchen table and looked at her photo again. She ran her finger across a crease, where she’d folded the paper. Even with a big line down her forehead she looked fabulous.
The phone rang and she pounced on it. “Brigid speaking.”
“Brigid…Gregory Goldberg here from Ladies who Lunch.”
Brigid’s whole body tensed. She knew the show well. This was it.
“I got your number from the Times. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.” Brigid lowered her voice enough to make it sound like it was being poured from a jar of maple syrup.
“I’ve got an offer for you.”
Brigid listened to his pitch. It wasn’t quite what she’d expected, but it was her break.
“I’ll have to speak to my roommate and get back to you,” Brigid finally said.
Gregory gave her his number and Brigid hung up.
“What do you need to speak to me about?”
Brigid swung around to find her roommate wearing nothing but a bed sheet and tousled hair.
“You scared the crap out of me! I thought you were at work.”
“Took the day off.” She gave Brigid a wicked grin.
“That’s three times this week,” Brigid said. “Careful, you’ll fall for him.”
“Too late…unfortunately. Who was that on the phone?”
Brigid pulled a chair out. “Sit down and I’ll make us a tea. I have something I need to ask you, Crystal.”
*
“Brigid? Darling?”
Brigid plummeted back to the present day. Lugh was standing in the doorway watching her. “You’re not dressed.”
“I’ll only be a minute.”
Brigid walked over to her clothes rack and removed her dress for the show, a vibrant turquoise number with batwing sleeves in her favorite empire style.
She needed to pull it together, and quickly. She could feel Lugh’s inquisitive stare burning into her. And she never lied to him. Perhaps he was the only man she’d never lied to. Theirs had been an unexpected love. For her anyway. He’d been keen right from the start, but she’d been through so much by the time she fell into his ar
ms; he was a safe harbor rather than a grand passion. Surprisingly, the passion had grown over the years. She often wondered if, early on, Lugh had tired of her aloof ways and had cast a little spell on her. It wasn’t really his style, but how else would she explain that one day she looked at him and had a sudden and overwhelming wave of desire engulf her? She’d been floating in it ever since.
Perhaps she simply fell in love. Stranger things had happened. She looked at him now, handsome in his cravat and beard. She really did love him and felt fortunate that he’d persisted for so long.
She had to be honest. “I just spoke to Rhi.”
“How’s life in the boondocks?”
“I’m worried for her.”
“Why? What’s happened?”
“Crystal Hemmingway lives there.”
Lugh locked eyes with his wife and, as they so often did, held a complete conversation in the beat of a look.
“Did you know?”
“I suspected. Kenneth checked it out for me. You know how useless I am with the internet. I had no idea where she was.”
It was true. Brigid had tried to find Crystal a few times. Not because she wanted to catch up, but because she wanted—needed—to know she had a safe distance from her. Crystal had always been impossible to find—no trace of her online. She indeed flew under the radar, just like she always said she would. Brigid had lived in hope that their paths wouldn’t cross again. And yet there had always been this gnawing dread that they would. So this didn’t surprise. It simply filled her with fear.
Rhiannon had moved to the same town as Crystal. She’d rented a theater from a man Crystal had a hand in raising. Brigid didn’t believe in coincidence. There were no coincidences in life. She didn’t know whether the Fates or Crystal had manipulated all of this into place, but either way, she wasn’t having it.
“It’s a coincidence.”
“You know there’s no such thing.”
“You need to let it go.” Lugh was calm but firm. “It was a long time ago.”
“Obviously not long enough.”
“She’s a very powerful witch, Brigid. I’m sure she’ll do the right thing. Promise me you’ll let it go.”
Brigid took a deep breath and patted her dress down. “Come on, we have a show to do.” She gave her husband a kiss and swept from the room. She never lied to Lugh. But that didn’t mean she told him everything.
Chapter 15
Rhi held her phone to her ear and half hoped her mother wouldn’t answer. This was a confrontation she really didn’t need right now, but was unfortunately necessary. She glanced at her computer screen, willing it to change. She didn’t want to have this conversation with her mother. But there was no denying it, she was running out of money. It was there on her bank statement.
“Rhiannon, what a nice surprise. To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?”
“I’m just wondering why I haven’t received my check this month?”
“You haven’t?”
She goddamn knows I haven’t, thought Rhi. “I’m looking at my accounts now.”
“Oh yes, that…We’ve gone biannual. We sent the details to your accountant.”
“She’s on leave, so perhaps you can explain what this means?”
“We’ve restructured the trust. You’ll get your checks twice a year rather than monthly.”
“A few months’ warning would have been nice.”
“Goddess, Rhi, you’re not going to argue about money with me are you? You really have had it too easy.”
“Easy? I was exploited for years.”
“I’m not a money tree.” Brigid was using her wounded voice.
“That’s unfair, Mom. It’s my money. I earn it.”
“I’m not sure if you’ve realized this, Rhiannon, but you haven’t worked for the Dee brand for a decade.”
“No, but most of my dividends are from the Witchlet line. I created it. And while it exists, I earn from it.”
“I was going to talk to you about that. We’re thinking we might pull it.”
“But it makes a fortune.”
A mower started up outside so Rhi closed the window. She watched as Warren, the local landscaper, cut the lawn near Pip’s tree. That would appease the dryad, but now she had no idea how she’d pay him. She gave him a wave and walked into the living room, where it was quieter. Her mother was still trying to justify her abhorrent behavior.
“The Witchlet line seems a bit outdated.”
“You know that’s not true.” Rhi was furious. It’s not like they were still selling her original clothing and accessory lines. They were redesigned annually, but she owned the IP and still got a percentage of the profits. “I know what you’re up to. You want me to fail here in Hamlet.”
Rhi could almost hear her mother roll her eyes. “Oh please, simply being in Hamlet is a failure.”
Rhi felt the blow to her guts. “You think I’m a failure, Mom?”
“I didn’t mean it like that. But if you want to be an actress, then it’s either LA or New York.”
“Success isn’t just about fame.”
“In this business, that’s exactly what success is, Rhi.”
Rhi could feel the tears welling up. Her mother obviously sensed it too, but clearly didn’t want to deal with it.
“I need to go, Rhi. Now don’t be melodramatic about this money. You haven’t been cut off. You just won’t receive a check until July.”
“But I need to pay the plumber—” Rhi said. But her mother had gone.
Rhi jumped in the car and headed for the theater. She’d be okay. She’d manage. She’d set up an account for the theater and had pumped personal money into that as a loan, and she had a bit of money left she could move, but she was relying on her income to pay the smaller jobs. How could she be so cash-strapped a month into her move?
Successful. Her mother’s words still stung. Rhi had always defined success by her mother’s standards. By New York standards. Success meant being visible. But that visibility came with a price tag. Rhi knew that from the show. People thought they knew you, when they only knew one very shallow version of you. She’d experienced that time of visibility. Success. But it wasn’t fulfilling because it wasn’t hers. So she tried everything she could to distance herself from that and to achieve something of her own.
It was only now she realized she’d been trying to recreate something she’d already experienced. Sure it would be packaged differently—any fame would be due to great acting in stellar roles, not some cheesy television series. But she’d never thought about the other aspects of a successful life. Not really. She was so focused on her destination that she never once stopped to ask herself if the journey itself was worthwhile. Was she happy? Were her relationships rewarding? Did she go to bed each night satisfied with how she’d spent the day?
She’d only started asking these questions in Hamlet.
She drove the now familiar route to the theater. She weaved along the beachfront until she came to Main Street, where she turned right. She took a left down Maple and passed Sam driving in the opposite direction. He honked his horn and she laughed.
She stopped at the crossing for Vaniqua Boyken and her twin daughters Tirrell and Terri. Vaniqua gave her a wave. She’d already cornered Rhi at the deli, asking when the drama classes were going to start. Her twins and at least five of their friends all wanted to sign up. In fact in the past few weeks, Rhi had had calls from a number of local parents expressing interest in the children’s classes. She’d taken names and told them all the same thing: once the theater was safe, classes would begin.
She parked outside the theater and sat a moment to take it all in. The dumpsters were filling fast. The garden had been cleared and the branches that had been pushing at windows and guttering from a couple of nearby trees pruned.
She headed up the path, which still needed to be repaved; it was an insurance claim waiting to happen. And one of the steps had to be fixed. But the windows shone, and thankfully didn�
��t need replacing. She entered her theater—because it felt like hers now—and stood for a moment in the entrance. The carpet had been pulled up and underneath she’d found flawless mosaic tiles. She’d stood in absolute amazement with Tye and Annie.
“You’ve just hit the jackpot,” Tye said.
Looking at them now, she couldn’t agree more. The treasures they found as they peeled back each layer. Not for one moment would she ever regret taking this on. Her mother was wrong about success—Rhi knew she was already a success, even if this venture failed, simply because she’d tried. And had loved every minute of doing so.
She moved into the auditorium. It looked so different from that first day. It was light and everything had been cleared. She stared at the stage for a moment and then turned and looked at the tech box. Would it be possible to project old movies onto a screen? Perhaps Majestic movie nights could be another money-spinner? If she could get the theater earning an income as quickly as possible, she’d never need to rely on those dividend checks again.
The tears she’d held back during the phone call with her mother suddenly erupted. Brigid was so frustrating. Was it too much to expect her to support her daughter? Not financially, but emotionally. She was determined to trip Rhi up so she’d return to New York.
“Are you okay?”
Rhi jumped. She realized Tad was standing in the wings watching her, just visible behind the curtain. He must’ve come through the back.
“You should take up haunting houses,” Rhi said, pulse racing. She wasn’t sure if that was from the fright or just seeing him again.
He laughed. “Rather than just this theater.”
“Did you come to apologize?” Rhi’s pride was still stinging from the lift home.
“Did I hurt your feelings?” He looked a little surprised. “I certainly never meant to. I do find with women, though, it often can’t be helped. Sensitive creatures.”
“Wow, could you be any more patronizing?” Tears were welling up in Rhi’s eyes again. She really wasn’t in any frame of mind for this.